Because I have so much to say,
I am driven to verse. It’s discursive.
The chaos gets ordered this way;
My intent is to keep it subversive.
Writing is self-medication;
Keeps me sane for the duration.

My own lyrical rationale:
Push back against the status quo.
Instead of some dull pastorale,
I want the whole shit-house to blow!
God must temper my vanity—
Or else I’m condemned to insanity.

So I start with ideas (and beer)
Until a thesis emerges
Always keeping the mockery near
When the inspiration surges.
I strive to reverse the curse
Of confessional maudlin verse.

If I ramble too long you’ll tune out.
Your span of attention is short…
So you know what this stanza’s about
As I end it, or maybe abort.
(Whatever I have written here
May well have changed within a year…)

PROMPT #26

write your own ars poetica,
giving the reader some insight into what keeps you writing poetry,
or what you think poetry should do.

Previous similar attempts:

Nicean Barks   Locust-eaten Lines   Bitter Poetaste in Mouth    Paths to Pathos    Stuff Poetry Hates   Fool for April  Rant #19

A CRYPT (from Ancient Greek κρύπτη (kryptē) crypta ‘vault’) is a stone chamber beneath the floor
of a church, above ground within a cemetery’s mausoleum or a free-standing outdoor memorial tomb.
It typically contains coffins, sarcophagi, or religious relics and sometimes cremation urns.

CRYPTOGRAPHY prior to the modern age was effectively synonymous with encryption,
converting readable information to unintelligible nonsense which can only be read by reversing the process (decryption).
The sender of an encrypted (coded) message shares the decryption (decoding) technique only with the intended recipients
to preclude access from adversaries.

Seeking for life beneath an arch,
Trying to crack the poetic curse,
A withered rose surprised my search:
Intentionally cryptic verse.
Her bone-dry petals, colorless
Upon my touch, dissolved to dust.
The dead stalk’s thorns, nevertheless
Pricked me, eliciting mistrust.
Where that rose lay I stumbled on a crypt
Filled with the bones of verses nondescript.
I had chanced upon a burial cave.
Whose sad remains reposed within that grave?

The rose was left to seal the codes:
Intentional obscurity.
Vapid means dull. Such verse forebodes
Lack of lyric security.
What I learned from my sepulchral gleaning:
That dead flower marked the death of meaning.

Refuse the rare and esoteric word
And verbiage that borders on absurd!

Poetic Decryption  Key:

The Rose is the arch of a vaulted crypt
A mark on the map, directions in code…
The lyric sepulcher, on which I tripped,
Contained no golden motherload.

When poetry dies, then decomposes,
We’re left with poetic cryptography.
Symbolic signs such as crypts and roses
Challenge your dull cartography.

PROMPT # 25

write a poem using at least three metaphors (CRYPT/CODE/ROSE) for a single thing (POETRY).
Include an exclamation, ruminate on the definition of a word, and come back in the closing line
to the image or idea with which you opened the poem.

In that autumnal farmhouse
My crackling fire blazed;
Alone for weeks, I’d had weird dreams
That frightened and amazed.

November night was raining;
The final days of fall
The forests just beyond dark fields
Held back by a stone wall.

Caring for that old dwelling,
Jobless, carless, homebound,
Alone before the glowing hearth
I thought I heard a sound…

Fear then leaped upon me
And paralyzed my mind.
Lights were off in the old Maine house—
My fears were undefined.

And then I heard a music
Like mystery and dread,
Playing low in some shadowed room
And playing with my head.

I swore I heard a rhythm
Faint sounds of flute and bell
Like fairy-frenzy—or the beat
That leads lost souls to hell.

In that autumnal darkness
I huddled by the fire,
But could not shake the terror
Of my panic rising higher.

At last I stood and shouted
The names of Christ in faith;
Flung wide the doors of every room
And banished every wraith.

If God is omnipresent
And Jesus Christ is king
Then why should I be victimized,
Afraid of everything?

The dread transformed to power:
Faith rose to the affair;
No longer haunted, life and peace
Returned to bless the air.

So did it really happen?
Or was my mind deceived
By vitamin deficiencies
As others have believed… ?

PROMPT #24:

write your own poem that takes place at night, and describes something magical or strange