Woe

Strike a match
and watch it burn.
Something deep
inside me yearns

The trouble
nascent in the flame
reduce to ash
what we have gained.

Build it up
and knock it down.
Watch it crumble
to the ground.

Cry your tears,
but when you're through
dust it off,
and start anew.

I don't like to see you joyous,
relaxed on dock of bay.
Don't ask me to join with you chorus
on your bestest day.

I don't like to see you happy,
this not my jealousy,
Call me when you're feeling crappy
you will eventually.

It's not I wish upon you blue
I much prefer it when you're true
'cause when life puts us out to task
more genuine than a smiling mask
that tries to portray that all is fine
ignoring Woe which bides the time
and complacency I hate to see:
so do not call me smiling.

'Cause over your shoulder I do see
that saboteur named Misery
weaving web a trap unkind
and waiting for the ripest time
to spring upon us strife and woe
and in his claws I hate to go. 

Others might prefer your cheer,
but me I like to see your tears
'cause underneath of Misery's thumb
we're more willing to be done
fire loosed and burned to ground
ready now to turn around
and a change of course I love to see
so do not call me smiling.

But Misery just bides the time
you tell me everything is fine
and ignore suggestions of change of course
what can I do? I cannot force
but day eventually turns to night
and with it that recurring plight
that springs upon us when we're weak
and rescue ransom we do seek
but do not fear I-told-you-so
I do not revel in your woe
it's a shame that woe I like to see:
so do not call me smiling.

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I usually don't like to provide commentary on my poems, but I think this one begged some.  Some of my friends have told me that I have a certain knack for getting them to share the troubles of their life and turning an otherwise lighthearted catching up, into a sob fest.  I do not mind.  In fact, I prefer it.  This poem tries to explain why.

When I say "this not my jealousy" meaning it's not because I really like seeing people cry.  I don't.  But I do prefer the genuine to the affected.  If a person is genuinely happy, I have no issue with this.  Heck, I love this.  But when a person tries to fake happiness and willfully ignores sign posts pointing toward impending woe, this is what "I hate to see"  so if I have to pick between affected and dangerously affected happiness and earnest tearfulness then... "do not call me smiling"

Seraphim

Seraphim.  Seraphim.
Remember?
There were so many of them.
But now there's only devils and men.
The angels have gone away.

On a savior some will call.
Others delight in alcohol.
Hope for salvation? None at all.
The angels have gone away.

Agony and pain persist.
Sometimes I'm laughing despite all this.
Woe, the days the devils exist.
The angels have gone away.

Who could forget that fateful day
the day the angels went away
on an extended holiday
the devils rejoiced and did play.
Mayhem. Torment.  Here to stay.
Glory.  Sunshine.  Yesterday.

Seraphim.  Seraphim.

The angels have gone away.

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I guess most people who know me know I'm not very nostalgic.  I think this blog starts with poetry from 2007, I have quite a lot of stuff that predates that which I basically threw away (don't ask me, I really don't have it, I honestly deleted it).  I may do the same with this blog too, who knows.

But for some reason, this poem came back to me.  It was actually the first poem I wrote.  Most of my poetry rhymes so it's easy to memorize and I guess this one is still kicking around in my head.  Anyway, I decided to write it down again and do a recording of it.  I think I wrote this in 2001 or 2002.  At the time, I read it again and again, wondering what it meant, or why I wrote it.  I guess in a way I'm still wondering about this piece, but with a a decade or so of hindsight, it's taken on some new relevance.  So I dusted it off the cobwebs of my memory and put it back in digital type... for now :)

Enjoy while it lasts.

Ephemeral

The best thing about
your worstest day.
Where nothing ever
went your way.

The bed you wish
you never left:
That hopeless day
you prayed for death.

The best thing about
your worstest day
When everything
caused such dismay

With misery as
your only friend.
The best thing is:

it also ends.

The sun will set.
The sun will rise.
No matter if
we live or die.

No matter if
we're glad to see
The world just spins
in spite of me.

My worstest day
won't end the world
This stubborn sphere
in constant twirl.

And my worst day
is someone's best.
My lowest trough,
another's crest

And the worst thing about
your bestest day
Where everything
just went your way.

Where you were on fire
and could not miss
That joyous day
you were the shit.

The worst thing about
your bestest day
Where all your troubles
stayed at bay

And all the good times
close at hand.
That awesome day
you were the man.

Everyone
with joy and cheer
Compatriots,
they bought the beer

And you would
laugh and joke with friends
and the worst part is:

it also ends.

The sun will rise.
The sun will set.
No matter if
we're ready yet.

Best and worst
they do not last.
Inexorably
becoming past.

Your worstest day
on ten years hence:
unimportant,
no consequence.

Your bestest day
it is the same
Who cares for glory
with no remain?

More important,
what have you kept?
Retirement savings.
What's coming next?

The seas will boil.
The skies will rend.
Don't mention your trouble:

it also ends.

Poppa!  Poppa!
Please do not preach.
Do not ask me
What I keep.

Leave me alone
to have my fun,
and failing that,
resign to gun.

Poppa!  Poppa!
Please do not preach.
I'm not a student,
So do not teach.

Poppa!  Poppa!
This is my life.
Poppa!  Poppa!
This is my fight.

Frivolous
and worthless shit.
But it's my life.
I'm loving it!

So Poppa!  Poppa!
Go away.
And leave me to
my best worst day.

You call me Poppa.
You say I preach.
I have no chalkboard.
You say I teach.

Go away?
Well, that is fine.
If you call tomorrow
I hope there's time.

The seas will boil.
The skies will rend.
The bestest day:
fair-weather friend.
The worstest day:
around the bend.
But don't despair:

it also ends.

Gimp Deux

Man, it's hard out here for a pimp.
Thus he walk with perpetual limp.
Tried to upright his swag,
but his leg, it still drag.
Hobbling and crookedly gimp.

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I've branched my new spate of nonsense poetry to another blog, plan on keeping the regular serious stuff here.  House of Nobi