Poetry

This is just about the most favorite of mine that I have done.

And, just as a side note, Ive posted these before here and there, but at this time when I feel like there are real bretheren reading here, I want to share. .


Fears

Creeping Spider
Prickly Black
Colored features
On his back
My body frozen
Statuesque
Protracted fangs
In my flesh

Growing up
Children taunt
Shy frailties
My Father wrought
Inadequete
A constant thought
Weakened spirit
Still distraught

Suspicious Man
Dark attache
On building roof
Heart of day
Simple device
He detonates
Nuclear terror
Death awaits

SMASH the spider
LOVE tHyself
PRAY to GOD.

Wynston Smyth 2004

Crescent Moon pt.2

The great agitations of the Sea
Was long foretold and by decree
The many moral violations and blasphemy
In the sight of Heavenly Hosts and Gods great Divinity.

As ignorant masses on earth debated
Claiming their uncivil rights so Violated
The witless crowds were myopically fixated
On absurd concerns Demon created

As empty suits were cashing in
On lewd pursuits and liberal spin
The so easily corrupted hearts of Men
Were leading us all merrily to Oblivion

The seas apparent indifference
Surpassed only by their ignorance
Allowed their enemy circumstance
And thru open gates gained entrance

On Western faces shock and surprise
As mushroom clouds began to rise
Above the cities and thru the skies---
The Piper is paid; and off he flies…

Wynston Smyth 2004

Thanks, Mr. B.

Actually, the second one is about the 9/11 to come, the one that hasnt happened yet.

But it will. And when it does, God in Heaven help us all.

This is a feeling I have had since I was a young child. Maybe because I was born during the height of the 'Cold War' rhetoric, maybe because I was raised in a Mid-Western city with an air force base that was, at the time, a "Strategic Air Command" centre that housed B-52 Bombers and controlled dozens of Titan II ICBM silos in my area. At the time, my parents owned a small tavern, and the pilots of the various military squads/planes would come in and "chat" while they drank. I learned allot, and I learned it early. I also got allot, as in 'cool' airplane models they used for dog-fighting training, as well as a folder that is simply unbelievable in what it contains. One of the pilots gave me a training folder that has a brochure of each and every Weapon in the Soviet arsenal at the time (1980, or so). Its all very outdated now, so I dont mind talking about it. But each Soviet Air Force weapon was detailed out in terms of its capabilities; missiles, planes, bombers, anti-aircraft guns, the whole lot. All of this hardware that is detailed therein is by now mothballed and consigned to a reclamation lot at this point.

But the impact this kind of thing had on me, and the reality of the world we actually live in definately remains intact. Men havnt made all these fancy fighting machines just so that they can look neat as a childs model, or in a picture. They've made them to kill, en-masse', their fellow human beings, in a manner that Cain couldnt have dreamed of in his wildest imaginings.

SO there it is. Im a product of a world that fundamentaly operates on a day to day basis with the notion that we are all truly doomed, and its only a matter of time. Not "if", but "when". Another sad fact, is that I feel as if Im one of the truly few human beings walking around, day to day, that truly realizes this, and what the very existence of these things in our world really means.

The Plague

Public square Sundays
a cough and a hack
throwing tomatoes
at drunks on the rack

City Gates left open
for Black Hooded Rats
a coffin Makers Dream.

--------------------------------

Barnyard Angst

Grey suited sweat hogs
repeating a rhyme
to poor bleating sheep
getting sheared all the time

An Angry young Chicken
Turns into a Mime
Will he try to crow?

-------------------------------

Parcel Postman

A Postal Inspector
runs house to house
retrieving the mail
He had once handed out

In light rain, thick mud
Snow all about
He's feigning Sanity

--------------------------------

Hopeless

Once pink and perfect
a Liver was fine
Now scabbed and scarred
because of the mind

If Heaven was watching
It turned a blind eye
Dont pick-up the phone

___________________________


Red Robes

And when the Oceans were
drained below ground
There was beneath them
no Hell to be found

Men with agendas in Robes
Had gone out
To Commandeer the Train

____________________________

wynston smyth 11-3-05

Revelation 8:10, 11 (Young's Literal Translation)

Rev 8:10 “And the third messenger did sound, and there fell out of the heaven a great star, burning as a lamp, and it did fall upon the third of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters,”
Rev 8:11 “and the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third of the waters doth become wormwood, and many of the men did die of the waters, because they were made bitter”


Wormwood

A night
enveloped by blackened pitch
turned deep and empty
grim and boundless, from which
the Moon itself had fled
fearing desertion, immersion
and blind, endless dread

