Some Poems

By Alexander D. Josowitz

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This is the fine print! I hope you like it. I worked very hard on this part.

Table of Contents
Page 4: Acknowledgments Page 5: Left Blank Intentionally Page 6: Left Blank Unintentionally Page 7: The Old Way Is Dead Page 8: Please Page 9: Rain-speak Page 10: Lament for the Meek Page 11: Acquainted with Light Page 12: Deep Chill Page 13: Lower, Lower Your Bridge Page 14: Ode to Procrastination (By Hour) Page 15: Reclamation of Fire The Burning Rose Page 16: Some Poems Page 26: A Final Note 3 Page 25: All that Remains is Ash Page 24: Assault Page 23: Thunder-Crash

Page 22: What Do I Know of Birds?

Page 21: Eloping with Darkness Page 20: November Page 19: When the Cave Came Crashing In Page 18: Splitting Hairs Page 17: Re-Vision

Acknowledgments
This shall be quick. I would like to thank John Kennick for providing much of the creative input as to the layout of this publication and the carrot. I would like to thank my parents for supporting my work, albeit unbeknownst to them. I justifiably must express my gratitude towards the multitude of teachers who have guided my writing development up to this point most recently, Dr. Uma Satyavolu of the University of Pittsburgh. And Dan.

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The Old Way Is Dead Great galleons sail not on sorrowful seas; Treasure is not to be found neath the sand. The wasteland was once a forest filled with trees, In the days that minstrels traversed the land. Flightless doves that dream of the sky, But mistakenly dive into water, Can see nothing but what lay before their eyes, And drown, leading more to the slaughter. An atrocity committed in the dead of night, Cackling with conceited cunning and glee, And those winged souls who cannot take flight, In their vacant dreams shriek bitterly. The song has lost its tearful tenor, Replaced by dullness and opacity. Oh I hope the earth will feel its tremor, And hear its clarion call of clarity! Hearken to me! Oh great discordant scramble of sound: Is it a devil from whence you flee, Or but an angel chained to the ground? Christen me with a crown of thorns, And anoint me with pure oil, I will stand a martyr for those days forlorn, Forsaken by one thought so loyal. The words on her tablets have been ground into dust; The raiders have violated her sanctity, And I weep once more for whom I would trust, My lover and my muse, my serenity.

Please Handle a Candle with care, For a single spark can light up a flare. A Rush, a touch, a feathered brush, And ink, can melt the ice and such I find myself here, In this world on the page; Lost In some forgotten age, Or found though no one else Would see it so, but the letters Stare at me accusingly from below. And who is it that would stop To ask what these words Think Of the lines and phrases Into which they have been placed? Shape or an illusory shadow On the whiteness of Winter Whose cold has been stolen By the Flame from above. And who would dare wonder As to what lay underNeath the checkered board Of painted wood that serves As a dry reminder of the days When words were words And not so, all the same. Patience, Patience, Calling my name on the breeze, Given to guess and admonishing me, For jumping to conclusions Before having opened my eyes. A light in the forest, That knows no end, save The hollow in the ancient tree In which young rabbits dream Of candles and feathers and rhyme; Where waves break The silent sea of time, Eroding the rock of tradition Until what remains is a statue of a mariner yet to arrive.

Rain-Speak The pitter-patter of rain on the pane, Is a language unto itself. Each drop is a word to be tasted by the tongue. And though it tends to trickle down the drain, To keep it in a jar on a shelf, Would be criminal at best, like a song unsung. So much from the rain there is to gain, Restoring dying fields to health, Composed beside the epics to be spread far-flung. Glistening, but on the surface mundane, Filling flowing rivers with wealth, Twin to a book broadening the minds of the young. A graceful freedom that none can restrain, Into lovers hearts it would delve, Like an ill-fated Romance with its plot unstrung.

Lament for the Meek Ay Telemachus! Son of the enduring Odysseus, Mild as the cool sea breeze, Carrying the smell of salt and succor. How gentle are your hands! With these supple palms, You juggle the duties toward House and Family, Respectful enough to retain your fathers dignity, Yet defeated by hospitality. Who is this Mentes that bids you seek reputation? And who is this stranger that bids you take up the bow And spearAre these the arms of a hero? Ay Telemachus! Where have you gone? Is it not a more difficult journey to forgive, Than to strike down your foe? Oh god-like Odysseus! What were your hardships in the face of compassion?

