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Thoughts on the Rood:
On the Rood,
O'er that which broods
Upon the Earth,
Resides and lies
The Body--
The Christ--
The force of strife in life.
How ungainly and so gaunt
Is depth of "soul"
(As so they call it)
When holy wars and dirty whores
 Do
claim Him as their own.
Is that what he intended
When sins of men he mended?
Oh!, 'twas not, I do assure you,
For I beg and do implore you.
He lived for all of man
And scorched upon the sand
Of deserts far and wide,
As dearths of soul devised;
Yet
still the people shun Him
And,
still, they claim to love Him!
I find this hard to be,
As hearts are filled with glee
With knowledge of His being
And what comes of His existence.
Life
is grand;
Life
is fine,
When
solace do you find.
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3 October 2003
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Stanzas from “The Raven”:
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth
the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!--prophet still, if
bird or
devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me-tell me, I implore!”
Quoth
the Raven “Nevermore.”
(Poe, Edgar Allen. The Raven, 79-90)
Parody on "The Raven"
Then, methought, my mind had censor, chopped off by some fretted fencer
Strung in stranglehold, God’s great grasp doting on deities’ whore.
“Life,” I cried, “by God, you strangle!--you encroach from every angle;
Exist--exist and entangle all those swallowers of gore;
String, oh, string us up--entangle--we must all become His whore!”
Quoth
the Heavens, "What a bore."
Conscience, I know, doth plague my mind-conscience binds
and
tries to find
All the love inside, or some high loft above the coldness of the floor.
Damn it, Darwin! I am dumb! My mind is numb! I cannot think but only
hum
All these songs of sad surmises--these of some Galapagean shore.
Why, oh, why cannot I rid myself of glum, abysmal, dreadful thoughts,
evermore?
Quoth the Heavens, "What a bore."
29 January 2003
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Emotion of Late:
Tightly wound is emotion of late,
For fate in its wounds doth entice me to slay
Warm emotion in want of good reason
In season for lovely encounters with heathen
5 February 2004
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Lively Poems:
Lovely is writing when life is embedded--
The reason for action is such that if lended
Will yield good reaction if read in some effortful
Manner, resulting in pleasing emotions
On part of both reader and writer.
Reason results in some soluble pleasure
And pleases the mind with its verve and good graces,
Yet nothing involves like the mindful creation
The wit of a person's inventive and mentally
Sharp sense of worthiness, nothing like that which
Is crafted in skillful expression.
29 January 2004
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Only I:
Only I,
Myself,
Would sit here alone, thinking—
Alone,
Thinking
On a Friday night in the struggle within this entity I cannot come to
name 'myself.'
What is this, here,
Choking with hate,
Saddenned by tears,
Confused by his fears in a frenzy of nothingness
Stopped in a stagnance
Of darkened recluse?
The nerves of it tingle,
Its insides are wringed but to fall on a shingle
On top of this house that but houses the—thing in entirety,
An impossibility
Arising from deranged, sad emotions exploding in oceans,
Tormented.
Its feet are turned inward,
Its shoulders are stooped—
Shy of the sky—
And it fears in all essence
Quintessence
Of others who say that they care but are not so aware that they do not.
And, thus, it is so,
That the sow will simply milk
And milk
And give out the food
To sustain ailing body
Without a thought to feed the mind—
Especially mine.
Will never she undestand
That to stand
And deliver a message,
To greet the world,
Bravely,
Is more of a stance then mere feeding of food and body and bones?
We'll all die, and when we do,
We'll be through with these petty
Inconveniences
Picking at my mind whilst I try to find
Meaning
And sense in this world so deranged, and crazed, and dazed.
So why, then, shall I follow you,
Walking into darkness with the burden of
Additional shadow,
When feeble rays, if only,
Will yield more sight than a thousand respites
That but cause in me darkened illusions?
To answer this,
One must create
A spurious and artificial notion that I care,
When I do not;
So,
I begot in my head not to yield but, instead,
To lead.
Yes, there is nothing to heed me
So gallant a steed
Like the speed of great thought,
And sharp wit so incisive,
When others follow
Me in fervor and mindful persistency.
