Infinite Darkness of the Soul

Once a knife cut quick and true.
Words stung like alcohol as the
    gash bled with no remorse.
The heart grew cold and began
    to harden to grey stone.

The night was cold too - as cold
    as his gaze.
As dark as the Abyss, and as stale
    as a tomb.
The wound seemed to grow as the
    anguish built.
Struggling for words and for air.
Never spoken were those words, and
    never to be heard for eternity.

The scar remains a constant reminder.
To be forever barely healed, but fully felt.
If ever the darkness comes again,
    the wound will awaken, and bleed once more.

Will the courage ever come?
Courage is lost and drowning in denial.
Can the voice ever reawaken?
Gasping and choking, words will die.
When will the seering pain subside?
In death all feelings are lost.

Reue füttert die Finsternis. (Remorse feeds the darkness.)

Originally written in January 2006.

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Cherished boy - my beloved son.
Angelic, devilish, loving and hateful
    all at once, without remorse.
A beautiful baby full of life and love.
So appreciative of the things we take for granted.

The sun brings a smile, an airplane,
    the excited wide-eyed stare.
Oblivious to the bad inside others,
    happy to share a toy, a smile, a giggle.
A child - the only reason we exist.
A child - so often taken for granted and abused.

My child, my baby, my slap in the face of
    the world.
He breathes, he dreams, he embraces
    song and dance.

I wish him all of the happiness I have
    been deprived of, and all of the
    happiness his heart can hold.
    joy, and passion - but none of my sadness,
    tears or defeats.

One who has a child they nurture and love,
    never loses their dreams.
Their dreams are passed on, allowed to flourish
    and take new shape.
A child is the one right in a world of wrongs.

Originally written in January 2006. Dedicated to my two-year old son, Karl.

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I have found that searching for poetry contests on Google is a little like walking into a bar and announcing that you will give $10 to anyone that can make you a model. Every person there will claim they can do it, just to get your money. There are so many sites that claim to be legitimate contests for struggling poets. While there are many contests worth entering, even for a small fee, there are still more that will promise a free chance to win - but with strings attached.

A perfect example of this is poetry.com, and the many guises they work under. If you check out this link, you will see exactly how discriminating they are in their search for quality poems. They essentially tell anyone and everyone, including your high school gym teacher with poor grammatical skills, that they are a finalist. Then, when all is said and done, they will send you order forms for vanity items featuring your poem. This is how they make money, and how you get laughed out of a publisher’s office. These vanity scams are costly for a poet, in more ways than one. The uneducated poet thinks they now have some real credibility, after all, their poem on carpet lint was chosen out of thousands of other poems, and they end up buying useless merchandise as well. Then this poet says to GQ Publisher, “I’ve been published in poetry.com’s anthology, because I was a finalist (or winner).” This publisher snickers and wonders what rock you crawled out from under.

Poets are far better off getting published in low paying (or even no pay) e-zines and magazines, or paying a small application fee to a legitimate contest. The key here is research. Do a Google search for poetry contest scams, or refer to the above link. If it sounds too good to be true, and if five sites you have come across say it is a scam, then it is. Just brush it off and move on.

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Waves crashing upon the rocks below,
    forever crashing and singing.
The song of the ocean is beautiful and
    dangerous; loud but peaceful.
Nature’s children are forever alive.
Long after the human race dies,
Nature will still breath.

Originally written in May 1995

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It has always been my opinion that great poetry is written so that anyone reading it may have a completely different opinion than that of another reader, and that all of these interpretations may be totally different than what the writer had in mind.

Sound complicated? It’s not. Forget what you learned in your Intro to Lit class. It is all well and good to analyze great literature, but to assume that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt what the writer was thinking is egotistical. I am not saying that all interpretations of Poe are wrong, or that no one really has a clue what Shakespeare was writing about. What is important is not what interpretations are right or wrong. The importance lies in the individual interpretation. What does this piece say to you? How does it make you feel? If it speaks to you on a personal level, then this is a great piece of literature. And as a reader, you don’t need to feel ashamed if a poem mirrors your sadness, or anger. This should bring you joy to know that these feelings are not unusual.

Poetry is all about the interpretation. This is the wonderful thing that sets poetry and prose apart from other types of writing. In other fiction, the writer is holding your hand and walking you through everything. A poet is dropping you off in the middle of the woods and driving away, leaving you to your own devices. Now what could be more intriguing than that?

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On a road paved with flowers,
    a majestic beast stands.
Body and form of a horse, golden horn upon
    its head with a mane of the purest white.

It speaks the name “Aurora,” in a
    beautiful voice of the sweetest music.

