Our Steam-Driven Lives

Insert the wrench, grab it tightly,

And ratchet, ratchet, turn, ratchet – remove.

Push the clutch and rev.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump

A jumpstart to our industrial heart.

Gears spin, wheels turn, pistons fire.

Metal clanks, fuel burns, a belch of exhaust.

Our engine is running.

But open us, test us, check if we’re working,

Remove the hood and inside you’ll find

Wires, frayed and stripped-

Spark plugs, worn and misfiring-

Cogs, overly greased by perpetuated false hopes-

Units corroded by the abrasive monochromatic

Colors of our steam-driven lives.

Too much gas and the machine floods.

I saw a man once – battered and beleaguered,

His paint faded and grayed,

His gears rusted and squeaking,

The timing of his engine skipping and off-beat.

I saw in his stalled movements

A premonition-

A foggy glimpse at what just might be.

A saw a future in which my generation,

Bright, shiny new dreamers,

Achieved our hopes,

Fulfilled our destinies,

Conquered the world,

And aged.

And our zinc coated dreams corroded.

Our futuristic models out-dated.

Replaced by shinier, more reliable makes,

And our engines turned to dust.

And I turned to the man,

With his cracked carburetor,

And asked,

“What were you?”

And he looked at me,

With eyes just like mine,

And replied in tin-tones,

“I was you.”

Words

Pen drips,

Ink smudges,

A second skin.

Scribble-scrabble,

Scurried scratches,

A first language.

Ringing tones,

Singing syllables,

A soul.

But shaking hands,

Chatting chit-chat,

Alien, foreign.

Anecdotes given freely,

Spoken words,

Unspeakable.

Isolation

For notebooks filled,

Understandable.

But trading words

For trading stories?

Questionable.

Is a word worth

The worth of a friend’s

Words?

True Beauty

I have looked upon true beauty

And now it haunts me every day.

A shining image true

Now engraved upon my brain.

A vision of flawlessness,

Tis’ a beauty for which I’d die.

A perfection so fully pure

One cannot help but cry.

This beauty possesses the deepest soul

That makes one burn with desire

So that one could glance unendingly

And never sleep or tire.

Tis’ a magnificence so captivating

That words cannot describe.

The moment that you see her

Cupid’s arrow does arrive.

For tis’ true! This beauty is a woman

One that stands apart

For this is the woman

Who has stolen fast my heart.

This Silence of Mine

Upon this day of Silence,

So the silent may be heard,

To protest an opposition

I’ll utter not a word.

These words I do not utter,

Theses thoughts held in my mind,

Suffice to say they’re supplemented

With this silence of mine.

Spun Moonbeams

The humpback man makes his nightly round,

Clad in white, he walks the night,

From on high in, in silver down.

Speckling diamond dust on an inky pool,

Sparkling bright, these points of light,

Weaving midnights from Morpheus’s spool.

But hush, mortal men, and hear,

The chirping thrush, a gentle rush,

Of trees whispers entreating upon your ear.

A gentle ripple stirs the plutonian screen,

A swaying brush, a sound so lush,

Touched by a loving hand unseen.

Spun moonbeams then alight upon a time aged fence,

A knot of wood so dark, graced by heaven’s spark,

That never the like has been seen hence.

The focus shifts to a sad old swing,

Leans from Nature’s mark, upon sits a lonely lark,

As the baying hounds begin to sing.

The old man stops, and leans to rest,

His walk is done, the weave is spun,

And now he dips ‘neath Gaia’s crest.

All these are commonplace to the inhabitant’s eye,

‘Neath moon and sun, this view they shun,

And none partake of this beauteous splendor but I.

Sailor of the Stars

Sails are brimming full,

The solar wind a-blowing.

Skirting the rings of Saturn,

No cares for where we’re going.

We dock once on Titan,

Only for a day or two.

Then through the cosmos

I again renew my search for you.

Once I saw a shooting star,

And with addled hopes I thought

That I had found the shining face

Of the one I sought.

We sail uncharted waters,

As the Milky Way ends its run,

And since there’s still no sign of you

We head home toward the Sun.

I’ve sailed these heavenly waters,

This ocean full of stars,

From the gas seas of Neptune,

To the red mountains of Mars.

All the while hoping,

Still searching for my love.

These shining stars for guiding

Lie below me not above.

