Prometheus

Bound by Hephaestus, Kratos, and Bia

With stake and chain 

The implements restrain

The Titan to a jagged cleft of Gaia

This - the unjust imprisonment

For the theft of fire

Which

Fills his soul with ire,

Malcontent, resent, and torment

The benefits, his gift bestows

Leaves his flesh in bitter throes

As time amasses and grows

So too, his agonizing echoes

His punishment for his action

Effects like a cataclysmic reaction

Mentally the downpour begins to mar –

Knowing, Pandora will soon out-pour her jar…

Yet, despite his suffering and the many evils

(The torture – the pain and plague which spills);

In the pithos one feeling still remains

Hope, is all the vessel still contains.

Composed By: A.D.

Note: I reworked the play/idea/message, a bit; to deliver a different message... I also left out punctuation, unless I felt the syntax would be too ambiguous. Enjoy. Inspired by Aeschylus.

Subjective Conscious Experience

Every key, unlocks a new door

To: recollections – emotions;

Across vast personal oceans;

Is the coast of a foreign shore.

A piano playing melodies – memories

Shifting octaves

Four series and degrees – tonalities

Among the former waves…

…There appears one visible crest

A feeling that`s above the rest

A link standing out in the chain

Like, a malfunctioning quatrain.

Midnight plagued by Deimos…

…This note arises like Helios.

This sound, which is most dominant;

Is the noise, which causes contentment.

Composed By: A.D.

Asphyxiation

Dreaming, every moment is extended.

The vision stares across a field and an ocean;

Past budding flowers and mature storms, at a notion,

And the idea is almost apprehended…

But, too late, the ethereal slips the clasp.

The will is: buffeted by a ravaging verity,

And, the only perception is a closing grasp;

Suffocating, in each instance of reality.

Each instant which (once) felt elongated,

Each dream of oceans and fields

Was: just a delusion, falsely created;

A mirage in the desert appeals.

Those celestial desires gave the life significance,

An explanation – a purpose for wasted existence;

Now, a riddle, without any meaning…

(Awake or) asleep devoid of dreaming…

Truth is just another momentary distraction,

Another fact believed to have been seized.

Truth is another iteration of futile action,

To conceal, till all life and air is totally squeezed.

Composed By: A.D.

Time Machine

“The clock keeps ticking, time silently slides away”…

Evaporating water, on an arid desert day;

But, luckily - we are a time machine!

This ability to transition –

A play DISSOLVES TO: a new scene;

To correct our latest edition –

The errors revise, and update what`s seen.

“Time is intangible”…

So, why then, do we say it passes?

Like an individual

It is: the sum of ones` cognition;

And with each most recent addition,

The old value – the new tally surpasses.

Our DNA is passed along.

The personal genetic history,

Each generation, is handed down –

A preliterate bards’ song.

In the pool, pieces of “we” are found;

Floating in those waters is our story –

Driftwood left in Neptune’s territory.

The ages and seasons are – regularly shifting,

They spin (in eternal inertia) as if: a top;

Still revolving, it (all) has yet to stop or drop;

The universes` fundamental force, it`s resisting.

This poem may lack the feel

Of what is perceived as poetry:

No flowers hiding in a happy field,

Few clever metaphors are concealed;

It`s more like discourse of philosophy.

But…

To this poet, the encapsulation of beauty

Is: every experience (occurring instantaneously)

Which belongs, to the reader… each conferee.  

So to a degree, we travel on a timeline, which extends continuously;

Forwards and backwards, ancestors and descendants, and us eternally.

Composed By: A.D.

From a Nightingale to a Swallow

(On the loom of its heart, music, like a tapestry was woven;

Surreptitious symbols into the fibers were interspersed.

All its emotions that were divided, when they were privately cloven;

Now, candidly – of dejection and love it sung and dispersed.)

“This body has not suffered any molestation

But, the heart and the sanity suffered violation;

It is, as if the tongue and voice have been removed.

I feel as though the beak can longer be – used.

There is nothing to offer you, except songs of silence;

All prior innocence has been stripped, as if by violence.

The loving wings feel like they have been clipped.

In each attempt to sing, and to fly

The volition has found: that ability seems stripped.

The music can`t reach the sky, and the body craves the sky.

The only reason I hold out any hope – is you;

And the purpose, the drive to cope – you too.

This song is sung without any sound;

Like the method, in which poems are bound –

Or, how fabric upon a spool lies quietly wound.

