The Lament of the Swan Feeder

He is there everyday.

At the edge of the ever lapping hungry waters.

Out of his mouth comes a gurgle of words.

“Venir ici mon cher,” he says.

The old ladies cringe away from him.

From his beard and mustache

As soft and tender as an eyelash.

He never notices everything

Living selectively

Around trouble.

His eyes milky white

And his shirt patched.

He wears no belt, it would bind him he thinks.

That is not allowed.

Lined hands covered in rips and tears.

His veteran gears need oiling.

Inside he screams and wails
He forces everything down deep inside

To where it pounds at his soul like John Henry’s hammer.

Crudely ripping bread

And tossing it into the swan’s water and onto the grass

Which is his bead.

In his palace of a grassy hill.

Tears have grooved deep canyons into his

Rough cheeks and bread crumbs cover his pant legs.

Sourdough and cornbread

From the trash.

He measures the days with wind and sky.

He never calls he has no one at all.

He is nobody’s son, an orphan.

He waits eternally for the sky to fall.

He wears an amulet around his neck which sways before he steps.

Shoes which have walked miles.

An antique, vintage man.

He talks to the swans as he feeds them,

“Maybe one day I’ll leave, where would you be then,”

He asks them teasingly.

Even putting on his shoes is like a journey beyond the sun

So sometimes he doesn’t put them on at all.

He wraps a scarf around his neck every day at noon.

Maybe

One day

Someone will understand him.

He is a dweller.

Not a lodger

Nor a liver

Or a fleer.

He has never gotten a valentine.

He doesn’t speak of the future or the past.

Only partially visible he winces behind his lips.

Etherized, numbed.

His world is angled with frayed edges and jagged curves.

We shall go to see him

One day, you and I.

And hear the songs of the man, the swans and the trees and grass.

Until the leave’s swaying

Lowers our heads into

Beds of moss and clover.

When bells toll and pigeons fly

Joining the swans.

In murky

Scribbled alleyways.

Swans as white as snow

Out of place with this mysterious man.

In his mind there are books of philosophy and religion

There are houses full of beautiful paintings.

And empty bookshelves.

We shall go to see

The man and his swans

Until the sun sets

And all the lights go out.

 Note- The 4th line translates from French as "Come here my dear"

Icarus

Escape by flight.

Looking at his father below with pride.

“Look Papa, I’m next to the sun”

Not noticing the hot globs of wax that fall

from the soft speckled goose feathers.

Each droplet melting in the hot Greek sun.

His father, “Come down child, lest you fall and die.”

The son smiles and shakes his head

and flaps his wings, just a bit closer.

Icarus pinned against the brilliant azure sky

like a giant bird.

6 foot wingspan.

Below him rolling hills and vineyards

beside him fluffy clouds.

Stratus.

His father below is engulfed in thoughts of machines

and his other contraptions.

Icarus with the heavens in sight.

A single feather falls.

As if plucked by a giant hand.

Zeus perhaps.

And then more and more.

Until he has nothing left.

Reaching with one hand.

Grasping at the air.

A grimace on his face.

Falling.

Falling.

As he remembers what his father told him so many times.

That what goes up, must come down.

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I've been very busy. Please comment and enjoy.

HAPPY SUMMER

More poems soon.

-N.B.S

Star of Track and Field

Star of Track and Field

His dirty sneakers slam into puddles, slush and sun baked pavement.
5 miles a day.
1,825 miles a year.
Every morning, every evening.
through rain, sleet, snow and hail, he runs.
His apparel varies with the weather.
He is a star of track and field.
hurdling every obstacle with ease.
Long and lanky.
A fine specimen his coach says.
The coach:
a man with a round belly and a yellow visor.
he could never keep up with his students.
as his students run, the coach jogs around the track.
Yelling, "Faster" "Harder"
An ever ticking stopwatch clutched in his hand
as his shrill sounding whistle bounces
up and down on his chest.

Poem in Memory of Trayvon Martin

This is a poem I wrote in memory of Trayvon Martin who was shot in killed in Stanford, Florida for no logical reason. 

Do I look suspicious?

Walking in the dark.

Hood up.

There was no justice that night

Just prejudice.

To judge by anything

You do not know.

Skittles

Snapple

Nothing much.

Just a soul, a heart.

Life can be thrown away.

Wasted.

Just like that fateful night.

In Stanford Florida .

Rest in Peace Trayvon.

The Color Blind Bull

He doesn’t see everything in the world.

Only part of it,

It is simpler for him.

Fewer shades

Of color.

He sees the world through

Lewis Hine’s lens.

Black and White.

His ailment goes unnoticed.

All the crowd wants is a show.

They shout and cheer until their throats are sore.

What do they care anyway?

It should be his palace; He should be comfortable there.

He’s more of a Ferdinand.

Would rather sit lying in the wildflowers,

Then be in the arena.

Where the ground is covered in thick dust.

And there is no peace and quiet.

The matadors don’t understand.

Why he doesn’t respond to the color

Red.

Crimson,

Scarlet,

Burgundy,

Rose,

And Raspberry.

They’ve tried them all

To no avail.

He doesn’t understand why the crowd

Jeers and boos.

