Andalus' poetry

[comrade_general]

Nature is such a whore.  8)

[Andalus]

The Well-Known Stranger

I have heard you speaking, not to me.
I have heard the thoughts that you speak aloud.
I have watched your face on the box's screen.
I have read the works you have written down.

I know your name and your child's age.
I know the town where you make your home.
I know how your signature sweeps the page.
I know how you laugh and how you groan.

But we have never seen into each other's eyes,
Or laughed together as good friends do.
I have never clasped your hand in mine,
Or said a word to you.

[CN2]

Thats kinda creepy :|

[comrade_general]

But there are literally hundreds of strangers that are well-known to all of us. 'tis the world we live in.

Well done, Andalus.

[Andalus]

The Culver and the Culverin

The peaceful trees were full of culvers' song,
A cooing chorus, carried perch to perch.
A softness like the wind blowing in the calm,
A sound without a sight to meet the search.

On the wide plain there lay a quiet city,
Likewise peaceful, as the calm before the storm,
Imposing walls gathered skyward all around,
Protecting the belly of her silent sleeping form.

But sleep must always be awoken soon,
And so came the alarm to mark the morn.
Through the woods there came a rumbling din,
Shaking slumber from the grey mist of the dawn.

The peaceful trees were filled with clanking steel,
And the lumbering roll of cannon wheels.
The softness of the culvers' wind-like song,
Drowned out by the drumming of boot heels.

And a harsher wind blew through the woods;
Horses' whinny and sergeants' booming bawl.
The culvers flew up from the canopy;
Their distress, that morning's cockerel call.

The yawns of sentries on the parapets,
Fast became cries of alarm and disbelief.
First they saw the startled flock's ascent,
And then the marching columns dark, beneath.

Forth from the trees the stepping soldiers streamed,
And fanned out like the culvers' feathered wings.
For what reason they marched not one man full knew,
Only that they sung the song of dukes and kings.

And as they spread around the disturbed burg,
It was the burghers turn to bustle in alarm.
While in the once more peaceful woods,
The culvers settled back to sing in calm.

And as the city now hurried to defend,
The culvers simply accustomed to this new state.
Perched upon their branches like a theatre's balcony,
While barricades were hastened to the gate.

But one youthful bird, his interest piqued,
Followed the invaders as they prepared for siege.
He flew back and forth over the men at arms,
Like a general making inspection of them each.

As they busied themselves like worker ants,
The culver oversaw as the labour progressed.
The soldiers carried forth wicker and earth,
And seemed to construct a giant nest.

And into this nest they ushered their nestling,
A great culverin, fifteen feet in length.
The bronze of its barrel marked with many rings,
And it' bulk an emblem of its strength.

But the culver knew nothing of such things,
For birds are rarely in artillery schooled.
He flew down to perch upon a wicker basket,
For the nature of this nestling left him fooled.

The culverin's keepers returned before long,
The culver watched with keen eye in grey head,
As they stood at the mouth of the hungry beast,
And with all manner of fodder he was fed.

The culver felt pride he'd been right to inquire,
For his greed was now ignited by this sight.
He flapped over to where the cannon hulked,
Head bobbing and bowing as if to seem polite.

If so well they nourished this culverin,
Then surely it could spare crumbs for a bird?
He sang greetings warmly to the brazen beast,
But his petitions seemed to go unheard.

But no youth's curiosity is easily swayed,
And unruffled he hopped up onto the spine.
The bronze was cold to his thorn-toed feet,
And the culverin was movelessly benign.

By the lack of complaint or sharp rebuke,
The culver felt he'd made gain of a friend,
But perhaps his friend could not hear him call,
So he scuttered along to balance on the end.

The bore was barely a fifth inch across,
Not enough for a culver's stocky frame.
He called down into the barrel's darkness,
But still no reply to his greeting came.

But then as he gazed down into the gloomy duct,
The culver heard an unfamiliar sound.
With a roar, at last the culverin spoke,
And feathers fluttered gently to the ground.

[Andalus]

This poem was inspired by this picture which my friend took about midnight on his visit to Norway this summer.

Fjord

The beauty of the delicate buds flowering,
The grandeur of the rugged peaks towering,
The glistening glaze of fjord waters that run,
The light of the never-setting northern sun,
Down through pinkish midnight clouds glowering.

[Andalus]

I've held off on posting this one for a while, since I wasn't quite sure about it. Hopefully it makes sense.

The Solution to Legality

If you want equality,
Don't legalise gay marriage.
Instead, ban every marriage union.

If you want sobriety,
Don't legalise marijuana.
Instead, ban alcohol and the communion.

