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News: If I could, I'd tie my hair up in dreds and live the life of adventure from the high seas to the mountain peaks, gathering gold and jewels and tales of mystery and action :) but for now, I'll just have to do with writing about these things as if they were truly real.

--12 December 2017 --

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

January 2, 2018

Wandering with No Where in Mind - {A Poem}


Carpeted, dew-heavy and spring-up the forest floor hushed wandering steps
And I walk secret ways in silence, listening to the fluted glow of the wind
As it whistles its charm through the treetops.
Soft, silky branched spruces and firs, thickly scented of pine 
All clean and crisp and sweet with notes sharply invigorating
Like nape of neck under mountain stream, all north-bound icicles 
Shooting stars and puffs of crystal-snow blown down from the pole.
In these enchanted woods, the thrush sings throatily, its pot-bellied body
Awake with life and haunting, wood-winded ee-oh-lay.
It trespasses, and the deer knows the lost look in those jewel-beaded eyes. 

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I traipse, No Where in mind
I won't content myself, till I reach that distant land. 
Sing me the song of the regal redwoods
The forest queens and kings that set back shoulders in royal rouge. 
And when snowfall shapes their stalwart roots, 
Draping strength and season in sheets of white, 
I'll linger lengthwise, in frozen bloom
~

~
Till the mountains arise and the sun buckles down, 
Spending more than a moment to golden one crown. 
In the spring-fevered life-raising hurdle of March, 
Where the jack-rabbits thunder on soil thickly parched. 
I will wait till the buttercups lift weary heads
And prod soil left and right from their jumbling beds. 
Only then will my glittering gaze come un-vacant 
Staring up at the sea-foam of clouds beyond ancient.
I suppose in those moments, I'll see what I feel
All the thawing of winter in bud-bearing zeal. 
And the rosehips and woodchips and buttery fragrance 
That waft by on breezed-cloaks of selky wood-agents
Then I'll turn my gaze northwards to lands of my home
With a heart heavy burdened to break from the loam
And my feet will up-stumble from these knotted knees
Between shackles of lavender buzzing with bees
And the graven earth trembling all with this might
Will release from her clasp the entombed, seeking flight. 
Though we totter and tumble and gracelessly fall down
We'll gather our strength up in fist; we will not drown. 
We'll hurdle our selves out of apathy, lucid
To breathe in the mist of the dreams that were muted. 
And standing, we'll find that the strength was not ours
But was drawn beyond sun, beyond moon, beyond stars
Which was somehow translated to liven our bones
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And we walk not in might, but by grace, to our homes.

Come you gentlemen, ladies, to hear of these tales
To seek for a muse to inspire your travails
That your walking will not lead to dungeons or doom
But to fields ripe for picking, of cotton in bloom. 
Beware the old forest, it's lively in state
But it sings of a song that can make a heart wait 
Until all of the joy that you once had is leached
To the soil, for it yearns and it oft seeks you breached. 
Like a ship on the shore, all upturned and devoured
By the crashing of waves upon jagged rock, scoured. 
It is ancient in beauty, this forest - its dark -
But beware, oh beware, lest you sell it your heart.

I must go to my task of expelling my air, 
Breathing in, shunting out, all this grievous affair,
But I leave you with thoughts of my own to consider, 
Reader - take this to heart, let it sink and grow bigger
For I spin you a story from gold dust I own 
Which I found in my pockets and grew out of stone. 
It is dreadful, most dreadful, to deem you would think
That this story's a fable for hearth, home, and drink. 
So I dab now my quill on the paper to blot 
All the stains of my past which have yet to be wrought
Into colourful tree-trunks and way-signs and markers
That steer away friends from the traps in their harbours. 

Let these words be but few for a warning most dire, 
Leave your fancies behind, lest you sink in this mire. 


-----
Signed with ambergris,
Squeaks.

5 comments:

  1. Hey there Squeaks, just now discovered your blog. I enjoyed your poem, and was interested how it switched from free verse to couplets, as I've never seen that done before. Was that a facet of it being a wandering poem? I'm a poet also (of sorts), so thank you for giving me other poetry to read besides my own
    -Z

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    1. Hey! I'm glad you enjoyed it :) I wasn't particularly following any style. I tend to write from my heart and whatever comes out is what I get :P I love freestyle because it allows me to be super creative with the words I choose...but I also love the rhythm of a good rhyme :P

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  2. A totally free poem is enjoyable to write, but I like having to try to rhyme my poems, as it feels harder, but if you get it right, as I don't too often do, it just seems right. I try to write poetry like that on my blog warningpoetry.blogspot.com, not sure if it works...What are some of your favorite poets?

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    1. For sure! I checked out your blog and your poetry :) I haven't had a chance to read much, but I'll keep an eye on it :D

      Favourite poets? Hm, I don't read much poetry (surprisingly, lol). Perhaps Oscar Wilde (although I like his non-poetic endeavours more so). William Blake, Matthew Arnold, Christina Rossetti, and John Donne. Pretty much any Victorian-era poet :) How about you?

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  3. Shakespeare to a degree, but primarily I idolize Samuel Taylor Coleridge and his work, most of all The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which is the greatest poem I've ever read. Brian Jacques also, though more for his stories than his poems, though he has plenty of them inside each.

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