I send this to you – swallow; my audience, my dearest…

The others these sweet notes might confound;

But in your eyes, I know they`ll ring out the clearest.

This creature is nothing, without your hearts` concern;

Worthless as an advantageous fire, which doesn`t burn.

There are other birds, which claim my song lacks any skill;

Constantly chirping, chipping away the remaining will.

They launch attacks on each melody, and highlight the flaws;

But, I will continue to serenade you from my heart, with no pause.

My sweetest swallow, for you: I`ve incalculable love;

Mere thoughts of you bring me joy – you are Noah`s dove.

After the rains, you are the dry land, for this fowl;

You place a smile, I hide beneath a sullen cowl.

I know the span of our wings appears to be far apart;

But, I pray that these pinions, can reach your perfect heart”.

Having completed the call (these words),

The nightingale heard the incoming wings;

(The discrediting talk and squawk of birds)

And, felt the pressure of the encircling lapwings.

Composed By: A.D. 

I came up with this after reading some poetry, for those who pick up the references/myth: this piece doesn`t carry the same tone as the myth, but I was trying to go for the same feeling of hopelessness juxtaposed with love (guilt/shame/etc. hence the whole mixed up emotions at the beginning)... that and having the tongue cut out or feeling like you can`t speak (or write for that matter). Hope it`s enjoyable, comment s'il vous plaît... Thanks; and have an awesome evening (or morning). 

Grateful

-First- 

Christ –

Then Helios, and the muses;

Attended to the poet`s cries.

The divine inspiration diffuses,

And answers all the “Why’s”.

While, lost in a self-doubting alley;

Two feet brought the broken heart

To the place of a brand new start,

To the entrance to a fertile valley.

On a day, in that modern metropolis,

Which once kept dreams enslaved;

He was led (the poet) to pure bliss

On a path, which Midas had paved.

Fantasy is not a thing that is imperceptible;

Not refuse, discarded in maturity’s’ receptacle.

To Homer, Hughes and all those from before,

And to the ravens crying out (forever) nevermore…

…They too give the courage and motivation,

For which the pencil blindly searched

(Which the intellect had besmirched);

And they set free bravery and innovation.

-Then-

An internal tempest tore

The one, unsure soul in twine;

The torrent and out-pour,

Numbed nerves along the spine.

However, the pencil siphoned out alabaster;

And built creation from havoc, and disaster.

All that corrosive doubt, which erodes,

(That anger- that fear

Which occasionally flares, and implodes)

Is refined until clear.

As, his thoughts approached the center,

(Like a person in soothing meditation)

A state of peace his mind begun to enter.

Mentally, engulfed by false flames, but feeling none searing;

Surrounded by cerebral visions, but seeing none worth fearing.

A patience, without any expectation.

A moment was spent admiring the incinerating twirls, and swirls;

The way the blaze is: leaves in the wind as it whirls, and curls.

Then, all of the dis-junction dissipated before his sight –

Imagine the way warm daylight rays pursue the cold jet eve,

In equal fashion: the sulphur, coal, and ruby began to leave;

Leaving behind an ivory aura pulsing and amplifying in might.

His imagination had, long, been held down by chains;

But, in that moment, it was set free (into possibilities).

His memory left behind the bonds, and the prior pains;

And no longer was restrained, by foolish disabilities.

Then there came, a blinding flash

(A shine and a bit of shock);

And the soul was returned, in a dash,

To the place of lesser stock.

-Now-

The morning breeze roams freely over his senses;

The winds – a horse, in a field without any fences.

Sunshine permeates and penetrates the skin,

The star, a distant mirror of what the heart now holds.

City images seen, in the retinas, pass and spin;

Though he`s stationary, watching the revolving folds.

The past, and the future are overrun, by the now.

Few questions – No who, or what, why, or how;

Only where and when: New York City, this instant,

There sits a spirit feeling content – and exuberant!

He is speechless as a newborn child,

Temperament: not hot, nor cold – mild.

His evocative descriptions do utterly fail,

All eloquent adornments, to his tastes – stale.

At first – each instance is filled with complexities

Indescribable (As if, explaining life to death);

Despite the various expounding eccentricities,

The best delineation is: it was, like taking a breath.

This dumbfounded phase didn`t constitute the end.

He was captivated by a new lure, from which;

The cognition, and faculties couldn`t defend.

(Much in the same way rare minerals enrich under pitch)

His observations developed, finding more to apprehend.

His existence, and the art needed no cause.

The surrounding city began playing a melody,

Instrumental notes drifted on for an eternity.