For I’ve searched the Earth twice over,

Then three times, then four.

I’ve explored every water

And I‘ve crested every shore.

Still my love eludes me there,

From Earthly love I’m barred.

So I’ll search the one place left to me

And sail among the stars.

Our Shadow

There’s something inside all of us,

A darkness beneath the seams,

The man in red upon our shoulder,

In the dark corners of our dreams.

There is a shadow upon all of us,

That wakes us up at night.

A scary thing within ourselves

That fills us full of fright.

We personify this inner evil

In the darkness that we find.

We point out the dark outside of us

To escape admitting it’s inside.

This evil is not a sickness.

This shadow is not a disease.

You cannot purify this darkness.

You can’t satisfy its needs.

We ignore this shadow’s existence

And thus we set it free.

And now it stalks the corners of our nightmares.

It is the fright within our dreams.

On that Beach of Yours

Alone amidst an ocean of people,

Like dying of thirst at sea.

A select few try to test my waters,

But nobody really knows me.

Afraid I might drown in the loneliness,

Never find the surf tormented shore.

Always adrift, never safely standing

On that familiar beach of yours.

One day perhaps, I’ll build a raft

And attempt to sail myself straight back

Through waves and thunderheads black

To that familiar beach of yours.

To sate the need within me burning,

To satisfy my own soul’s yearning,

To stop the roiling water’s churning

And find that beach of yours-

-The welcome sand where you stand

On that beach of yours.

To hold you in my arms again

On that beach of yours.

Oh Dreamers!

Oh lovers, dream of kisses!

Dream of moments close-

To wile away the hours

With whom you love the most.

Oh lonely ones, dream of lovers

So you may join the fun!

That way you shan’t grow pale

From lack of loving sun.

But both of you are dreamers true

So make this your life’s goal:

Turn these dreams to realities

So that you may be whole.

If Only

If only, if only,

Said the Wolf to the Moon,

I’d be with you always

If only, if only.

If only, if only,

Said the flowers to the bees,

I’d grow with you always

In the tops of the trees.

If only, if only,

Said the Earth to the Sky,

I’d mingle with you evermore

Just you, and I.

If only, if only,

Said Water to Fire,

I could keep myself from harming you,

While quenching my desire.

If only, If only,

Said the Wolf to the Moon,

I’ll call to you always

“If only, if only.”

Homeless. (A Haiku)

Home is in your heart,

Yet I find myself homeless.

Now the cold wind blows.

Foul Weather

Musical Thunder!

Glorious Rain!

That heralds the coming

 Of storms again.

Ah! The whimsical Wind

Which eases down

The trees to the puddles

Which litter the ground.

How perfectly charming

These painted grey skies!

That shield the ungodly

Sun from our eyes.

All this together

Is a storm not to miss.

Fouls weather you say?

What nonsense is this!?

Everything and More

If I could be a prince,

Living in a castle white,

I’d love you through the sunlit day

And through the moonlit night.

If I could be a knight,

Standing brave and shining true,

I’d slaughter dragons by the dozens

To win my way to you.

If I could be a sculptor,

Shaping marble gray and strong,

I’d sculpt you with such tenderness

So as to move the bards to song.

If I could be a poet,

I’d compose great works of love

With painted words comparing

Your eyes to stars above.

If I could be naught but your man,

And not some bold hero of yore,

Then that would be quite more than enough-

It would be everything and more.

Dark Paradox

I’m falling quickly,

Losing fast,

Reality’s slipping

From my grasp.

My spiral quickens,

Reason burns,

Logic’s lost

Around the turn.

Where to go?

What to do?

What to say?

Who are you?

I’ve ripped away

Myself from me-

A conscious lost,

A spirit free,

A body broken,

A life left be,

A time wasted.

I try to flee.

Running slowly,

Not fast enough,

I can’t escape,

Life’s catching up.

Time for action,

Time to strike.

But how do I

Attack my life?

A Thought

In case people reading this worry that I may or may not have gone christian crazy and now all my poems will be God poems I have constructed the following reassurance. To all crazy christian readers who think they have finally converted me I say this: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Now then. With that out of the way, let's continue.

Angels

Why, Oh why do Angels cry?

And darken the sky with their tears?

They cry for us, we mortal fools-

For our blunders, trails, and fears.

They bemoan the hardships we must face-

Our suffering, grief, and woe.

