Category: Poetry

Existential Crisis

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Steampunk- Spiral- Space Time Continuum by Mike Savad
Steampunk- Spiral- Space Time Continuum by Mike Savad

I’m having an existential crisis.

Another one.

The third one this week, if we’re being wholly honest.

It usually starts when I remember that
we’re all ants sitting on an orb
spiraling through a universe
filled with other orbs
with probably other ants
sitting on them;
other ants who could be pondering
if their realities are parallel
with other realities,
or if the monotony of their existence
will mean anything when the galaxy implodes
on itself and all of time collapses.

That’s usually how it starts.

After the initial ‘awakening’ to the
fact that I am indeed an ant
floating through eternity,
a tempering of corporeality washes
over me, and I somewhat come to terms
with my inevitable ending and invisible influence.

Somewhat.

Because really, how can we ever
shake the notion that nothing is fixed,
especially ourselves,
and
what even is a self?
Why are there selves?
Am I a self?
Out of all the selves in society,
how come I am this self, and not another self?

No, not again…

I’m having an existential crisis.

I wasn’t sure whether to tag this as poetry or not, but I decided to go ahead, because poetry is a very flexible thing, I think. I’m one of those people who has existential crises left and right, if you couldn’t already tell. Whether that’s a bad thing or not, I can’t say. Probably a bad thing.

The Bard’s Hymn

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"Campfire" by Temarinde
“Campfire” by Temarinde

Gather ’round the fire, friend,
we’re not such a scary lot.
Sure, that one’s been condemned a witch,
and the drunk one here’s a sot.
But we’re nomads, braced against the world,
adventurers rare and true,
and the fire here’s so warm, my friend,
and we cook a lovely stew.
I’m a bard of many songs, you see,
for you I could weave a tale,
of golden knights and silver ghosts,
and fair ladies of the vale.
You’re a stranger ’round here, aren’t you?
But that’s just fine with us.
See, we’re vagabonds and castaways,
the roughest of the rough.
But don’t shy away, come sit by me;
I’ll strum you a mellow hymn,
and together we will share this toast,
until our bellies brim. 

When I wrote this, I pictured a bard sitting on a log by the fire, surrounded by nomads and strumming his lute. It’s yet another piece for the project I’ve been writing. This is just a “rough draft”, so I might tweak it in the future.

Machine- an original poem

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"Machines" by Charlie Bowater
“Machines” by Charlie Bowater

Sometimes
I feel like no more than a machine;
an automaton built from scrap metal,
and left by its maker to roam the earth,
forever searching for its beating heart.
Most of the times
I’m not even human, at least, not in my mind…
and the day draws on with no consequence,
with no meaning or might.
I’ve been compared to shells before,
spit out by the sea and abandoned by all other creatures-
but at least shells are collected,
at least they’re adored.
I always
feel like an impostor in some poor person’s skin,
a thief who stole away their life, pulled apart their
ambitions and said, “No, you can’t have those.”
Perhaps I am a machine,
dropped in this world to ruin lives,
because that’s all I ever seem to do.

War- an original poem

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Dying Warrior
Dying Warrior

War is not a game of sides.
You may don your colors proudly and
thump the sigil on your shield;
you may swear your oaths with your
steel at your feet, and kneel before your throne,
ready to break and bleed-
but war is not a clash of causes,
a battle of banners,
a trifle of titles.

War is a game of graves.
When the rage of swords has subsided,
and the crows circle the blackened sky,
your colors will be no more than scraps in the wind,
and your shield’s sigil splintered wood.
Your oaths will mean nothing when your lips are cold,
and your knees pricked with arrows.
In the end, war is a contest of casualties;
we’re corpses,
and we all look the same dead.

This free verse is a bit dark, I know, but I’m experimenting with getting into characters’ minds. This particular character is sort of on the pessimistic side (obviously).

The Titan’s Tremble

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source
source

“And why does the air smell of soot?”
the young squire asked.
“It reeks of a fire long dead.”

“A Titan stomped its flaming foot,”
the old knight said,
“and its stride cooked the earth red.”

“And why is the dirt strewn with bones?”
the young squire asked.
“Those empty white eyes cannot weep.”

“A Titan sighed a hungry moan,”
the old knight said,
“and peeled their flesh with his teeth.”

“And why do black clouds crowd the sky?”
the young squire asked,
“For it has not rained in years.”

“The Titan’s peace was a bold lie,”
the old knight said.
“His tremble shakes the sky with tears.”