The other bulls do.

The tease him

A simple “Kick me” sign would do

But no

Bloody scratches

Made by horns

Line his side.

Everyday

It’s always the same

The Matador reluctantly

Drops the red cape

He looks half asleep

The crowd boos.

He is led away.

He has

No Wins

No Losses

Just 54 ties.

It is no life for a colorblind bull.

Sorry

Sorry I've been such a pathetic blogger lately.

Random Story Beginning:

Prologue

The wind blew remnants of the house across the forest scattering debris among the trees. A long piece of gutter blew and entangled itself in the branches of an elm. The trees were green and vibrant but no birds were perched in their lush branches. The whir and rumble of a car motor broke the silence and soon a Model T slowly came into view. The car drove on a dirt road and its tire crunched over small pebbles that were lodged in the dirt. The windows were tinted and the car looked out of place in the spring foliage. When the black car was parallel with the remains of the house it slowed to a stop. The window slid down and a man with binoculars looked out of it. His pale skin had a green tinge to it and he had bags under his narrowed eyes. Underneath the navy blue binoculars he smiled and rolled up the window. The car drove away leaving tire tracks in the dirt. Silence was all that remained.

Chapter 1

Bells tolled loudly sending a startled flock of pigeons into hasty flight. The dark square was relatively empty except for a few street performers who stood drearily in the thin drizzle. Most of the shops in the square were closed and the cobblestones were lit only by a couple of dim street lamps.

NaPoWriMo Day #1

Well happy National Poetry Writing Month! As part of this month long celebration I will be taking the challenge of writing a poem everyday for the month. This my first poem:

From the darkness came the light.

Spitting fire across the pale sky.

Every color

Blended together.

Like a box of colored pencils.

All the colors.

Every single one

In the morning sky.

The sunrise

welcomes glorious day.

The Future of this blog

I'm sorry i haven't been able to post as much as I used to. I have been very busy and I should be able to post more consistently now that it is April. Later today I will post some writing so yeah.

I FORGOT HAIKU MONDAY:(

I have writers block.

So that’s why this is bad.

I don’t have ideas.

Dear Piano

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I think its been about a week. Here is a poem:

Dear Piano,

I Wonder if you understand

What the music is.

To you it must seem

like the daily beating,

And we say that practice is torture.

But what about you piano?

For the pain you feel must be real

and not imaginary.

I wish that you could hear the music I play.

For then you would hear what music is.

I hope that someday you will know what music is.

And finally be at peace.

Yours truly,

The Player

Haiku Monday

Hiding obvious.

Silhouettes scattered and faint.

From behind the mist.

Mockingjay

I made this in Photoshop:

It is sort of a promotion of the Hunger Games.

Please comment!

Happy St. Patties everybody!

I made this in Photoshop:

New Story!

This is a new story I started. Collage coming tomorrow or Saturday.

The air was crisp and cold. Summer had rolled a gutter ball this year and the temperature hadn’t gone above sixty degrees in all of March and April showed no sign of changing this. A light crust of snow covered the grass. Tufts of green sprouted out of the white snow.

I tapped my pencil against my hand and thought. April break was finally here and already I was bored out of my mind. All of my friends had flocked like migrating birds south to the warmth of the Bahamas or Florida. I had been left in complete solitude to wallow in misery and boredom.

My mom- who had been sick of my complaining about having nothing to do- had given me a list of ideas of things to do over break. I had chosen writing simply because it was the activity that involved the least room cleaning and community service.

I’m not a good writer mind you; actually I’m quite bad. My book report on Tom Sawyer had come straight off the back cover. As a matter of fact I hated writing.

So, here I was, sitting at a desk, with a clean sharpened pencil in my hand, and a blank notebook that leered at me from the desk. I leaned my chin on my hands and stared at the wall in front of me. I had nothing, nada. Everybody always says that the best way to be good at writing is just to write, but how can you write if you don’t have any ideas to begin with.

I needed something, a spark, inspiration. I stood up and walked out of my room.

Haiku Monday

Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I think it has been about five days. Here is a haiku I wrote:

Greedy eyes, darting.

Houses, money on our minds.

Its Monopoly

Tomorrow or maybe Wednesday I will be posting a collage.

Cheers

NBS

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I opened the 320 million dollar door and entered a lobby area where an old woman sat behind a desk. She looked up and squinted at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses.

She spoke in a gravely voice, “Are you here for the betting match?” she asked softly.

I nodded and then said, “Yes, I am.” I reached into my jacket pocket and took out a green chrysanthemum. The flower’s bright hue contrasted brilliantly with the black of my dinner jacket.

I handed the delicate flower to the old woman and waited while she examined it and turned it over in her hands. Finally after about three minutes of examining, she brought the chrysanthemum to her nose and sniffed deeply. She nodded and handed the flower back to me.

“Everything seems to be in order. It’s the 12^th floor and don’t even try going to any other floors,” she said looking at me from over her glasses which dangled precariously off her long pointed nose. “If you do, you will be escorted off the premises immediately.

I took back the chrysanthemum and walked towards the elevator. I pushed the up button and immediately the doors of the elevator opened with a cheery “ding”