Series Core (February 2011)

Reboot… it has been 2 years, 4 months and 1 week since last entry (2/27/11)

Well here I am again (again)

I can see a pattern now

I give up, move on, find something new

But permanent abandonment I won’t allow

So I’ll pick up my poems (This is, what? The 5th time?)

Brush off the dust that has set

Pick up pencil’s graphite and sort it in rhyme

My own quota will be met

In the past I have reflected ‘pon laborious things

I wanted to sort light from dark

I wanted to sort the world into sides

And upon me, each would mark

Else I would give up and consign each side to a pot

Turn up the heat, and let it all melt

To consume that concoction was what I believed

A way for each truth to be felt

So what makes this foray different from those come before?

(And the one’s before that, before that?)

I’d say that it’s age, but yet I’m no sage…

Maybe a view that it won’t end like that

That end with a drop of a hat

By the way, I feel that it’s necessary to state

That the hat here means motivation

Though at length I would say that it dropped anyway

Through a drying of inspiration

But enough of the past, let’s see what’s ahead

(Though that technically means look above)

How will what you read differ from what you’ve read

How does the egg differ from the dove?

(By the way, I apologize to any students out there)

(Who must read between the lines of my lines)

(The egg is the start, and the dove is the end)

(And the comparison is one of all kinds)

Certainly not in species, and I mean in form

A bird is a bird is a bird

My rhyme scheme’s unchanged, it’s just as deranged

Some parts always match word for word!

I guess I would say that my purpose has changed

I don’t write as a way to record

My thoughts over fate and the sides that we take

Or even because I am bored

I write ‘cause I feel not to write will kill

The errant thought floating inside

(Inside my head, or inside the world?) Still…

This concept should not hide

Within an ether, undefined, unannounced

Only to oblivion will it consign

Itself as a form that had no form, had no shape

No structure, or name to align

itself to! Ok, now I’m through

with these verses that flow without end.

I do tend to ramble through unending amble

But that’s who I am, my friend

Before oblivion (Or is it all?): Reflections withinout sleep (2/27/11)

How I wish there was dictation to record my fixation

Of creating a piece within peace

Thus it always occurs that my best line occurs

Before sleep, thus it smothers like fleece

Then before you would know (it), my mind starts to show

Of baffling with all or naught

All the things in my head, all the things thought and said

Hit me at once, except the verse I forgot

And I curse myself for not writing it down then

But the light’s bright, and I’m trying to rest

BO:RWS, are you much like your brother?

If I wrote him, who’d be best?

/b for me (2/27/11)

One thing I’d like to do (and to me, this is new)

Is to write not on what I have planned

But to write what I see, and what occurs to me

Anything I want to, on demand

I could write about classes, about books, about shows

I could reflect their points and their style

In a manner oblique, far better than prose

In a way that will last quite a while

In a way it all fits that the diary’s the receptacle

(remind me to look up that word later on)

Because my thoughts go here in an amusing spectacle

Recorded perspectives of times long gone

In a way this is my biography, my tale

Of who and how I am today

And tomorrow and yesterday, then without fail

This part of me’s here to stay!

It’s Sea-nut Smothered Belly Rhyme! (2/27/11)

You know what, screw a topic, let’s random right now

Elephant! Wait, isn’t that Inception?

A good film for sure, but I disliked how

It was made from a different conception

Paprika’s a spice, and I agree that it’s nice

But my first thought tied to the word

Is of butterflies and the life within dreams

And the march of that that’s absurd

Course Inception Guy’s fine for a parody vid

Where dreams and randomness interchange

And I’m glad RT shorts can do many skits

That provide for such a great range

But back on topic, the one absent today

If you’re not here, please raise your hand

Roll call is now, don’t ask me how

This topic, no one understands

My motivation is against, not for anything

Rip van Winkle can just step aside

And Chemistry’s cold, and Gender has gone

Along just for the ride

“Lazy Sunday” I call it, it happens every week

I typically get nothing done

Then in a rush and a flash, I madly dash

To the end of a race I have won

I guess I can say that I’m quite bored today

Isn’t my rambling sad?

I’ve wasted your time, it’s a poet’s crime

Wouldn’t you agree, aren’t I mad?

(Here’s an afterthought of course, given as a course)

(Though I’m not sure if it’s second or third)

(These are whispers to you, (With more puns through and through))

(Though MY truth is every word)

(… isn’t that just absurd?)

Summary of Day 1 (2/27/11)

So poetry is not lost to me

I still can craft a rhyme

It comes to me in verse, you see?

Unfettered by passing time

I think a personal goal is due

A poem a day, at least

I’ll try and vow this to be true

Indulge in my creative feast

I hope when you are reading this

My future self, who I’ll be

That we stayed true to our resolve

That I stayed true to me

Pachi Pachi Pachi Nanodesu (2/28/11)

Congrats to me for writing a poem

I know I wouldn’t fail on day one

(Granted it’s 11:52, and the day’s almost through)

Still, late poem is better than none

I was going to write something else today

But I was summarily distracted

My attention did fray from a burnout today

So my initiative was quickly redacted

So back to old things I abandoned yesterday

Topics of my source of thought

Why is it that my inspiration peters out

Why verses refuse to be caught

A good craftsman is said to never blame his tools

But that’s made with an assumption in mind

That the tool serves its purpose, the intent that is felt

When the user responds in kind

In the case of my poems, the tool is the mind

And the craftsmen are hands that roam free

But the mind often wanders, as it spacily ponders

Almost anything that it will see

And not only sight, my own hearing’s not right

Flooding me with note after note

And thus music’s the bane of my poetry hand

As melodies erase what I’ve wrote

It’s a matter of location in respect to my mind

Music lets me travel outside

A conjured illusion, a crafted delusion

Under sound, no rule I abide

But poetry lies within like an unaddressed sin

It reflects an inner status of thought

So to look either inside or outside again

Is a dilemma between which I am caught