Sunday, April 20, 2014

The One You Couldn't Find - NaPoWriMo 20/30

Today is Easter, so, obviously, it's time to write about eggs.

The One You Couldn't Find 

My emerald niche,
hiding spot of hiding spots;
I, the choicest egg.

Others of less worth,
enclosing mere caramel,
scooped up one by one,

but I, turquoise sheen
peeking through moldering oak
cloaked in mossy green,

nest more owl than prize,
watch the rest plucked for the hunt
and dusk crow my win.

Hidden 'midst the boughs,
victor of this hide-and-seek,
I laugh in silence.

Kids boast their candies,
but this hundo in my shell?
Sweeter than success,

a folded trophy
I'll clutch throughout the seasons.
See you all next spring…

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Lazarus Jewel Box - NaPoWriMo 19/30

Today's prompt came from the NaPoWriMo blog, encouraging to use some rather evocative shell names in or for a poem. Doing so, I settled on Lazarus Jewel Box. I don't regret that choice.

Lazarus Jewel Box

Or so the ever-after hallowed
gape in the mountain was called.

Even when the countryside
frothed for Galilean blood,

sated its craving with
iron and thorn,

there never seemed a lack of eyes
or hands spelunking for wonder

from the nauseated tomb
and the man pulled from its gullet:

he, an unbeknownst omen
of something the throng couldn't unwrap

for the way their eyes stopped at the messenger,
Calvary at their back.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Peter's Epistle to Shagrath - NaPoWriMo 18/30


Stian –
or Shagrath, rather,
that corpse-painted moniker borrowed from Mordor –
I wonder at the gallows you suspend around your neck.
Granted, I understand little of what
swathes you in the Gadarene's bile, his blood
and pig-predestined hate,
but I posit you grasp this inverted cross
with similar unknowing.

Were that you were there, Stian,
to see the grotesque glory of your purchase,
the body pinned aloft, arms
held in crucifixion's willful embrace.
Were that you knew our supreme despair
as that gallows plundered us of our God,
drained Him into the Golgothic soil
like your gallons of theatrical aide.
Were that you had touched and seen
the wounds His love had made.

There is no blasphemy in your icon,
despite how severely you may wish it.
When Rome unleashed the spearheads of its teeth
to feed sheep to lions and wolves, to luminate
its alleys with our smouldering macabres,
it was my abject praise
which left me crucified heel over crown;
an unfit vicar of Yeshua's cross,
glorified upside-down.

Stian,
that pendulum
of silver-graced olive is no more unholy
than a fish is the sea surrounding it.
In the crossbeam of my martyrdom
you see a stake to bludgeon the Christ,
but I ask you,
what good is the shame of the cross
to those who have conquered its might?

What comfort to you is my worship
when those doubts seethe out of the night?

Thursday, April 17, 2014

6 Songs Deep - NaPoWriMo 17/30

Today I had a pretty rough time getting going, so I used an old prompt of pulling songs from a playlist and using those titles in a poem.

My songs are:
'Seas of Cheese' by Primus
'High' by The Cure
'Eyes of a Ghost' by Bella Morte
'To Forgive' by Smashing Pumpkins
'These are Not My Pants' by Five Iron Frenzy
'Dekadance' by Moonspell

6 Songs Deep 

The humid breeze of these bodies,
people undulating to the bassline like
seas of cheese,

its gravel-throated moon
looming high, stirring the surge
like the eyes of a ghost named with shells.

I, blind with other people's sweat,
wonder to forgive my taste in music
for carrying me here…

but these aren't even my pants.
So why resist this mad dekadance?

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

CosplAnatomy - NaPoWriMo 16/30

Today's poem was influenced by the prompt from the NaPoWriMo blog, encouraging thus:
And now for today’s prompt (optional, as always). After yesterday’s form-based prompt, today’s will hopefully be somewhat easier to get into. This prompt is from Daisy Fried, and the basic idea is to write a ten-line poem in which each line is a lie. Your lies could be silly, complicated, tricky, or obvious.
I started with that idea, and wandered around it as the poem went on. I'm not completely satisfied with today's piece, and plan to return to it later on. For now though, enjoy.

CosplAnatomy 

My fingertips are but whorls of hot glue and pinpricks.
My heartbeat sounds like "Soramimi Cake",

and my doctor is still conferring with his clipboard
about whether or not this needs fixing.

My tongue spent two years in Japan,
but forgot to bring back its luggage.

My beard is an actual Lifesaver.
I can't remember the last time I didn't dream of butter rum.

My scalp once erupted with rainbows.
Skittles weren't involved, but there may have been ponies.

My eyes often gloss into carets when I laugh,
and the line of my world is gorgeous.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Glory of the Goat - 15/30

Half-way done already. I swear, there's no quicker way to kill a month than a poem-a-day challenge. Insane.

Anyway, as for today's poem, I have a bit of a confession. This poem is one I've actually been working on for the past three days. Is that cheating? Eh, I don't care. It rocks and I love it. And you will too...or else...

Glory of the Goat 

Never ere have our horns curled their spiraled pride
so far into the belly of the welkin's lofty tide.
Its splendor and esteem├Ęd heights wreathe our bleeding racks,
just like that lucifugous Pan we hide behind our backs:
the angel Heaven suffered not amongst its prostrate throng,
but cast like Hell-bound lightning with the anchor of his wrong.
And we star-browed terebinths still stretch our tallest fingers
to the ax head at our roots withal the worm professed to linger –
that cancer Adam set to gnaw upon his blighted progeny,
once for all excised by Christ in Golgothic theophany.
Oh, how we thrust upon the throne of breathless sky!
Agrippa's worship-bloated trunk…fallen down to die.

Our cave-cast shadow and the fabled satyr in its shade,
the familiar arc of horn our glass-faced exaltations made.
Remember this duality ere further down you plod:
the Roman-spoken kindness and severity of God
the lamb with flesh so soft neath fist and its sanguivorous nails;
the lion with incited teeth seen in a cat's nine tails.
Easily the shepherd bruises, and quietly he waits,
but think you not this Yeshua one to mug for Heaven's gates.
Came he once as part and whole by whom we walk in peace;
yet there are bones beneath the sea who know him as Decease,
the claret-edged end of patience, judgment's ursine maw,
the Kishon's ruby sluice imploring don't repeat our flaw…

Monday, April 14, 2014

Haunted While Drunk in Paris...I Still Can't Lose You - NaPoWriMo 14/30


Today marks the anniversary of the death of Type O Negative cornerstone, Peter Steele. Four years ago he passed away, and it is an absence the metal community will never foreseeably recover from. Peter's combination of acerbic humor and Gothic sensibilities made him and his band beloved by more than could be numbered, and I felt like writing something in the ol' Green Man's honor for today. Note, not about him...just heavily colored with his legacy.

So, today's poem. (And if you are a fan of Type O Negative, look at the correlation between today's date, poem title and line count... *hinthint*)

Haunted While Drunk in Paris...I Still Can't Lose You
~for Peter~  

The rooms glittering these towers with their amber,
from far enough away they all become stars,
and I haven't forgotten your eyes, their stars.
As if I could.
The night still sounds like someone's tired accordion,
but what does that matter when ears
still thrum your bosomed drumbeat?

I shawl myself in the shields of smoke and Cisco,
but even these grow thin and cold, because
I can't shake the lingering scarf of your arms.
No such warmth as you.
The watery stars, dripping and dragonfly-winged…
If only I could actually forget you,
but you'd have to forget me first.