These tones had no rest, and knew no pause.

As though life was each persons` private orchestration

Many different sounds delivering a pleasing vibration.

Birds chirping were the strings on violins,

The passing cars were the woodwinds,

Pounding feet beat out the percussion,

And brass filled each partial discussion.

Furthermore, the hues became more vivacious;

A limited perspective had, soon, grown spacious.

Grey concrete, and stone,

Were completely evaporated.

Emerald blades had grown,

While his vision participated.

Within his world, a moving canvas had unfurled;

He felt complete immersion in this strange painting.

The colors of life (his eyes had once known)

Were amplified, and their splendor shone.

All was unadulterated, with no unnatural tainting.

-Immersion-

Language ripples in streams,

Sedated are the falling leaves,

Floating on the surface of the flow.

Letters are bundled into sheaves.

The liquid reflects a shimmering glow;

Among auburns, oranges, and greens.

The doldrums set in autumn.

Fox-like ears detected the short preamble

Of sparrows’ speeches, hidden among the bramble.

The scent of an impending transition lingers,

It`s weighing heavily in the glade;

A hand reaches out with spread-open fingers,

To grasp the moment before – the fade…

Let happy hearts wander and nap,

Like a hole in a tree oozes sap;

Let them never return back to the old life,

Forever lost here – without a grind or strife.

-Fade-

Have all the dreamers minds, truly shifted;

As dreams are ended, when eyelids are lifted?

Have the nymphs truly departed,

Or has bridge building been restarted?

Who is hidden in these maze-like meadows,

Between the scrappers of the sky;

Who else is lingering, like the evening shadows,

Before the chariots are set to fly?

The worlds preference, and nature seems to change

But; Orion, Virgo, and Lyra have yet to rearrange.

Poetic minds, still drift, through those Elysian Fields;

Together, where history’s pages are never peeled.   

Always searching for a vision of Cypris;

Wondering how to ride the winds of Isis.

Poets questing for Gilgamesh, and his flower,

With hopes to gain immortality (or an extra hour)

Impossible,

Hopeless - counting the seconds which keep passing,

Glad to be

Lost in our stanzas which are audibly (or silently) amassing.

Composed By: A.D.

Ineptitude

Appearance, is the foundation of what “seems”

The wise tailor is concerned with the seams.

It`s easy to settle for whatever is shown,

When we are told “It`s a waste of time to look below;

Instead, just develop what is already known”…

…Fallen leaves, how easily they blow!

This viewpoint (at least to some) is quite narrow;

To view a bone, and disregard the inner marrow –

Even when, we understand a metaphors’ denotation;

Should we not strive to seek, any further elucidation?

Sure – absolute comprehension is never-ending;

Like, the duality of reality is: constantly contending…

But, is the singular point of view, is ever totally “true”;

When, inverse opinions can negate what one might construe?

For instance, it seems implausible - impossible that “pigs will fly”;

But who can PROVE that they won`t (eventually, evolve and) try?

It “seems” open contemplation of what we don`t understand,

Is the route to a true intellectual (a reasoning) command.

Each day artists amplify an initial significance,

By taking an ordinary object or thought;

And through personal perspective or preference,

A deeper meaning or beauty is sought.

With careful deduction; and a creative, inquisitive eye –

They separate, and combine both some “truth”, and some “lie”.

How, many contrasting materials are used to create

A perception, where those bases conjoin and elevate?

By creative artistry, and strategic manipulation –

The crafts-person delivers “brand new” creation.

When focusing on the façade, and nothing more:

It`s easy to miss the infrastructure – what`s inside,

It`s certain most buildings collapse without a core;

So, over each development, a foreman should preside.

Separation – chemists use, to understand the primary composition…

…The various molecules and atoms which affect;

The matter, structure, the “perceived” purpose, and the condition.

Each element, and compound; remains one aspect.

Within the confusion of these contrasting tones

(The syllables, the variety of end rhymes,

Simple metaphors, and weakly contrasting zones)

The symbol lies, in the deeper confines.

One pen has blended a: myriad of optical illusions;

To impart, (potential) art, with interpretive conclusions.

This mix of inscribed letters, and their apparent construction

Are: perspective judgments, to be discerned by individual deduction.

Composed By: A.D.

Stratagem

Somber night aura envelops the city streets,

Perfect silence the atmosphere entreats.

Contained within a pod (of electricity)

Is: the fifth symphony of Tchaikovsky.

Among the quietude (the reticent evening air)

Two ears hear tones, the stare: an empty tare.

Still, together: mental and musical wrapping

(The thoughts and instrumental overlapping)

Weighs out to a mass of incalculable gravity;

And it is this sense which alters the streetlamp

Illuminated, soft mist embraced locality.

The dull environment – once (still) mildly damp;

Is now saturated, with vivacious, lively undertones.

The landscape, is impregnated by a mystical dew;

And while thoughts sleep in compartment homes,

Nature and the nature of man – once seen as two…

…For this moment, are united in a single melody;

A combination of reality, fantasy, and rhapsody.

Like, graphite and paper in joyful prosody;

Like, light and shadow intertwined;

Shades of sophistry, grades of philosophy;

Both truth and fiction are combined,

The very existence is re-defined.

The silence – both a myth and fact,

Contradictions in a momentary pact.

The silence – is sound, an equinox;

Together both a sort of paradox.

The vision drifts and wanders,

In the levels of depth perception;

The consciousness wonders:

Is this existence, true conception,

Or just another sensory deception?

…This moment fades away;

Then, returns the next day…

Thoughts about the joys foregone for perfection,

That race without a true finish;

There, the further you move in the proper direction,

The more you see the goal diminish.

Strange – the way, the more you comprehend,

It seems the less you actually understand.

Strange – a definite start, and indefinite end;

An indistinct takeoff, nowhere distinct to land.

It becomes more difficult to enjoy each new advance,

As more subtle distinctions appear in each occurrence.

When even the most complex calculation of scientific notation;

Is a measure – not specific, an estimation, and an approximation.

When a single definition is: found to contain

A multitude, a myriad, of different entries;

And what (at first) seemed simple and plain,

Is replaced with a variety of varying complexities.

Small actions are extended beyond the initial scope,

Like devices that break boundaries poetry in or trope.

This post – dramatic, not depressed;

This life – relaxed, and also stressed.

The heart – emotional,

The reason – logical,

Evidence – empirical,

Order – strategical.

Though, the stanzas roam the sidewalk of the sheet

(Muttering to themselves, madness in the street);

Beneath the disconcerted chatter,

(The loose associations

The distant relations)

There is structure, form, and matter.

The lines, when transposed sideways;

Pulses, pulsating on a cardiac monitor.

The shifting needle point never stays,

Rising and falling on the speedometer.

At first glance, the readings may be misread as vanity or insanity;

But, given a second chance, they reveal a methodical strategy.

Composed By: A. D.

Sirens in the Street

“Sweet coupled airs we sing.

No lonely seafarer

Holds clear of entering

Our green mirror.”

-Homer, The Odyssey

The man, flesh and mind, was tied to the mast;

As the battered vessel approached

The island of doubt, a deceptive deadly landmass

(Which the seeress reproached).

Strange power had lulled the raging swell.

The earth shaker’s domain had grown

Calm now, through some devious spell;

As if cast by an agent of Persephone.

The silence (in the air salted)

Immersed and climbed his spine;

Though his oars weren’t halted,  

Emotion, motion seemed suspended in the brine.

Suddenly, across the placid expanse -

The way dawn softly invades evening sky -

An arduous aria began to advance;

Lovely voices singing to him their lullaby.

They beckoned his wearied mind,

With their harmonic song of allure;

And he desperately craved to find,

The source of this melody – so pure.

Luckily, he couldn`t escape the bind,

And follow where others have before.

Despite the victory and trials still ahead:

The potential doom impending dread -

He couldn`t forget those words they said;

Wonderful and fatal, still consuming his head

Composed By: A.D.

Game Point on 25th and 8th

The tournament is taking place on a clear, lined court.

It`s the championship point, Serene has the chance to win;

Game, set, match. All of her concentration is now given;

To this field, this art, to her craft, and her sport.

Her quiet mind is keen, not limited by any imposed parameter.

Above, the sapphire firmament swims, and refulgent rays shine.

She recalls every ace, and each time she heard “fault”;

Moments of utter perfection, and feet intruding on the baseline.

 Still, she returns rapidly from recollections of her vault;

Dwelling on past triumphs or troubles, are actions of an amateur.  

Abruptly, her opponent serves a bullet from the barrel of a gun;

From the primed place, pace starts to race, breaking into a full run.

Circulating decisions, barrages, volleys, and bounces off the turf.

Full swing, both are given, mere seconds to defend or attack;

One swiftly sends, while another directs the sent sphere back.

From north to south, left to right, the directions – the orb will surf.

