Posts tagged "Poetry"
  1. Notes: 2 / 5 days ago 

    Nomad of the Endtimes

    At long last I slowed and stopped, dropping to my knees,
    aghast to be now divested of all my preceding strength
    I gazed upon a distant mass of swaying cindered trees
    and felt upon my cheek the sweltering dusty ‘breeze’
    which was doggedly pursuing me with its putrid stench
    of incinerated flesh at those dissipated lives’ expense
    Still kneeling, I readied in my mind a myriad of pleas,
    seeking answers for evils as undoubtedly were these,
    with which I may petition the fates evidently displeased

    Soon animated by an anger as irrepressible as it was fierce,
    I peered upwards, into the very heavens my scrutinizing pierced,
    and roared my pleading questions to an empty, heedless sky
    which answered my desperate litany with an ever silent reply

    Delirious as I was, I didn’t expect any retort from providence;
    still I hated its maddening hush, upheld even now, even here,
    when all consciousness dwindles, lent no means to persevere,
    when extinction eyes humanity as final token of its dominance,
    when oblivion inches ever closer, to make our world disappear
    In a hostile, lifeless universe our spawning was so anomalous,
    and yet we earned a foothold, began forging all our monuments,
    but now disaster struck, making mausoleums of each metropolis
    Our end was like our beginning: of no cosmological consequence

    I thusly understood the full horror of our species fading away
    Our merciless desolation really permits no one to be blamed
    as destiny made mere puppets of those responsible for this day,
    for the exact moment of our departure was always preordained
    Nature will seize and rot our corpses, a great debt to it we’ll repay,
    and time will crumble all we’ve ever built with patient, slow decay;
    all signs of our presence will be erased, Earth belatedly reclaimed,
    it’ll be as if we never existed, or once been fashioned from its clay

    This epiphany pained me more than all my wounds together
    Not only will we be dead, but omitted from all of history forever
    A drowsiness came over me and I let myself fall onto my back
    Faintly aware of pooling blood, I saw my tourniquet was slack
    I’d traveled far, seen so much and here ended my endeavour

    I lay in a newly mushy film of ashes staring at the stars up high,
    which twinkled as they always have and as they also always will,
    thinking could I be the last of us this airborne filth has yet to kill?
    Unbuckling my filter mask, I flung it away, heaving out a heavy sigh,
    I knew it mattered not, as my end drew near and I had had my fill
    and duly earned the right to the quiet surrender I must now abide
    Breathing deeply of the noxious air, and stifling an unseemly cry,
    I contemplated how nothing truly changes when I have finally died

  2. 1 year ago 

    The Last Bard’s Tale (Part I) [REDUX]

    [This poem is a redux version of the original, combined with the fragments I had already written for its sequel, a fair bit I wrote for it now, and radically revised versions of my Under Exalted Heels poems. I amalgamated it out of, let’s say, necessity, and though the two universes seem incongruent, I’m proud of how the poems all ended up melding beautifully. So let’s just pretend I meant to do this all along. The virtue of this poem will dictate whether I get to do what I really want to do; it’s that important, and I’m (theoretically) that confident in it.]

    Prologue: Grandiose promises of yarn-spinning

    "Come traveler, and let me tell you of a forgotten realm trapped in yore
    Fill that chair, and into your mug this flagon’s fine mead will duly pour
    As this is a tale best enjoyed in good company, food and drink galore
    This hearth’s fire will warm us and ours minds shall drift, and explore
    a land that many bards the world over once came to longingly adore
    For, not least, inns all across this land would fill with countless score
    of eager simple folk, a stoic sort so rarely inspired to cheer and roar
    in appreciation of a poet’s well-spun tale, one deserving of ‘encore!’

    This is such a story, though sadly one no longer held in such ardour
    No, it’s been relegated to dusty tomes, whose perusal is quite a chore;
    most libraries ‘cross the continent rarely hold a volume in their store
    So it has now become a victim of obscurity like so many have before
    How is it that rich worldly legendry could be considered but a bore?
    Historians dig for paltry earthly trinkets but tend to so woefully ignore
    that real treasures are found in that, since oft pored over, elder lore

    Wait where was I? Oh yes! This fable which has not its existence nor
    its story widely known, thanks to our mythos forsaken age of sorry war
    Were its preservation to be deserted it may thusly be lost forever more!
    At least if not for the few tales still told of it, ones fiercely embossed for
    drama’s great effect: ‘Adventurers lo! Heed this tale you must not ignore’

