theoldestcrow

[theoldestcrow]

Sailor’s Lament

Well, I’m just a sailor sailing the sea,

And I weep and I cry to have you with me.

I’m just a captain, far away off shore,

And I wail and I moan just to see you once more.

.

The ocean is gorgeous, with waves so wide,

But I’d give them all up to have you by my side.

The distant horizon makes a wavering line,

But I’d forgo it forever if I could make you mine.

.

My ship is creaking, my sails are torn,

And I’m worried they’ll shred and from you I’ll be shorn.

My hull is cracked and my oars are broken,

And your name will be the last that I’ll have spoken.

.

The sky is clouding over—or is it my eyes?

A storm is coming, and there my fate lies.

The wind is rushing me towards my doom;

I’m sorry I had to leave you so soon.

.

(I’ve had an ongoing series of sailing and seas for awhile now, but it’s never seemed quite finished. I want to call it done with this poem, but it still doesn��t feel like it.)

[theoldestcrow]

The Late June

Ah, June. My love, my life.

Too quickly you fled,

Leaving me alone here.

I worry I’ll never love again.

.

Too quickly you fled.

I died when you did;

I worry I’ll never love again.

My life fails without you, June.

.

I died when you did.

Though I seem to go on,

My life fails without you, June.

I hope I see you soon.

.

Though I seem to go on,

I am stuck here in memories.

I hope I see you soon;

I hate to think that all I have is longing.

.

I am stuck here in memories:

The sun, the moon, your scent.

I hate to think that all I have is longing—

Ah, June. My love, my life.

.

(So I put my version of The Late June up awhile back, but I hated it, so a few months ago I redid it, and I like this one much better. This is another pantoum, one of those devilishly tricky old Arabic styles.)

[theoldestcrow]

There’s Something in the Woods

“There’s something in the woods,”

I heard my mother say.

“You mustn’t ever go out there,

Or out there you will stay.”

.

She scared me so, I cried;

My mother wiped my tears.

“As long as you will stay with me,

You’ll have no need for fear.”

.

And all my life I stayed,

Until that fateful morn,

I stepped but thrice too far outside,

And from her I was shorn.

.

I cried for her ‘til night;

She never heard my calls.

For I had lost myself in trees:

I’d lost my mother’s halls.

.

And in the night, I saw

Why she had kept me close.

For in the woods, there is no night—

The sky is heaven’s coast.

.

The air is crisp and clean,

The trees are dark and deep,

The dirt is soft and full of life;

The world seems not to sleep.

.

I stared up at the sky

And heard what gave me pause

My father came out running through

And caught me in his paws.

.

My father had become

A monster through the years

And suddenly my mothers words

Came faintly to my ears.

.

“There’s something in the woods,”

I heard my mother say.

“Your father has already gone,

I pray with me you’ll stay.”

.

I saw my father there,

And heard my mother’s voice.

And though I left him in the woods,

I understand his choice.

.

There’s something in the woods.

I feel it every day.

So while I work the family farm,

I keep one eye that way.

[theoldestcrow]

“P-please...” she whispered, terror in her voice. “H-help m-me... I’m c-cold... s-so cold...” Her hands reached out, palms upwards, her fingers turning black. “W-why would you do this? Why won’t you help me?” Tears in her eyes, she fell to her knees, clutching her lifeless hands to her chest, her shoulders hunched over to try and give any warmth she could. “P-please...” she whispered to the ground in desperation. “P-please...”

Slowly, she stopped rocking.

Cold Hands by NoelleBuske

[theoldestcrow]

Love Poem for the Moon

I shouldn’t have to define what it is because you know what it is, sweetheart.

Everyone feels it sooner or later; I’m just feeling it now.

And not just right now—I feel it every night, even when you aren’t there.

You’re always there, of course, darling; it’s just that sometimes I can’t see you;

As much as I like clouds, I sometimes hate them.

I feel it in the morning, in the afternoons, and in the evenings.

I’m never not feeling it, and if it sometimes seems like I don’t then that’s my fault.

It’s not intentional, hun. I’m not perfect like you are.

And I mean that; you are perfect.

And not ‘perfect’ as in ‘without flaws’, because that’s not perfect.

Your blemishes and scars, the pockmarks,

The wounds people have made in you,

All they do is add to your beauty. Every time I see you, I smile.

Hell, every time I think about you I smile, and I think about you all the time.

You’re amazing, and in the true sense of the word, too.

You honestly amaze and astound me every single night, pretty girl.