If you want serenity,
Don't legalise guns.
Instead, ban knives and forks.

If you want morality,
Don't legalise brothels.
Instead, ban intercourse.

If you want peace,
Don't demand democracy.
Instead, ban all humanity.
No one will ever complain,
With no more human vanity.

Subtract human hostility,
And the world will find
The dart of tranquility.
Eternal peace of mind.

[Andalus]

Eve

His eyes hold you locked in his enticing gaze,
This man that would your heart deceive.
His proffered hand a branch thick with thorns,
An apple hanging for you, his Eve.

Naked are your thoughts in his piercing eye,
But you feel no shame in your innocent mind.
His eyes hold you locked in his reptile gaze,
Servant to the serpent round his prey entwined.

[Andalus]

Quarry

Is it unusual to see strudel
As a scenic rock formation?
The veins of time cut open,
In a geological cross-section.
Layers of apple and apricot and pastry,
A history rich and fruitful,
Stratified and categorised:
The archeology of strudel.

A flowing highland stream
Permeates through the cracks
Where the crust reveals its virgin core;
The white rush of fresh cream
Over the baked cliff's precipice
Into a waterfall's porcelain gorge.

But as always goes the deed,
Once the beauty has been seen,
Examined and explored,
The blade that shows no stain
Strikes down and down with greed,
Until only crumbs remain.

[Andalus]

The Composer

He lays his child gently on the clean white sheets,
Dressed in newly-tailored costume of black ink.
The cradle cries with infant notes, unsure and weak,
Reflecting the doubt in the hesitant father's blink.

He stands in the darkened wings, his presence unknown,
Watching his precious darling prodded and adored.
A tear cradles his eye to see his child grown,
As he waits to hear the tune of her first word.

He holds his breath as the players look for command,
His fingers shake and he nervously starts to sway.
The baton twirls to life in the conductor's hand,
And the waiting orchestra begins to play.

[Andalus]

Elephant

An elephant is walking through the sky
Across the lonely veld of blue.
His breath blows the wrinkles on his side
Over the tiled red of roofs.
Like the whorls and spirals of fingertips
That sign their motif on all they touch,
The elephant smears the sky with his print,
His trunk grasping the hair-tailed brush.
Crude murals born of lumbering upheaval,
By an interloper's lone stampede.
As the elephant blunders into the easel,
The frowning contours of grey that leave
Even the newest calf's hide stained
Mark a dry canvas with wet paint.

[Andalus]

Finish Line

If I was the final tiger,
Last of the line, the only one,

And you held in your hand a gun
Towards me,

If I roared and began to run
Towards you,

To tear your breath away,
Would you dare to press the trigger,
And stare death the other way?

[Andalus]

Dance Until You Bleed

Will you come now to the dance floor?
Will you let your feet leap without heed?
Will you welcome the music under your skin?
Will you dance until you bleed?

Will you dance until your heels are sore?
Will you forget to ever let your lungs breathe?
Will you ignore red sweat as you reel and fling?
Will you dance until you bleed?

Will you run with me through the grass fields?
Will you sway like a waterside reed?
Will you sing to the sky, throw your soul to the wind?
Will you dance until you bleed?

Will you let your feet know what your heart feels?
Will you answer the longing that pleads?
Will you give all your life, let your whole body sing?
Will you dance until you bleed?

There is a rhythm and dance, in every day,
In every chance, every move, every play -
Will you cast off your needs and lead me away?
Will you dance until you bleed?

[Andalus]

Jack

Jack, how many will starve tonight
In the light of your hollowed-out Hallowe'en?
How many will sup on pumpkin soup?
How many will scrape gold into the bin?
When grinning demons have taken their fill,
How long will you last when your lantern has dimmed?

[Andalus]

Seven Billion and One

What's one hundred percent
Of seven billion?
I'll tell you: it's seven,
Times a thousand, times a million.

It's how many humans
Are at this moment alive,
Each one as different
As a leopard's hide.

You can't change your spots,
But you can change your ways -
See, beyond the difference,
That we're all the same.

There's no ninety-nine
And there's no one percent.
There's just you, just another
Homo sapiens sapiens.

The wise wise man, so wise
They had to name him twice,
But is wisdom to keep taking
And to never mind the price?

Just stop, for a moment,
As another child is born,
The newest of your siblings,
Seven billion and one.

Hear the cry of that child
Braving a new world's shores,
And hear his or her voice
Is just as loud as yours.

Stop your shouting and chanting,
Your babbling and debate,
And listen to a speaker
That's never learned to hate.

Disband every faction
And tear down every fence,
And greet the newest fraction
Of one hundred percent.