3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #12

AHHHHHHH so finally, a true challenge has arrived!!! A good friend - without whom, I might add, I probably would not be doing this experiment - sent me a challenge yesterday. He sent me a poem that he wrote when he was younger with the challenge: "What is your poetic response to this?" So, here is his poem, followed by my response. It should be noted that he was still in high school when he wrote this, and he was reading a lot of fantasy literature at the time.

Mercenaries

Knowing the enemy, that is the first rule
Before the first sword is drawn
The buzzards, they wait, they look so cruel
I signal the pipers, we march with the dawn
Up with the camp, we march down the hill
To meet the enemy dread
The soldiers pause, the field so still
Before our lances turn it red
Ready the pike, up the arrow
There is no sound, this is no show
Up in the sky, a lonesome sparrow
Our fate draws near, it’s time to go

The men rush forward, the horses pound
We are an army, no tighter banding
We gallop forth, we shake the ground
Every man knows, no one left standing
I yell as I ride, our meeting thunder
There is no thinking, there is no thought
It seems we must be swept asunder
No matter the plan, our service bought

When the blood stops flowing, the last drop spilled
Broken arms and blood-matted hair
The last man captured, the last man killed
The injured like raindrops, the dead everywhere
We pick ourselves up, our hearts in our hands
Month after week, war after battle
We go forth to die, die for our lands
Marching every day, riding in the saddle

Yet one fine day our march is done
To face the greatest, blackest horde
We meet our slayers under sun
As I once more draw forth my sword
We do battle to avenge some crime
A reckoning is coming nigh
We defy an enemy one last time
Though born to live, our fate to die
With darkness about me, I stand tall
The enemy charges, I see death’s portal
I give one last, unearthly call
They cannot stop me, I am immortal

I stand alone upon the slain
I try to move, I strive
Warp the sounds, distance the pain
I know I am truly alive


and, the response......

The Watcher

My place unknown, unseen from history
I follow from a distance,
the rival hordes - their cause a mystery,
chronicled here in this instance.
Men of honor, and of strength,
made of sterner stuff then metal,
To what level and what length,
will they take their epic battle?
Ready the parchment- ready the quill,
the trumpets sound their blasting call,
a test of might and furious will,
some will live, while many fall.

Sweaty hands and metal clashing,
howls of anger and of pain,
drown the yaw where hell's teeth are gnashing,
more angels lost, and demons gained.
They for freedom in every way,
and no one is ever wrong,
The young and old will both decay,
The worms eat well before too long.

The battle for the day is ended,
the camps part ways for the evening meal
the dead lay scattered while wounds are tended,
the night is short for men to heal.
And I amongst them, running fast,
to hear the glorious tales,
of axes thrown and canon blast,
of men who fought as ruthless gales.

On the morrow they shall see,
what the day's events will bring
Whether they stay and the others flee,
or they serve a newer king.
Or to renew their fearsome battle
over valley and the hill,
Butcher men like the were cattle,
Until all is silent and still.
And I will of them immortals make,
through pen and parchment scroll,
For the lives of those they take,
shall be recorded on the Roll.

I stand alone upon the slain,
For history's descendents I strive,
to caution of war's death and pain,
to keep our sons and daughters alive.


An entirely different viewpoint on the same topic, I think it's a fair response. All those who are into this sort of thing, feel free to pick it apart anf judge for yourself if my response is accurate enough!!!

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #11

Ahhh, where shall today's poetry experiment lead us? I think that's my favorite thing about doing this challenge - I never know from one moment to the next where I'm going to go with this stuff. It keeps it fresh for me, too. It's always an adventure, and it makes me appreciate the smaller moments in life. Often, simple things that I wouldn't notice become subjects - or at least objects- in a poem. Perhaps there's something to that: Poetry is written to be heard, to be said, to be experienced, to be lived.

Little Words

Sometimes I think
of a million little words
that I can put down
one
at a time
and make something
beautiful
happen,
as though I might be
counted among the Greats,
and teachers would put
meaning where there is little -
and then I read it.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #9, #10

Ummmm...oops - I missed a day. For those of you who've been playing along at home, you know that means that today - you get a double dose of poetry!! In the words of the Kool-Aid Man, "OH YEAH!"

Last week was sort of a jumble of things, a little working with some form and meter, and a little of the metaphysical dabblings (nothing too deep, of course). I wonder what this week will bring? Largely, I never know until I sit down to write - you generally get unedited works that have not been hemmed and hawed over. So, in turning over the ideas for what to write about today - and realizing I need TWO ideas - let us begin, shall we?