I’ve always felt this way about you, and I always will.

I love you.

[theoldestcrow]

What a Cowboy Is, and What a Cowboy Ain’t

‘Cowboy’ ain’t a way of dressin’,

And it ain’t a way of talkin’, neither.

‘Cowboy’ is a state of livin’,

Not where you park your keister.

.

A man can be a cowboy

Without ever wearin’ boots.

A man can be a cowboy

Long as he’s got the roots.

.

The horse don’t make the cowboy,

And the hat don’t make one neither.

A man can be a cowboy,

Without ever touchin’ either.

.

‘Cowboy’ is a mindset.

‘Cowboy’ is your life.

A man can’t be a cowboy

Without some struggle and some strife.

.

It’s how you face the strife that changes you.

It’s how you solve the struggles that makes you.

Man can’t be a cowboy

‘Less you don’t let nothin’ break you.

.

Y’see, cowboys are strong

And cowboys are tough;

Cowboys don’t let the mockery

Get under their scruff.

.

‘Cause cowboys do get mocked,

And cowboys do get poked.

But cowboys come out fightin’,

And they don’t quit ‘til they’re soaked.

.

Cowboys can spend all day workin’;

Cowboys don’t mind.

‘Cause a cowboy knows that while he works,

His wallet’s gettin’ lined.

.

And cowboys don’t mind doin’

The things that ought to be done.

And a Cowboy ain’t just focused

On him gettin’ some.

.

A Cowboy ain’t never gonna say

The things that he ought to not.

And on the heads of them that do,

The cowboy puts a knot.

.

See, ‘cowboy’ ain’t a way of dressin’;

And it ain’t a way of talkin’, neither.

‘Cowboy’ is a state of livin’,

No matter where you park your keister.

.

(I’ve always been a fan of Cowboy poetry, I’ve just always been terrible at writing it. I think this might be a new start on it for me though!)

[theoldestcrow]

Letter to a Resident

Blake,

You found me in a bar in Colorado Springs, and asked me to sign your book.

Obviously, you had mistaken me for some well known author—

I had never read the book you spoke of, much less had any part in writing it.

For some reason, I played along in the charade; perhaps I was bored. Or jealous.

You asked me what inspired my writing; I told you I feel the muse behind every sunrise.

Your eyes grew wide and you nodded fervently, not realizing you had been conned.

You were so in love with the idea of having met your idol. I began to realize I had gone too far.

But, being too far gone, I was also too far to stop. So I didn’t. I told you I was doing research.

I asked you to tell me about yourself and you began gushing your entire life.

The time your mother used the hospital pay phone to call your father after your checkup.

The time you sat in an elementary school assembly and cried because you didn’t win the prize basket.

The time you went camping and a praying mantis jumped on you head—

You brushed it away, terrified, forgetting you held a knife. Your father yelled at you.

You once had a dream you sat in the school stairwell and made love to four women,

Two of which were your teachers. That was too much information, and I have blocked it out.

You helped your father move a canoe around the side of your house one summer.

You had just finished playing with your beloved legos. You built a plane. It was brown.

You still bite your fingernails, though you’ve been trying to try stop; you know its gross.

In second grade, you pretended to be asleep far past nap time,

No matter how many times the teacher shook you. You feel bad about it now.

You drink dark beer, expensive scotch, and cheap bourbon, though a rum and coke is never off the table.

You and your lifelong best friend made plans to write a book in first grade,

And you’re scared to tell him now that the pineapple bombs you claimed to have made up

Were actually stolen from a book your father lent you. You paused and made a note to read it again.

You told me about how cicadas make you feel, and how sunny winter afternoons should be spent.

Your red haired friend in first grade who’s name you can’t remember.

You still wonder if the vaguely familiar girl in high school was actually her.

You wish you would’ve asked. Perhaps it could have led to something.

You feel your life is slipping by without your involvement recently.

There’s been a scant few memories from the past few years. Perhaps somethings wrong.

Perhaps that’s just the way life goes. You shrugged and downed the rest of your dark beer.

You told me about your school field trips to the public library in the fall, and the one book you always got.

You can’t remember its title. There’s a lot of books you wish you could find again.

One of them is about Troy, and the women there. Another is about a little girl who lives in walls.

You were embarrassed to tell me about that one; you felt it was too childish, even if you liked it.

You once made the growth serum from Roald Dahl’s book, but your mother wouldn’t let you drink it.

You worry that you’ve lost the part of yourself that wanted to.

