Christmas

The assignment is: Free verse which has a logic that governs the structure. I tried my best to format it how it's supposed to be, but formatting on this stupid blog sucks... The format came out mas o menos (so, so) - not too bad.

Christmas

I decorated the Christmas tree.

Not sure why really. I just did.

I clean my plate and set it to dry

In the dishwasher. I never turn it on.

I put some logs on the fire.

It's not really cold, but I light it anyway.

I sit at my baby grand, my fingers on the keys.

I can't really play much.

But, I like their feel under my fingers

I like to slowly press the high notes.

I worry that my glass will stain the finish

But, I like the ambiance.

Sitting there, I watch the snow fall outside the window

The river is frozen.

Families skate along.

There are lots of them.

Past the houses the river disappears into the distance.

No one follows, but I, through my window.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

(Now and Then There's)

I sit staring at the tickets,

My phone beside them.

The TV flashing. 

               The tape ticks over

(Elvis sings on)

The chairs in the parlor.

I slouch into the sofa

and loosen my tie.

Also: There's a prize for figuring out (explaining) the title. 

Hint: There's a clue in the poem.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Waiting

A tick, it's just the clock

I need to think, but I'm waiting,

Waiting for her knock. The candle,

The wick is almost gone. I start

to walk, up and down. I lick

My lips. The room begins to rock.

I feel sick. Is the door locked?

I kick my toe. A rock? No a brick.

From the dock. A trick. Dumb jock.

My sock feels slick. I talk in

Epic shock, quickly, the clicking

blocks the thick mocking. Tick-tocking, tick-tocking.

The intent of my poem is to make it sound like a clock ticking as the person waits for someone to arrive. He israther anxious about the arrival and as the anxiety increases the ticking gets closer together and louder, invading his thoughts. I’m also reading Ulysses in my modernism class, so there’s some stream of conscious influenced stuff in there, I think. 

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Piano

This is what I'm kinda working on right now - thought I'd post it as a teaser.

A delicate ting in the empty room

I run my finger slowly down the key

Idly, lightly my left hand brushes

The black, the white

softly

Quivering light from the candelabra

Flickers in the half filled flute glass

A cork lies near the edge of a water ring

In the dark wood finish, the stain retreats

Beneath a slender green bottle

I shift my slanted posture

Following a peeling panel my eyes

Find the dots and slashes on the page

The flurry of pen strokes jostle, they breathe

In and out

My stare falls to my fingers on the yellow ivory

I absently, deliberately arrange them

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Sonnet 7: A Song for Atlas, not Alone

Sweat trickles down his face, as faltering

He steadies once again his tired arms

And thinks back to that day's dark succoring

When first he was betrayed by horrid charms.

In ten years' war with virile did contend

Impious rule against which to prevail

The works of gods he mightily must rend

That delicately thus, he locks to fail.

Yet stumbling, allured by dainty worth:

How fallen art! Where naught can thus assuage

Without support to stand midst sky and earth:

Supplanter of the sun, a man of Rage.

       Tho' staggering, he groans under the weight

       But burden bears and shrugs not his due fate.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

The Poet and the Madman

I wrote this in about 7 minutes. Something I read inspired me and I wanted to get the idea down before I forgot. This will for sure be rewritten sometime, but for now, hope you get and like the idea.

Incensed he stormed into the den

And grabbed some paper and a pen

The words like fire razed from his heart

As lust and passion tore feeling apart

At home he sat beside the fire

Lost deep to thoughts which do inspire

With long broad strokes he chiseled in

The feelings which pure love doth bring

His friends all cheer his raw emotion

As Hollywood hales in grand commotion

While home he sits without caprice

And locks away his masterpiece

      Ten thousand years have come and gone

      One is a hiss and one lives on

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Sonnet 6: To a Chrysanthemum

Unfinished fragment:

Beneath the tree a shadow hides his pain

From mem'ry's sting; He shivers deep within

Across the way he sees amidst the rain

Chrysanthemum adorned in Summer's grin

He creeps along the darkness of the day

In his attempt to reach her pleasant gaze

But petals pure and golden pollen play

In warmth and light where shadows only raze

To gain such beauty though it be his plight

Is something which his soul he would forsake

But darkness cannot change itself to light

And still remain; for light his life would take.

     Through that dark glass the shadow now doth see

     But hopes one day that she will set him free.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved