Paperbacks

A little more disposable

These books are built to be.

Their covers fade and the pages curl,

But their words still speak to me.

Their every leaf is mutable

To fall with time’s decay,

But in my heart, they place a pearl

Whose power there will stay.

 

This is the fifth in a series of eight-line poems, and it's a direct follow-up to the previous poem in the series, which was about how stories can sweep us up and transport us to new places. This new poem contrasts the fact that physical books - and perhaps especially paperbacks - can fade and fray, while the themes and stories they convey can stay with us forever.

Swept Up in Stories

What magic spells are written

In the words I see on the page

To transport me across land and sea

Where the winds fantastic rage,

Where all my steps are smitten

With a surge of freedom to stray

From standard scenes? What a grand new dream

Greets my waking eyes each day.

 

Here's the fourth in a series of eight-line poems. In this case, I don't think a whole lot of explanation is necessary - this poem focuses on the wonderful ability of stories to sweep us up and transport us to new places, times, and perspectives.

Until the Sky Held No More Stars

One by one, bright stars extinguished,

Each darkened with a peal of thunder.

I plugged my ears until it finished.

The storm had passed and rent asunder

Our fabric, filled with fragile scars,

And every time, I hid away,

Until the sky held no more stars,

Just clouds of deathly gray.

 

Here is the third in a series of eight-line poems. I wrote this one after thinking about the elementary school shooting that occurred a few weeks ago. When these types of things happen in the US, the pattern seems to be that society takes some time to collectively feel outrage and heartbreak, and then the old divisions almost immediately set in and nothing changes. At least, that's how it looks to me, watching things from another country. I can't say I know the exact details of what needs to change, but that need certainly seems to exist. Otherwise, the path we're on will likely lead to more of the same.

Within this Hour

Within this hour I wish to stay

For longer than an hour lasts.

But here, it seems, my hope’s mistaken,

For quickly, every minute casts

Its shadow, as the next is shaken

To come alive and pass my eye.

So time flows on and drifts away

As you and I bloom brief beneath the sky.

 

Here is the second in a series of short, eight-line poems. This one focuses on the ephemeral nature of time, and the fact that each of us only appears in this world for a relatively short time. 

Clouds Without Control

Clouds beneath moon and starlight

Slide slowly over the Earth,

Searching for barren pasture

Where rain would have greatest worth,

But they do not choose the chapter

When water from them shall fall.

So some receive more than is needed

While others’ storms are small.

 

After last week's long poem, I thought I'd start sharing a series of short, eight-line poems. This first one feels like a good follow-up after last week's themes related to the story of Job. It talks about the randomness of nature, and the fact that rain does not always fall in the places that need it most - through no fault of the people living there.

Truth Within the Whirlwind

There was a time, I remember well,

When my footsteps fell on a busy street,

And every soul I’d meet would swell

To tell of all my righteousness.

 

And in that time, perhaps with pride,

I’d lift my stride to expand my breath

And defeat the depths of death, which slide

Denied across my consciousness.

 

Then came the time that swung me low

And disturbed the flow of life.

It brought unlooked-for strife, like snow

That blows through summer’s wilderness.

 

The cold-toned chime my fortune struck

And shattered luck I’d kept so long.

I lost it all. What wrong had snuck

To pluck away my righteousness?

 

At least some crime, my friends had thought,

Must bring such fraught impediments,

But all the arguments they brought

Did naught but show their callousness.

 

I, in my time, felt justified

With words applied to counter what

Was said in every rut they tried,

Dividing them from truthfulness.

 

But in each dime they deigned to share,

A penny, fair with truth, did lie

And I could not deny that there

Was snared my wary pridefulness.

 

Thus, through the climb of our debate

I came to hate their sentences

And scorn the presences that fate

Sent straight toward my afflictedness.

 

Then, as the clime began to drift,

Began to shift with a stormy surge,

A younger voice emerged to sift

And lift the truth with righteousness.

 

He seemed to rhyme with what we’d spoke

But brought a stroke of wisdom new

Through awe, which nature’s clues evoke,

Awoken by his youthfulness.

 

Although his time was short,

His discourse sported hints of gems

Of gold that grew like stems, support

To fortify my humbleness.

 

Now, all is primed, and comes the storm

That fills its form throughout the sky,

And from some inner eye is borne

A warning through the wilderness.

 

“What hands could climb to place the stars

Or mold the jars that hold the sea?”

Such hands come not from me, so far

From sparking life from nothingness.

 

My brief life’s time is scarce a grain

Of sand that strains in endless waves,

Yet still your voice, which gave us rain,

Would deign to meet my lowliness.

 

And so, my prime response, to kneel

In soft appeal, may make it clear,

Regardless where winds steer my keel,

I’ll feel at home in humbleness.

 

I’ll try to rhyme with righteousness

As I hope I’ve tried before,

But without self-righteous pridefulness,

For in every way, you’re more.

 

 

I find Job to be one of the most interesting books in the Bible. For whatever reason, it just feels different from most everything else. I enjoy reading the debate between Job and his friends, and God's speech at the end is quite a conclusion, even though it may not seem to directly answer the question the other characters are discussing. This poem is written to convey an imagined sense of Job's thoughts, as the whirlwind comes and he hears God's words.

The Glow of Moments Gone

Wouldn’t it be nice

To pause what time is running,

Rewind the moments back a few,

Relive our greatest cunning,

And view with two eyes twice,

More tangible than memories

With nothing there recalled askew,

No misremembered melodies.

Perhaps we’d change a roll of dice

That chanced unluckily before

Or speak the word we’d wished we’d knew,

Which friendship could restore.

Yet in such skill must lie a price

To feel the glow of moments gone:
To stagnate in reliving through

The past, and miss the present dawn.

To spiral in a single slice of momentary gold,

We might mistake what dreams accrue

For those our futures hold.

 

This poem came out of a passing thought I had, about being able to go back in time and relive certain moments, perhaps changing things to what we think would have been better. Maybe there could be value in this, but there might also be danger - both in changing who we are today in ways we might not expect, and in becoming so entranced with reliving the best of our past that we forget the future.