Perhaps it is true
That to do that is merely
To be misconstrued,
But, no,
I will argue to anyone—anything—
My thoughts are but cogent and pithy and need not your pity.
Oh, I so see
That you hate my recluse in this logic,
But, no,
You'll not steer me away from my course on my horse
That's so trudgingly careful,
Revealing to ev'ryone thoughtless and stupid creations—
Your views.
I'm cynical,
Yes, some do say,
But, no,
I will not fray if you tell me to stay
In the box
Of conformity, constancy, or, for that matter, death.
Ne'er will you be
So lucky to find
That you've beaten ideas born out of my head,
But, instead,
You'll discover your passionate, whimsical pleas for forgiveness from
deities,
Triple in vagueness, but One in your concept.
I'm overly harsh, here,
I mean not what I say,
But, I tell you,
This bray is so truly essential to life
And to me
That I'll see that you feel my emotions.
My qualms are so great,
And, yet, my knees shake
To get out
These emotions and thought that have wrought me
So weak
To but cower from skies, stooping my shoulders and closing my eyes.
Hence, when I cry,
I both fly and here die,
In process of living and staying
Alive;
If you still don't understand why I fear and
Imagine to die,
Don't cry—
This whole poem is simply because I can't find that one
person
to see in me goodness and strength to caress, love, and be loved—in a
phrase, to be mine.
Oh my.
20 February 2004,
26 February 2004
Cesar E. Caro
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Time to Write Sublime
Is this the time to write sublime
Some sense of love within me, mine?
Were I to do but something else
'Tis true that misconstrued you'd be,
For life would make you think of me
As being cold inside, what else?
If hopeful do I come today,
Will'st thou destroy me to a fray?
I'm wont to pray that “No” will be
The answer when it comes to this,
But not to that of utmost bliss—
The sentiment inside of me.
I feel as though I shall explode,
In bursting flames of passion's ode.
I want to take you to the Swiss
To see the glist'ning lakes so clear—
So radiant like you, my dear,
With eyes so bright they're hard to miss.
I'm going crazy here tonight
With thoughts around in hurried flight.
I guess that means you make me fear
My very bosom, to its core,
When thinning ice it treads once more
In hopes of remedying tears.
By God, you make me feel sublime!
Please do this till the end of time!!
Will you be mine?
By Cesar E Caro
9 February 2004, 10:38p.m. EST
(yeah, iambic tetrameter with an aabccb ddceec
ffegge hhgiig aaa rhyme scheme!)
6 November 2003
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Sitting here, Thinking:
I sit here, crouched upon a seat of plastic
Made to rest upon this dirty carpet,
Shone by soft, dim lights fluorescent—tubes—
Shining rays upon the heads of many.
Yet, within this room so vast and large is
One to whom resume I must to see if
Someday, sometime, she’ll to me be greater,
Grander, than the others liking me.
I must, I say, go back and try again,
One time, two times—infinity—
To see if I can spark in her—rekindle—
Fires fervent, passionate, and true.
And, yet, I wonder should I bother here—
Today—I’ve found that many times I can
Destroy, control, employ a mental might,
But, anew can I construct?
This question more than vexes me, to wreak
Me weak, ferment emotions from the sweet
Into intoxicating, deadly drink
I quaff to yield a false respite from life.
But, as I reach the sob’ring light of reason,
Sharp I am to see that I must go
To show her all I feel, all I think,
Perhaps to take another crazy chance.
I often cower back in weak’ning fear
Of harsh rejection, shutting down the seed
Of warm and calming, whole relationships,
At least with her, the apple of my eye.
But, is there any place that I can go
If always taken is this darkened road,
Which leads to nowhere but a grisly end
To all—my life, my love, my greatest friend?
The answer surely is but no—so—
Is there anything that I can do
To show to you how much I care for you?
With no avail, I’ve done this times before.
Or, at least as far as I can see,
There hasn’t been a drastic change in venue
Leading to the coupling of two people
Rooted in emotion and in love.
I hate to use that word, but it is true—
We seem to be two lively adolescents
Striving for a life that is much better
Than what we do currently encounter.
