Thursday, April 23, 2009

Musing - 23 April 2009

She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders but she was used to it. No one else was fit to be selfless in this time, she once told me, because people chose to be hedonistic and indulgent rather than to simply live, love, and learn. Perhaps they were unaware that the Romans were long gone from the game board of the world, having turned in their lead soaked playing chips with regret and remorse. I admired her for the simple fact that she refused any form of help in her task; it was in her blood, after all. To be the daughter of Atlas was not easy but she held her own. Even when the offspring of the other deities would tease and taunt her stoic nature, she would hold her head high and tighten her grip on the massive sphere above her solid frame, her eyes focused on something that only she could see. When she took breaks from her immortal task, she sought my company to share tea with me for my presence was soothing and cool like aloe on skin. At first, I wondered why anyone would want to spend their leisure time with me, the son of Hades, but I later realized that she respected and liked me as much as I respected and liked her. My own background carried such a stigmata and never-ending waves of disdain, prejudice, and hatred from others, but I could not change any of it. I was and still am who I am. Just like her.

Monday, April 20, 2009

15 April 2009 Musing

Although Spring is finally here, the cool winds still burn my nose and chap my lips. The walk to work is somewhat painful yet I continue to do it every day because I know of nothing else. The time for daydreaming and thinking outside of the box has passed me by like a cup full of ambrosia. I wanted to take a sip but I was too scared to do so. Once upon a time, I used to be carefree and colourful, wandering in places that others would have deemed to be too dangerous. I, however, feared no one and no thing and because of that simple fact, I was unharmed. Even when danger stared at me in the face and its warm breath caused my eyebrows to wilt and turn grey then white, I held my own and refused to back away. Now, I am quite the opposite and I still don’t know what happened. How did I lose the way? What drove me from the path that was so carefully laid out for me before my birth? My back is hunched over and my eyes are constantly downcast; my new posture towards the dregs of Life. I thrive in fear and anxiety because it comforts me like a sickly wet nurse whose nipples only offer rancid milk for a screaming and colicky newborn. I no longer know the names of colours because I shut that part of my mind down when the change occurred. I have no one to blame but myself and yet my eyes still flash a glimmer of anger in response to what I have become. This is not how I used to be, I would think, then drearily go back to my menial tasks for the day. This is all I have now, I say to myself over and over again as a mantra for an opium soaked deity that has wasted away to a mere slice of belief. This is all I have now.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Blood and Brass: Steampunk Poem

Blood and Brass: The Poem of Sylvia Weathersby

There was once was a woman named Sylvia Weathersby
Who lived to the ripe old age of 103.
She lived alone with no spouse or mate
Spending time reading books, building machines, or engaging in debate.

She was born in the year 1824
Just before the Steam Glass War
When Conductors built constructs immense and tall
Or squat and little, strong and small.

When Sylvia was young, her father and mother dear
Taught her the science of constructs and gears.
The child was delighted with metal and brass
And also learned daily of the War of Steam and Glass.

As she grew up, her mind expanded beyond expectations
Giving way to hopes and dreams as well as frustrations.
For Sylvia asked many questions, to know the world in whole,
Studying the designs of machines that were fueled with coal.

When she was 17, she designed her first construct named Tim
It was taller than her, metal sleek and slim.
Walking around her studio, making loud whistles and pops
Tim was continuously fueled, Sylvia making sure it would not stop.

When she turned 24 in 1848
Sylvia built construct Number 38.
Each one more dazzling than the one before
People wondered, “Would she ever get bored?”

Her constructs were used mainly for good
While Sylvia created as many as she could.
She supported the war, to drive the evil out-
Those who hated the Conductors, their minds full of doubt.

“Why must we live according to their rules and laws
When they can live without any flaws?”
These were the folks who were deemed evil and full of hate
Thinking that progress could most assuredly wait.

But people like Sylvia wanted more in life
Than buying tea and cakes and complaining of strife.
She dreamed of a day when man and machine would
Work together as they truly should.

So she walked and pondered and thought of a way
To make her dream come to life in some way.
Every day, she walked along the streets
Passing by florists and butchers with fresh meats.

She would walk from day till twilight
Watching the street boys light up the gas lights.
And, every night she would go home
Back to her own unfinished work, back to being alone.

