The Lonely God

The Lonely God

At the top of the world
The Wind howls in protest
to the lonely god.
“End their pain” she screams.

But the lonely god doesn’t listen.
He sits on his throne
and stares down at his creation
with apathy.

The Moon glares at the lonely god
but says nothing,
he knows the lonely god will not hear.

The lonely god ignores the Moon,
and rests his feet on Creation
like a footstool.

The Sun chides the lonely god,
“It’s been long enough”
he mourns.

But the lonely god turns his back
on the Sun,
“Does the artist owe the painting?”
he muses.

The Earth begs the lonely god
for release.
Her bowls churn in torment.

But the lonely god only looks at her
with contempt.
“I created you in my image,
so too shall you suffer”.

The Day Before Tomorrow

The Day Before Tomorrow

It’s the day before tomorrow,
some call it today.

I feel shame giving name
to such a waste of time.

I sat by the phone all day,
wondering why it never rings.
The mailbox was empty,
except for coupons
for things I will never use.
Television played nothing
but repeats.

I promise myself that tomorrow…
tomorrow I will let go.

But on this day,
the day before tomorrow,
I sit and strum an old guitar,
wondering what has become of you.

My cat nudges my leg,
“Time for bed”,
he gently purrs.
The clock has long ticked past midnight
as I drift to sleep.

When I wake,
tomorrow has eluded me again,
so I begin another
day before tomorrow.

How do you write your poems

I hate to admit that I am old enough to have written stuff on a manual typewriter. You know… the ones that if you typed to fast, or just mashed the keys, because it was fun, all the keys would get stuck together. I used to spend a good deal of time trying to get all of the keys to stick at once. There was always one or two that just wouldn’t fit. Now I have two laptops, a work desktop, smart phone and a Kindle Fire, all capable of doing what the old typewriter only dreamed of. Over the years I have used all of these to write one story or another, create project proposals, and essays for school. They are great tools without a doubt. However, for me they don’t work for poetry.

I have to write my poems with pencil and paper. It really needs to be pencil. A pen will work if there isn’t a pencil handy (I keep two or three pencils around at all times), but I just don’t get the same feel from a pen that I do from a pencil. The type of paper makes no difference. I have written on standard paper, sticky notes, note pads, bar napkins, and even the back of “This is your final notice” envelopes. There is a different feeling I get when I write a poem with pencil and paper. I feel more connected to the words, more in tune with the emotion.

Perhaps it is because poems are more visual that this works for me. Poems are living, breathing things. They evolve more quickly than a story does. For me it is much easier to lay out the poem, move things around, rewrite and adjust them as I want on paper, than it is in a word processing program. This might seem counter intuitive since it is actually much easier to edit on a computer than on paper. I don’t actually move anything on paper. I draw lines through words I want to remove, only one line in case I change my mind. I use arrows to indicate this stanza should now go bellow this one. What is that little thing that means “insert here” a carat? I forget, but I use that a lot as well. Before I bring a poem into a MS Word they can look like a bad diagram of some obscure government regulation.

Original draft of 700 Light-Years from Home

Original draft of 700 Light-Years from Home

I set out once to write a poem totally in a digital environment. I failed miserably. I just couldn’t get any feeling or connection with what I was writing. So now I work exclusively with pen (or other writing tool if I must, yes I have used crayon) and paper.

How do you write your poems? Do you have some special thing you have to do first, some special place you have to go? I would be very interested in hearing from fellow poets on how they write down their poems. Please enter a comment and let me know your method.

The End

When the end came it was a surprise to everyone. The sky looked the same as it did the day before. The birds sang and the flowers bloomed. Clouds drifted lazily through a deep blue sky. Children played blissfully unaware of the precious hours they had left. Had there been a way to prevent it, they would surely have tried. The government would have made decrees, issued laws, setup shelters. They knew nothing though. Life, for a time, simply carried on. The people lived in what peace they were accustomed to. So businesses opened on time. Commuters complained about their ride to work. Babies cried. Lovers made love.

Those who had looked to the skies for their destruction for a thousand years would have been disappointed. It didn’t come from the sky. It didn’t come from the land. It simply came. There was no buildup. No flash. No great explosion. They were there one moment, and not the next. In the wink of an eye an entire species ceased to exist.

Pampas and arrogant as they were, they would have been shocked to learn that the other species that had shared the land with them gave no notice of the change. Birds sang. Flowers bloomed. Clouds drifted lazily through a deep blue sky.

The Page Stares Back at Me,

writing desk

Image courtesy of http://okbrightstar-stock.deviantart.com/ (slightly edited by me)

blank,
uncaring.
Words are in there,
I feel them,
though they stay hidden.
I try to coax them
by stroking the lines with my pen.
They scatter in meaningless dribble,
afraid of what I may make them say.
Words are tired of being sad.
They long to be happy,
to tell stories of love and romance.
I don’t know how to arrange them,
so they run.
My pen is dry,
my paper empty,
even my Words have left me.

Image courtesy of okbrightstar-stock