They look down on us, these kinder souls,

And wish it wasn’t so.

The long to glide down from on high

And from our troubles-set us free!

But a knowing God stays their hand

Knowing what must be, must be.

A Rhyme in 12/8's Time

I write a rhyme

In a different time

To

Change it all around.

Like Mr. Vaughn and the blues

This awkward rhythm that I choose

Is

To provide a different sound.

Like B-minor sevenths and A-major sevenths

Ringing aloud from blues guitar heavens

My

Words ring on a different scale.

Pentatonic G minor

Which lifts my mind higher

And

The blue notes for soul as well.

This offbeat rhythm,

So carelessly given

Yet

Painstakingly perfect in it’s execution

Lights the soul on fire

With swing-timed desire

And

Jolts the nerves in electrocution.

Now my words are the chords

For these blues guitar lords

That

With soulful fingers, bend the lines.

It is with soul to you,

I present in true

My

Rhyme in 12/8’s time.

A Poem Gone Unnoticed

I’ll write a poem for you.

You beautiful, whimsical girl.

You, who’s features are like an angel’s,

Who’s eyes are a hypnotic swirl.

I’ll write a poem for you.

This girl I try to please.

For whom I strive to move the stars,

Though it drives me to my knees.

I’ll write a poem for you.

You, who’s smile lights the night.

Who’s glow outshines the loving moon,

Who’s soul is without blight.

I’ll write a poem for you,

Although you will not know it.

You, who do not read my poems.

And with hidden love, I’ll stow it.

Wishful Thinking

Oh would that I with pen could make
A gilded landscape of a lake,
Or brush in hand could tumble down
Painted mountains to the ground.
But though to you it sounds absurd,
My pen for me makes only words.

To Look But Not To Touch

I look upon an Angel,
But the Angel won’t look back.
The unknowing indifference of her gaze
Makes my heart quake and crack.
I gaze daily upon splendor,
Beauty beyond compare,
Every inch of her flawless skin,
Every strand of her shining hair.
But I am but a lowly troll,
A wallower in the mud.
She is a beautiful rose,
A gorgeous blooming bud.
What unintended torture,
To love this angel so much.
To be in constant agony,
To look but not to touch.

The Lone Rose

Alone rose grows atop a hill
Amidst a sea of weeds.
Surrounded by foliage
Unfit to touch it’s seeds.

How beautiful the singled rose!
How mystical this flower!
That dims the colors of the rainbow
‘neath it’s enchanting power

And though the rose rejects all those
Who’d pluck it with dagger-like thorns,
One cannot help but stare in wonder
Wishing it were yours.

“Friend!” you say to me,
“Forget your fickle flower!
I’ll show you a bloom to pale your rose
 That you could have this very hour!”

But be it tulip, carnation, or poppy red as wine,
There is no bloom beneath the sun to pale this rose of mine.

The Checkered Stair

Sweet music tinkles softly,
Notes floating down the hall,
A soft waltz is playing-
Only we attend the ball.
Myself and ten others,
Bask in music fair.
Yes, me and my ten friends,
Dancing on the checkered stair.

My Love

My love is beautiful, my love is sweet.
My love is not in love with me.
My love is charming, my love is smart.
The day she left she broke my heart.
My love is whimsical, my love is grand.
I think my love loves another man.

A Thought On That Last Poem

I must admit when I wrote "My Butterfly" I was in a very Shel Silverstien-ish mind. If you don't knwo who that is I will not further insult your existence by naming his work you you. So sorry. You fail at life. End of story. Please Continue-

My Butterfly

                       Splish! Splash!

                                         Drip! Drop!

            Downward falls another plop!

Of Paint!           
           Of Clay!       
                     Of Macramé!
                                     Of Glue!
                                               Of Wax!
                                                      Of Green and Gray!

Blue lines North and red dots South!
Another eye! A seventh mouth!
Now that you’ve seen it please don’t lie-

Do you like my butterfly?

Love is Blind

If love is what you seek,
Then love is what you’ll find.
But sometimes what we get
Is not what we had in mind.
To find that which we call “true love”
You must let your heart unbind.
You must go and seek it out
For remember, love is blind.