“Aurora, our beautiful princess of
Purity and Light, come back to us…
Come back to your Realm!”

A tear, the color of a clear blue sky in
    spring, runs down the face of the Unicornis.

In a flash of white light, a figure of beauty
    appears on the road.
A young woman dressed in the shades of
    the rainbow with sparkling, auburn hair
    and eyes of grey, stands in front of the majestic beast.

She mounts the Unicornis, and together they
    travel the road of flowers.

Originally written in 1995

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I wait here, in this ship on a sea of icy glass.
The tattered sail - sewn from skins - breaks hard
    against the raging wind.

Fighting albatross, I pace the deck.
Still water belies the sky’s rage, but hides
    its own rage below.

With my knife, I cut the sails, wanting to
    stay here in this place.
Quiet and serene, the old ship sighs, and I sink
    to the deck in a dreamy state.

So peaceful, this rotting vessel never knew
    such calm - I have never known this much calm.
The smell of salt, the air’s chill, and the moisture
    upon the wood are all that I need
    while I wait for oblivion.

Originally written in November 2005

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Hatred born of mother’s rejection.
Self-contained and festering in the wound,
    teeming with parasites - bleeding youth.

Will to live sucked into the vacuum, and
    happiness lost within the chaos.
Gaining speed the emptiness overcomes -
    the hurt twists and gnaws through bone.
No care, no love, no compassion…

All sound is gone - only the dying heartbeat remains.
Clouds of disease spread like blood in the street.
The gentle touch becomes a cold clasp of bony fingers,
    puncturing the flesh.
Soothing words become a scream - silent but
    menacing to see.

Lost in time, reason no more, blinded by guilt
    and bleeding to death.
Emptiness fills me like love fills the heart of a dreamer -
    but all my dreams become nightmares
    and riddles with no answers.

Leaning forward, I look into the darkness, trying to
    see the demons that dwell there.
I see her face instead - grimacing and mocking me.
The eyes pierce my soul so violently I sway,
    back away, and fall to my knees.

Faster the ground comes to meet me, and then
    the damp earth shrouds me in old death.
I see her with me - always there.

Originally written in November 2005

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I am so tired… I used to have energy, and stay up all night and sleep all day. Now I am up late, and often, with my two-year old son. But I do not get to sleep late. I am up by 6:30 AM every morning - if not earlier. Having kids is hazardous to a writer’s life. I used to crank out at least four poems a week, while in college and working. Now staying at home with a toddler, I am lucky to write one every two weeks.

I am feeling the stress of maturity in my writing. People used to compliment my writing style, years ago. However, my style has changed so much with age, realization of certain factors in my life, marriage, staying at home with a child, and the completely dysfunctional state of this country. Yes, I stress about this country, and count the days until we can move to Germany or Switzerland. I fear raising my son in a country where they pretend we are free, but apparently not free to curse or show nudity, report on what the government is REALLY doing, not have religion shoved down our throats, or be inundated with how the world was created by God. As though evolution is a lie conjured up by scientific communities all over the world. How about the lies conjured up by the author of the Bible? Or religious leaders protecting their investment in wars and the torture of Pagans throughout history? The biggest lie in the world today is in the form of a leader (to use the term very loosely) - a Republican with not even the same level of intelligence as his father. One has to wonder, does this make him more or less dangerous?

At any rate, I need to get moving on my writing. I have several short stories written in first draft form, but having time to edit and rewrite - that is the tricky part. I need to type up my collection of poems from all time - so there should end up being an interesting assortment of poems on this blog in the future. Maybe I should change the blog name to “Elizabeth: The Good, The Bad, and the Horrid”.

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Fragmented memories of a time forgotten
Cloud the present and lay a foundation of doubt.
Skeletal fingers reach through
    the window of the mind,
Stealing the joy that lies there in repose.
The smile of a child, the touch of your lover,
    all fond things are unsafe
    when time creeps into your body.
Age removes your life from you,
    bit by bit, memory by memory,
And tenderness is replaced by confusion.
Struggling helps only for a short time,
    while all weapons available to you
    are lost to disrepair, dysfunction and years.
Search for that which is hidden from the mind,
Open locked doors – another door appears.
While you rush, age writhes and reaches for the
    most precious of this life’s gifts.
Life and Love are given at birth, but so quickly
    then are taken away.
Mother’s love lost, the child’s love lost,
    and the lover is lost too.
So much at stake, but soon too,
    all bad memories will be taken.
Then days remaining will be in ignorant bliss,
    while others look into you wondering
    why you do not remember.
Soon they will know why, and a simpler life
    will take them to your place, where memory can
    no longer stab and torment.

Originally written in December 2005

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