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modaya:: Wednesday, May 23, 2001
Tempi duri per I Vampiri !! ! A response to Magpie's poem: to ache:
What is it to ache;
wracked with unrequited recollections
that sap the mind and soul
and break the will to wonder.
What is it to scream;
echoes' aching canyon cry,
voicing storied pain
of heart-crushed hope.
What is it to love;
dueling sweating lust,
intercoursing probing minds
of deeply twinning souls.
What is it to live;
sustained sanguine soul,
solitary midnight watching
for mourning signs of life.
:: by Sarah Smiles :: no 3760512 :: Speak []
modaya:: Monday, May 14, 2001
Daily News that Sucks
Saturday, May 12, 2001
I rejoinedFarmPoetry... after someone left. This is based on two wonderful poems already posted by Pigglet and Pitchfork...
Ode to a liquid drop of life
My thoughts upon that liquid drop of life
fall first casually, softly to regard
the source of misery and strife,
that keeps us from attaining our reward,
and lead us on an eternal endless quest,
as if we are enthralled at its behest.
The source, I know, of misery and fear
that keeps us from embracing what is dear,
is naught but our regret and our dismay
that all we have will someday fade away.
And we will be with less than when we're born
for gone will be our innocence by morn.
In endless night I cloak my misery,
as if to hide that which I'm wont to see.
But in the night the phantoms by my side
laugh and mock my dreams, and hopes deride.
For if I hope and pray my luck will turn,
my demons past arise, and all hope spurn.
But lo! I find each night I think of you,
my tiny fragile liquid drop of life.
And sing my pleasured plans out at your name.
And sing my sorrowed pains out just the same.
I sing that you may follow my voice home
from where and when you solitary roam.
For you, my drop of life, are not the blood,
the crimson joy that flows upon the flood.
Nay, you the drop of life are my own soul,
the one without whom I am never whole.
And if I see your smiling face again
my voice will never rise in rage and pain.
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Thursday, May 10, 2001
Piglett's Sty
(see below for rationale)
I didn't know you then, playing in your sty.
All engrossed with your friends, passing by the bye.
Cavorting with the farmyard set, the joy of farmyard life.
Playing in the farmyard mud, far from stress and strife.
I stood upon a dusty cliff, overlooking hill and dale;
in the midnight hour, I looked and looked, until the night turned pale.
Though from my cliff the view was grand, and my thoughts and verse did sail
they searched and searched throughout the night, for a home in some warm vale.
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II
Oft the thoughts and words and dreams got lost upon the waves,
and did alight on some sad blight with hope her verse would pave
a street of gold, a town of gold, and friendships deep and long,
but once again, the wind did send a howl to end her song.
At last, one night, she found the farm, and she thought her journey done,
for such a fast and friendly place there really could be but one.
And Sarah fast alighted from her cloud with joy and glee,
but sadly, truly, happiness was something not to be.
For as she went down to the farm, she did not go alone,
but on her tail a darkened voice silently did drone.
And as she spoke her first fine words and listened at the farm,
the droning darkened deadly voice turned joyfulness to harm.
Because her presence at the farm brought darkness on her heels,
she ran back to her mountain top amid the laughter peels
of the darkened drone that drove her out, amid embarrassed cries
she is left up there, quite bereft, alone in darkened skies.
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Piglet's two poems: Too Late and Beauty are the most witty things I've read this week, if I read subtexts... they inspired me to this poem... I'll post it in a second, when I'm finished.
:: by Sarah Smiles :: no 3624869 :: Speak []
modaya:: Thursday, May 03, 2001
Farewell
It seems my voice is broken
under the wheels of the man.
The weight of such oppression
has made me who I am,
a little twisted, slightly dark,
shunning all bright light,
and, if you look so succulent,
you'll find I also bite.
It seems that when I once did bark,
self-promoting out of turn,
I was firmly on probation placed,
lest madness still did burn.
I lived my bleak abeyance
prostrated on the ground,
and promised that I now saw the light,
epiphany quite profound.
I thought I'd passed the muster
returned unto the fold
but since my last rejection
I'm dumped out in the cold.
The last offending poem,
at sarahsmiles.com
is a bit of viper doggerel
presented with aplomb.
It is caustic and its personal
vitriolic and quite rude,
but totally appropriate
trashing some thick old dude.
Now I don't have harsh words or thoughts
to our moderating host,
he's been a perfect gentleman
appreciated most.
But I have neither heart
nor soul to suffer such restriction;
my voice must not be censored
or await for validation.
So, from this list I must shove off
which will bring cheers of joy,
casually cast as soft aside,
from those I do annoy.
:: by Sarah Smiles :: no 3482549 :: Speak []
modaya:: Tuesday, May 01, 2001
Part one and two are for a poem I posted to dark_poets@yahoogroups.com. I think they will refuse to post it, and I'll get nuked from the group. So, I thought I'd put it here. Hope it tricks the heart.
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This is a poem about someone named, variously, Akira Katana, crimson_shadow_dancer, and Indigo Dreams... she made a strange post, which is visible on dark_poets, and I commented, in full honesty, about how strange it was to see someone use a name like Akira Katana, likening it to MickeyMouse Switchblade, though that seems more interesting.
part one
One strange night a month ago
when sarah did awake,
she did not know that she'd embarked
on a particular path of fate.
That the crimson_shadow_dancer
of hotmail dot com
would post to her fave email list
with remarkable aplomb.
That crimson_shadow_dancer
was writing a special work
under the name Akira Katana,
"Oh, god!" I thought, "A jerk?"
Or just someone who had just not thought
the thought through to the end.
So Sarah chose to send a message
her ignorance to end.
When Sarah pointed out, gingerly
the problematic state,
and suggested somewhat markedly
that some mis-thought to date
had led this shadow_dancer
a crass faux pas to make.
Akria is a well known name of manga genesis,
and katana is a nice sword of folded steel plate.
Sarah thought that anyone who'd choose such a facile name
would rather someone told her, and thus avoid some shame,
and appropriating Japanese culture, without much regard,
was something somewhat moronic, that one should fast discard
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part two:
Then Akira Katana's trusty blade
a voice of phallic lust,
turned out to be a blunted knife
of plastic, rust and dust;
the illusionary illusionist
just pretends is was on purpose
and invents another moniker,
one equally thought- and worthless.
When one awakes from Indigo Dreams
and goes out into the night,
one realizes that one's voice of gold
was really one of spite, and
that one's carefully laid out plans
of grace and poise so clear
are really mewling caustic tripe
of ignorance and fear.
Thus sits sarah in her warm cave
below the bright chateau
and looks out to the town below
in search of friend or beau.
Another trollop's bit the dust
potential friend rejected
because of all the dross we throw
and of all the truths we trow
and gutter speaking trash we know,
how doth the list of the dead grow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
:: by Sarah Smiles :: no 3450038 :: Speak []