    Chapter I: The dystopia fosters a champion

    In a distant kingdom, whose birthright was forged in the paupers’ fear,
    a tyrant ruled over his people with an iron fist and a righteous sneer
    His state taxes were exorbitant and his laws were so unfairly severe:
    the punishments found therein were such that one wouldn’t volunteer
    them upon even a most hated enemy, so brutalizing were they here
    Whilst the King lived in glowing luxury, his subjects were kept austere
    Peasantry in nature were they mostly; rarely could one name a peer
    whose new status as a yeoman was long lived inside of this frontier

    The sovereign’s inner-circle was composed of supposed cavaliers,
    who, in reality, merely acted as the despot’s worldly eyes and ears
    Ironic, in its way, as, amongst the people, their hollow kind veneer
    fooled absolutely no-one, for all knew that their gifts were insincere
    Each was retasked from spy to under-thumb, uncontested profiteer:
    greedy land barons who met any tenant’s pleas of lacking with a jeer

    The King also had a standing army, whom none would greet with cheer:
    for even though their coat of arms bore a nobly valiant soldier’s bandolier,
    these mercenaries did nothing but obey his tyrannical whims each year
    See, outside of the realm’s borders there stood no equal who’d persevere
    against this oppression and seek to invade, and free, this forlorn sphere
    Thus, the situation was grimly hopeless or so it would outwardly appear

    Yet, there was a heroic champion whose coming the peasants did revere
    A child whose birth was prophesied to happen with but a single loving tear
    For his mother would soon thereafter be put to death at the point of spear
    and in her lifeless arms this babe would not cry, to her bosom he’d adhere
    till the soldiers tore him off her to, in awe, dutifully spank his newborn rear
    His destiny was claimed to be, in the verdict of every single salt-worthy seer,
    that when he came of age, this oligarchy, which clearly sought to domineer
    every commoner, would finally be challenged, its blight would come to clear,
    and its end, long since disregarded, would, on the faint horizon, surely near

    Chapter II: The child born of death

    And this boy! Oh this boy! How unseeming could such a special child be?
    For were you to look upon him, a savior you would hard pressed be to see
    Initially a weak, sickly lad who was adopted by a humble pig-farming retiree
    and raised as was the custom: god-fearing, obedient, so inclined to agree
    with any man of the cloth who should offer any divine directive or decree

    It was also noted in his village that no others were as mild in manner as he
    Not that he was meek, or even wimpy, just so unassuming was he in deed
    Though twas not his nature in everything, in one field he was genuinely gutsy:
    with other boys he would roughhouse if provoked (but to no severe degree)

    Thanks to the adept tutelage of his ‘father’, long since a legionnaire draftee,
    the boy had learned basic sword fighting with sticks from a gnarled oak tree
    His grizzled sire taught him much of battle, imparting a considerable pedigree
    In fencing no other local boy could match his skill or daring, his warrior esprit!

    Chapter III: That which always changes, rarely for the better

    Soon though, the boy became a man, in the cruel fashion of the land,
    when his lowly father was abducted after tangling with the lawmen
    over the tyrant’s always increasing taxes and their pitiless demand
    As the boy was out at field, swiping and thrusting at the straw-men,
    practicing his new found art, his papa was taken, shackled in remand,
    and quickly sentenced to hard labour his old bones just couldn’t stand

    The boy returned from his joyful frolics to find the village much abuzz
    with harsh gossip of his papa’s unbroken spiritedness and imprisonment
    The throngs treated the oddball boy with upright suspiciousness because
    it had also spread that the farmer was some sort of political dissident,
    whose child, it was said, was not merely unusual but in truth illegitimate

    He rushed crying from the hissing accusations of the simple, fearful folk,
    and then made haste back unto the family’s cottage frightfully confused
    He saw, in the distance, the quaint little homestead billowing inky smoke
    and ran as fast as possible till he came across a man leaning on the oak
    With tearful steadfast gaze the man fast embraced the boy and then used
    a shaking hand to draw from out his pocket a small book, when he spoke
    he explained to the boy exactly of what his father had really been accused
    and as the fire quelled, and died in bitter embers, without the wind to stoke,
    he heard of his papa’s secret nature, and of boyish naivety was disabused
    Upstarting, the man took in the awful scene, and tugged tightly at his cloak
    which bore the same peculiar emblem as the book’s cover, which did evoke
    within the boy images of his father’s ring, and thus served to have infused
    the boy with trusting hope, so that the man’s offer of a new life did provoke
    awkwardly falling tears as he voiced his acquiescence with a throaty croak

    Chapter IV: An Ouroboros gestation - a tale within a tale within a tale

    In the man’s stately carriage they did journey into the bustling city’s heart
    The boy flipped through the pages of his papa’s pocketbook and so beheld
    that it housed an arcane poem of his papa’s, one written hoping it impelled
    the reader towards its decryption and thus the secret knowledge it’d impart:

    A king bloated with undue power did tread roughshod over all the human race
    ‘My liege, but what of freedom?’ asks a courtesan still of unquestioned chaste
    He thought hard, then did naught but slap her face, without a moment’s haste,
    and reasoned “In my kingdom, treason is that word, for it will have no place!”

    He claimed to be domineering for a purpose: to free a world of slaves
    who’d otherwise usurp us rational minority with a tribute paid to knaves
    who claim a measly worldly pittance must be the only just remittance
    to meddling Gods who sit setting morbid wagers just beyond our graves

    Our measure of plodding earth seems grand but Royal pastures so expand
    far beyond what the eye can easily see, and if annexed for our due territory
    We would earn that bold undying fame: a noblest legacy of a hero’s acclaim
    In Valhalla our vanguard’s place; they’d erect our cenotaph in godly domain

    Like you, I will not be circumscribed, the wretched King himself I’d surprise
    I implore you brothers, join me in shaking off this humbly subservient guise
    and ascend to meet that rotten bastard in his ill-begotten castle eye-to-eye
    We must become the glorious champions of all our pure and honest kind
    We must show all that the imperial beast can fall and this world we’ll redefine

    Our people’s militia shall assemble, and then initiate our righteous campaign
    against that evilest despot whom fate’s justice has not yet seem fit to arraign
    We’ll seek to claim all his purloined spoils for the kind, docile men of this land:
    to finally place our grass-stained hands beyond the modest arm’s just span

    Our crusade started, adopt skyward glare, seek details of their towering lair
    Probe our enemy sat in airy overlook; revolve round them with roving rook
    Spread word of their coming ruin in every common ear as herald of our advent
    The proletariat will disperse this omen; notched and fired, our first arrow sent!

    Then, in the awful twilight quiet, we shall rend the Heavens from the Earth
    and in this glorious hierarchical limbo we shall long be given a private berth
    The chaos of newly free men’s joyous riot will constitute a debasing hearth
    to cook and crack the damned chains of aristocracy in brashly mortal fire
    We shall unleash the indignantly vengeful beasts who know the king as sire
    Their adamantine hides will flow with molten rage and, honour-bound, anneal
    'til they harden nigh-impenetrable, bearing a blazing crest of unbrittled zeal
    In the grand aftermath of our emancipation the children of revolt shall rile
    the dictator’s fragile union of underlings and minions, who we shall beguile
    with promises of reinstation into power once the autocracy meets repeal
    We’ll task them with sabotage: lend their filthy ears to fill with a subtle bile

    Then we’ll douse our reverently enraged titans in the most potent hellfire wrath
    'tis true the immensely rugged and stalwart resolve the amassed belittled hath
    To convey this intrepidly lion-hearted army’s mission and direct our holy spear:
    I’ll mount the regent’s statue to bellow ‘What is owed the oppressed mutineer?’

    Our defiant force of valour all assembled, given sharp and flame of a finest steel
    We the hallowed flag bearers as the common man charges ornate palace gates,
    are blessed architects of a grandiose plan perfected whilst beneath a royal heel
    Revolution cometh; the swine sat haughtily upon a wicked throne we will displace
    The meekly downtrodden have arisen, and the King before us shall finally kneel!

    He read in awe, struggling to comprehend as his schooling was but brief
    It was clear though, from the poem’s frequent annotations found therein,
    that in many of the words some sort of special second meaning lay within
    The implication were startling, inspiring in the boy an astounded disbelief
    for it seemed that his father, instead of farmer, was to a spy far more akin

    For the poem his father had once penned was apparently being covertly printed
    as pamphlets to be distributed to rally known political dissidents in that manner
    of clandestine conscription by which dormant armies, via a single central planner,
    are assembled and given their instruction by a cryptic code that the poem hinted
    So that a secret plot may be dispersed and all gathered under revolution’s banner

    The carriage bumped over cobblestone, and yanked the boy from his imagination
    As the massive city came in view, an excitement flourished within his boyish mind
    For he was his father’s son and now bequeathed leadership of rebellious design
    The days ahead would see the boy learn even more about the vast orchestration
    So that the very first step of the plan was absolutely clear: his father’s liberation!”

  3. Notes: 1 / 1 year ago 

    The abhorrently treasured remembrances of abomination’s veterancy

    Despite now being in bohemian refuge, poetry has nonetheless recently become very taxing for me, both mentally and emotionally. What once fueled my words is, somewhat thankfully, absent. Still, I apologize for the lack of output. I mean to write more.