You worry you’re too neurotic to ever find love, but you do enjoy your fantasies.

Some days it seems like they’re all that keep you going. Some days you get lost in them.

You sometimes make up entirely new people, and pretend to be them.

Sometimes they interact with you. Sometimes you make up ridiculous stories as to how they do.

As you told me more and more, I began to think there was no way to get you to stop;

I didn’t want to know all this; there was no way anyone could know all this. It was too much.

But there was no clear way to make you stop—I had come to the bar alone.

I had no friends there to pull me away from you, no one to tell me I had a phone call to take.

So, when you left to get the book you thought I had written for me to sign,

I sighed in relief and wiped my brow. It had been exhausting reliving your life with you.

I realized I was in trouble when you came back with the book—what could I write there?

I had sparse seconds to think, but I had a quick epiphany. I began to scribble furiously.

I had barely finished when the bar tender began closing up shop for the night,

Which was fortunate because it meant you had to leave before you could read it.

At the end of my message, I left my name for you. I didn’t want to be there when you saw it.

I could have signed the author’s name, but after hearing all your life, I felt I owed you.

Besides, to sign their name would have been dishonest... though I see the hypocrisy there.

In any case, I left my own there for you. I’m sorry for misleading you.

Cordially yours,

.

(I’m drunk and it seemed like a good idea to post this. That is all. Carry on.)

[theoldestcrow]

The Late June

July, she died. Early,

too dark to see the clock,

the sound of sluggish traffic rolling

wavelike through the window.

I was sleeping.

.

Her last meal was macaroni

and she never cleaned

the burner pan. I rose

and tore it from the stove.

.

Now the cicadas swelter

silently. I let the breeze in

but it’s just the same.

.

A pollenmote along the shafting

light. If I could pluck it out of time

.

and make a trade, I wouldn’t.

.

(So last time I said I’d put Dusty’s ‘late June’ up, so here it is. We (obviously) have very different styles, and I like his better, but it’s always fun to have poem writing deal-things. Anyhoo, to be clear, this one isn’t mine. All honor to my bud Dusty.)

[theoldestcrow]

The Late June

Ah, my June. My love, my life.

I met you in the spring, if thought could be meet.

And yet, you were not to come for some time;

Why is that, my love? Why, when I was ready for you,

Were you not to be found still for months?

.

Ah, my June. My sweet, my dear.

Forgive me, my dear, I spoke out of turn.

So passionate am I for you, I sometimes forget:

It is not your fault that time passed on, us apart.

And, alas, it did indeed pass on as such.

.

Ah, my June. My hug, my kiss.

As time passed, you swirled near, your sundress spinning,

Round and round, I laughed to see it so!

No sound of mocking, only joyous celebration;

Your sundress, a pyramid; the capstone, my kiss.

.

Ah, my June. My head, my heart.

I fear your forgiveness I must ask again;

As much as my heart longed for you when you were not there,

When at last—at last!—along you came...

I had other, more important things to concern myself with.

.

Ah, my June. My silver, my gold.

It was not intended, you must understand,

But when I stepped outside, I cried out ‘too hot!’

And, never again stepping outside, I missed you as you drove by.

Ah, all my gold would I give to cry that again.

.

Ah, my June. My dream, my joy.

It seemed as though you passed too quickly,

And passed along with you, my joy and my innocence.

Gone were my days of baseball and streams.

Here now instead was work. Work. Work. Work. Work.

.

Ah, my June. My fire, my spark.

I lost my spark, June. You went on outside,

Hoping I would come out and play with you,

To laugh and dance with you and your spinning sundress.

But no, I would not. And too soon, you gave up. You left, June.

.

Ah June. My love, my life.

Only when you had gone did I once again step outside.

I looked to laugh and dance, to spin with your sundress.

I longed for baseball, for streams, for innocence and heat.

But you were gone. Are gone. And with you, my life.

.

(So, me and my bud Dusty were out wanderin’ about in the wilderness of the extremely tamed and docile Conservation areas that qualify as wilderness, and we had a deal where we’d both write a poem about The Late June. I’ll put his up here at some point.)

[theoldestcrow]

She Walks in Another World

She walks in another world,

Where stars and moons shine high.

Where grass and leaves are mixed and melded,

And bare toes curl in soft earth.

.

Where stars and moons shine high

In skies with green light glowing.

Her bare toes curl in soft earth,

And warm breath mists in cool air.

.

In skies with green light glowing,

She moves without a sound.

