Death? Loneliness? Immortality?

No one's been to visit here,
It saddens me to say.
It's cold and lonely, truth to tell,
Sitting all alone each day.

So many claim to care, and yet
Not one has stopped to talk.
They gaze as they go by, and wave
But past me they all walk.

Not even slowing on their way -
They don't have time for that.
And I just sit and watch them pass
And wonder what they're looking at.

Surely something must be there -
There must be what to see.
Or could it possibly be true -
That they're all watching me?

It couldn't be, you see, because,
They just don't care enough
They're far too busy, all of them,
To see a diamond in the rough.

And what I am, for them to care?
What's special? What have I?
I sit alone, like every day,
And cry and cry and cry.

Fifty Word Fiction, Parts IX and X

All right, all right. I should just call this "Hundred Word Fiction". Maybe then I would move on to two hundred words a shot. But I find a certain challenge in making sure that every fifty words could, theoretically, stand alone. And since it seems no one's reading this, I can really do what I want. Including posting two sets of fifty words at once. So here they are.

She was afraid to go back to her apartment - afraid that she'd lose her nerve to just run away. There wasn't all that much there that she would miss. It might be nice to buy a whole new wardrobe. But a responsible adult has to remember things like turning off utilities.

She wanted to be impulsive this once. Treat herself royally. If she didn't do it, no one else was likely to. She didn't want to behave like a responsible adult. What would happen if she just left? Couldn't she call to turn off the utilities from wherever she ended up?

I've Written My Fifty Words for the Week

I just got so bored with homework that I wrote a letter for a professor. I should have written that letter a while ago. It's not all that good, but what do you expect from someone who thinks in terms of bearing stress and yield strength. At least I did it. Anyhow, someone else will read it and revise, so it should be okay. The Fifty Word story, on the other hand, is going nowhere.

I was going to write the fifty words continuation right now - really I was! - but I will again plead busyness and hope to have time tomorrow (ha, ha, ha!) or Thursday (more likely). I've been thinking about it, though, so there is hope. Maybe I'll do one hundred words, just to get things moving. I know y'all can't wait, so I humbly apologize for keeping you waiting.

Aw, who am I kidding? No one could care less about my story. Poor, illusion-blinded me.

Counting Stats

It dives and dips, an ocean wave
Hitting troughs and peaks,
Creating geometric curves
As days turn into weeks.

Watching graphs develop shape
Is only fun for engineers
Who take pleasure in the forms
Of numbers as they measure cares.

There is a music within math
As is in the written word
The artistry is to translate
Lines to lines which can be heard.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VIII

To any readers out there, sorry for the delay between installments. I've been kind of busy. Yes, I'm embarrassed that I haven't posted a single thing to this blog in over a week. I'm aware of the problem. Talk to my professors and see if you can work out with them some way for me to be less busy. I would really appreciate it.
I haven't written a single word of decent poetry since I entered college. I think this whole Poetic Things idea was more of a "don't-I'wish" than anything else. I have all these great pictures that I wanted to post, but I have yet to set up any photo-hosting service, and I have a feeling that I won't be getting to it in the near future. Still, this is worth something - I'm writing at least fifty words a week. More, because I feel this need to write commentary, which I'm sure you're not interested in. Or maybe you are, since blog-readers often want to know the nitty-gritty details of the blogger's life. But probably you don't, since I haven't gotten any hits recently - so you couldn't have missed me too much. I know, I flatter myself by thinking anyone could possibly want to read anything I wrote.

By the way, if you want to stop all the depressing, self-deprecating, non-humor that occurs on this and my other blog, all you have to do is start posting comments. Then I'll cheer up because I'll know that someone's reading this, and I can go back to being my usual self. Which may or may not be more interesting than the current depressed persona.

Anyhow, here's the fifty words for today.

