Well, if anyone still frequents this long neglected site, I shall only ask you for one thing: your help in padding my musical pockets. I write articles for a webzine. Yes, I do. And I get paid by the hit. So please visit Suite101 and contribute to my future retirement fund. The more articles you read, the more money I get. :)
Whatever you do, don't read the lame poetry that spewed out of my brain one day and ended up on this site. It's not for the anthology and I have no time to clean out the truly horrible stuff. So there may be some gems in the posts below, but they're like the family heirlooms stuffed under the attic bed to save the history and kids' college fund from the thieves. But where amongst the monster dust bunnies can you find those 24k's now?
06 June, 2006
14 May, 2006
Why Don't You Write Me?
My real life occurs in print at How to Disappear Completely . This is just my poetry place. Which is why it gets updated hardly ever. Enjoy!
07 March, 2006
Ghost
Why haunt my thoughts?
I tried to push you out.
Was I clever?
I was dumb.
Never spoke what
Really torments
My heart.
So now I mutely cry.
No tears on
Desert-drawn face.
Just acid rain poison
Eats the life-spring within.
Crying mutely I try
To word paint the pain
Colors splattered inside.
But I fear discovery.
Find me out instead.
Come inside my head.
Invitation beckons.
But why haunt my thoughts?
I’ll only push you out.
Perhaps I’m already dead
Animated only by confusion.
I tried to push you out.
Was I clever?
I was dumb.
Never spoke what
Really torments
My heart.
So now I mutely cry.
No tears on
Desert-drawn face.
Just acid rain poison
Eats the life-spring within.
Crying mutely I try
To word paint the pain
Colors splattered inside.
But I fear discovery.
Find me out instead.
Come inside my head.
Invitation beckons.
But why haunt my thoughts?
I’ll only push you out.
Perhaps I’m already dead
Animated only by confusion.
Null Set
[^]
Pass-by greetings, thrown over shoulder,
Never stopping to see where they fall
Bouncing off skin so thick, Alcatraz turns green.
Skin designed to lock world out--
Prison in reverse--what's inside, what's inside?
[Nothing. Empty. Aching void.
Everything burned away.]
"How are you? Fine? That's great!
We really should talk sometime."
[But sometime is never the right time,
When heart's death throes scream "Now!"
Later the tomb is sealed; "we are the dead," with nothing left to say.]
"I'd like to know what you think.
I really care about you."
[What is caring? Can you truly know?
It matters little, though,
For I've lost the key to let you through.]
*****************************
Is void doomed to infinite ache?
Can no one enter in?
No one, perhaps, but One
Whose breath crumbles stone, rattles dry bones.
The cold heart now pulses hot blood,
The burning quenched with water living.
Death is consumed by life.
*************************
[Yes, the emptiness still comes
But Someone's breached the wall.-_
Ezekiel 37:1-14
Pass-by greetings, thrown over shoulder,
Never stopping to see where they fall
Bouncing off skin so thick, Alcatraz turns green.
Skin designed to lock world out--
Prison in reverse--what's inside, what's inside?
[Nothing. Empty. Aching void.
Everything burned away.]
"How are you? Fine? That's great!
We really should talk sometime."
[But sometime is never the right time,
When heart's death throes scream "Now!"
Later the tomb is sealed; "we are the dead," with nothing left to say.]
"I'd like to know what you think.
I really care about you."
[What is caring? Can you truly know?
It matters little, though,
For I've lost the key to let you through.]
*****************************
Is void doomed to infinite ache?
Can no one enter in?
No one, perhaps, but One
Whose breath crumbles stone, rattles dry bones.
The cold heart now pulses hot blood,
The burning quenched with water living.
Death is consumed by life.
*************************
[Yes, the emptiness still comes
But Someone's breached the wall.-_
Ezekiel 37:1-14
06 March, 2006
Do Hearts Come With Warranties?
because mines broken and i wanna take it back
there are days when i want to take my heart back to the store because it dont behave itself the way i want it to and some days when the recall option ought to save me from carrying this defective heart into perpetuity and then i dont even want to feel better anymore because i cant imagine it any better but God has healed hearts before and i suppose mine is no different from the case of thousands before me
i fade back into crowded throngs of people who wonder what would have happened if they had been different and how could they have articulated what fermented in dizzying isolation because they werent sure and then they decided too late and realize that they will have to move forward but better to go alone perhaps because the broken pieces of heart are too slippery to hold together any longer
i write through some sort of catharsis in a world where perhaps no one but a few people will ever really understand all this and so i become vague and obscure yet still retain an outlet to verbalize the torn heartstrings that seek mending through soothing words that somehow shape a picture out of a mess of smeared paint but monet recognizes his masterpiece in the aftermath of a clarity regimen that only left crooked footprints along a linguistic path of impotent resignation
mixed-up metaphors move the melancholy to less regretful planes as half-hearted humor anesthesizes pretty much everything
and i wonder if perhaps one's suffering might be less personal if others can relate and maybe even find it poignant
***********************************************
A grammarless poem by funke
there are days when i want to take my heart back to the store because it dont behave itself the way i want it to and some days when the recall option ought to save me from carrying this defective heart into perpetuity and then i dont even want to feel better anymore because i cant imagine it any better but God has healed hearts before and i suppose mine is no different from the case of thousands before me
i fade back into crowded throngs of people who wonder what would have happened if they had been different and how could they have articulated what fermented in dizzying isolation because they werent sure and then they decided too late and realize that they will have to move forward but better to go alone perhaps because the broken pieces of heart are too slippery to hold together any longer
i write through some sort of catharsis in a world where perhaps no one but a few people will ever really understand all this and so i become vague and obscure yet still retain an outlet to verbalize the torn heartstrings that seek mending through soothing words that somehow shape a picture out of a mess of smeared paint but monet recognizes his masterpiece in the aftermath of a clarity regimen that only left crooked footprints along a linguistic path of impotent resignation
mixed-up metaphors move the melancholy to less regretful planes as half-hearted humor anesthesizes pretty much everything
and i wonder if perhaps one's suffering might be less personal if others can relate and maybe even find it poignant
***********************************************
A grammarless poem by funke
31 August, 2005
[Door] Bell
Slam the door.