Meanwhile, the audience`s eyes are passing, watching, observing in silence;

Or are they cheering, are they jeering, currently she can`t tell.

Serene is entranced, hypnotized, by the round pendulum`s spell.

She remains composed; her attention is demanded, and non-compliance

Bares (if she dares tolerate lethargy) a devastating cost –

So, her heart (a stone effigy) supplies sanguine frost.

Her rival delivers a hostile shot, but the antagonism breeds – a relinquished position.

Anticipation: causes time to slow to a stall, as her eyes follow the ball;

Adrenaline: the sight narrows into a tunnel, her vision is liquid into a funnel.

The azure sky, people nearby, stadium`s nature; all vie – all, her senses deny…

…Her only ruminations, meditations are on the trajectory of the arc;

The mind`s silent contemplation, of the projected path in the dark.

A Shepard-Risset tone – with adroit, adept accuracy, she prepares her backhand;

Her sweat drips, grip grips, racquet is connected – and executes her command…

…Time resumes (as if it never ended or paused) with an applause, as she decimates the opposition.

Composed: A.D.

Hortus Cultūra

Each mind is a garden, and the judgments are its plants;

Every new form, of productive vegetation, needs cultivation.

The seedlings must be carefully nurtured, and caused to grow;

Until their emerald stems, and distinctive petals begin to show.

When, those first flowers begin spreading through germination;

The entire landscape will adapt, and take on a new stance.

On the other hand: all negative seeds must be instantly destroyed;

They must not be given a chance to begin developing any roots.

It is a fact: when a single, objectionable shoot hatches;

It has the capacity to devastate many valuable patches.

The intruder will kill, enveloping constructive sprouts (as it pollutes);

So, the vast genus of corrupting weeds the cultivator must avoid.

The wise gardener should tend to their priceless land;

Ensuring it grows healthy, and sows a profitable demand.

They should always remember: reforming (mental terraforming) is a constant toil –

It is an abstract act – they enact in each thought, as they traverse the concrete soil.

The horticulturist may find: with diligence, vigilance and beneficial fertilization;

That every hope and each vivid dream, may (some day) be brought to realization.

Composed By: A.D.

Final Warning

 The worn hunter strategically set the snare,

All energy drained from tracking the quarry –

Like a lonely man`s unsure, eyes stare

At an attractive woman; passing in a hurry,

But, his confidence doesn’t move anywhere…

…Yet, unlike the hopeless romantic

(Confidence silent and gaze tantric);

The self-reliant hunter`s ability is decisive,

Skillful, indisputable sharp – almost incisive.

The hunter had simply grown tired of pursuit,

But continued setting the trap on paper`s root.

She thought,

“No more games with the game

Once caught,

By this frame which I frame”.

She completed the construction of her simple ploy,

And then some bits of embellished bait, she`d employ.

She hid; and as she did

In her patient mind, she contemplated,

Content with the apparatus she created…

…”This cunning device, which I have now set,

Shall capture all my prey with a skillful mechanism;

One, the victim (hopefully) will not soon forget”!

(Like the recognition, of the implication, causes a chasm;

But it`s too late, the revelation apprehends like a net)

And, snap – goes the trap.

Composed By: A.D.

Vale of Tempe

“She urg’d by fear, her feet did swiftly move,

But he more swiftly, who was urg’d by love.” – Publius Ovidius Naso

The poet’s soul was akin to enamored Apollo,

His aspiration was the all-alluring Daphne.

Over great distances, his spirit would follow,

Pursuing perfection and absolute beauty;

Spiritually and physically, growing hollow,

Losing the evidence of prior personality.

For a moment, he lost sight of his precious prey,

The forest canopy, concealed the light of day;

Most painfully his heart began to wail and pray…

…To these pleas there was no audible reply.

In utter emptiness (the obscurity of solace)

He felt his naivety, and feeble emotions die

(Even the wonderment, now, felt aweless;

As if, instead of gold, Cupid now let lead fly).      

Disoriented, the pressure of gravity, began to heavily weigh;

When some serendipitous unknown force, suddenly did allay,

Mitigating all the uncertainty of the (previously) unknown way.

Instead of holding on to the past, he completely let go;

And proceeded forward by small degrees, soul now free.

Trusting in his ability, and that his goal would one day show;

All adversity, he faced with conviction, unwilling to flee.

Finally, his journey brought him to an azure, watery flow;

Overjoyed, his eyes were transfixed on a blooming laurel tree.

Composed By: A.D.