Isn’t choice the joy of life? She wouldn’t go back – she was off on an adventure, to discover the beautiful, wide world. Until the next mishap. Maybe next time there would be knots in her shirtsleeves or something. She really needed to move away to somewhere no one knew her.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VII

Perhaps eventually the story will get moving. It's hard to have any serious action when you only have fifty words to play with, and you want to develop the character a bit, too. Or maybe it's just that I can't decide what should happen next, so I'm dragging it out until I have a brainstorm. You'll never know the truth, will you?
Here's today's installment. Today's been a busy day on Poetic Things.

There she went again. She was letting them dictate to her – their petty jokes were taking over her life, taking away her power of choice. She had to stand firm. She would wear – and do – and be – exactly what she wanted. If only she could figure out what that was.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as long as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
For it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
But knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Someday ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I apologize for having referred to this as "The Road Less Travelled" in a previous post. That's how I always think of it. It's a metaphor for so much in my life - in everybody's life. The choices you make shape who you become, and there is rarely a chance to change paths once the choice has been made. I know the choices that I have made - and I am not happy with all of them - have changed how other people see me, and more - they have changed how I see myself. My choices have "led on" to other choices - there is no escaping the chain of events that every choice begins. Every time we come to a branching in life, we must stop, evaluate, and then choose, knowing that we will probably never come back. This is what life is all about - making choices and living with them; shaping your future by your actions of the present. Often, it is easier to take the road more travelled, but it may not be the best thing for you. And often, the road less travelled appears much more exciting, but it may not be a good idea to stray from the common path. Because every choice has repercussions on every aspect of your life, even ones that you may not see when you look at the choice. And you can never take back a decision. Sometimes you can repair damage, but you can never undo what you have done.

Happy Semi-bicentennial!

Go straight, and then spin 'round twice
I blink to make sure I've seen right.
We've passed the big one: "double-o"
Well, ooh-la-la, hip-hip hurro.

One hundred pages have been viewed
Maybe read - can I assume?
At least most of the poems are good
Better than this one, which doesn't rhyme properly.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VI

I guess this blog is turning into A Novel Beginning, but I am saving that one for the summer when I have time to develop my novel. Since there is already a basic plot and charaters for the novel, I can't just let this story take over that space. I'll have to add some poetry here, though.
Anyhow, it's Tuesday(but that didn't matter [ref: Cookie Monster and the Cookie Tree, a very important book in my development]).

Well of course she tripped! That tends to happen when people tie your shoelaces together. They must have found her while she slept and decided it would be funny. Her hiding place had been violated; she’d have to find a new one. And she’d have to stop wearing tie shoes.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part V

Forget Tuesdays. Who can keep to a schedule?
I'm feeling a bit sarcastic today, so this is not really in character for the story, which should have a dark, depressed, lonely-turning-out-okay kind of tone. Maybe. But each piece is also supposed to stand alone. Or at least be exactly fifty words long. Which this is. Even though nothing happens.
Then again, if you read Asimov's Foreward to Foundation's Edge (I think. The fourth of the Foundation trilogy, anyway.), he too comments on how shocked he was on rereading the trilogy to discover that nothing happens for many thousands of words, and yet Foundation is one of the most popular and classic SF books/series ever written. Asimov rules!
Not that my writing is Asimov caliber. But I try to imitate only the best!
Anyhow, here's today's piece.

A branch? Where did that come from? This isn’t the forest, is it? Oh, that’s right. When you’re running away in panic, you usually end up in the forest. Even when you start out on concrete sidewalk. Maybe it wasn’t a branch at all. Probably it was just her shoelace.

Fifty Word Fiction, Parts III and IV

I missed last Tuesday, which is the day for updating the story. So here is last week's installment. Part III:
She tossed and turned, her dreams plaguing her with painful images. All the times she tried to impress them, or just to fit in. And they just laughed. Every time. As if they knew how hard she was trying, and they didn’t want anyone who had to try so hard.