Here is another ‘song’ from the project I’m working on. Again, there is a backstory to this poem, but I hope that the ‘lyrics’ portray enough. My first poem/song from this series was The Lily Lords.

 

The Stars Know My Secret- an original poem

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source: phatpuppy
source: phatpuppy

In the soft pleats of darkness
I find a strange solace,
like the night knows me better
than any being on this earth.
If the black were to swallow me
I’d have no objections,
for its voice brings me comfort,
and its embrace evokes mirth.

The stars know my secret,
but they’ll never tell,
and the moon listens to my
prayers every eve.
The midnight winds, with their
phantom swells,
sweep away my demons
so that I do not grieve.

Some fear the shadows and
yearn for the sun,
but its glow is a ruse meant to
tempt and chafe.
In the night I am warmed
and sealed by dusk;
for when the evening sighs
am I truly safe.

Wings Are Hard To Come By- an original poem

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"MtG: Gift of Orzhova" by Johannes Voß
“MtG: Gift of Orzhova” by Johannes Voß

Wings are hard to come by
in a world where having two feet
planted firmly on the ground
is considered ‘customary’.
Flying is frowned upon,
especially when publicly
spreading your fiberglass wings
in defiance of ‘societal conventions’.
Magic is made monstrous
in a time when casting spells
will get you no more than a funny look
and piece of concerned advice.
Wings will weigh you down
in a sky that spits acid rain,
for flying isn’t safe nowadays,
since magic is misliked.

Pilgrims- and original poem

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"Guardian of the Sunset" by EthicallyChallenged (Milek)
“Guardian of the Sunset” by EthicallyChallenged (Milek)

We are pilgrims,
seeking what lies beyond the amber vale-
a land where the mountains are gilded in freckled light,
and the earth sighs with each step.
Here I live on dirt and rock and water,
and breathe winter air that bites my throat.
But there I’ll feast on garnet grapes,
and sleep beneath a moon carved of opal
every obsidian night.
Where malachite moss creeps up jasper trees,
and seas are bathed in starlight-
there I shall build my home,
nestled in the golden sands.
We are pilgrims,
seeking what lies beyond this molten matter world-
a land where jewels drip from trees,
and time is crystallized.

Time- an original poem

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"Sad Goodbye" by Mariana Vieira
“Sad Goodbye” by Mariana Vieira

Time will be your only friend, my child.
It will cloak you in years that I will never see,
and watch you grow in the palms of its hands.
You will hate time, my child.
You will think it your fiercest foe.
But it will be all you have.

Some nights the wind will scream your name,
some days the rain will douse your flame-
but never leave time’s side, my child,
and wander into the shadows alone.
Remember time, and keep it close.
For though it’s short, it is your own.

I have to leave you now, my child,
for where I go, the storm weeps on.
I know that in years to come you will scorn
the faceless man who abandoned you to time.
But time is my old friend, my child,
and I trust it with your life.

The Red is Gone- an original poem

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"Coalescence" by Lanie Loreth
“Coalescence” by Lanie Loreth

In a sea of gray,
the red bleeds out
like a brilliant flag amidst the smoke,
coming to life in a burst of crimson-
I marvel at the sight.

But then it’s gone,
and the beige swallows me up.
The fleeting flare of color collapses
and I am returned to the bleak cave
that is the underground.

I become one with the crowd,
a gray fish in a gray school,
striving for the stairs that rise out of my reach-
they are the deliverance from this pit
that festers with sound.

I am bumped and nudged,
elbowed and overlooked,
like a bobbing leaf in a raging stream.
Curses and whistles drizzle in my ear,
and then I see the red.

As the stairs ascend beneath my feet,
the red pulses past the pack,
a flash of color in the stilted sunlight-
a bright bloom that lifts my soul.
I long for it to stay.

But it is all gray,
everything is gray,
and I climb the stairs with heavy feet;
the train whistle below fares me well
as I abandon the gloom.

Finally I break away,
emerging like a wrinkled sprout from the mud.
I feel rejuvenated, I taste the air-
only to gag on the curling smoke drifting
from a man’s pipe.

Above is just as soiled as below;
there is no difference, none at all-
and the gray is fierce with teeth that tremble,
devouring everything. There is no color;
the red is gone.

This poem is sort of long, but it’s the result of a writing exercise. The object was to take a piece of your writing, whether it be a narrative, fictional setting, etc., and transform it into a poem. This was from the opening chapter of a project I completed a while ago, and I decided to give it go. To be honest, it didn’t turn out exactly how I planned…but it did give me a whole new perspective on that scene.