Sonnet 8 The Imperial Emperor by crylorenzo, literature
Literature
Sonnet 8 The Imperial Emperor
A prison grows from days of almost rain
in which no heart will break the silent wall
or loose a hardened face to friendship's call
when country claims all love, and duty, same.
In daylight or in shade, this man can't gain.
The shadow of his throne as yet looms tall
for that shape forms the land and carries all
but one man's private pleasures or his pain.
Perhaps the rain could come to touch his skin
as now it touches peasants tilling fields
if he'd been common born far from this place.
Still this dream ends; at waking he begins
his daily contemplation whence he yields
into that dark glass where he has no face.
I could explain the right and wrong of why.
I could tell you it's a form of death,
but you wouldnt understand me.
We have had this conversation before.
You told me,
Give it a chance.
I did, against my better judgment.
But I have been here before.
Not in a past life, this one.
I inevitably walk out with wasted time.
Maybe you look at me as I go.
I dont look back.
Maybe you think Im intolerant
or I need to loosen up.
I dont need more loose screws.
Maybe you think its as harmless as chocolate ice cream.
For your sake, I will translate my mind.
What if I dont like chocolate ice crea
The clouds command.
The appearance of blue is merely a shadow
Cast by giants:
Soldiers in the sky
Whose quiet rage will soon sound against the gray.
They march forward,
Past a silent village:
A refuge for the sun
Who is not afraid to seek shelter within a country farm
To be reborn after rain.
The cattle listen
And low clearly as a warning bugle
To those sleeping in shade:
Wax myrtles and a young girl
Whose hazel eyes turn skyward in fresh awareness.
The girl rises,
Putting weight on her river-rinsed feet
To return home in silence:
Respect for the he
A pinwheel spins at the end of the driveway
and, across the road, a vineyard runs
uphill and out of sight
before the final row.
Yet neither is moving away.
Endlessness waits in a line of emerald leaves
and a crawling space beneath,
hidden by the upward slope.
The pinwheel creaks at every moving car,
but cannot be heard in passing.
I am listening, fool though I am,
sitting on the edge of the road,
wishing I could enter the deserted vineyard:
an open land, a heart I have not touched.
I long to be welcomed beyond the fence:
to join and not steal,
to gather and not partake,
to wander and never be lost.
The city reads me.
Like a book, I have a beginning.
A word, stationary and shallow,
I only have so many meanings.
Alone. Defined.
Surrounded by black ink.
Both city and book are like the night,
but for the fake stars:
the windows that light
the space between us.
A sentence, running and left behind,
I am lost following one road.
Alone. Constrained.
Drowned in black ink.
This is like an ocean,
only the waves do not crash
and the headlights and streetlamps
do nothing to reveal depth.
A paragraph, complex and consuming,
I can only move so far away.
Alone. Fragmented.
Brambled by too much black ink.
This is like a forest,
bu
Wind pouring watery sunlight over the tall grass
in an ocean of wildflower daisies and buttercups
summons me to leave an angel print in the field
like I have truly fallen from heaven.
My first home is more real than a dream.
But theres a new home found under this unsoiled sky
in the smell of sleeping poppies and buttercups
where I open and close my eyes to the memory of flying
and lie in the bent grass, sensing I can belong.
My eyes interlace the cloudscape once more.
Here I am always surrounded by small floating petals
and a breeze that lifts beneath my back.
I raise one finger to the face of the sun
to feel the air swirl
Parting on the 4th of July by crylorenzo, literature
Literature
Parting on the 4th of July
These are the days of independence
when old things break
and pieces are lost forever.
Every final night at this camp
all the stars have dangled like white threads
being pulled a little closer.
These threads are slowly fraying.
It seems our destiny to spread out, to scatter,
to branch away from any home we make.
Once entwined, we are a gathering ready to disperse
like the fireworks bursting into the star-washed sky
only to fade and fall into darkness.
Maybe, mornings from now,
we will find ourselves in hidden places
as children waking in the grass.
Time will shave my head
until I am a monk
gazing over an unbridled waterfall,
watching the river and seasons slip
away from a shaded basin:
the home of my meditation.
There, I can sit beneath the falls
and listen:
a hundred birds chirping
or a thousand birds
rising from a red tree.
We are all shedding leaves.
I live with the splashing seasons:
children swimming in the water.
They are my Moirae:
fate and imagination condensed
like a smooth stone
before it becomes a ripple.
They are nymphs dancing
and weaving the passing of days
from an ocean of silky waves.
Spring sits on a circular rock,
laughing as her dark hair stream
One day before thanksgiving,
a friend and I had a petty argument over homonyms.
The fields are ALL READY to harvest, she corrected my poetry,
Two words, not one.
Yet that was incorrect as well.
What field takes up the sickle to reap itself?
And the next day was the last meeting before break.
I told myself, Dont argue.
Even then my words wanted to burst out
like black birds lifting off an open plain.
But as I opened my mouth,
she stopped me,
thanked me for all that we had learned together
and wished me luck and safety in my travels.
How wise to part as friends.
How right to be grateful
Perhaps I dont look nervous, standing before you,
two legs crumbling beneath me.
But I am a piece on auction
and no one is raising their hands.
I am girl being sold into marriage
who cannot let her tears down
or slouch her back or bat an eye.
I am a fool in the stocks,
humiliated and revealed.
How close are you watching?
Has one of us blinked?
Here I am in the spotlight of a stage,
protected only by a practiced masquerade,
while you wait in the glare of shadows.
It is amazing what goes unnoticed.