And warm breath mists in cool air,

As she murmurs words to a song.

.

She moves without a sound,

Or at least one I cannot hear.

As she murmurs words to a song,

A soft, sad song I’ve never heard.

.

At least: one I cannot hear—

At most: a half remembered dream.

A soft, sad song that I’ve never heard;

She walks in another world.

(I met a girl. She’s entirely not my type. Completely different and not someone I’d date. She moved to St. Louis months ago. We’ve never had a conversation about dating. I shouldn’t keep thinking about her. And yet...)

[theoldestcrow]

We Are As One

Our bedchambers bestill our weary mind,

Though oft we are—us two, we are—

Far and away and apart from one another.

Where monsters there be; dread pirates,

Creatures of the deeps, and beast-riders of the skies.

Yet, though the night be close and wrap’d about ourselves—

We, who are far and away and apart from one another—

Though that night air does rise and gather,

No shimmering starlight to be seen from afar,

No moonlight, nor firelight,

Nor even glimmers of beastly eyes in the dark—

Only that, the dark, all wrap’d and close about ourselves,

Still yet do our minds-eyes wander,

Piercing that devouring veil of night

To bring ourselves close about again.

Yes, even as we—we who are far and away and apart from one another—

Even as we sit and shrink and cry despairingly unto the night,

Even then do we find one another,

And comfort one another,

And ride among the beast-riders of the skies with one another,

And swim with the creatures of the deeps with one another,

And sail with the dread pirates with one another.

Our minds, they grasp and grapple,

Holding tight with hands and hooks of thought,

Clenching desperately tighter, tighter,

Tighter until we—we who are far and away and apart from one another—

Until we are no longer separate. We are as one.

And it is then that the thought of each other

And that bedchamber which we shared,

Though long ago it seems and is,

Yes, my beloved, it is then that the bedchamber bestills our weary mind,

We—we who are far and away and apart from one another—

We think of ourselves together, and we smile,

For though we are far and away and apart from one another,

We are as one.

(So when I was growing up, my dad gave me ‘Death Be Not Proud’ to read, and I thought it was maybe the coolest title a book could have. So I looked it up, found the poem, read the poem, loved the poem, and ever since then I’ve been trying to emulate John Donne. Last Wednesday was about the closest I’ve come.)

[theoldestcrow]

A Big Enough Sky

Perhaps someday I’ll see it; a big enough sky.

It seems that everything I see,

That everything I do and am and are and is, were, or ever will be,

Is just too little. Not enough.

Enough for what, I’m not sure; never have been, really.

But still, sometimes the feeling resurfaces,

Like the dreaded kraken breaching from the depths of time and sea,

To strike and cripple a roaming nuclear battle cruiser.

Perhaps that’s too strong;

My consciousness is more crab boat than cruiser.

“Not enough”, the beast seems to say

As it wraps its tentacles about my head. Not enough.

I once drifted, much like the analogous crab boat,

Through the days and hours, waiting for the next moment;

The next ninety seconds surely would be different.

And yet, when those next ninety seconds came,

All I did with, in, and among them, was wait,

Wait for the next moment, the next ninety seconds. Eternally.

I’m not entirely sure what changed;

Perhaps some butterfly flapped its gossamer wings,

Or some far off needle dropped from some far off pine tree,

Or some crab fisherman bought a new engine for his dilapidated vessel,

But all of a sudden, those next ninety seconds came,

And I stopped waiting for the next after them.

I’m trying not to look too closely;

Any breath here could end the whole thing,

All the cards would come crashing down,

The engine would drown, and the crabber would be lost at sea.

It’s common enough, you know. One day there,

And then the next he kisses his wife goodbye, climbs aboard, and...

The funeral for his assumed death is touching,

With just the right mix of tears, candlelight vigils, black cloth, and callow lilies.

But so far, not looking too close or breathing too hard has worked.

There’s been no engine failure, at least.

And then, there’s the ever present chance of it,

An edge that makes not looking that much harder,

And three times that much more important.

Who knows, maybe even just saying this will drown the crabber.

You never can tell.

But despite the looming presence of the dreaded kraken in the deep,

Here I am, using these next ninety seconds to do something, anything,

Everything but wait for the next moment.

There’s a sky up there, and the sunset on the clouds...

There’s a sea up there, with gold foil capped waves.

And between them and the ground I stand on,

Not looking too close, not breathing too hard,

Not merely waiting for the next ninety seconds, or dreading the kraken,

Or drowning the engine in the gold foil capped waves,

There’s a big enough sky.

