Old Poems

Digging through some old stuff recently, I came across a couple of old poems I had written years ago. It's kind of embarrassing to read these now - I'm certainly no Poe, or Tennyson, or Beaudelaire... but it's interesting to go back and see how I've progressed (or regressed!) as a poet in the past ten years. The first is an attempt to write a poem in the style of Rudyard Kipling, the second an ode to Stephen King's Dark Tower books in the style of Browning.

LAURA OF WESTMARCH

HUM TARRY HO!
The march cry go, with a rattle of saber and steel –
We’ve trudged a frosty night to wake the jealous day,
Now toe in front of heel, I say!
Put that toe in front of heel!
HUP TORRY HOO!
The shout we do, with a clatter of hoof and horse –
It’s nay thar bows nor battle me think about,
‘Tis a lady so true, of course, of course!
‘Tis a lady so true, of course!
HIP BLARRY AYE!
The chant we cry, with a smatter of bicker and whine –
Me lady’s named Laura she got that hair like silk,
With a smile make me heartstrings pine, Whoowee!
Yar hey they sure do pine!
HAR NOTTY ROB!
These men do sob, as iron crunges hard to flay –
He’s got the strength of ten they whisper in tents,
I fight to see another day, HUP! HUP!
To see Laura again some day!
SAY TILLY NAY!
Me men will bay, as foot falls hard on road –
Our fighting brought us back to the place where we started,
Double-time shoulder that load, you dogs!
Let me help you shoulder that load!
MOT GORRY RAH!
These chiseled soldiers jaw, as home salts up their eyes –
Laura, sweet Laura is at the end of this road,
Me love has seen me through, I cry, I cry!
Me love has seen my through, I cry!


OTHER WORLDS

Teaching is futile, for thought it defies,
That spiraling mass of brown, even stone.
Tall twilight of space where all time is sewn,
Wherein anguish of friends is heard as cries,
And falsehoods are truths, and all truths are lies,
A black door ajar for you to enter alone.

Feeble minds of this world grasp only three,
Seven is claimed by the Olde World brethren,
Alternate planes preach the numeral eleven,
Dimensions like doorways vast but not free,
Continuum of time they allow you to see,
From chambers of Hell to arches of Heaven.

Infinity’s nexus and point of all time,
Its shadow cast long over a field of rose,
To enter means madness and all of its throes,
Grotesque evil married with beauty sublime,
Where thirteen tick-tocks the clocks all chime,
To display your fears and mock all your woes.

The truth of the matter is anti-matter,
Secret prayers – desires – it will menace as prey,
Endless chasm of night to blackest day,
Within your ear never ceasing to chatter,
Lost souls wither – time’s Tower grows fatter,
‘Til a mouth is pleading for the sun’s sweet ray.

Anomaly in fabric speaks not of black holes,
Yet eats of itself for furnace and fuel,
Passages are riddles both cunning and cruel,
Devouring each second the ultimate goal,
End-Times proclaimed when walls tumble and roll,
Existence shattered like a precious jewel.

Hard road lies ahead for time’s traveler grim,
Mind, body and soul make damnation’s key,
Devastation of sacrifice on sobbing knees,
Beware the darkness brought on by Him,
Recite dour creed when faith flickers and dims,
“There are other worlds than these.”