Trapped? Not me.
Which side? You decide which side I'm on.
Inside is outside where thinking makes it not so.
Air breathes easy when even hurt is certain.
[The corridor with half-open doors--terror.]
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words go deep.
Don't speak. Throw rocks.
We'll pretend we know each other.
Then we'll leave.
Without even saying good-bye.
Yet doors hang on verbal hinges.
Say so.
I don't know
Any other way.
Release me.
Cut my heart in half,
But at least
I'll be free.
******************
Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity. T. S. Eliot
I think poetry is catharsis...
Trapped? Not me.
Which side? You decide which side I'm on.
Inside is outside where thinking makes it not so.
Air breathes easy when even hurt is certain.
[The corridor with half-open doors--terror.]
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words go deep.
Don't speak. Throw rocks.
We'll pretend we know each other.
Then we'll leave.
Without even saying good-bye.
Yet doors hang on verbal hinges.
Say so.
I don't know
Any other way.
Release me.
Cut my heart in half,
But at least
I'll be free.
******************
Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity. T. S. Eliot
I think poetry is catharsis...
06 July, 2005
Continual Conversation With A Silent Man
I scored as Wallace Stevens on a "Which Modern Poet Are You?" quiz. Since I'd never read any of his poems, I decided to do a little investigation and found this. I like it, because of the vivid imagery and the word play.
The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on the hill.
As if, in the presence of the sea,
We dried our nets and mended sail
And talked of never-ending things,
Of the never-ending storm of will,
One will and many wills, and the wind,
Of many meanings in the leaves,
Brought down to one below the eaves,
Link, of that tempest, to the farm,
The chain of the turquoise hen and sky
And the wheel that broke as the cart went by.
It is not a voice that is under the eaves.
It is not speech, the sound we hear
In this conversation, but the sound
Of things and their motion: the other man,
A turquoise monster moving round.
I think the old brown hen is the earth, the turquoise hen is the sea...and the sky speaks for itself. The cart is most likely life, and the wheel is time.
The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on the hill.
As if, in the presence of the sea,
We dried our nets and mended sail
And talked of never-ending things,
Of the never-ending storm of will,
One will and many wills, and the wind,
Of many meanings in the leaves,
Brought down to one below the eaves,
Link, of that tempest, to the farm,
The chain of the turquoise hen and sky
And the wheel that broke as the cart went by.
It is not a voice that is under the eaves.
It is not speech, the sound we hear
In this conversation, but the sound
Of things and their motion: the other man,
A turquoise monster moving round.
I think the old brown hen is the earth, the turquoise hen is the sea...and the sky speaks for itself. The cart is most likely life, and the wheel is time.
Misfits
Broken tile, chipped stone,
Pebble mishaped. Bent
Are all the furnishings,
But uséd anyway.
Tile's rough edge scrapes
The stone, quarrel doth ensue.
Pebble finds no place
To wedge securely in.
Madness to attempt
Founding sky-top scrapers
With such misfits
As these. Yet with
Cornerstone
Of dimensions umblemished,
An unshakable monument
Grows out of the very
Parts discarded by
Builders of wise foolishness.
Clouded judgment rendered naught.
Sightless eyes speak to deaf ears--
Try to understand what is hidden
But old wineskins burst instead.
And so Rock turns upside down
What pebble, stone, and tile
Fail to accomplish on their own.
The poet's explantion of work: the real deal
The above poem is a chiasm, so-named because its structural shape resembles the letter "X," which in Greek is called "chi." The idea is something similar to those fingerpaint prints one would make as a child: sprinkle a few drops on one side of your paper, fold, press, and open up to get a mirror image design (an "X" looks like a mirror image itself). Thus, one starts with one idea, moves to a central idea, and then finally returns to the original idea (much like ABA form in music). This particular poem is about the church, based on Eph. 2:19-22: "Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household, 20 built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. 21 In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. 22 And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit."
