Jul 26, 2010

The Day the World Ended

My first attempt at an Epic Poem. I wrote this as my final project in my Poetry class at Scraft. 22 April 2010

The Day the World Ended1

‘Twas a day like any other
‘cept for prophesized doom.2
A rainy day if’n I remember
What was it? Ah, yes—the 21st of December
Two-thousand and twelve, it had been foretold
By the Mayans of many, many’a days old.
Their calendar stopped dead, on that same day
At least that is what the archeologists say.

It started out with a boom, and a bang, and a blast,
The oceans were’a twirlin’, an’ a whirlin’ – so fast!
Spouting up from the surface ‘round all the globe
T’were these catastrophic cyclones – but that’s just a blurb.
The rest of this tale is too gruesome to tell,
Tis a shame, it’s a good’un – oh, well.
Wait, what’s that? You want to hear more?
Fine, I’ll continue, no need to implore!

Twas a rainy day in December
If’n I do quite well remember
Or t’were it snowin’ something fierce?
Either way, the frigid wind did pierce
The bundled garments of wintery weather
Wrapp’d ‘round everyone – a skin-tight sweater –
Penetrate the wind did, like slings and arrows.
Outrageous fortunes3 , ripped ‘part like Post-It4 memos.

T’weren’t but a few, though e’eryone knew,
Who prepared for disaster and eminent doom.
The masses, they did make their quotidian5 rounds
Busy with work – cell phones and laptops abound;
Clickin’, clackin’, ringin’ – it t’were quite the racket –
Fillin’ ‘eads6, streets, and minds with techno argot7.
Those whose eyes did lift from glowin’ screens
T’were the first to end their daily routines.

Nostradamus8 sits back, rolling in his grave,
Teasin’ an’ tauntin’ – not trying to behave.
Desperately wantin’ to chastise an’ scourge;
A cacophony of sound, twas our dirge9.
He wheezed and he hacked10, betwixt laughs,
“I told you so,” Nostradamus does chaff11,
“La vie12 could have been such a breeze,
If only you had heeded Les Prophéties13”

From the sky they fell like rain;
Drops of death, usherin’ pain
To its seat in the middle o’ the row,
Kicking shins and steppin’ on toes.114
T’were creepy crawlers, those wretched things,
Swarmin’ down from the Earth’s ceiling,
The locusts they did come first
Heraldin’ eminent doom for us poor accursed.15

Panic did encumber the crowds and the masses,
scurryin' 'bout like pests, rodents, or roaches.
Vyin' for cover, and fightin' one another
'twas hard to differentiate blue-collar16 from beggar
as they hid under awnin's, bridges, and boxes
frightened 'nd bewildered, hidin' from doomsday's clutches.
Unluckily for us, tis just the beginning
t'was plenty more to do; much, much, more dooming.

Turns out tis true 'bout the end o' the world
The antichrist17 did come and our tears were impearled
Upon our cheeks, running rampant and fluid
As we did plead; our futures, doubted
We turned to religion to solve all our problems
And it did come so close – almost to the angstrom19 -
The problem with religion ‘twas simple, indeed,
We don't all share views and heed the same creeds.20

‘Twas too late for all that, now that I think on it,
For pummelin' our cities t'were meteors and comets.
Relentless space beasts, now crushin' down ‘pon us
Destroyin' spirits and pavements - if only we had an aegis!21
To protect our all too destructible society;
Burnin' trees, parks, and other bowery22
Did cause an uproar of smoke, and ash, and gases
T'were the translucent destroyers who caused most losses.

If that t'weren't enough, and any had remained,
They would have seen 'quakes, tornados, and hurricanes;
Ravaging the landscapes, city and agrestic alike.
From Mount Fuji23 to the New Jersey turnpike,
No place left unscathed, the wrath of doomsday.
Woe is me! Woe is you!
For it turns out it was true!
‘Tis the trouble with prophesized doom.

Foot Notes


1. Also the title of a 1955 movie directed by Roger Corman

2. It is said that due to the Mayan calendar ending on December 21st, 2012 that the world will end. That, or the Mayans were tired of drawing out a calendar that goes on for centuries.