The stars
common, ordinary sight
had withered and diminished
to the extent that they might
be neglected from view
fearing desertion, immersion
in the blackened hue

The mass
Of the heavens grand creation
Lay in dimensional creases
Hoping to hide from accusation
From sentence of the liar
Fearing desertion, immersion
And judgement of fire

An Angel
Before times of evil men
watched as carnal theatre
unfolded in front of him
But now his force abounds
Beloved rightness, brightness
The third trumpet sounds

Behold!
flickering of deep afar
From solitary black night
Beginnings of a great star
A lamp, and brighter still
Arching stalling, falling
Towards earth ill-willed

And look…
Pure waters crystal and clean
That give life to mortal men
The star fell upon unseen
Deep rivers silent burned
Away from Flowing, glowing
To a slime green they turned

The men
Partaking of the streams
Grew sickened from consumption
repulsed and seeking the means
Of relief from the stars glitter
Were bemoaning, groaning
Because waters were made bitter

And now
Supplies of life giving drink
Were divided into a third
As spirit began to shrink
The men did all they could
But Alas!, the vanity, insanity
As their waters became Wormwood
_____________________

wynston smyth 2007

Hi Matt,

This is a fine take on the prophecy. I especially liked this part:


An Angel
Before times of evil men
watched as carnal theatre
unfolded in front of him
But now his force abounds
Beloved rightness, brightness
The third trumpet sounds


It has been a very long play. I hope we're in the last act now.

Regards,
Brendan.

Thanks Mr B.

I really enjoy poetry, and I need to "get into" it again. But much like with music, my basic thought is, if something has been "done" before, I dont need to repeat it, copy it or mimick it. WHy not save time and just consider the origional? In other words, I have to have an idea on something that I think is unique or a unique way of expresssing it.

I like to try to come up with new styles and rhyming scemes.

I love reading Poe. He's simply the best. I almost have 'the Raven' memorized to the point of performance. Almost, but not quite there yet!

This is so awesome:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLSmhpwLdEQ

What a tremendous voice for reading poetry Burton had, here he is reading some of Dylan Thomas', "Under Milk Wood".

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPO2Kvqlms&feature=related

Derek wrote:

What a tremendous voice for reading poetry Burton had, here he is reading some of Dylan Thomas', "Under Milk Wood".

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPO2Kvqlms&feature=related

Wow, that was awesome.

I had heard of Dylan Thomas before, and knew he was a great poet. Richard Burtons reading was very powerful.

I looked DT up, and to be honest, I get a bit lost in the subtleties of the ethnicities of the British Isles, so the "Welsh" poet part is lost on me. BUT, I will have to procure a copy of his works for my library, for sure. I'll set him besine Robert Frost, Dante, and Poe.

Try these from Poe:

The Conqueror Worm
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qnj17goUP0&feature=related

Ulalume
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VesUJqm5rss&feature=related


Allot of 'wierd' "goth" people are into Poe, and I'm definately NOT of that ilk. Those puoor souls that go down that path have no hope. One of the things Poe personaly experienced to an extreme degree was the sorrow and pain of the loss of loved ones, and it happened in such a way to him that produced his particular outpouring of words, timbre, and rhyme. The guy was an absolute genius, and was trapped by several converging forces beyond his control. Its a minor miracle that he was able to produce what he did given the details of his life.

Hi Matt,
Most of the Celts on the main part of the UK, that were not in Scotland or Ireland, finished up being driven west into Cornwall or Wales by successive conquests of Britain, up to, and including the time of the Normans.

If you Google, "Offa's Dyke" you will get the general historical idea!

Wales is a beautiful, mountainous, small country west of the Midlands of England. It is famed for the poetic nature of its language and the singing ability of its people. But they are much given to strong liquor ...or so I am told!

Some think poor, Dylan Thomas, drank himself to an early death.

A very sad poem of Dylan Thomas, but one that makes me think of the brave fight of my father, who died of cancer when I was six and he was forty-three, is this one from, Under Milk Wood:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I seem to recall how this poem moved, Brendan, as it does I.

Warm regards
Derek

Thats a good one. Yeah...definately need to get his works.

I also need to find and download that Richard Burton read to my Go-Bible!

[for what a "GO-bible is....check this out: http://www.gobible.com/index.asp?PageAction=Custom&ID=62 I have the KJV read by Scourby..its the best ]



Have you heard of Wilfred Owen?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilfred_Owen

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

He is fantastic. He totally captures the feel of war, and does it within the confines and structure of poetry. He's Awesome.

I think at one time, I had a reading of Owens poetry and mixed in some Pink Floyd gently into the background...I'll have to dig that up.