Submissions by tonaleclipse
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I am still way too young as an artist to really have a "style". However, I like coupling fantastical imagery with real life. I like the creepy, scary, or confusing things in life and tend to lean towards them in my writing.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
8th Aug 2011 3:44am
8th Aug 2011 3:44am
Morning of a New Year
The early morning excites me.
The pre-dawn yawn only after staying up
all night or having woken up
hours before the first glimpse of the sun.
The layers of snow, now settled, trick
morning into believing she is more
fully awake. Snow is a mirror, a mirror.
It’s the precise moment of dawn where
the light, clear or cloudy sky,
matches the ground’s hues and honestly
I feel I am falling upside down
into the giant’s kingdom.
Then I find myself absorbed by the
immobile snow and realize falling is
too furious an act for this...
The pre-dawn yawn only after staying up
all night or having woken up
hours before the first glimpse of the sun.
The layers of snow, now settled, trick
morning into believing she is more
fully awake. Snow is a mirror, a mirror.
It’s the precise moment of dawn where
the light, clear or cloudy sky,
matches the ground’s hues and honestly
I feel I am falling upside down
into the giant’s kingdom.
Then I find myself absorbed by the
immobile snow and realize falling is
too furious an act for this...
808 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
8th Aug 2011 3:35am
8th Aug 2011 3:35am
Inspiration
Where did inspiration go?
It was a welcome guest among
pills and smoke, mania and madness.
Is inspiration a product of pain,
of suffering, or does darkness
call it from the depths of the
soul and lure it into consciousness?
The pressure of pencil against paper
no longer gives me that exciting chill;
my eyes do not see my amber-haired muse.
She must have found another man
who, in the throws of agony, cries.
That no longer plagues my daily life,
yet I miss her, yearn to be with her.
Inspiration must become bored with...
It was a welcome guest among
pills and smoke, mania and madness.
Is inspiration a product of pain,
of suffering, or does darkness
call it from the depths of the
soul and lure it into consciousness?
The pressure of pencil against paper
no longer gives me that exciting chill;
my eyes do not see my amber-haired muse.
She must have found another man
who, in the throws of agony, cries.
That no longer plagues my daily life,
yet I miss her, yearn to be with her.
Inspiration must become bored with...
898 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
6th Aug 2011 7:18am
6th Aug 2011 7:18am
Anima
Beating hearts emerge from a closed system;
Breathe
In True guidance observe the input;
Consider
then dream of an old woman.
Closed heart, defensive and yet her eyes.
Submit
to her questioning spirit and she will
lead you into a deserved consciousness;
Laugh
-Brian Minnick ‘11
Breathe
In True guidance observe the input;
Consider
then dream of an old woman.
Closed heart, defensive and yet her eyes.
Submit
to her questioning spirit and she will
lead you into a deserved consciousness;
Laugh
-Brian Minnick ‘11
690 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
6th Aug 2011 7:11am
6th Aug 2011 7:11am
The Darkness of Snow
It is too early,
too dark outside to
warrant turning on a light inside.
I write in the dark so as not to
disturb the light, fragile snow
only a windowpane away; cold
so cold and yet I’m beginning to
like it that way, the striking
chill untainted by a warm mechanical breath.
Sleep comes, goes, and I fail to manage it.
I shouldn’t need to manage such a primal,
animinalistic instinct, and yet the supposed
irregularity of it’s cycle forces me
to find a pattern, something, anything
to see life as more obvious, controlled,...
too dark outside to
warrant turning on a light inside.
I write in the dark so as not to
disturb the light, fragile snow
only a windowpane away; cold
so cold and yet I’m beginning to
like it that way, the striking
chill untainted by a warm mechanical breath.
Sleep comes, goes, and I fail to manage it.
I shouldn’t need to manage such a primal,
animinalistic instinct, and yet the supposed
irregularity of it’s cycle forces me
to find a pattern, something, anything
to see life as more obvious, controlled,...
808 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
4th Aug 2011 1:34am
4th Aug 2011 1:34am
Down the Rabbit Hole
My mind hurts; my body hurts.
