April 11, 2010 by thegnosticpoet.

I write in hints of shadows where
The passion cowers, peeking out,
A child amongst the grown-up legs.
The suicide is not on stage,
The ardor of ten thousand days,
The flesh that presses softer flesh,
The dagger drawn to rip and tear,
The arguments with rending clothes,
Invisible for all to see.
And what is left between the words?
Just paper, white, untouched, unmarred.
The conjuror will cast his spell
To find the only one he’s fooled
Looks back at him within the glass.

Posted in Blank Verse, Iambic Tetrameter | Print | 1 Comment »

February 9, 2009 by thegnosticpoet.

How many watch the greatest play
All in their seats they listen, still,
The while we actors do our will
To miss our cues and waste the day?
But will they close their eyes to us
When scenes are private by our wish?
Or like voyeurs, is this the dish
That stays their eyes upon our lust?
Or when they breathed was it enough
To live those lives both sweet and rough,
And we, the actors who remain,
But play to emptiness in vain?
I’d rather think the hall is bare.
I need none there to watch me here.

Posted in Sardine, Line Pattern, Iambic Tetrameter | Print | No Comments »

July 11, 2007 by thegnosticpoet.

I thought, and then I moved the stars.
They clinked and tinkled as I stretched
To shuffle them about, and Mars,
With baleful glare, the hostile wretch,

He marshaled planets for a war.
But Sol commanded them, “No more!”
And back they went to placid sleep
To graze their orbits, bashful sheep.

Posted in Iambic Tetrameter, Rispetto, Poetic Forms | Print | No Comments »