No thought came into her mind that would bring peace
Ending the entire war, suffering to be released.
She wanted to do her part for the Great Cause
To prove to the enemy that the war was flawed.

One night, around a quarter to three
Sylvia lay in her mechanical bed, rocking with misery.
Her thoughts kept her up late into the night
But none of them would work, none of them had the bite!

For years and year the war raged on through the land
While more and more people began to take a stand
Against the brutal fights and the blood spilled on the ground
From dead bodies that fell without a sound.

The skies turned black with soot and ash
Caused from the cannons that BOOMed with flash.
Mechanical soldiers, of brass and steel
Fought the humans with bloodthirsty zeal.

Then, suddenly, in the year 1893
Around the time for afternoon tea
The war was over, much to everyone’s surprise
Causing many a person to stupidly rub their eyes.

A truce was made between the warring sides
No one was the victor, no one secured the prize.
People could finally go home after so many years
To families who missed them, their eyes full of tears.

Sylvia watched loved reunite with their broken men
Knowing that they will never fight again.
There was much praise and fanfare
People screamed and laughed without any cares.

Within a year, everyone was back to their lives
Women with their husbands, men with their wives.
Conductors continued to build for the good of all
Remembering what happened before, thereby saving them all.

Yet the horrors of the war continued to remain
For blood still ran freshly along the plains.
No machine could remove the blood from the ground
And those who lost their lives were placed in a burning mound.

Fires consumed massive graves night and day
Sending putrid smoke along the way.
People would look up to the smog ridden skies
Wondering why there was a war to secure humanity’s prize.

The Age of Steam still rolled on with dreams and progress
Giving people what they wanted, creating less stress
And soon the skies did turn back to what they knew
Fluffy clouds among a sea of clear blue.

Sylvia Weathersby lived till she was 103
Still working on gears and learning alchemy.
When she died many mourned her death
Thinking of the exact time when she took her last breath.

Many learned from her teachings and her published works
For they were worthwhile and not full of quirks.
Man and machine must support each other, it was said
This was an idea that would never become dead.

“The war taught me much, she would say
And I am glad it is better this way.
Conductors are here for all, no matter what you think
Assisting with growth of food or better water to drink.”

And now my tale has ended, the lesson learned well
For I as a Conductor will not go to Hell.
I work my magick to help those in need
Still remembering the war, when many were in need.

All were affected during that time of hatred and fear
Engaged in a war that lasted many a year.
Remembering when the sky was black and grey
And how utterly long it stayed that way.

Voices - A Flash Story

The voices were always there but it was not until she turned 28 that she began to hear them. They carried the weight of air, fluttering through her mind like disoriented moths in search of a murderous light. When she first heard them, she wanted an explanation of each entity; their backgrounds, lifestyles, and tales of love. The voices, happy that they found an understandable host, gave all of their essence to her since someone finally took notice of them. They gave her new words for colours and presented sounds unheard of by the rest of mankind. In her mind, the voices locked hands and formed a dancing chain, singing off key in a melancholy sort of way. She was now content for peace had finally entered her mind.

22 October 2008

Friday, April 10, 2009

Poem of the Day - Fancy by John Keats


by John Keats
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw'd,
Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And, in the same moment, hark!
'Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plum'd lillies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Every thing is spoilt by use:
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet
And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she'll bring.—
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.

Musing 10 April 2009

Today is Good Friday, the day that Jesus went through His Passion and died on the cross for all believers. Today is a day off from work for me and so far, it has been a good one. The air is crisp and clean blowing through my open windows and I recently lit a stick of Ocean scented incense to get my creative juices flowing. The imagination I use has been good to me thus far, and I am forever grateful for it. I can hear the sounds of lawn mowers cutting through grass, giving off little whiffs of earth, Time, and the spirits that occupy my home from time to time. I used to be afraid of them but now I acknowledge them with respect and grace. While my fingers fly across my keyboard, my thoughts drift to the Green Man who seduces me at night and how I long for Him during the hours of the Sun. He is older and much wiser than I but He still finds time to visit me and taunt me with images of pleasure beyond all human rationale. I am here and yet somewhere else but that is how should be for I am touched in a way that others would deem me to be mad. If I am mad, then so be it; I relish the label with pride. I write, He listens, and all is right with my off kilter world.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Poem for the Day

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.