There is a war within my head.
Voices whisper from the dead,
tempting me to come and die,
yet when I question them they have no reply.
So to the voices I say,
I choose to live another day.
You hollow spirits must flee,
for the Spirit of Life has set me free.
I have long been a admirer of Dylan Thomas Do not Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. It was written for his dying father. Yet I have often wondered what it would be like to invert his work. So that is what I have done here. This is the first and likely last attempt at a inversion of his poem. Continue reading
The storm blew,
as the tempest grew.
The saints prayed,
the rains laid trees down from east to west,
but the children rose for they would not rest.
I wish I could write like this Will.
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon’d be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
Shakespeare’s The Tempest
The spirits above,
the spirits below,
war for the spirits
that fill mortal souls.
I saw myself the other day
in a vision of tomorrow
but it faded away into memories of yesterday.
or
I saw myself the other day
in a vision of tomorrow
that faded away into memories of yesterday.
When the sun shall rise, the shadowed lands shall flee, as mountains tumble underneath the sea.
Until that day when the veil is torn away, the shadows shall rule the night, but only until the coming of the light.
or
When the sun shall rise, the shadowed lands shall flee, as mountains tumble underneath the sea.
Until that day when the veil is torn away, the shadows shall rule the night, but only until the breaking of the light.
The swan sang,
the bull rang,
a reformation begotten,
over doctrines forgotten.
A unholy war sprung,
for bells that can’t be unrung.
Hands lifted high,
knees bowed low,
collective memory of a ancient passion does awaken,
as pretensions are forsaken,
to worship the only begotten.
Here’s a new song I sing with my son. It keeps me from over reacting when I’m tired to his being over tired and cranky (or me being overtired and cranky). Continue reading