Composition

Note.
simplistic, a trio.
the beginnings of melody,
and then,
soft and soothing, undercurrent -
a fifth, a third, that shapes the colors of the song,
a thought.
Ideas swirling 'round again in sound,
graceful caresses,
gentle hints if new inflection,
robust, with heartfelt meang it's a song.
A simple line.
Because somewhere it mattered,
that someone was feeling,
a different thought and idea
yet to be heard.
And slow, again.
Hanging, waiting for resolution.
Back to where it began- - - -
note.


Poets

A curious animal,
more in kind with lunacy than with the lover,
in this the genius lies.
Riddling prettily, prattling rapidly,
crafting words that have meaning while saying nothing.
Why is the question and answer both,
within the wit not withstanding whys and wherefores,
lies the amusement.
Oft, in verses sacred does the meaning allude,
a private humour meant for no one.
Art and passion, combined here and there,
constant syllables of intrepid useless torment.
Dumb engineer of verbage
won't tell what it means.


Ok, I was originally going to do a whole juxtaposed theme thing today....ummm....oops. In any case, I had fun today, and hope you did, too!!

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #8

Ah, Easter. Whether your tradition is to pig out on chocolate bunnies, attend a faith service, or just celebrate the coming of Spring, or for those who care not for these things but prefer "Zombie Jesus Day," I wish you the happiest of days.

I was lucky to begin my day witha bike ride through Morgantown, WV, an a bright and sunny, yet chilly morning. It's a heck of a way to wake up on a Sunday morning, I can tell you. But now, as food preparations are well underway, I'll take a moment to pause, write a poem, and simply enjoy being amongst family.

In the Garden

The Springing colors bounce to life,
hues of blossoming pinks and whites,
blues of hyacinths
purples of hydrangea
in the garden under the sun.

The greening stems unite them now,
each sharing a piece alike
leafy tulips fall,
the lilies narrow blades catch the waters
in the garden in the rain.

How like this verdant pastoral we are,
all the colors vibrant and true,
each bringing special gifts and ceremony,
a sense of the sacred -
a new garden in the sun and rain,
of Man and Woman,
Saints and Sinners,
Old and Young.

Who delights in the garden?

Have yourselves a blessed day, according to your beliefs.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #7

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of other things!" I don't know why Lewis Carrol is running through my head at the moment, but I suspect is has something to do with looking down the rabbit hole that is bike racing this morning. It sorta makes you feel like Alice, in a way, with all of the strangeness that surrounds a bike race.

But regardless of all that, it's time for a poem, so let's get started, shall we?


I sing the Body eclectic,
a fascinating rhythm of different parts
all working in congress,
a fluidity of tumbling-blocks,
turning over each other again and again -
a cacophanous melody.

One aim in many directions,
many paths, all chosen,
all traveled, all explored -
the creation of one picture,
as though a stained glass of many colors.

Such is this I recall,
that of many, there shall be one,
and that one shall be true,
free,
constant,
sincere,
Good.

And until it becomes that way,
I will sing all the more loudly.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #6

Well, well - day 6, and you thought I forgot because it's after 10PM, didn't ya? HA! Fooled you!

Today, for those who somehow might not be aware, is Good Friday, or, the day that Christianity celebrates the sacrifice we believe Jesus made for us by accepting death on a cross. It's a solemn occasion, a day for prayer and reflection. It sets my mind to thinking, usually, and today is no exception. One of the things many of us Catholics do, however, is what we call the Veneration of the Cross. It may seem foolish to many, but there is something about it that makes it much more concrete when you get to touch the wood of a cross. It's tangible, it forms a real, physical interaction, and for that, it can be quite beautiful. So tonight's poem is somewhat related to that experience today.


I know it isn't the actual thing,
a representation only.
The wood looks used, I can see where someone drilled into it once.
At least I can see they used a half-lap joint.
Not bad.
They put some effort into it.
Did it properly.
Good. It deserves proper treatment.
We stand in line, everyone gets a chance,
at last, my turn.
I've been considering - how best to treat this?

Genuflect, lean, kiss the wood.

It feels rough on my lips,
a million tiny splinters all poking into me.
it leaves a faint impression that disappears in moments,
except for on my mind and heart.

A simple thing, two pieces of wood
that impact so many people.


Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #5

Ahhh, a day off, and it takes me this long to get to the poem of the day? Well, better a tiny bit later in the day than making all you petry fans wait for a double-up tomorrow, right? After all, I know how much you all look forward to my daily dose of drivel! Some encouraging comments thus far, and for them, I thank you all!

Ladders

So tricky-

reaching out away from the body
both hands needed
the saw moves unsteadily,

back and forth
the blade cutting through the branch
back and forth.

It nears the end and I know the
branch is about to give way.

My perch still secure for a moment longer,

what if it kicks?

I hope no children are watching this.
Do as I say, not as I do.

Always use two hands on the ladder.
Never lean out.
Never turn around backwards.
Never use a saw this way.
Never.

Never.

Never.

I reach and cut the next branch.

Leaning out away from the safety of the rungs.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid