Wednesday, January 25, 2006

The Second Love

This was an assigned poem for my Literature--I thought it turned out splendidly actually. I said what I meant to say, in the way I meant to say it. We were required to present our poems in class on Tuesday. Needless to say, that experience was positively thrilling. (!!!)

P.S. It isn't suppose to ryhm, just in case you were wondering. It is a "list poem."

The Second Love

The strains of “Beautiful Dreamer” are floating down the alley, played by an amateur violinist.

Debussy is dancing his way across the ivories in the concert hall on Main.

The eloquent echoes of forefathers long passed are ringing in my ears, and “Give me liberty, or give me death!” in all its thunder, continues to resonate through all of our souls.

Life tastes sweet to me here on Liberty Street.

In the harbor a lady stands, stately and majestic in her glory, she is ushering in the boats of a host of foreign searchers, searchers who must find their hearts desire.

Black, white, red, yellow—they all come with vision, and are welcomed by the lady’s beacon of glory, and book of truth.

Far beyond human knowledge was a land yet untried, yet untamed—in the imagination of men’s hearts it was bursting with blessings unbounded.

The call of the unknown became irresistible to the searcher—he must continue on in boldness of purpose—or die in restless curiosity.

The deafening sound of leave-taking rose up in the East; westward ho, the forty-niners go, on to the bitter brightness of the coast.

What can be said of these relentless wanderers?

What is this passion so strong as to tear them away from every warm hearth of familiarity?

It is that which continues to urge our feet forward, not now in conquest, but in a quest born of the freedom fires in our veins,

It is that status as the guardian of liberty that has led infantry to foreign fields of bloody battle, there to fight for freedom with every breath breathed.

It was by that same spirit that the dreadful swastika was destroyed in fire and brimstone.

It was by that same spirit that the Saddam statue fell.

And it is by that same spirit that we continue on, here in the land of the free, living out our lives as conscience dictates.

Up the marble steps go my eager feet; up the steps and through the foyer, they lead me, finally coming to rest as I settle in a mahogany bench.

There is a window here, the panes of which are colored and collected into a kaleidoscope of brilliance; the form of a lamb is visible in its pattern, and my eyes trace its fleece lovingly.

The organ swells, the people sing praise to the peak of a loud crescendo—and then all is quiet.

The preacher begins with a prayer, and all present have faith that the Lord of all is there.

The people have no fear of penalty or persecution—that which their forebears have borne.

They live in a land where faith is honored, and not punished, is worn proudly, and not hidden in the darkness of midnight masses.

Here is the haven where no tyrant may penetrate.

Here is the haven where dreamers dream unstintingly, and with greater abandon then ever elsewhere.

Out of love and devotion was this haven born.

Out of faith and fealty to the Master was it established.

So it is that by the workings of the first love has the second been given life.

My soul comprehends that suppressed, yet sacred phrase, “one nation under God.”

This is the second love, offspring of the holy first.

This is the first love made manifest—that firm foundation upon which this haven was built—thus the first love gives birth, then life, and then growth forevermore to that second love, so precious.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Musings on a midnight shuttle-bus

~The Something Chronicles~
By Bekaboo, Markie, and most recently, Annabell.

Bekaboo: I am going to tell you a story my dear boy--one which surely must be told.

Once upon a time, there was a Something. This something was not your average, ordinary something. On the contrary, he was as different as he could be. Thus he was sufficiently diverse for your average, everyday human. However, I probably shouldn't have mentioned humans, for they are relatively rare in the world of Somethings and therefore do not enter this story very much.

As I was saying, this Something was quite different from all the other Somethings in his neighborhood. As a matter of fact, he was down-right anomalous. He stood a full twelve inches in his socks, and was almost as wide as he was tall.

Markie: Before you stop and just assume that this Something was Spongebob Squarepants, be assured that he was nothing of the sort. On the contrary, most who have caught a rare glimps of him have reported mistaking him for Humpty Dumpty. Indeed though, for as much as he resembled other special and famous Somethings, such as Squarepants and Dumpty, his uniqueness rested not in anything so obvious as his size and shape.

Bekaboo: On the day of this Something's birth, his mother (who was a very nice, upstanding sort of Something to be sure) finished weaving the Trans-Tower Tapestry. This truly was a momentous day, for this very nice, upstanding Something had been weaving the Trans-Tower Tapestry every day since her tenth birthday.

Markie: In that first year of her work, she began with a single yellow strand which, oddly enough, she had pulled from the fringe of her neighbor's Something-shawl. Before her Something-son's eleventh birthday she had proceeded to make a curious pattern, extending into a dramatic oval around her center yellow thread. By the time our hero turned twenty-one, the Trans-Tower Tapestry was the best-kept secret in Somethity, their hometown.

Bekaboo: A secret I say, because no ordinary Something eye could pierce the shroud of pure, clear, translucent fog surrounding the TT Tapestry. Thus, its beauty was withheld from the citizens of Somethity, and all went about their pleasant Something lives, untouched by this secret. For what a Something does not know cannot hurt them--or so "they" say.

It had long been rumored among the great seers of the surrounding region (which the Somethings called Thingamy) that some wonderful and even perhaps, fantastical force of good held Thingamy in a perpetual state of content and goodwill.

Annabell: This wonderful state of harmony began right about the time that the TT Tapestry began to be woven in all its intricacy. Nobody knew why or how this feeling of peace began or how it was maintained--but our hero Something had a suspicion that the weaving had Something to do with it.