3. A borrowing of phrase from Shakespeare’s Hamlet and the famous ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy.

4. Perhaps the greatest invention since sliced bread; tiny, brightly colored, sticky notes that, when not lost in clutter, are extremely helpful in remembering things.

5. Daily; ordinary; common place

6. ‘eads: a shortened form of ‘heads’ to reflect the gruff British accent of the narrator.

7. \ahr-guht\ the special vocabulary and idiom of a particular profession or social group

8. Michel de Nostredame; a French apothecary and reputed seer

9. A funeral song or tune, or one expressing mourning in commemoration of the dead

10. From the popular idiom, ‘To hack up a lung’; to cough

11. To mock, tease, or jest in a good-natured way

12. French for ‘Life’

13. French for ‘The Prophecies’; the title of the books published by Nostradamus consisting of quatrains foretelling the future

14. We’ve all had this experience before, the one person who’s late to a show and they just happen to have the seat in the middle of the row. You’d think they would at least be courteous about it, but no, they shove past.

15. An allusion to the biblical story of Moses where the first plague is a swarm of locusts.

16. A professional worker; accountant, businessman, attorney

17. It’s said that one day an antichrist will appear and usher in the end of the world and the second coming of Christ will happen.

18. To form into drops resembling pearls

19. A unit of length, equal to one tenth of a millimicron, or one ten millionth of a millimeter

20. An authoritative, formulated statement of the chief articles of Christian belief, as the Apostles' Creed, the Nicene Creed, or the Athanasian Creed.

21. The shield or breastplate of Zeus or Athena, bearing at its center the head of a Gorgon.

22. Containing bowers; leafy; shady

23. The tallest mountain in Japan and an active stratovalcano.

Jul 23, 2010

Thirty-Five Seconds

Thirty-Five Seconds

the first few flew
as seconds often do
when meeting someone new
i saw out the corner
of my eye that smile
your simply stunning
smile

second fifteen arrives
i finally find your eyes
our gazes speak histories
truth love loss lies
impossibly blue
amazingly alive
eyes

twenty-two seconds
your soul entwines mine
our threads on tapestry
of fate are intertwined
seamlessly thorough
eternally bound
fate

twenty-seven seconds
is all i have known you
yet we are kindred spirits
set free to roam skies
you know as well as i
that this much is
true

thirty-five seconds
it was just a quick look
but all that it took
finally to realize
that without you now
i will never become
me.

Apr 25, 2010

Love is a Bouquet

It took me a while to write this poem. Not to mention the time it took to look up all of these flowers that rhymed. Oy! But I'm happy with the way it turned out.

Love is a Bouquet

Love is a bouquet
filled with pretty, little, flowers.
Sometimes they’re lilies,
daffodils, or posies.
Other times they’re marigolds,
orchids, or roses.

Bought just before its prime,
blooming and blossoming
before the recipient’s eyes –
baby’s breath; breathing
cocks comb; combing
poppies; popping
and bird of paradise; paradizing.

Love is a bouquet
in full bloom.
Smelling so sweetly,
like a French perfume,
petals fanned out
in carnal symmetry:
beauty incarnate;
the epitome.

Love is a bouquet
three weeks old.
The flowers, all dead
and dieing.
Dried out, brown,
hard and stale.

Death’s selfish fingers
do impose –
even on roses,
posies, and marigolds.

Love is an empty vase.

Apr 21, 2010

La Nuit La Tour Eiffel Est Morte

The title for today's update is also the title of my French final. Translated it means, "The night the Eiffel Tower died". When I have the story completely finished (which will be by next Tuesday or else my final is late :/ )I'll upload it on here to share with you all.