Since I'm doing this tonight anyway, here is this week's installment, a few days early. Who knows, maybe there'll be another one on Tuesday, and this is just an extra. Part IV:
Was that the problem? She was trying too hard. Why should she bother, anyway? Why was it so important that they validate her existence? She was better than them, anyway.
She woke, confident, and stood up. As she stood, she tripped on a branch. In her mind, they laughed again.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I've always loved this poem. As a kid, I loved it for the imagery of snow. I'm a winter baby, and I love snow. Which is why this poem is going u pthis week - it's been snowing on and off quite a bit recently. And this paints such a great picture, tells a great story. Which is what good poetry is all about: expressing feelings, telling stories, painting pictures. They're all facets of the same goal, and poetry is such a great medium for this kind of expression.

More recently (since high school, but even more so now, what with college and a job), the last lines are what I identify with most. So many responsibilities, so many promises, so many things I wish I could promise but am afraid to because I know I simply won't get to them. And sleep? Sleep is a beacon, glowing in the future.

Actually, I'm a big fan of Robert Frost in general. Another great poem is The Road Less Travelled, another one I identify with and which will probably make an appearance here soon.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part II

Because I said "Tune in next week" I kind of felt like I should do another one. Besides, it's fun. So here's the next installment of the tale. I wonder where it's going.

Thinking is just too hard sometimes. Keep running. One day, maybe you can face thinking about it again.
She kept going until she couldn’t see them anymore. Finally, she found a quiet place to stop. She lay down to wait out the pain in her heart. When will she wake?

Perceptions

When
twilight falls
on the darkened stage -
whispering shadows flit by,
their beauty hidden
by the slow
dance.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

by John Keats

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty": I love that!

Justice?

This is an oldie - from February 2001. Almost four whole years old. I haven't had time to write much poetry recently. This was written as a song; it sounds much better with the music, but alas . . .

There's a prisoner who sits in a faraway cell
Ignored by the warden and inmates, as well.
He knows he's not guilty of the alleged crime;
He sits there, just biding his time, biding his time.

The judge and the jury stand out in the hall,
Calmly ignoring the prisoner's sad call.
His plaintive cry echoes, but they just don't hear.
Can it be justice they fear? Justice they fear.

The prisoner, he sighs, for he knows how they work.
They all hate their task, and their duty they shirk.
They must soon determine the poor prisoner's fate.
They quibble; the hour grows late, the hour grows late.

The prisoner despairs of returning to home.
His mind is with people; his body's alone.
He waits to hear just what the verdict will be
Knowing he's already free, already free.

The jurors hate justice; the judge is corrupt.
The prisoner's not guilty, but that's not enough.
The verdict's for prison, though based just on lies.
He smiles and closes his eyes, not really surprised.

Themes in Poetry

Supposedly the vast majority of classic poetry can be categorized as revolving around one of the following themes: death, loneliness, or immortality.
Since so many poems are odes to love and beauty, I would have to classify them as being about immortality. Rejection, obviously, is both death (of hope) and loneliness.
What are other major subjects for poetry?

Fifty Word Fiction

Not technically poetic, but this is my site ;-) Whenever I see something I like, I tend to try it out. Here's my fifty-word fiction. Check out the website from which the idea came.

She ran away as everyone watched. It was too hard to think; she could only do. Maybe one day she could come back. If they ever stopped laughing.
Her legs were moving on their own; she had no control. When would they stop? Tune in next week to find out.

The Grand Circle

The Grand Circle is the collective name of a group of National Parks in Colorado/Utah/Arizona. They include Zion Nat'l Park, Bryce Canyon Nat'l Park, the Grand Canyon, and Mesa Verde. These places are among the most beautiful spots in the country.

Ebenezer Bryce said about Bryce Canyon: "It's a hell of a place to lose a cow."

Some Haiku that I composed while watching the sun set over the North Rim of the Grand Canyon (June 25, 2001):

Red and gray faces
Peer out at me as I watch
Clouds settle on rock

The winds chill my hands
As I sit high on the cliff
Beauty absorbs me

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson)
I heard a fly buzz
Breaking the pristine silence
In canyon's own land

"Some people say that the water of the Colorado would be wasted if it went straight to the Pacific, but it returns."
It returns in our memories of our experiences of the water.

Daffodils

by William Wordworth

I wander'd lonely as a cloud,
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the bay, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.