Down to the Doldrums

A yawn starts my journey,
My eyes slowly close,
My mind begins to drift away,
That’s how the beginning goes.
Then I’m floating down the lazy river,
My brain and soul washed clean,
Surrounded by cool imagination,
Basking in it’s streams.
Then the river shallows,
the river ends it’s run.
So I ride the dreaming train
Down into the Doldrums.
The Doldrums! Where the dreams all play!!
All is sleepy, all at rest.
This snoozing plain is definitely
The land that I love best.
A pleasant dream then comes to me
I say “ I’ll remember that!”
But the awake! A voice says to me
“Where is your homework at?”

Care

When the moon touched the barren shore,
I realized I didn’t care anymore.
For all the Earth and all the skies
Is nothing more than a pack of lies.
That love and compassion, kindness and care,
Never existed anywhere,
And as I ponder this reality,
The world probably couldn’t care less for me.

Beautiful Princess

Beautiful Princess,
When you should cry,
Tis’ sadder than rains which darken the sky.

Beautiful Princess,
I’ll dry your tears,
Light up the darkness and frighten your fears.

Beautiful Princess
Why must you shun?
Now I have lost stars and gained mournful sun.

Beautiful Princess
Why do you scorn?
For now I am dreamless and must wait for the morn.

Alone Again

Alone again I seem to find
There’s none before and none behind-
An endless string of solitude
Eroding at my fortitude.
Oh, wishing for the string to break,
For someone’s hand that I might take.
But loneliness, that rope that binds,
Alone again I seem to find.

Frost

Frost
Two paths diverged in a winter wood,
And so I turned around.
Choosing not to make a statement,
Choosing not to make a sound.
Deciding not to be a figure,
Deciding on no con or cost.
Daring not to be a someone,
Choosing not to be a Frost.

A Foreword to the Beginnn of the Publishing of My Writing

Dear Reader,
      If by some unfortunate and tragic accident you happen to still be continuing to peruse my work then understand as follows; A) I plan to post work written longest ago, to most recent. B) I reserve the right to make interjections and thoughts completely out of chronological order as the whim moves me. C) I reserve the right to completely ignore rules A and B. and finally D) I reserve the right to be a blathering idiot.

A Welcome, a Warning, and a Fair Amount of Rambling

Dear Reader,

        I bid you welcome to my site. Here I will presume to place the writings that have entered my notebooks and journals and any errant thoughts that may accompany them. Some of what I will write is nonsense. On second thought most of what I say is nonsense. Therefore, if something I say is incapable of understanding for you then by all means, don't be troubled. It probably is incomprehensible to anyone. (Myself included.) If you don't like poetry then don't read it - no one is going to force you to. Unless of course there is a gun aimed at the back of your skull while a particularly violent person yells "Read it! Read it!" and then in which case I apologize and believe you had better do what the gun wielding poetry enthusiast says and content yourself on the fact that I am almost absolutely sure worse poetry has been written. Almost. On the topic of other writing I will mostly publish short stories and quotes so if you are allergic to either or both then I suggest you leave as well, unless the man from the poetry section of this introduction is at your house as well with his gun in which case, see the bit about poetry for advice. As for my thoughts, I cannot be held responsible for what bizarre and disturbing flights of fancy reside in my mind. Additionally there will more than likely be allusions to several inside jokes in this section. If you were invited to this site, you might probably get them. If you stumbled on it by accident or with no prior knowledge to this site's existence, you won't. And if you are currently confused and cannot seem to recall where you are or what you are doing, I suggest a warm cup of tea or coffee and a chocolate bar and then treat yourself to hot bath while taking any medications a qualified doctor or psychologist may have prescribed you. Other than that, if you are wondering if there may be obscene content or cursing in my writing; damn, shit, bitch, fuck, balls, and math. (For math should undoubtedly be considered a curse word and is in the very least obscene.)  If you offended by any of my work, I reserve the right to laugh and point at you. If you wish to cause me bodily harm please note that James Black is indeed a pseudonym and so causing physical damage to the next James Black you meet will only make for a good show and a funny story later and will more than likely cause me amusement and merriment. If you wish to leave me a dirty and/or hurtful message full of condescending hate and closed-minded-ness, please type it up, retype it in triplicate, print it out, mail it to a small Icelandic town, wait for it to be returned to you, shred it thrice, burn it, and as you shove the ashes into your mouth ponder to yourself  "where did I go wrong in life?" Otherwise, enjoy.