[theoldestcrow]

The Fragility of a Bubble

A gust of wind blew from the child's mouth

And across the ethereal skin of the soap.

A small bubble arose, but popped,

Just as it was leaving the wand.

The child giggled and blew again,

Creating another gossamer sphere,

Fragile as the clouds in the desert.

This time, the child blew with greater, yet gentler force,

And again the bubble crept forth, blossoming in the air.

The air currents caused it to drift off and away, leaving the child,

The child that had created it watched it go with a smile;

This was what bubbles were supposed to do, after all.

It drifted out across the river, and down into an empty warehouse,

Which had stood derelict and abandoned for years now,

The same as the dreams and desires of the man who had owned it.

It struggled through dewy air, which threatened its life,

And fought it's way up from the sparkling river, which spelled death below.

And slowly, it settled down through a broken, dust covered window,

To where a sleeping man lay in the filth and decay of the empty place.

He hadn't bathed in weeks, and hadn't eaten in days,

And had been broken, dreamlessly drifting, for years.

He woke just as the bubble caught the early sunlight,

And his first sight of the day was its glistening form in the dust.

Slowly, languidly, casually, it floated down,

And, as he stretched out a limb, unsure himself of why,

It burst on his hand.

[theoldestcrow]

Thirty Days Since

It took thirty days to get where I am:

Drunk as a skunk and hiding, on the lam.

It all began when I thought I found a friend,

He got me into thinking and I began to overextend.

I spent all I had on gadgets and fads

And as I spent it all went bad.

My friend always seemed to come out on top,

But I quickly found his life wasn't co-op.

When I ran out of money, he left me dry,

And he flew off after like some great magpie.

Helpless and penniless, I stole and I robbed,

It's a gutless thing, to steal and rob

At point of gun, threatening life and limb

But I did what I did, now it's sink or swim.

And so far I've swum, so far I've not sunk,

And like I said, I've stayed blind drunk,

In the middle of nowhere in a nameless desert

Full of sand and sorrow, pain and dirt.

It's just me and this bird watching the sun go down,

We'll be up early when it comes back around.

(So I'm drunk. On tumblr. And I see this. And then... I'm not real sure what happened? But this is the end result?)

Me and this bird watching the sun go down,

We’ll be up early when it comes back around.

[theoldestcrow]

A Master of the Written Word Am I

A Master of the written word am I;

I cannot draw, nor act, nor sing.

But when it comes to writing things,

Of that I am the king.

.

A Count of lore and history am I;

Though it's true I cannot dance.

With a pen and sheaf of paper,

I tell tales of the knight's couched lance.

.

A Lord of poems and letters am I;

Though my ballads I can't perform.

I scribe sad stories with strokes of pen,

The written word is my chosen art form.

.

A Duke of rhymes and symbols am I;

I cannot run—nor jump—very far.

But give me some time to write it down,

And a man becomes a star.

.

A Magistrate of heroes and villains am I;

Armored in tweed and twill.

For though I am no physical ideal,

The most powerful are bent to my will.

.

A Master of the written word am I;

Though I cannot draw, nor act, nor sing.

But when it comes to writing things,

Of that I am the king.

[theoldestcrow]

I Can't Flirt

I tried to flirt with a girl today,

It didn't go very well.

For when I tried to talk to her,

I turned and ran away.

I see her once or twice a week,

She always looks so nice.

I sit at a table and read a book,

So I can look over the edge and peek.

I stood and asked for a refill,

I paid and waited at the counter.

But when she began to speak to me,

My mind went blank and still.

I began to edge away from her,

Without really knowing I was.

By the time I found something to say,

I was speaking so soft and demure.

I know objectively how to flirt,

You smile and talk and are nice.

But when I try to flirt with her,

I just can't find words to blurt.

[theoldestcrow]

Night Waves

The air was crisp and clear.

His boat rocked gently on the waves,

Cradling him like a child in his crib.

The sky was a mix of deep indigo and black mottled together.

Probably, at least; the stars were so many it was hard to tell.

He smiled softly to himself and stared at the sky,

Stretched out on the deck, humming a tune.

He furrowed his brow.

Where did he know that tune from?

He had not heard it in many years.

His thoughts drifted in and out of ideas,

Standing on a summer day in his childhood home,

Stepping off onto the mean manager at his first job.

He imagined what he would do about a kraken attack,

And thought of the girl he knew once long ago.

A star flew across the sky.