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Acquainted with Light All too often I find myself wandering, Having wrapped my elation in red ribbon, Hidden away on a shelf too high, For me to comfortably reach. On these days, my mirror is cracked; I only see facets while the face remains oblique As the slanting rays communicate Fractals of infinitesimal importance. It is perhaps better this way; That the truth remains avoidable, In spite of how deeply ingrained it truly is. Were I to face the glare head on, I would surely be blinded; Its gracelessness, an arrow piercing me in the shoulder; Tis not a mortal wound I will surely survive, But I cannot say it is at all pleasant to bear. Yet I can feel the day coming, When I must unveil my joy, And fuse the fragments of that reflective frame, That I may see myself in the way others might. And though most would deign remain acquainted with light, I should get to know him beyond my shame.

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Deep Chill The frost forming a film so frail, Crystals crusting my face like a veil, They glimmer and gleam like precious stones; A deep chill runs through my bones. Without the warmth of a welcoming hearth, No open arms, devoid of mirth, My leather couch seems a ragged stone, As I lay here awaiting a ringing phone. Bitter tears freeze into gems on my cheek, A sigh escapes my mouth, and then a groan, My body shivers, woefully weak. Silence spreads, the iciest tone, And no night is spent so bleak, Colder than a night alone.

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Lower, Lower Your Bridge If your castle stands at the perilous strait, With boards laid across its guardian gate, And the sun is sinking at a rapid rate; Lower, Lower your bridge. When the river rages with perilous might, My horse shies away paralyzed by fright And the water is too deep to ford at night, Lower, Lower your bridge. When my ship has crossed a perilous sea, While the storm roils above so threateningly, And yours is the only harbor left to me, Lower, Lower your bridge. But the rains had birthed a perilous flood, The streets were awash with my bodys blood And because I was gone you understood, That it was too late for an act of good, To Lower, Lower your bridge.

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Ode to Procrastination (By Hour) I. Well . . . II. Then . . . III. Can this be all the world has for me? IV. Often do I sit, fettered by my own will, Oh un-relinquishing chains! V. A clasp on the book to which I have lost the key. VI. A voyage long-planned but without a sponsor. VII. Gold: rough, muddied, sitting in a pan by the riverside. VIII. A perilous slope of craggy disposition. IX. A bird with clipped wings is a bird no longer. X. The lingering gesture, the words unspoken, the heart unfulfilled. XI. Each grain slipping softly through the crack. XII. A night of struggle, restless and eternal. XIII. Behold!

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Reclamation of Fire The Burning Rose Why do we shun Prometheuss gift And refuse to ride Apollos chariot? Has the melting of our wings scared us so, That towards the lucent flame we dare not go? Or is it rather a different fear, Which keeps us rooted in this fallow land; That we should defile the sorrowful tears, Shed by those who suffered at fires hand. To what sort of remembrance do we strive, When we refuse to let the fire thrive? What manner of pyre do we construct, Where our vision does the dark smoke obstruct? Is not our entrenched fright in truth inane, For we light candles to recall the night? So let the flicker stay forever bright, And testify against the cold and pain. . . .

What Rose is this that stands emblazoned, By a blaze so gluttonous; it threatens to consume, Itself or all beside? Does it burn for passion, For anger or for warmth? Is it so hot that it pains to touch, Or sticky like the scarlet of blood Dripping from a pricked finger? Would these petals stay supple without a gardener to tend them? Do they dance like fire entrancing, Incapacitating Adam like the apple in Eden? And what are these ashes that remain, When the rose has withered away; Will they be taken by the breeze, Or will a new bud sprout beneath, As the phoenix rises to herald a new day? Intertwining the light meant to stave off the night, With the shadows that arise unbidden, Thus, we reclaim the Flame that destroys and creates.

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Some Poems Some poems stand tall, unwavering As a stalwart oak tree in the midst of buffeting gale. Others flow smoothly, swiftly, Like a river carving its course through a canyon. Then there are those that are woven, Straw threads twisting, twining; And once the design is complete, Stands a cornucopia, hollow inside, Intricate without, waiting To be filled with luscious apples, Contorted squash, minute grapes, And (of course) corn itself Without which the chance for survival would be bleak. These are the poems I love best.

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Re-Vision Says Hayes, You have to get out of yourself To see where you stand; Youve got to get in to get out Of the mind. I stand on a hill and tilt my scope To view the stars so far above that Gaze down upon me equally uncertain Of whom is the more insignificant speck. Yet our perspectives lock, the collision of two Of heavens dream-tears, as eyes Meeting each other for the first time. And brilliant crescents that cascade like cataracts of molten crystal, Emerge from the intertwining colors of our irises. Then form is overcome by a single transient thread Tied into a knot around our fingers Just to remind us what it means To truly see and See truly. To think that clear blue could be much deeper than perceived, And that muddy brown hides so much light behind an absorbent barrier, Incites my desire to see over and over again.

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Splitting Hairs It takes a fine knife to sever Such a thin strand in two; An act of precision Fraught with agonizing Over each minute movement Until sanity is rent, Eternally entwined with the remnants Of hair drifting towards the floor.

