Posted on by EAT

An Invocation

To me, inspiration is a sacred thing. Without it, the creative soul experiences nothing but frustration and dismay. Some ancient poets were known to incorporate an invocation of the muse or muses into their epic poetry, such as Homer, Virgil, and Dante. I do not plan to write epic poems during my lifetime, though it could happen. Still, I would like to try to invoke the muses for the epic journey of my writing process, which I hope will last the entirety of my life.

              An Invocation

          O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        and flash against the backdrop of my thoughts
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams
  and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.
Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

  Release creative flow like prismed floods
    that sweep stagnation from my standing sense.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Lift the heavy doubt that cowers thick and close,
          a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray
            and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.

          Reach through this cacophonic mental din
        and seed within my harried understanding
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Sweep a translucent wind throughout my psychic planes,
  infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist,
a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray.

  Defrost the ice and snow from all my fields,
    the winter-scapes within that numb perception.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Return decayed ideas to elemental drift
          so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath
            infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist.

          Connect me to the place where light is born,
        from where it swells to crest in consciousness
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Part confusion from conceptions fallen dead,
  and draw its suffocation off my faculties
so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath.

  Restore the waters of my inmost lands,
    so that my springs will flow with apprehension.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

          Sing to me invention, and help me learn to heed.
            Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams,
          and draw its suffocation off my faculties.
        Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

This is my 11th hybridanelle.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — August 2005

Posted on by EAT

Silhouette

Wherever I live, I always seem to find a place of prayer somewhere away from town. When I lived in San Jose, this was south of the city and up in the eastern mountains far down a long windy road. Out there in the wilderness, when you throw your voice to the stars, perhaps god hears—perhaps the angels do. But, beyond a doubt those creatures hidden away or wandering through the underbrush hear.

Silhouette

a new road
    like so many before
an unstriped snake
    convulsing across the mountains

each bend a heave
    each rise a toss
where starless overcast crushes
    asphalt into shadows

stopped in a dusty turnout
    boot-steps scuffle and pace
hidden hands claw the hidden sky
    driven far from the city
        deep among shapeless trees
            grasping and gasping for solace

here prayers cannot be hidden
    they are pulled from the throat
ripped from the lungs
    torn from the belly
        swallowed whole
            by subtle unseen sounds

dry leaves crunch
    twigs pop and snap
movement scuttles and skitters
    stirred by a torment
        sucked from human lips
            by the wind

in the double-darkness
    a prayer halts
buried in beats of blood
    as a presence nears
        yet makes no noise
            rustling only the senses

the prayer turns
    throws a cone of light
searching through the oaks
    and steps away reveals
        in the outline of a wolf
            two hollow orbs of light

Publication History:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

Posted on by EAT

Protoculture

During my teenage years, I was a hardcore fan of the Robotech Saga. My teen years were trying times for me, in just about every possible way. My life was under the control of the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts, and I was locked up and subjected to endless involuntary chemical abuse like a lab rat. I was robbed of my potential through this process, and by the time I ran away as a 15 year old, I would have to spend the rest of my life reconstructing what I could of my damaged mind.

This poem depicts the role the Robotech Saga played in influencing me to take a stand against this abuse, which I did by running away and facing an entirely different, yet more controllable, set of dangers. Protoculture is the substance everyone was after in the series, and which was used to power the hyper-transformative “robotechnology”.

Protoculture

mysterious and eternal
            you shot me among the stars
    folded my mind across the unknown
        and for the first time
                    i felt the stainless grip
                of chains and shackles

and i began to tear my flesh
            bruise my bones
    crazed with a wordless desire
        snapping chains against their mounts
                    pain now only a reminder
                freedom or death

imagination was reborn
            behind my glaze
    my soul transformed over and over
        a veritech dodging heavy fire
                    a guardian swooping the foe
                a battloid launching wild salvos

somehow i sensed a resonant power
            a massive generator of hope
    giant invaders sought to capture or destroy
        deep in my battle-scarred fortress
                    and ripping free of my blood-caked bonds
                i reeled and stood my ground