We smile a friendly - but nervous - smile, and speak of our days - cautiously - while I compliment you, you compliment me, and I know very well you aren't meant for me.
You point out your (minor, adorable) flaws, and seem grounded - almost overly so - for possessing such beauty. You trust my opinion For fashion advice, But the sight of your skin would thaw glacial ice.
You seem familiar - even intimate - at times, and don't consider your (not-inconsiderable) beauty's effect, I can't help but detect. You're lovely - and married - it's plain to see, So please, I beg of you, don't tempt me.
^_^ I wrote this poem as part of a short story for my writer's group, and thought I'd share. Enjoy!
***
Bring my horses, bring my wives, Bring my men by twos and fives, For an army storms our castle doors Prepared enough to take our lives.
They’ve hurlers strapped onto their beasts And reinforcements marching east. Their drummers rumble through the ground— They stomp and shout and kill, released.
The towers crumbled, brick walls fell, Buried the weak beneath the swell. We hide inside the deepest keep And bid our gods a fond farewell.
Somewhere beyond those iron locks They’ve burned every ship tied to our docks, Spilled our gold upon the floors, And tossed my paintings on the rocks.
I hold my queen and ease her tears, The oldest mother of my heirs, “We’ll die in here,” she wept to me, “Forgotten and alone.” So she fears.
And what kind of king would I be If throughout the raid I hid and flee? Cower amidst my sons and daughters, Lose my head as I bend the knee.
“They’ll never forget us,” I chide As I stand, first-born by my side. Looming death may birth madness in men, But that same madness may change the tide.
So fire arrows, fire boulders Crush their turncoat-bannered shoulders, For if I’m to die by this night’s end, At least I’ll leave their courage colder.
I hear the silver people say "Our lives were always meant this way," But always their gazes turn away From the hollow man of rust and clay.
He treads the fields of verdant green In search of what? He cannot glean From anything that he has seen Behind the dirty window screen.
Through the world, he marches blind, Leaving the life he loved behind To step into a place unkind, His bones to break, his teeth to grind.
The silver people themselves desired To fly in the heavens, their hearts inspired, They laughed at the clay man, set his body on fire, But he could not chase them, for his arms were tired.
But then, his hollow guise did see A golden maiden with eyes of the sea, And felt the foreign pain of glee As his diamond heart was quickly set free.
He struggled to find the words to say To keep her beside him, to get her to stay, 'Til he learned that his passion mattered not anyway, For the golden maiden had gone the next day.
The diamond heart unleashed its mournful cry As the clay man swallowed it back in with a sigh, To once again roam beneath the sky, Where the silver people had learned to fly.
Just a little something I made up for this thread. I hope you like it.
Like downing hard liquor Only to get drunk quicker While your defense only gets thicker
And these thoughts continue to run through my mind And I dig through these feelings not knowing what I'll find Even though you kindly left me behind
Kindly how is that word define? Is it a lie like the word fine? Or is it an act of crime?
But you'll never get caught with those angel wings And they'll never disagree with that song you like to sing So what kind of defense do I have to bring?
When I'm nothing but a captain of a sinking ship And every time I patch the hole it rips No wonder I'll never get home from this trip
No one every told me this water was cold No one ever warned me what I would behold Love doesn't really translate into gold
But I remember her laying in that van I could still touch her if I can But that would burn away my hand
And I wouldn't tatter her dress. And I wouldn't turn both our lives a mess Even if she would never fess.
So I shut that door I slept on the floor And I never told this to anyone before
But back then I thought I was your jester But in fact I was nothing more than a leper Man I should have fucked her.
I know it's a bit of a faux pas to reply to your own posts, but that's exactly what I'm about to do. Buckle yourselves in, because we're going on a ride. First stop: my 3 poems for the Wild Surge magazine, all in this post.
-
11/30/16
The cat had been Sprightly, both adjective and name, and the witch's familiar had brought her great joy. He gamboled and pranced and played at her games, and served as a scout under her kind employ.
But in a dank dungeon, he'd met a cruel fate: a fireball trap had taken Sprightly's life. The witch moped for months, losing track of the date, and the loss of his company cut like a knife.
At last old adventuring companions sought out the witch, and discovered her state most morose. A kind samurai-cleric soon brought her about when he said the familiar only lay in repose.
Channelling the divine, he drew back death's veil, and soon Sprightly sprang forth alive, his tail swishing. The witch, overjoyed, had his scouting curtailed, as companionship, not foresight, was what she was wishing.
