It is required of me by personal tradition that, should I come across an open poetry thread, I post the following. It was the first poem I ever wrote and kept. It's for good luck.
Pennies
Penny for the widow.
One finds the world
a falling seed
we dine
and drink
on finest wine
from ship to shore
to seek
but more
from greed
for gifts
our spirit lifts.
Farthing for the bride.
If much is found
to lose, thus lost
and much is gained
to have, thus hold
Watch the seas
from salty cliffs
the gulls, they fly
the Sirens call.
Pound for the daughter.
Follow those
who came before
after those
who fell at the door
Fiver for the son.
Who rises
(fields of roses)
and stands tall
and defiant
the colossus
taller still
the angry clockwork giant.
Money for the family
toss it down the well
Money for the family
to the gates of hell.
We come
from quests
of length imperious
faces solemn
our tones so serious
return to shore
of solid mind
with treasure troves
-the wonders, still ours to find.
We all fall down
At the door.
Come gather round, small children
listen to the tale
of fallen kings
and angry dragons
come listen to the story
of lost souls
and those of us who came before
.
This... isn't:
Hear me roar
Wacca
There’s no light
At the end
Of this tunnel
Wacca
The dead sing
In lines of four
Come to us
They call
And be no more.
Wacca
There are walls
Of black and blue
No escape
So I’m running to-
Wacca
-The end of the line
To reach it in time
For my day, which starts at nine
With the ring of a bell
And the buzz of a clock
And ten hours of work
As an office-clerk
Wacca
But before all that
My soul is trapped
By the tunnel and maze
In a blood-red haze
Of wrath and revenge
Slipping ’round the bend
Where I’ll find some drugs
-A heavensend.
Wacca
The pills are lying
On the floor
I gobble the biggest
And tremble-
With awe
Wacca
Awe at my might
The sudden urge to fight
Come get me, dear ghosts
The bet of my life
Is that the unsettled dead
Can always die twice
Wacca! Wacca!
The walls closing in
The clock ticking down
In this corridor
These cubicals
These computer-lined booths
With papers whirling around
The gun in my hand
The pills in my mouth
My boss, who’s a jerk
The ghosts
Before work
Wacca! Wacca! Wacca!
The pills are the power
The power is mine
We all have our ways
Of showing a sign
I will not be crushed
By empty souls
Time’s running out
The clock’s ticking down
But just for five minutes
The power is mine
WACCA!
I am Pac-Man
Hear me roar.
.