Let's start with my life, because it's so incredibly interesting. My last semester at community college is winding down - and I'm glad it is. Two of the classes I'm in are a complete waste of my time and I've lost motivation to go to the third one. Luckily, or, not so luckily - depending how you look at it - my spring courses start at Eastern May 3rd. I think I'm a bit crazy, however. For some reason I think that I can take 12 credits over a 7 week period and work full time and not be drained of my will to live. Here's hoping I can do it. *crosses fingers* But, I am taking the summer semester off, thank goodness. I'm not taking it off just for my health, but also because I plan to travel again. Traveling is an itch which you scratch at and scratch at but it never goes away. The thought and need to travel is constantly roaming around my head. My friend and I will be heading to Wales, UK at the beginning of August. I am so excited. I'm so excited I feel like I should be typing all of this in caps, but I won't. We're going to take two one-week long 'intensive' courses in Greek. So far all of our preparations are going according to plan. And after that I plan to travel to New York to visit with Lola and Jokul! I'll be waiting until I turn 21 and then I'ma paint the big apple red!

There's not much going on in FF right now. I'm busy with school. Or at least I tell myself that. I dunno; the fascination it once held is just gone. I can't explain it.

Lemme find a poem I haven't shared with you yet... Here we go. The inspiration for this was going to Open at work around 3am.

At Three Ante Meridiem

My world is somnolent,
at three ante meridiem.

Bring forth the descent,
palliate, the regime.
Be myrmidon no longer,
recalcitrant, recalcitrant!
Sleep no longer – rebel, rebel!
Dream no longer, wake and delay,
Ring, ring, Macbeth – Sound thy death knell!
Rise, you quiescent, and dismay,

Your savior has come!
Your savior is gone!
Repent no more - await dawn.
My world is insomnolent,
At three ante meridiem.

Mar 23, 2010

The Lady's Dressing Room

Oh shit! Two updates just minutes apart? I really enjoy this poem and I thought you might too. Who knows, eh?


The Lady's Dressing Room
By Jonathan Swift

Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.
And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the arm-pits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
And swears how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon't
To smooth the wrinkles on her front.
Here alum flower to stop the steams
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsy's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty's help,
Distilled from Tripsy's darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes,
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Begummed, besmattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye escapes:
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings, why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia's magnifying glass.
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't
It shewed the visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose
The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
(For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.)
Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain, the workman shewed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more:
He smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus oped the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of humane evils upwards flew,
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid
To view what in the chest was hid,
The vapours flew from out the vent.
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
"Those secrets of the hoary deep"!
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which, though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require
And toast them at the clearest fire,
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon the cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Poisoning the flesh from whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy stench
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell,
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
But vengeance, Goddess never sleeping,
Soon punished Strephon for his peeping:
His foul Imagination links
Each dame he see with all her stinks;
And, if unsavory odors fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits
By vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the charms of female kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene
Satira's but some pocky queen.
When Celia in her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and every clout
With which he makes so foul a rout),
He soon would learn to think like me
And bless his ravished sight to see
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.

En Français, s'il vous plait!

I had fun writing this. It was for my french class. If you don't speak/read french, I suggest you learn - I foresee many posts where I speak french in the future. I don't know why I'm posting this, really. It's more philosophical than the assignment really called for. Maybe that's why? Either way, here it is, out on the interwebs. And, just so those non-frenchies out there don't feel left out, following this is another poem I wrote, which I also had fun writing.

Un Compagnon Voyage

A mon avis, des camarades voyage doivent avoir les similitudes mais aussi les différences. Après tout, il n’y a pas de plaisir dans la conformité. Si l'on veut avoir un plaisir vrai, ils doivent essayer de nouvelles activités. Bien sûr, avoir trop de différences n’est pas bon non plus. Il s’agit de trouver un équilibre.

Mon compagnon idéal doit, avant tout, être propre, mais pas trop propre. Il doit être organisé, mais pas trop organisé. Je voudrais un compagnon qu’est ni un saligaud ni un perfectionniste. Je ne suis pas parfait et je ne s’attends pas des autres l’être. Tout ce que je demande, c’est la médiocrité. Bien sûr, je veux une personne qu’est sympathique, agréable, drôle, amusant, énergétique, et la vie de la fête. Est-ce trop demander ? Je ne le crois pas !