And, unfortunate as it may be,
We find recluse in friends, our minds, ourselves,
When truly what is likely needed is,
Of course, some time with one we call a love.
Is this what you do also feel, my friend?
I do not wish to speak for both of us
If you do not concur with what I say
I feel us both to truly have, today,
But, I hope that I am right, for, as it goes,
I might so duly show that I hath also
Sentiments conducive to a future
Bright in outlook and in nature.
For me, I say, what hinders this is not
That I don’t care for you—oh, no—
But, rather, that I cannot come to see
That there is such to find in thee.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d be so very glad
To have you simply just a nice, close friend,
But, if you feel a little something more,
I do implore that you respond, however.
I do not heed a good response to be
Just that which is communicated
Through the verbal speech degrading to the
Heart’s complexities, but please, I beg,
I feel as though the lack of talking, speaking
One’s internal wistful thoughts is too
Destructive to two people needing this
To truly know that one doth love the other.
And with this, I find not more to say
That’d yield to you a more wholistic sense
Of what I feel; so, I say to you,
The choice is in your hands.
4-6 March 2004
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Facing Death
And I stood face-to-face with Death.
This woman sitting here beside,
In want of waning years as youthful bride,
Must bide her time until her timely death
With nothing, no one to consult the wand'ring questions of her life:
"What do I here, but wasting away?
Why does God, that mighty being, make me grow so weak, my voice so meek
That I can hardly speak?
I cannot feel my fingers or my toes;
Why am I so damn old?"
I see her wrinkled, shriveled like
A raisin in the sun,
Whose life has nearly passed without but comp'ny of her son.
She says to me, "You're such a nice, young boy;
Ain't ya just the kind I'd like to have me for a son?"
I think, "I'm young?"
After all, I'm legally of age,
But nothing to this sage whose rage grows not inside her.
To her, I'm but a baby, a little afterthought in passage of her time.
Oh--it's then that I realize--duly true,
That once was she so youthful, young, and sweet,
And pretty, too--
Oh! I see beyond the ghastly hairs and spiders' veins
And into deep, blue eyes--
The crystal balls in which to look so deeply to the past,
To times so deep and vast...
Summers, big bands, dancing with the men;
Flirting, singing, foolishly with friends;
Polka-dot dresses, late-night "kisses,"
Dreaming of her future; dreaming--
Dreaming--
I realize we're not so different, she and I;
As the same I think we qualify.
Yet, as she leaves, she kisses me on the cheek and whispers,
"So long, honey,"
And I'm sad to see her go,
But, why?
I'll likely never know, but maybe--maybe--
It's because that, deep-down, I do know,
Know that this is what will come of me.
"Must it be?"
22 August 2004
6:50 p.m. EST
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Thought
And thus he proved by way of mindful thought
That God was dead--or never had he lived.
(yeah, iambic pentameter)
December 2003
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Writer's Block
I cannot force to write
This hand of mine so trite;
I'm full of this respite,
Yet, still, I cannot write.
6 November 2003
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Prologue to my Play
And, wither’d here,
We find ourselves
Embraced in life,
In poise to find
Ourselves within
Our minds, each other,
Each time we think
About our lives,
Our actions, our qualms,
Emotions, and Psalms.
Religion and science
Are bound to each other
In manners regarding
Philosophy; thinking
Requires the coupling
Of cause to our being,
But, seeing the faults in
These streaming encounters,
We find that such common
Complacency drives us
Away from the truth.
23 January 2004, 1:41 a.m. EST
Epilogue to my Play
So.
Is this the destruction of
Those which are sacred--
The Bible, the Torah,
And others--like Lao-Tsu?
I dare say that no.
These scriptures are merely
The basis of ancient
And newer philosophies
Drawn from ideas
Without modern science.
Of course, these are not to be
Blasphemied; science
Does not replace religion--
It sipmly and clearly
Deduces the doubt with
Which people must reason
If they are to think with
Discernment.
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Silly Bean
Katie: "You're a silly bean"
Lest I were mean
I might have been
Discourag'd, anger'd, carvèd lean,
But I am seen
To be quite free
Of thoughts unclean;
And, thus, I gleam,
For what I've been
Is purely silly--
A silly bean.
12 December 2003
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