I am in a strange unseen hole
full of clothes, music, and Chinese food.
My bed is wet with dreams; dreams of forced sleep.
My trash is abounding, its smell
held tightly inside vanilla trash bags.
This hole makes up my world;
I don’t want to leave
I want to sleep but my body won’t let me.
I could take a pill
but that would lead me down,
down a terrible road.
I know that road well, that road and my mind
became entranced with words and sex
until I broke, fell to...
I am in a strange unseen hole
full of clothes, music, and Chinese food.
My bed is wet with dreams; dreams of forced sleep.
My trash is abounding, its smell
held tightly inside vanilla trash bags.
This hole makes up my world;
I don’t want to leave
I want to sleep but my body won’t let me.
I could take a pill
but that would lead me down,
down a terrible road.
I know that road well, that road and my mind
became entranced with words and sex
until I broke, fell to...
779 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
3rd Aug 2011 9:04pm
3rd Aug 2011 9:04pm
A New Oz
Glass hammers an ambiance of
space,
vibrations of shape but without
containers.
Colors lacking fixated hue- not
filling
between the lines and
Dorothy, in league with the
Witch
cohabitate a new Kansas
green
skin melting into ambiguity;
red
slippers lack the continuity of
A certain fair bubble-clad
maiden’s
ego-trip-No magic will undo
wrinkles.
In open creation, needless becomes
Association- Delegation- Definition
Voice
can be the song or the sung
Art
then might be the seconds to come....
space,
vibrations of shape but without
containers.
Colors lacking fixated hue- not
filling
between the lines and
Dorothy, in league with the
Witch
cohabitate a new Kansas
green
skin melting into ambiguity;
red
slippers lack the continuity of
A certain fair bubble-clad
maiden’s
ego-trip-No magic will undo
wrinkles.
In open creation, needless becomes
Association- Delegation- Definition
Voice
can be the song or the sung
Art
then might be the seconds to come....
677 reads
1 Comment
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
3rd Aug 2011 3:53am
3rd Aug 2011 3:53am
Sound! Dear Angel
Sound! Dear angel Sound!
Your trumpet triumphant
Petals of truth; dripping.
Ruler of lies
Alpha through Omega
Not only a word. But
The Word
The key of C
Home, Tonic,
the beginning and end
(at least as such things exist)
emerging through
gusts of heavenly wind.
Such piercing voluntaries
held tight and thrust out
soar on the fabric
towards the earth and the mind.
Some may hear chords,
other bear words
paintbrush and pencil
unmistakable swords.
Plants will grow roots,
the...
Your trumpet triumphant
Petals of truth; dripping.
Ruler of lies
Alpha through Omega
Not only a word. But
The Word
The key of C
Home, Tonic,
the beginning and end
(at least as such things exist)
emerging through
gusts of heavenly wind.
Such piercing voluntaries
held tight and thrust out
soar on the fabric
towards the earth and the mind.
Some may hear chords,
other bear words
paintbrush and pencil
unmistakable swords.
Plants will grow roots,
the...
723 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
3rd Aug 2011 3:49am
3rd Aug 2011 3:49am
Time Unveiling Truth
Blood spills, removed from
pulsing, two-way streets onto
cold concrete; no one can stop.
A bold Lion roars in
Hebraic monologues;
not preacher, executioner,
For years ago:
You did not listen;
I did not understand.
A small sexless child
sits under the Lion’s mane and
shuts its eyes as if invisible.
In its hand appears a stone
:skip it across the lake
:see how far it goes!
Holding each others hand
we see the stained horizon
procure its new toy....
pulsing, two-way streets onto
cold concrete; no one can stop.
A bold Lion roars in
Hebraic monologues;
not preacher, executioner,
For years ago:
You did not listen;
I did not understand.
A small sexless child
sits under the Lion’s mane and
shuts its eyes as if invisible.
In its hand appears a stone
:skip it across the lake
:see how far it goes!
Holding each others hand
we see the stained horizon
procure its new toy....
687 reads
1 Comment
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