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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.
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Literature
Walking Out On A Movie
I could explain the right and wrong of why.
I could tell you it's a form of death,
but you wouldn’t 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 don’t look back.
Maybe you think I’m intolerant
or I need to loosen up.
I don’t need more loose screws.
Maybe you think it’s as harmless as chocolate ice cream.
For your sake, I will translate my mind.
What if I don’t like chocolate ice cream?
Perhaps I like vanilla and sometimes strawberry.
And what if don’t like ice cream at all.
There’s too much sugar
that gnaws at my bones.
I’m tired and I want to sleep,
so no more caffeine or whatever.
I don’t like the bitterness in the back of my mouth.
Would you begrudge me a choice
when the choice is mine?
You say it’s worth it in the
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Literature
After Storms
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 heavens
Whose words thunder and gather the last grains
              To sow sunlight after storms.
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Literature
The First Vineyard
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.
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Literature
A Book For You
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,
but the leaves are dead and murmuring;
we are hidden by a volume of numbers:
this inorganic world.
The city reads me.
Like a book, I have an end.
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Literature
Connection
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 there’s 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 around it like a familiar touch.
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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.
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Literature
Life by a Waterfall
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 streams behind her
until it dips into the cold lake.
Summer plays in churning waterfall’s wake
that emulates her hidden rage.
The pounding screams for her.
But Autumn exits, shivering
as dusk masks the shadows under her eyes.
She longs to be cloaked with a warm white towel.
This year is ending.
Winter waits beside me
on a crag far above the basin.
The water is deep enough
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Literature
Harvesting
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, “Don’t 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 and forget the mistakes.
I will accept both sides as true.
We are the tree, the fruit, and the picker;
the scattered seeds and the sower;
the white rising field.
To give, we must gather ourselves.
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Literature
What goes unnoticed
Perhaps I don’t 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 voice.
What lies in the tap of my feet,
the plunge of my hand into a pocket,
or the swivel of my head
as I look no man in the eye.
Loneliness and fear
I have sucked inside like a deep breath.
I must continue on.
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Literature
To a Day of Rain
You’re painting me over and over
Are you sleepwalking in this gray
or are you dreaming,
half-awake and crying in your pillow?
The cradle rocks in a windstorm.
So wake up and gather your blankets around you.
Time counts each raindrop fall.
There is no nightmare,
no crashing of dark waves
or dark dreams.
The puddles down here are sluicing
through deep roadside drains
and soaking into the feet of rain walkers.
The earth will take your fears.
Here I stand, catching your reflections.
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Literature
When I Became Poetry
It was then I loved
Poetry and blue passions.
Students led to rain
Beneath concrete passageways
To feel January's breath
Moistening the mind.
Told of the haiku:
A distillation of force
Of simplicity.
Not a poet then, but air
Pure and without complexity
Or torrential dreams.
Passion pierces stone,
Water eddies in thin streams,
Wishing to take form
Over my young, broad shoulders
To soak me into being.
I write in ripples.
Oak leaves drift downwards.
Though nothing else comes near me,
The rain is coming.
And if I open my palm,
With ears and eyes listening,
It will catch moments.<i>
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Literature
Driving
Even stopping at the crimson light
there is no silence.
The motor hums.
The radio sings.
The dry leaves whisper and scuff
like pedestrians
as they cross the street.
And driving beyond these crossroads
there is no peace.
The engine roars.
The passing cars lunge.
The wind scrapes on the open window
like an animal
trying to come in.
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Literature
The King of Fury
It's surprising, the darkness of thunderstorms.
I can still remember turning off the lights
and going to the picture window of the family room
to let the whiteness of lightning enlarge the world out there,
as if, in that sharp second my soul was dragged out
to dodge the falling branch, to shiver in the stinging wind
and dance, like a child, in the overflowing gutters.
And another time, watching from miles away
the lightning slide across the sky,
like a messenger leading the dusk and darkness,
I have called to him inside me.
Come here, run to me!
I have been in the heart of the storm.
I swam in your wet cape,
you king, you ruler with your alabaster trident,
your silver gauntlets,
and your palace gated by gray clouds.
What has toppled from your throne?
Your sapphire crown clangs against the stone dais
and onto that swift path that carries leaves downriver.
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Literature
Bathing in VT 4:20 pm Dec. 4th
The water is warm and inviting
Even as, outside and above,
The wind, the clouds, is breaking
'til snowflakes fall like doves
from the cobalt sky.
The lights are off inside
So I can see the cloak of darkness drift
Slowly through the window and the steam.
Like a once forgotten memory, it shifts.
And soaks my mind with warmth and dream.
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Literature
A sign for quiet skies
The red sky at night,
shining through gray clouds and on the broken pane
of an old abandoned barn across the way,
reflects upon the bare trees its light.
And the dusk brings the land to ease,
for the forest need not fear new snow
where, in the cold wet white, a doe
lays her head to sleep in peace.
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Carey Griffin
United States
I've started using a blog to post my poetry and book reviews, so if you like my old stuff here, go to my blog to check out my new stuff.

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:iconcqozlgjak:
cqozlgjak Featured By Owner Jul 31, 2008
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.
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:iconyeshuatheforgotten:
Yeshuatheforgotten Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2007
Carey have you left already? Your absence is somewhat sad yet strange
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:iconcrylorenzo:
crylorenzo Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2007
I've left for Japan, but not for my mission. I come back from Japan on Nov. 13th, but then leave for my mission Dec. 19th.
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:iconyeshuatheforgotten:
Yeshuatheforgotten Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2007
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.
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:iconrosewater2839:
Rosewater2839 Featured By Owner May 6, 2007
I love your stuff! So... how would I go about getting that book of yours?
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:iconcrylorenzo:
crylorenzo Featured By Owner May 5, 2007
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.
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:iconelcapoeria:
ElCapoeria Featured By Owner Apr 11, 2007   Traditional Artist
Yo Carey, this is Brendan, ill be reading some poetry now, excuse me...
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