Chasing Death – a New Poem

I fear you none.

For though you give chase across time, across ages,

through valleys blackened by pain

and pastures greened with hope,

the labor is solely yours.

You know my name, but yours will go unsaid,

indifferent,

unlooked for

until the moment of leaving, at whose gates I will no longer care.

For though I might gaze across years, across oceans,

toward a horizon whose distance I will know only once,

you cannot touch me until then.

And so I fear you none.

Strip away the leaves of others, take them as you must.

Peel dry the orchard in which I live, whether summer sapling or wintered oak,

whether friend or foe, whether loved or despised.

I care not.

For they are mine forever, and yours but once.

And whence they come to you, wordless and unchangeable,

they are immortal to me.

In spirit indomitable.

In memory indestructible.

So take them. I care not.

Once the forest falls and I am the only one left,

you may cast your shadow upon me.

Victory, you may claim, fleshless, arid, and everlasting.

And you may laugh to see me kneel in the dirt, under grey skies,

under columns of black clouds in which no heaven awaits.

But nameless, I will hold you.

And bittersweet, your conquest.

For the dark line, drawn in the sand at the time of your choosing,

is no loss to me, no more than a whisper in the eon of my soul.

And I shall fear you none.

Whether sharp and sudden or a slow carrion crawl,

my burdens will be shed,

my thousand aches mended,

and sleep again I shall until the ending of all ages.

But you, my friend,

you must toil on.

For whether here or there or a in place yet unnamed,

your work is never done.

 

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J Edward Neill

The Muse – A Poem

Were I a stone in a pale river,

the water would teach me

sculpt me

beguile my bones into shapes

I’d never known.

Were I a cliff, lording over the sea,

the wind would, over patient eons

move upon me,

at times a gale, sharp yet sincere,

at others, carrying the mist softly to my face,

that I might feel things

to which I’d never awakened.

Were I grass, short-lived and thirsty,

but always a friend to the sun

the rain would nourish my roots,

and beneath its clouds, it would remind me

that no day is ever-bright,

but nor is the darkness always my foe.

Were I fire, booming in the hot belly

of the earth untamed,

my release would raze the life from all things

yet in the end,

I would gladly perish,

and all else grow anew.

And were I a maker of words,

quill in hand, burning hearth in place of ordinary heart,

she would smile at me,

and whisper thoughts undreamed into my ear,

that I might wake the next morn beside her,

with always another page,

another tale,

and never a dry spell

for the garden in which we live.

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J Edward Neill

The Riot – A Poem

She lives in the wind

or so the riot tells me.

A golden flame, a pale rapture, an elemental catastrophe,

all of this, and more, the riot will say.

An invisible trail, she leaves,

on the streets we have walked, in our rumbled bed.

But she is never lesser.

Her hours of toil beget mere moments of calm,

for there is no taming her, only the lie thereof.

She walks never straight, but in tangles, in weaves,

and on wild paths only the trees can name.

She lives in the wind

or so I’ll say

from now until the end of everything.

Many will try, and many will dream of her at peace,

only for a moment’s breeze to unravel her.

to take her skyward.

to unleash her.

The riot, she is.

In body, in spirit.

And those who would tame her,

had best beware.

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J Edward Neill

A Dark Poem – Leaving in the Rain

It began the moment I left.

The clouds, black and burgeoned with dark water,

caught me, contained me.

Drums in the sky pounded the only message

my body needed to know.

For all their thunder, my bones shook.

For all their streaming rivers

falling down my fractured panes,

I should have turned back.

Brief, I expected them,

and easily swatted aside.

But the sky told no mistruth,

and the serpentine road, swallowed by the rain,

scrawled into my tired eyes

the lie of leaving.

 A wager, I made with the advancing night.

‘You’ll break with the sun when I return.’

‘And go black again with every retreat.’

And impatient, I threatened.

And railed.

And made war against everything.

Even knowing the deed was mine.

But the rain only laughed.

And the night shrugged at the hidden moon.

Daring that I should do it again.

That I should return, and stride the storm

a thousand times over.


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For more words, go here

 

A Poem at Midnight – Black River

On a black river, I race toward the waning light.

Westward, burning, the smoky clouds breathing their last.

My carriage vibrates on the shallow water,

the wheels wanting to break, but lacking the will.

There are others besides me, but there are none.

I am alone here, but for one.

A dusk-born bat, I see nothing, and feel everything.

Flying, wings biting at the dark, nothing slows me.

Save death.

At the witching hour, to a theme which shakes the world,

I ride.

Sweating. Aching. Hellbent.

At the black river’s end, everything.


More here.

Finding the Words

I’m not a writer. When it comes to writing anything, even an email, I put a tremendous amount of thought behind it before I begin. I’m the same with talking. There is always far more I’m thinking than saying. This is who I am. Don’t be mistaken. I have the ability to talk for hours with friends on a topic I find interesting or one that sparks my passion, but sitting down to write a blog post… I’d rather go back to my drawing or painting. What do I have worth saying to the world? I find it easier to speak through art, or poetry, because in truth I have simple loves in life.

Photograph by Amanda Makepeace

Photograph by Amanda Makepeace

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Satin soft petals reaching toward
the clouds, sway aloft sturdy stalks–
To and fro, to and fro.

They lure me with luscious hues
To places unknown, and
Capture me with Spring incense,
A meadow inside my soul.

Lay me down midst the Aster and Sage,
So I may rest, may dream,
If lucky, live again.

© Amanda Makepeace

A Poem (because I’ve got nothing else)

Wind Chimes

Their notes drift in through the window
Tickling eyelids that refuse to open.
Instead of waking, the melody pulls me
Beyond dreams, a symphony of new beginnings.
I let go my troubles and worries,
Turn away from dark thoughts, those memories
Which haunt my days and loom over my nights.
Away I fly, each clang of the wind chime
Creating an opera in my mind.

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© Amanda Makepeace

NaPoWriMo 2012