    Such vast and enduring foes I had sadly chose to carelessly amass

    amid all of those fierce campaigns from a now fast embittered past
    Clashes arose in bloodlust; a grievous but alluring sort of warring craft
    and what of those once adoring claims? Only prose truly knows, if asked
    Yes, remains of bloodied annals impartially disclose these awful facts at last
    Damning evidence, now known solely to repose, of a genesis finally unmasked
    Things wordlessly eternally resaid, in venomous soft eloquence, of a finery contrast
    Proposed in trying elegance of undying aghast throes whence blood unjustly splashed

  4. Notes: 1 / 1 year ago 

    My Didactic Wounds

    I’ve began to ponder, as my bedside candle flickers, fades,
    if bonds now no longer shall persist as their bitter charades
    For my heart launders their oft ugliness in hindsight’s grace
    Am I made stronger to guard pain my mind might debase?

    Sorrow reset, reinvented as regret is tempting, it must be said
    Yet mistakes I forget always beget themselves thrice ahead
    So I fret I must endure the awful debt of brave acuity instead
    Missteps ventured are offset by their lessons and not retread
    People I’ve met, and upset, can be excised I may have pled,
    but their influences remain to abet a future threat to spread
    Waking frenzied, wet with sweat, is what they’ve since bred

  5. Notes: 7 / 2 years ago 

    Crimson Wisdom

    I am infatuated with death, especially those it leaves behind
    They covet a breath which is their very loss perfectly defined
    and if squandered degrades a prize lost eternally to the dead
    Land wandered by ghosts; trails which are no longer truly tread
    Words recounting oaths, dirges and tales cease to be duly said
    Us living bear mounting urges to discount the wisdom of the bled
    Puzzling it is to know you should meet repose yet silently implore
    the spotter of your silent blue plead to return to how it was before
    If you spy streams of florid blood seeping underneath my door
    please now be relieved that you need not fret for me anymore
    Sorry, I did a bad thing, a thing I shared I wouldn’t even dare
    Still, it’s only gonna sting a moment, so I couldn’t really care

  6. Notes: 1 / 2 years ago 

    The most exquisitely torturous Fantasm

    Ah, to awake sweating and breathless from a nighttime emissary apparition. Perhaps the only sadness which is briefly but intensely enlivening. Oh, but the melancholy afterwards… Still, it’s been a while now - is that a good thing?

    Gently I awoke, to feel you softly breathing

    abreast, in perfect frozen serenity you laid
    Still, I eyed you with a mindful disbelieving
    Far too immaculate a scene, which betrayed
    that in my bed, besides me, and deceiving
    my eager senses is really merely but a shade
    I wasn’t truly seeing, indeed just perceiving
    Realizing that ghostly remnants do pervade
    my dreamstate anew, fantasy begins to fade
    Again I wake, sorrowed chest weakly heaving

    Damned jerking reality shift tore me from vainest bliss
    Fabricated paradise! Yet one in which I’d fight to exist
    A frigidly icy space, as of an unmistakable emptiness
    belies this biting truth which now is shown far plainest;
    by me no-one lays, as only a silent void does persist
    It seems there’s an invisible, utterly impenetrable rift
    betwixt us, slumber’s vault harbors this shadowy Miss
    No efforts on my part can free her from dreamy midst

    Shamelessly panting and pleading, screaming silently
    All that I am now afforded is blurry, fading recollection
    and wretched thoughts on how good that it would be
    should my dreams, with their euphoric self-deception
    and splendidly beguiling finery, become awoken reality

  7. Notes: 1 / 2 years ago 

    Trapped in mine own Mask

    Deep into my pretty mirror, each morning, so long I do gaze
    in it’s vast reflection that, daily, I am given, to wear, a new face
    and I’ll feel an old cherished friend put to stake and left to raze
    So come each new day’s dawn, I can only hope to win it’s praise
    For the days when I lose it’s favor are nearly more than I can take
    Many possibilities adorn such familiar mannequins on it’s well-lit stage
    but I do not know which mask I’m to bear until it is far too late to change

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Welcome to my humble writing blog. There's a lot to see here, if you care to explore.


The Last Bard’s Tale [REDUX]
An Epic Poetry series (in progress)
         Part One

You'll find Alexandria when the Dawn Commeth
A short story told from the perspective of a man facing his fast-approaching death. The narrative follows the struggles of two starcrossed lovers kept apart by wicked divine intervention.
         Chapter One
         Chapter Two
         Chapter Three

An Ode to an Abdicated Muse - A poem demonstrating my infatuation's huge capacity for aesthetic appreciation
         The Poem

A Sniper's Perch [REDUX] - A short story narrating the mechanical executions and detached ponderings and reflections of a lone Russian sniper during the brutal climax of WWII
         The Story

The Author

Wide-eyed, wild-haired boy posts poems, short stories, and various other miscellaneous creative writing.

My name is Ryan.

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