Twelve lines lead up to the apex of the poem, and twelve lines recede, representing the foundation of the apostles and prophets. The apex itself is the cornerstone, set alone to signify its supreme place in the structure of the building. The "madness" of line 9 is paired with the "foolishness" of line 18. The catalogue of building materials is repeated in reverse order at the end of the poem. The first and last lines are the only that deliberately rhyme. In addition, the arrangement of the text on the screen is meant to give a vague visual impression of an arch. The text itself deals with the eclectic nature of the materials used to construct this arch, the church. The structure, an "X" (the Greek letter that begins the title "Christos"), further emphasizes Christ's central place in the organization of the church.
Pebble mishaped. Bent
Are all the furnishings,
But uséd anyway.
Tile's rough edge scrapes
The stone, quarrel doth ensue.
Pebble finds no place
To wedge securely in.
Madness to attempt
Founding sky-top scrapers
With such misfits
As these. Yet with
Cornerstone
Of dimensions umblemished,
An unshakable monument
Grows out of the very
Parts discarded by
Builders of wise foolishness.
Clouded judgment rendered naught.
Sightless eyes speak to deaf ears--
Try to understand what is hidden
But old wineskins burst instead.
And so Rock turns upside down
What pebble, stone, and tile
Fail to accomplish on their own.
The poet's explantion of work: the real deal
The above poem is a chiasm, so-named because its structural shape resembles the letter "X," which in Greek is called "chi." The idea is something similar to those fingerpaint prints one would make as a child: sprinkle a few drops on one side of your paper, fold, press, and open up to get a mirror image design (an "X" looks like a mirror image itself). Thus, one starts with one idea, moves to a central idea, and then finally returns to the original idea (much like ABA form in music). This particular poem is about the church, based on Eph. 2:19-22: "Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household, 20 built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. 21 In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. 22 And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit."
Twelve lines lead up to the apex of the poem, and twelve lines recede, representing the foundation of the apostles and prophets. The apex itself is the cornerstone, set alone to signify its supreme place in the structure of the building. The "madness" of line 9 is paired with the "foolishness" of line 18. The catalogue of building materials is repeated in reverse order at the end of the poem. The first and last lines are the only that deliberately rhyme. In addition, the arrangement of the text on the screen is meant to give a vague visual impression of an arch. The text itself deals with the eclectic nature of the materials used to construct this arch, the church. The structure, an "X" (the Greek letter that begins the title "Christos"), further emphasizes Christ's central place in the organization of the church.
Poetry Games
I got the idea for this from a fellow poetry blogger. The idea is to have every new word begin with a successive letter of the alphabet.
After boredom calls dusty egos,
Fellow ghosts have in justice kissed
Life's mechanistic nowhere. Or
Perhaps quicksand really sends
Them under verse's whitewash.
Yearning zeal abates.
After boredom calls dusty egos,
Fellow ghosts have in justice kissed
Life's mechanistic nowhere. Or
Perhaps quicksand really sends
Them under verse's whitewash.
Yearning zeal abates.
My Grandmother
My grandmother passed away January 24, 2005, on her 74th birthday. Beholding the little urn containing her ashes was a surreal experience, one which led to the creation of the following poem:
The ashes in the jar—
Who are these cinders now?
This woman, beautiful in youth, dark hair and twinkle eyes.
One whose brain still fired faster
Than her grandchild’s. This woman,
Whose eyes passed many pages,
Before they closed one last time.
This woman, whose lungs collapsed,
Self-destructing,
Gasping.
Here are her remains.
But what are they now? What ever were they yet?
A shadow.
A tent.
Though but dust-specks, caught in the wind, scattered to sink
Indistinguishable from the molecules of earth, these were the
Tale-bearers of glory to come.
Collapsed lung spoke of
Breath unhindered,
Pouring forth the praise of God.
Marred members, yet we loved them just the same.
The pilgrim pavilion sags in the woods.
Time to unpitch and move along.
Leave the shredded canvas.
Rest under solid roof tonight.
The ashes in the jar—
Who are these cinders now?
This woman, beautiful in youth, dark hair and twinkle eyes.
One whose brain still fired faster
Than her grandchild’s. This woman,
Whose eyes passed many pages,
Before they closed one last time.
This woman, whose lungs collapsed,
Self-destructing,
Gasping.
Here are her remains.
But what are they now? What ever were they yet?
A shadow.
A tent.
Though but dust-specks, caught in the wind, scattered to sink
Indistinguishable from the molecules of earth, these were the
Tale-bearers of glory to come.
Collapsed lung spoke of
Breath unhindered,
Pouring forth the praise of God.
Marred members, yet we loved them just the same.
The pilgrim pavilion sags in the woods.
Time to unpitch and move along.
Leave the shredded canvas.
Rest under solid roof tonight.
04 July, 2005
Manifesto
This blog shall be used henceforth for the following purposes:
1) to publish all thoughts academic regarding theology, music, poetry, or philosophy
2) to publish poetry of my own creation
3) to critically reflect upon specific examples of music, movies, books
4) Anything else remotely related to above categories...
1) to publish all thoughts academic regarding theology, music, poetry, or philosophy
2) to publish poetry of my own creation
3) to critically reflect upon specific examples of music, movies, books
4) Anything else remotely related to above categories...
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