Moi, je préfère pour voyager avec mes copains de longue date. Que n’est pas dire je ne voyagerai jamais avec mes nouveaux copains. Je le trouve plus facile de faire la conversation avec amis qui je sais bien. Quelqu’un qui me connaît bien et je n'ai pas besoin à cacher mon vrai moi de. C’est plus amusant à partager les souvenirs avec un copain qui ont un rôle major dans votre vie.

Un autre grand facteur dans choisir un camarade voyage est leur routine quotidienne. Pour exemple : Si vous dormez jusqu'à ce que l’après-midi et je me réveille à 8 heures du matin puis nous ne serons pas un mesure de passer la journée ensemble. Et chacun sait que l’exploration d’une nouvelle ville est plus amusante avec un ami. Si ça n’était pas vrai, puis je n’aurais pas besoin pour un compagnon voyage.

Mais, le facteur plus important quand on choisit un compagnon voyage est un accord sur la destination. Si les deux aventuriers ne voudra pas pour visiter la même place, ni aura un bon temps – et un bon temps est la raison pour voyager !

A Little / White Lie

Love
is a lie
we're forced
to believe.
A little
white lie
multiplied
exponentially.
A lie that
taints
our minds
clouds
our skies
unable to lave
ourselves
of this sin
we must accept
inevitability.

Mar 14, 2010

Secret Update

I'm not sure why, but I feel compelled to update this. It's been, well, too long. I would do the math and tell you how many months, but, no, just no.

Let's start with a recap of my life, and Oprah's life. (Not the rich black woman, the poor tarutaru puppetmaster).

I'm still attending school. I think I will always be attending school, but that's alright with me. I enjoy it; I love to learn - what can I say, I'm a dork. I've changed my Major a few times and in the fall I'll be transferring out of community college into a real University. It's a bit daunting. It shouldn't be, but it is. All of the silly things I have to do - plus getting financial aid set up. I've been fortunate enough to pay for my college up until now out of pocket, but with university coasts I can't do it anymore. So student loan time. I'm working, still. It's a reoccurring theme in our lives - work. Everyone complains about their job. It's never good enough for them or it's too 'hard' or they just hate it for no other reason than conversation. I have no qualms with my job. It's an easy-to-do, low pressure, low expectation job. Do I want to do it forever? Maybe. Not for the job, or the pathetic pay, but for the people. I enjoy all of the people there and their witty banter, if nothing else. (I only dislike two people that work there.)

Now on to Oprah. She's been pretty stagnant lately. That's my fault, really. I just don't have the passion I used to for FFXI, but I do enjoy it when I'm on it. Especially with the new Static we're having. I'm playing RDM. Fun. It's actually a bit repetitive and I don't even have Haste to cast yet. But again, the people keep me there. Another reoccurring theme: People. I'm still working on WW, but it's slow. I don't remember when the last time I merited was. But I'm a tit-bit excited for the new updates SE has in store.

I haven't been writing in my story much. Or at all, really. It's all in my head, semi-planned out, but just not on paper yet. I have been writing poetry a bit. It's on my facebook if you'd like to check it out. Though, this secret update is really more for me than any of you. (No offense)

Okay, fine, here's a poem I wrote that I like:

Cecelia

She wears the finest silks,
precariously on her curves.
Her face, her nails, her hair,
- done up.

Her smile fronting,
they call to her,
“My dear, Cecelia, my dear,
How we adore you so!”

She fans her lashes;
flushes her cheeks –
They dote and swoon,
drooling, like the Dane.

They call out to her, again,
“Cecelia!”
She hides behind her fan,
smoky-eyed and teasing.

Her mini-skirt revealing,
yet somehow quite concealing,
the naughty bits,
they all long to see.

She teased, plucked,
showered, and shaved
the night before
Your big day.

Your time has come:
The dim lit room.
The well-worn mattress.
Her… fee.

Stuffed in an envelope,
freshly banked dollars,
crisp as autumn mornings,
flirting with her eyes.

Cecelia smirks,
warming you through.
What is it
that you’d like her to do?


Maybe there won't be 5 months before my next post. But maybe there will be. Who knows, really? Not me.

Best wishes,

Op