Birthdays Are The Stuff Of Poetry

Every year, I find myself composing numerous, short, free-form poems on my birthday.  It’s more of a compulsion than a birthday ritual.  In these poetic snippets, I never give much thought to what it is I’m writing, nor do I attempt to drive forth or assign any specific meaning to the writing.  I feel the poems should be left to speak for themselves.

This is last year’s batch of spontaneous verse compositions.

—————————————-

On the bended knee of every house,
The weak and wounded, alike, will
        stand.
From the houses of the lepers
The wounded will rise to freedom.
In those depths, what Will shall come
That makes the mice flee in scurry?
What beasts shall come in direct
        fashion
From the fountainheads of youth?

——————

Sing your song in silence, O Zion,
And call the tales from times, long past.
Make the quote of equal measure
To the prophets who have fallen away.
From that monument where stood the
        horde,
The balance shall be played by trumpet.
And in that conchshell victory,
There will stand the depth of time.

——————-

Where shall the games be played
As the turmoil has reached its peak?
If in silence, we do abide,
How will the song be made to march?

——————-

This fiery sceptre
In the ways of man
Should never be cast
Against itself.
For what avail
Is all the knowledge
If only for destruction?

——————-

The short verse
And sporadic composition
Is sometimes the most
Effective method
Of the collection of thought
For a larger whole.

——————-

The time for dialogue
Has come and gone.
And now is the time
To think again.
To contemplate the notion
Of silence in silence
And weigh the outcome
Of excessive chatter.

——————-

I am not the most
Well-known man.
And I prefer
To remain anonymous.
I am not the most
Well-regarded man.
But I do all I can.
Who I am and
What I do are
All the essence
Of my being.
And though I
Cannot be my own judge,
I pray I am what I should be.

——————-

Who would make the call
To make a better world?
In the makings of this state
Who was asked for advice?
Am I the claw and the tooth?
Am I the question and the answer?
What word is to be spoken
In the fires of the wild
To eat the prose that makes the law?

——————-

In this world
Where no man lives,
There is the taste
That makes him thrive.
And from that wasteless
Wandering, in the fires
Of the foundry,
There is the soul that
Lives as the spark,
The fire that burns deeply.

——————-

What hope is there
For the hopeless
In the times that
Speak forth, now?
What makes the men
Who storm on forth
To the end,
Live or die?

——————-

This is the turmoil,
This is the thoughtform,
This is the thing
That is not the world.
And from the harm,
The turning away,
The sin that becomes great,
We have made the way great
And the turmoil is washed away.

——————-

What is the what
That makes for betterment?
What is the what-for
That makes for the clues?

——————-

Who is the clueless and
Lawless one who makes
The way to the abomination?
Who is the fault that
Makes things bitter
And makes the world glow less?

——————-

When the last of us
Have fallen by the wayside
And the times have gone
In which we were
Who we wished to be,
Then may the road rise up
To meet us in the journey
To whichever land will have us.
May our hands do the works
Pleasing to the goodness
Of our Lord
And may we never falter
No matter how the times may change.

——————-

This is not
What became
Of the greatest
Of men,

But is the
Greatest of
Lives of the
Least among men.

——————-

Hold on to the smallest
Of things in the greatest
Of the darkness,
For only the smallest things
Will grow to grandeur
When all the noise has faded.

——————-

Make the pages sing
In their ageless glory.
For even in this age
Of constant connection,
Where all is always known,
The things that matter,
The truest of truths,
Are still kept in confidence,
Are still uttered only rarely
When those with ears to hear
Are ready to listen.

——————-

When the form is
Stripped away,
When no goals
Are to be met,
When the stanza
Is undefined,
The nature of
The soul of the poet,
The nature of
Nature, itself,
Is to be revealed.

——————-

All the bog nights
In the light of the swamp
Shall curl their way
Through the forests of Pan
And play the songs
Of utter silence
In the joy of the moment.

——————-

These days of tirade
And scornful utterance
Are only made complete
When the logic has fallen away
And all the walls are broken
For sake of recitation.

——————-

Take the piece of pride
From the domain of Heaven
And call forth the hounds
Of the earth.
For pride has no place
In the domain of Heaven.

——————-

I am not a man of this age.
I am not a man of this world.
When the turmoil of the
Age of the Wireless Contraption
Has passed and the old ways
Have come yet again,
How shall I fair in that world?
How do I fair in this world?
I have no idea where in time
I belong.  I only know that
I cannot escape the time I’m in.

——————-

There was once a way,
There was once a path,
There was once a soul,
There was once righteousness
In a world that never was.

——————-

Where is the Neverland
In the world of Neverwhere?
Where are the places
In which we never have
To grow up
In a world that has
Forgotten its childhood?

——————-

All of the previous verse was composed, November 11, 2013.

With a little luck and by the grace of God, that date of this year will yield another batch of poems.

Take care, everyone. Every day is someone’s birthday, and I pray that everyone’s birthday is the stuff of poetry.

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