Although the familiar's services had changed, he was no less beloved by the heroes who knew him. Playful antics were now the domain he arranged, and tales of his exploits now slowly outgrew him.
-
2/11/2017, 5:10 A.M.
Day by day we delve the deep, Coal and ore and gem and stone; Onward ever grows our keep: We hollow out the mountain's bones.
Pick and drill and cart and rail, There is no tool we cannot use; We serve our kingdom without fail: There is no labor we refuse.
Sword and axe and mail and shield, All these we forge with steady hand; Orc and rock to us shall yield: Our wars and tunnels faultless planned.
Spell and stone and bolt and blade, All turn away from dwarven-kind; Our skill and glory shall not fade, And bottomless shall be our mine.
Down and down into the deep, We follow ore to take and hone; May every eye that read this weep For what is wrought within the stone.
-
4/7/2017, 10:59 A.M.
Took a trip up the coast to meet some old friends For a birthday bash even Bhaal would attend, We boasted 'bout big beetles, but dragons were a drag Divine chick called me out, and I opted to brag.
I met a little green lady, she was hangin' tight, A hamster-wielding ham, whoa his head wasn't right I saw psychedelic sights through some groovy shades; Some people died, man, but others got made.
We made war, a little love, and we did it with ease A foul fellah flung fierce fireballs like a breeze, I outdrank the skald, pickpocketed the thief, Couldn't outshoot the captain but it gave me no grief.
We got to Dragonspear, man, and it was a siege, I couldn't make up my mind if I wanted a liege It's a lot like last year but I swear it's still fun, All these hip swingin' cats, and the party's not done!
If you ever find yourself up that stretch of Sword Coast, Let me tell you 'bout the castle that's tighter than most, Where the danger is high, but the fun's without peer, Happy birthday to Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear!
Next stop: dealing with love and death, through psychedelic imagery. My life might be strange, but just maybe someone out there will find some value in my poetry. These are posted elsewhere, on my wordpress journal blog, but I hesitate to link it since it has a lot of raw, unapologetic thoughts in it.
From a Hermit to a Mermaid by Mark Burton, 4/6/2017, 5:55 A.M.
Enter stage left find a new color palette the bass has been cleft not bereft now, but seeking verdigris horizons; the time's never right. Rainy season in Kentucky bourbon jungles, flash photography yields to clockwork kaleidoscopes bending the velvet breeze, on my knees before your altar it swelters too sweet to stop burning your cigarette timeline. Christ, if there is or was or would, what I wouldn't do to bring you good; unravel headstone indigo free fly the chains of flesh on soul, doubt nothing and within your arms let go.
-
Waiting For Your Text by Mark Burton, 4/6/2017, 11:17 A.M.
Uncertainty lyrics wrapped in expectation sunbursts wrapped in dandelion insecurity wrapped in words with word wrap on, because what happens in the margins is too dangerous to record. Civilizations rise and fall while your phone charges, psychoanalyzing shoestring autonomy while you work and wear your job; if this is purgatory, that makes you my goddess. Sublime, you write me back and moments of aquamarine soothe my pigment for two ticks. Before the storyteller can gasp, like any knight-errant I let my flaws define your spherical love into non-Euclidean ruins when the next pause curls around my beautiful doubt.
-
Gothic Strawberries by Mark Burton, 4/6/2017, 1:04 P.M.
Syncopated cupcakes fit my hand in counterpoint to tobacco candy savored by lachrymose lips. Every shouldn't turns to should; Dear God, you know I would. Ignite the pilot light - with Jameson - in full spectrum touch; tragedy frames our play, but slows it down? None such. Supple succulents from the tree hand to mouth in ecstacy erotic melancholy erupts in we.
-
Call It Love by Mark Burton, 4/8/2017, 9:27 P.M.
Monochrome rainbow in a sky of sublime storm roses every shade but red circle the crown of thorns on my unworthy head. Somehow love, somehow you love, somehow you love me love, knowing everything knowing every shade but green that faces us that calls beauty obscene that turns its back on us somehow you are serene even in your tears even in tenebrous sheen somehow you are more beautiful than anything I have seen.
Love Language by Mark Burton, 4/16/2017, 4:33 A.M.
I hold your wrists so you can't slit them; if I bathe you in pleasure, maybe you'll forget the jangle-glass hounds that dog your croons, and if you can't forget maybe you'll just swoon. They call it love language, how affections express, and my love language comes by dermal caress: if I make you lose count of little deaths now, perhaps the big deaths will be eased somehow.