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When the Cave Came Crashing In They used to sit silently shackled To seats of stone amidst whitewashed walls. Gleefully watching the shadows dance, As they whiled the days away desperately, Clinging to their constructed delusion Of grandeur, glory, and worth. And while they laughed at their pitiful farce, Fire rained upon the world outside, And we burned like the Maid of Orleans As the flames ate away the pillars, To which we were strapped, that held Open the maw of malicious design. The light could not absolve their sin When the cave came crashing in.

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November The frail leaves seem to fall too quickly, Leaving their colors only to fade into grey. Feathers are the remnants of the birds that used to sing; They have all flown away for a warmer abode. A chill wind blows, anticipating the arrival, Of a lady robed in white whose cold grasp freezes the great river Time, which sluggishly wends between the growing barges of ice in its midst. And each breath comes less easily as the chill creeps into my lungs. And the days grow darker as the world tilts away from the sun. And I wait for a world of white.

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Eloping With Darkness Fleeting lover, Dawn your cover, Join me in this spontaneous dash, To escape the chains of light; whip and lash Burning on my skin, turning me to ash. A covert journey through a shady wood, To reach the nine-fold bending river that we could Swear our eternal vow. For only if time would allow, That the sun should be halted before it can rise, That you may stay beside me, together despise Those rays of woeful light, Which threaten to banish you from my sight. And even the moon, the glaring pallid eye, Seems ripped from a rotting corpse; We fly Away from its putrid rind, Travelling along a road so arduous, The feet supplant the mind. We hide within a cave with rocks so callous, Bearable only by the likes of Polyphemus, And there devise our devious scheme To sanctify our devilish dream, To construct our forbidden abode, To conquer the empire that would seem To gleam as a comet on its starry road. Let us be the shadowy veil over its face, The leather straps to its innocent lace, To be the champion of this eternal race, And scale the ramparts of puritys chaste citadel, Gathered behind us the hosts of hell. Oh intangible consort, my dark divine lover, Forsake your cover, And drown me in an ocean of night.

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What Do I Know of Birds? Melancholy nightingale and woeful lark, Sing your lamentations elsewhere; Your songs sound foreign to my ears. I only know of robins, Their orange breasts and vigorous steps, And all-too-enthusiastic morning chorus of chirping. Alas, they too leave as the leaves fall, away To a distant place I have never seen. A pigeon waddles beside me, Engorged like a feasting flea, Some call them messengers of peace, But I have yet to see a white one with an olive branch in its mouth. Ah but what of the crows, the deathly harbingers? They hold their funereal mass at dusk around the corner, Their intonations bleak and brutal, Yet in the morning all that remains are spatters of white on the ground.

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Thunder-Crash When darkened clouds are cracked like thin ice under foot, And heavens roiling fury is unleashed upon the earth, Like boulders careening along the side of a mountain, Shattering into pieces upon their descent, And lightning pierces the oppressive air, Blinding the world with its rueful radiance, The sound explodes like a thousand steel horns Clattered against each other in frivolous discord. Yet chaos possesses its own wild beauty; Still, Distilled to its essence has quite a natural will. As the calamitous grey is stirred up by the squall, The storm, a ravenous devil, would thy spirit enthrall. And when upon thy soul the callous cacophony would feast, Naught but the rhythm of the rain can soothe the tempestuous beast.

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Assault Facing away Afraid to share A faded day, Belated care Beneath the eves A leaning tree Discreetly leaves Me yet unseen Benighted smile, Chided my mind Lied and beguiled, Unkind and blind Opened below, Alone and prone, No I wont show! Cannot atone. Imbued with rue, All bruised and nude, You knew it too When I refused.

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All that Remains is Ash Where an eternal forest once stood, And the winters whiteness had turned to black; Lie there still the remnants of days of warmth until the heat Rose too high for the candle to contain its flame, and the sparks Flew over the edge igniting the surroundings until all was consumed Within itself by itself until not even the vast ocean of time Could quench its ravenous hunger and All that remained was ash.

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A Final Note It was the final note in the pad Blank except for the manufactured margin lines. What words remained destined for such a limited space? As I drew my pen to form the ultimate syllables, I wondered what new artifice I could design. Had I not reached the end of the journey? Yet I pressed on, unrelenting, In spite of all I was told I should fear. And has it been worth my while? The thread I have spun has slipped the needle; I cannot begin to stitch another story. Will you mend the tear in my stead? The sun has yet to fully set, But my night has fallen early. Will my eyes gaze once more on iridescent dawn? My pen is dry and the moon has risen; The hour draws near for me to sleep. In the morning, let me be your ink.

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You are correct, this was not in the table of contents:

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