In a recent blog post about poetry, I instructed a person to write for about 15 minutes unimpeded. To jot down whatever his or her subconsciousness dictated. It's a haphazard effort at creativity in that you don't worry about punctuation, diction or grammar, just write! After you have accomplished that task, you can then start to construct something of merit. In the following paragraph you will see my initial tirade of unscripted thought of which I wrote of in that blog post. Following this paragraph will be the two pieces of prose that I created from that nimbus or acorn of thought.
"What is the moon that beams this night, casting down its shadow upon earth from meridian height? Perchance a Harvest Moon, a cornucopian horn spilling forth its quotidian pleasure. Perhaps a Hunter’s Moon with its bloody basin full, but rusty red, the color of terrain ocher. Alas methinks a Beaver Moon, cloistered beneath thin ice with its hoary frost denoting the harbinger of a Frosty Moon and winter’s blight. What matters its name, this luminous orb that stares down upon earth unconcerned. This midnight portent signifying summer’s waning pale issuing forth the blaze of autumn, hues such as maple reds, golden elms and aspen yellows, a profuse display of nature’ grandeur. I see tendrils of smoke from warm hearths pressed down by the crispness of an azure blue sky to lay just above stubbled fields where stalks of corn huddle amongst furrowed rows as if cloistered in communion, together in hushed prayer, veiled in humble/ modest propriety. I long to feel that freshness upon my face as I step out to embrace the morning, that first hint of a north wind that the winter rides upon, a freshness that precedes autumn’s embrace. To walk thru still woods treading softly upon freshly fallen leaves that caress your feet and disguise your step. To sense the whitetail that nuzzles acorns beneath leafy beds laid down in a fluttering of pirouetting dances that bedazzle the eyes. To breathe in nature in all her majesty in a cacophony of shear exuberance and delight that rivals a symphony. Acorns dropped from on high by colossal oaks, plunking sharply, to lie next to hickory nuts gnawed by squirrels. The trebling honks of geese and the clattering squawks of wood ducks startled into flight. These are the nexuses of autumn".
Skara Brae’s Moon
Cold white light, steals across a beach,
To slip thru a stone window, at Skara Brae,
To brighten a room, of that blighted reach
Faintly touching a hearth, grown bracken grey.
Twas ere the flood, this Clachan’s failing
Methinks life’s toil, twas too toilsome to bear
Ancient souls foretelling, their voices knelling
In sorrowful despair, of them who once lived there
A quicksilver orb, nigh quickens that place,
Her secrets buried, hidden in her moonbeams.
Mysteries set adrift, amidst starlit faces
Cold are its beams, awash in temporal streams,
Thus we behold her shimmering ray,
At the foray of dawn’s torrid tiding
Racing away, across Skaili Bay.
Quietly setting, her luminance dying
Sinking pell-mell just beyonst far swell
To set before the cockcrows, Alas! Farewell!
Primeval is she, pendant upon this world
In Gobekli Tepe, ageless moon shadows glide
Through megalithic doors, onto temple floors
Where antediluvian obelisks abide.
A chatoyant steppe glistens, in nocturnal light
Mongol yurts dapple an endless sea of grass
The twang of bows and horse’s swift flight
Echoing as Genghis Khan’s Hordes do pass.
Desoto’s lancers, on a mission twas said
Rode the length of Florida ere the moon set
League after league, their enemy abed
Though wearied, their epic journey well met
What matters its name, this luminous disc,
Tis dims the sheen with her splendid mien
Primeval goddess smirking in tranquil bliss.
Down upon the banal abodes of men
Indignant and aloof, her constancy unconcerned
Courtesan of the night, her cold warmth unearned.
I suppose you are confused because the sonnets aren't specific to what I wrote of in my 15 minute brevity. I can't explain it but these poems are what came from it. For some reason my poetry sprite decided to use some articles I had recently read. I like archaeology and had read about the neolithic village, Skara Brae, that had been unearthed in northern Scotland by a storm. I guess some memory unearthed itself because Hernando Desota's narrative of a group of Spanish Lancers came to mind. A real place and a real event, ancient though they be, came to light in this prose. The full moon became my topic and not the fall season. Why did the Mongolian Steppe come to mind? I can provide no answers.
I did do some research about Shakespearean Sonnets because I like to read his poetry, Shakespeare was pure genius. I am not a contemporary poet but "Old School" in that I like things to rhyme. I am obsessive compulsive so I want to do things correctly. I follow instructions and like order. A Shakespearean sonnet is basically iambic pentameter doubled consisting of four quatrains of four lines each with every other line rhyming(abab, cdcd, efef, ghgh) with a final couplet of two lines,(ii) Nothing is done quickly because I have messed with these sonnets for a couple of months and generally change something every time I read them.
My daughter also blogs and her pieces are so nice. Of course she is a genuine author with published books and all. She just wrote about two young boys handing out Christmas cards in her neighborhood. Before that was a post about some sea turtle eggs hatching. I am always drawn to write about political stuff because I am a opinionated old person who likes to opine about the idiocy of current events. I think it's hard for me to write about nice things because I am male. I don't watch chic flicks or read love novels, I am Navy Seals and wars and battles and political intrigue. It is hard being all-inclusive, huggy-huggy, feel good, safe space, politically correct person. I am in-your-face, lets settle it now, kind of person and I carry a gun if that tells you anything and I don't mind telling you that you are ignorant or let us say uninformed. It's who I am! I am not reticent or penitant.
Of course I am an amateur but writing poetry is something that pleases me and occupies some of my time. It is something that I will leave behind after I pass away, a part of me, a snippet of who I was and what I believed. To quote the Bible that in the "End Times" "Old men shall dream dreams and young men shall prophesy" I am not predicting the end of the world. Your world ends the day you die. I will leave you with the following poem by Helen Hunt Jackson, about dreaming.
Mysterious shapes, with wands of joy and pain,
Which seize us unaware in helpless sleep,
And lead us to the houses where we keep
Our secrets hid, well barred by every chain
That we can forge and bind: the crime whose stain
Is slowly fading 'neath the tears we weep:
Dead bliss which, dead, can make our pulses leap--
Oh, cruelty! To make these live again!
They say that death is sleep, and heaven's rest
Ends earth's short day, as, on the last faint gleam