-
Spontaneous Combustion by Mark Burton, 4/17/2017, 1:13 P.M.
The fire starts at the cell phone (not so smart now, is it?) then rapidly engulfs your body; it spreads across the couch, burns a trail through hallways, doors, stairs, until finally it comes licking into the bedroom. We probably could have put it out if we weren't so busy pouring kerosine; the flames devour pictures, beds, husbands, wives and family. We really ought to escape this arson, but now we'll see it through: the flames devour everything, including me and you. Ashes can be fertile, and something new may grow, but it's also pure destruction, so forgive me while I glow.
Take Me With You by Mark Burton, 4/19/2017, 4:55 P.M.
Silken joy descends upon me, black lace love, diaphanous deep, the night has not been made for sleep and neither has this day. Smooth and wet, you whet my stone and sharpen our desire, sparks fly when the whet stone meets such soft and sharp edges beneath.
We meet in the gap, an opening that creates life and love and good, so fortunate I, tis welcoming though I am a thief, a corsair meandering along this wood.
In mere moments, unraveling all the futures I had seen, replacing them in shades of green and love.
Disappear, we are wandering, two corsairs foreign and far away together through the mystic days, unseen.
50 Years Late and $7.37 Short, Adjusted for Inflation by Mark Burton, 4/21/2017, 4:42 P.M.
Daydream darling, I decorate a psychic space for you: this space is filled with colors, filled with textures and tastes; dark chocolate M&M's silken paisley, astrakhan green and blue and purple and black and every other shade has a turn on its back. Rainbows in bottles, artistic banal it might be mundane but I'll color it all, I'll color your world, I'll color it all. Floral prints and gothic refrains the goal is not to mask the pain but make it palatable, a bit more sane in the madness of our love, in antique daisy chains; daydream darling, awaken me awaken all that we could be, as we defy normality, every law including gravity, connect and drift on astral tides, heal me and consume my love, my life.
Comments
We smile a friendly
- but nervous -
smile, and speak of our days
- cautiously -
while I compliment you,
you compliment me,
and I know very well you aren't meant for me.
You point out your
(minor, adorable)
flaws, and seem grounded
- almost overly so -
for possessing such beauty.
You trust my opinion
For fashion advice,
But the sight of your skin would thaw glacial ice.
You seem familiar
- even intimate -
at times, and don't consider your
(not-inconsiderable)
beauty's effect, I can't help but detect.
You're lovely - and married - it's plain to see,
So please, I beg of you,
don't
tempt
me.
^_^ I wrote this poem as part of a short story for my writer's group, and thought I'd share. Enjoy!
***
Bring my horses, bring my wives,
Bring my men by twos and fives,
For an army storms our castle doors
Prepared enough to take our lives.
They’ve hurlers strapped onto their beasts
And reinforcements marching east.
Their drummers rumble through the ground—
They stomp and shout and kill, released.
The towers crumbled, brick walls fell,
Buried the weak beneath the swell.
We hide inside the deepest keep
And bid our gods a fond farewell.
Somewhere beyond those iron locks
They’ve burned every ship tied to our docks,
Spilled our gold upon the floors,
And tossed my paintings on the rocks.
I hold my queen and ease her tears,
The oldest mother of my heirs,
“We’ll die in here,” she wept to me,
“Forgotten and alone.” So she fears.
And what kind of king would I be
If throughout the raid I hid and flee?
Cower amidst my sons and daughters,
Lose my head as I bend the knee.
“They’ll never forget us,” I chide
As I stand, first-born by my side.
Looming death may birth madness in men,
But that same madness may change the tide.
So fire arrows, fire boulders
Crush their turncoat-bannered shoulders,
For if I’m to die by this night’s end,
At least I’ll leave their courage colder.
"Our lives were always meant this way,"
But always their gazes turn away
From the hollow man of rust and clay.
He treads the fields of verdant green
In search of what? He cannot glean
From anything that he has seen
Behind the dirty window screen.
Through the world, he marches blind,
Leaving the life he loved behind
To step into a place unkind,
His bones to break, his teeth to grind.
The silver people themselves desired
To fly in the heavens, their hearts inspired,
They laughed at the clay man, set his body on fire,
But he could not chase them, for his arms were tired.
But then, his hollow guise did see
A golden maiden with eyes of the sea,
And felt the foreign pain of glee
As his diamond heart was quickly set free.
He struggled to find the words to say
To keep her beside him, to get her to stay,
'Til he learned that his passion mattered not anyway,
For the golden maiden had gone the next day.
The diamond heart unleashed its mournful cry
As the clay man swallowed it back in with a sigh,
To once again roam beneath the sky,
Where the silver people had learned to fly.
Just a little something I made up for this thread. I hope you like it.
Like downing Hard Liquor
Like downing hard liquor
Only to get drunk quicker
While your defense only gets thicker
And these thoughts continue to run through my mind
And I dig through these feelings not knowing what I'll find
Even though you kindly left me behind
Kindly how is that word define?
Is it a lie like the word fine?
Or is it an act of crime?
But you'll never get caught with those angel wings
And they'll never disagree with that song you like to sing
So what kind of defense do I have to bring?
When I'm nothing but a captain of a sinking ship
And every time I patch the hole it rips
No wonder I'll never get home from this trip
No one every told me this water was cold
No one ever warned me what I would behold
Love doesn't really translate into gold
But I remember her laying in that van
I could still touch her if I can
But that would burn away my hand
And I wouldn't tatter her dress.
And I wouldn't turn both our lives a mess
Even if she would never fess.
So I shut that door
I slept on the floor
And I never told this to anyone before
But back then I thought I was your jester
But in fact I was nothing more than a leper
Man I should have fucked her.
told you
a story
I
sang you
a rhyme
You
frowned at
my glory
And
charged for
your time.
-
11/30/16
The cat had been Sprightly, both adjective and name,
and the witch's familiar had brought her great joy.
He gamboled and pranced and played at her games,
and served as a scout under her kind employ.
But in a dank dungeon, he'd met a cruel fate:
a fireball trap had taken Sprightly's life.
The witch moped for months, losing track of the date,
and the loss of his company cut like a knife.
At last old adventuring companions sought out
the witch, and discovered her state most morose.
A kind samurai-cleric soon brought her about
when he said the familiar only lay in repose.
Channelling the divine, he drew back death's veil,
and soon Sprightly sprang forth alive, his tail swishing.
The witch, overjoyed, had his scouting curtailed,
as companionship, not foresight, was what she was wishing.
Although the familiar's services had changed,
he was no less beloved by the heroes who knew him.
Playful antics were now the domain he arranged,
and tales of his exploits now slowly outgrew him.
-
2/11/2017, 5:10 A.M.
Day by day we delve the deep,
Coal and ore and gem and stone;
Onward ever grows our keep:
We hollow out the mountain's bones.
Pick and drill and cart and rail,
There is no tool we cannot use;
We serve our kingdom without fail:
There is no labor we refuse.
Sword and axe and mail and shield,
All these we forge with steady hand;
Orc and rock to us shall yield:
Our wars and tunnels faultless planned.
Spell and stone and bolt and blade,
All turn away from dwarven-kind;
Our skill and glory shall not fade,
And bottomless shall be our mine.
Down and down into the deep,
We follow ore to take and hone;
May every eye that read this weep
For what is wrought within the stone.
-
4/7/2017, 10:59 A.M.
Took a trip up the coast to meet some old friends
For a birthday bash even Bhaal would attend,
We boasted 'bout big beetles, but dragons were a drag
Divine chick called me out, and I opted to brag.
I met a little green lady, she was hangin' tight,
A hamster-wielding ham, whoa his head wasn't right
I saw psychedelic sights through some groovy shades;
Some people died, man, but others got made.
We made war, a little love, and we did it with ease
A foul fellah flung fierce fireballs like a breeze,
I outdrank the skald, pickpocketed the thief,
Couldn't outshoot the captain but it gave me no grief.
We got to Dragonspear, man, and it was a siege,
I couldn't make up my mind if I wanted a liege
It's a lot like last year but I swear it's still fun,
All these hip swingin' cats, and the party's not done!
If you ever find yourself up that stretch of Sword Coast,
Let me tell you 'bout the castle that's tighter than most,
Where the danger is high, but the fun's without peer,
Happy birthday to Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear!
From a Hermit to a Mermaid
by Mark Burton, 4/6/2017, 5:55 A.M.
Enter stage left
find a new color palette
the bass has been cleft
not bereft now, but seeking
verdigris horizons;
the time's never right.
Rainy season in Kentucky bourbon jungles,
flash photography yields
to clockwork kaleidoscopes
bending the velvet breeze,
on my knees before your altar
it swelters too sweet to stop burning
your cigarette timeline.
Christ, if there is or was or would,
what I wouldn't do to bring you good;
unravel headstone indigo
free fly the chains of flesh on soul,
doubt nothing
and within your arms
let go.
-
Waiting For Your Text
by Mark Burton, 4/6/2017, 11:17 A.M.
Uncertainty lyrics
wrapped in expectation sunbursts
wrapped in dandelion insecurity
wrapped in words with word wrap on,
because what happens in the margins
is too dangerous to record.
Civilizations rise and fall while your phone charges,
psychoanalyzing shoestring autonomy
while you work and wear your job;
if this is purgatory, that makes you my goddess.
Sublime,
you write me back
and moments of aquamarine
soothe my pigment for two ticks.
Before the storyteller can gasp,
like any knight-errant
I let my flaws define
your spherical love
into non-Euclidean ruins
when the next pause curls
around my beautiful doubt.
-
Gothic Strawberries
by Mark Burton, 4/6/2017, 1:04 P.M.
Syncopated cupcakes
fit my hand in counterpoint
to tobacco candy savored
by lachrymose lips.
Every shouldn't
turns to should;
Dear God, you know I would.
Ignite the pilot light
- with Jameson -
in full spectrum touch;
tragedy frames our play,
but slows it down?
None such.
Supple succulents from the tree
hand to mouth in ecstacy
erotic melancholy
erupts in we.
-
Call It Love
by Mark Burton, 4/8/2017, 9:27 P.M.
Monochrome rainbow
in a sky of sublime storm
roses every shade but red
circle the crown of thorns
on my unworthy head.
Somehow love,
somehow you love,
somehow you love me love,
knowing everything
knowing
every shade but green
that faces us
that calls beauty obscene
that turns its back on us
somehow
you are serene
even in your tears
even in tenebrous sheen
somehow you are more beautiful
than anything I have seen.
Love Language
by Mark Burton, 4/16/2017, 4:33 A.M.
I hold your wrists
so you can't slit them;
if I bathe you in pleasure,
maybe you'll forget the
jangle-glass hounds
that dog your croons,
and if you can't forget
maybe you'll just swoon.
They call it love language,
how affections express,
and my love language comes
by dermal caress:
if I make you lose count
of little deaths now,
perhaps the big deaths
will be eased somehow.
-
Spontaneous Combustion
by Mark Burton, 4/17/2017, 1:13 P.M.
The fire starts at the cell phone
(not so smart now, is it?)
then rapidly engulfs your body;
it spreads across the couch,
burns a trail through hallways,
doors, stairs,
until finally it comes licking into the bedroom.
We probably could have put it out
if we weren't so busy pouring kerosine;
the flames devour pictures, beds,
husbands, wives and family.
We really ought to escape this arson,
but now we'll see it through:
the flames devour everything,
including me and you.
Ashes can be fertile,
and something new may grow,
but it's also pure destruction,
so forgive me while I glow.
-
Take Me With You
by Mark Burton, 4/19/2017, 4:55 P.M.
Silken joy descends upon me,
black lace love, diaphanous deep,
the night has not been made for sleep
and neither has this day.
Smooth and wet, you whet my stone
and sharpen our desire,
sparks fly when the whet stone meets
such soft and sharp edges
beneath.
We meet in the gap,
an opening
that creates life and love and good,
so fortunate I, tis welcoming
though I am a thief,
a corsair meandering
along this wood.
In mere moments,
unraveling
all the futures I had seen,
replacing them in shades of green
and love.
Disappear,
we are wandering,
two corsairs foreign and far away
together through the mystic days,
unseen.
-
50 Years Late and $7.37 Short, Adjusted for Inflation
by Mark Burton, 4/21/2017, 4:42 P.M.
Daydream darling,
I decorate a psychic space for you:
this space is filled with colors,
filled with textures
and tastes;
dark chocolate M&M's
silken paisley, astrakhan
green and blue and purple and black
and every other shade has a turn
on its back.
Rainbows in bottles,
artistic banal
it might be mundane
but I'll color it all,
I'll color your world,
I'll color it all.
Floral prints and gothic refrains
the goal is not to mask the pain
but make it palatable,
a bit more sane
in the madness of our love,
in antique daisy chains;
daydream darling,
awaken me
awaken all
that we could be,
as we defy
normality,
every law
including gravity,
connect and drift
on astral tides,
heal me and
consume my love,
my life.