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
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