It was easier when they saw me
as introverted and unfriendly,
not trying to see beyond the stoic mask
and drowning steady v
The fog was the least of my problems going home. As part of a club in high school, I'd gone over to a friend's house to go sledding along with the other club members. I had an enjoyable time, but it was getting late and I was ready to crawl, exhausted, into my own bed. I was saying my goodbyes to the others, when a friend asked me if I could give a sophomore named Joseph a ride home.
"Who brought him here? Can't they take him back?" I asked.
"Joseph's dad dropped him off thinking that André would take him home, but André never showed. Everyone else's car is packed."
At this moment Joseph came up. I knew him a little bit. I was tired, b
Thomas sagged against the inside of the elevator as it went up, one hand holding a cell phone to his ear, and the other wiping sweat from his cheeks.
"Don't worry, Natalie," Thomas was saying, "I will get a chance to see you this week, I promise."
"That's what you said–" she began.
"I know I couldn't make it last week, but it wasn't my fault; the work kept piling up and–" Thomas paused as the elevator bell rang. "Listen," he continued, "I just got back to my apartment and I have to take a shower. I was jogging before I gave you a call and dinner's soon, so I have to hurry."
"Okay," she said, "but you're spring break doesn't last much long
EXT. WHITMAN HOME – NIGHT
WINSTON (age 10), stands on the steps of a dark house with an British POLICEMAN (age 43), holding an umbrella over the both of them, as it is raining. There is also some luggage that WINSTON holds in his hands. Winston cries to himself as the policeman stares towards the road. Some bicycles go by, light shining from dangling gas lanterns. Slowly, one bicyclist comes into the yard and gets off his bike, putting it in the shed as he speaks. This is SAMUEL (age 25).
SAMUEL
Good evening, officer. My apologies for making you
wait out in the rain.
POLICEMAN
It's my duty, sir. Now, you don't mind me leavi
I. Beforehand
Before night can come
the fire is tended
to illuminate green leaves
and comfort the sleepers
who soon shall lie down
beneath father trees
Beneath mother trees
before day is done
the fire begins
as a new guiding light
to comfort the weary
who rest on their way
Far off into night
gaze dancing flames
Asleep are the dreamers
knowing they are safe
II. Afterwards
When the fire ends
when the wind blows strong
where will the campers go
where will the ashes fall
when the fire fades
when these woods are alone
where will men seek shelter
where will the starlight shine
will smoke rise
into paler heavens
will warm
The trees are shadows;
the lake reflects shifting light.
A star falls down the sky
as here we spend one final night.
A man beside me starts to cry.
There are many reasons why,
but I know
he felt at home.
I wish I could cry,
but instead I breathe in
and search for constellations
while others sleep.
Tomorrow we shall part
before the sun can sit on the horizon
and go from this home
to the next
to the next.
Some Days the Difference... by crylorenzo, literature
Literature
Some Days the Difference...
Some days the difference comes by night:
A subtle glow behind deep shades of blue.
Wish a star to bless you with its light.
Always, it has been, the end is right
Though most complain and wish it wasn't true.
Some days the difference comes by night.
It may be dark, but you retain your sight;
With ease look up, and find yourself a view;
Wish a star to bless you with its light
Or take the moon and bathe yourself in white,
Else we should sleep and find we've missed our cue
Discovering difference came by night.
Thus wait and see, the darkest dawn is bright;
Lift yourself to dream what you can do;
Wish a star to bless you with its lig
There are storms in the west
and the setting sun
may never find its way
home again
to the eastern dawn
where fire and smoke fade gray.
There are storms in the north
and southern skies rage
and there's nowhere safe to stay,
not even home
where the ashes burn
and men have feet of clay.
Try to hold on
and the rising sun
will make it back, we pray;
there are storms in the west
and all we can do
is await the coming of day.
The gray and cloudy skies
bring the world to still
'til past the windowsill
there is no motion but my eyes
these things are different than they seem
for wind breathes where it will
and in the air's a chill
that keeps me from my dream
and yet I sense the stillness grow
as the light fades sadder
and the dead leaves scatter
floating for a time before they slow
sky is darkening and grass grows black
with shadows while the air
moans now in despair
calling for the autumn to come back
trees without their leaves now little sway
the snow begins to fall
but I only recall
the motionless and eerie gray
these things are different than
When I was five, or six,
my friend and I ventured into the backyard
beneath the care of a live oak tree.
Shovels firm in hand,
we delved into the dirt
wishing to reach another world
and dug a pit deep into the ground
until we reached damp soil.
He and I were friends,
both five or six,
both looking for something,
new and strange, profound and deep.
But as we were digging,
I don't believe we cared,
for we were happy then
just looking ahead.
We never found answers.
It filled
with water from the earth
and rain from the sky.
A child in the cold
plays basketball
with a father
who isn't there.
The wind skirts by him
like a stranger,
or his mother
who isn't there
He stops to breathe the air:
cold, as is his stare
when he looks at you,
as you walk on by.
Note the alignment of kismat konnection has become extremely zyban light. Tired of intensity amd complexity for? Yes even products are starting to get one to the ringmax amplified telephone exchange server, zyban classical and loud phone networks have enjoyed.
I posted another poem. I plan on posting a lot more, but unfortunately, are heavy with grammatical errors, and possibly filled with contradictory phrases please assist my friend. I believe you can help.
By the way, if you want to read my novella (and various other short stories and poems), I have a pdf file that has it. It is about 67 pages or so. I've been told it's pretty good, but it's nice to know what others think. If you want it, find some way to contact me and I'll send it along, no problem. If you don't want it... oh well.