More planetary goodness at hand. I was not looking forward to writing about this particular planet. The association I have with said planet opens up more doors than I am willing to walk into.
It comes as no surprise than my research for planet earth opened up the mother of all labyrinths, trying to snake some content out of it was a trying affair. I picked a poetry form and go stuck in, playing on information and themes already at hand.
Looking at your face, I meet the gruiling test,
A quest to piece together your former best.
I fail to pierce the black that crowds your features,
You have bled your soul for morbid creatures.
What a host of wealth your body brought to light.
Boasting so much brilliance day and night.
Flora and fauna spawned in vibrant hues of truth,
Only to turn to lies for mortal use.
Your sacrifice has given us centuries of hope.
A gift we are holding close on thinning rope.
You have hosted both parasites and pioneers,
Behind the tears I celebrate the coming years.
The second addition to the planetary poetry is here for your studious consumption. These posts are getting more and more educational by the day. Venus has been a real gem to marvel at.
Second from the sun, yet the brightest and hottest, Venus is our subject for the day. In a mythological context, Venus it is linked with Venus (The God) and Aphrodite. These two deities are linked with beauty, love, passion and eternal youth. I had no idea that Venus is the only planet to spin on its axis in the opposite direction to the other planets, just doing her own thing, and copper is her substance. Lets see what kind of sonnet I can whip up for her majesty, iambic pentameter was attempted for this serving.
Your bosom bursts with passions potent flare,
Rousing up the verve inside my veins.
You hold my inhibitions well impaired,
Your beauty helps to spark the lovers flames.
No rivers run can quench your given power,
Aphrodite, Venus, you are queen.
I dream to drink your touch and never cower
To love, I steep my longing in your stream.
What hope is there for mortal men as me?
What hope to paint my worthiness as true?
That crown of copper opulence I see,
Reminds me that Olympus harbors you.
You are the brightest smile along in this trail.
You are the burning heart where love prevails.
The Solar system, like everything else, is fuel for creative outlet. It can tell story upon story, with angles, stories and legacies tied to every part that has a hand in building the system. This lovely trail of planets starts off with Mercury. For Mercury, mi primera planeta, I dedicate a prose poem.
This I write for you!!
All is clear now. For all the fire in you, I see why the merchants favor you. Your favor has granted them service so fortifying and fortunate it has doubled the coin that aids their keep. How we bundle and build a bounty of riches has so much to be owed to you.
The intricacies of trickery are the secrets song of which you are bard. The timbre of tall tells, the tone of truth has you in its sinews.
You are first to brace that brazen heat and hold your orbit true. You dare to mingle so closely with the seed of a Titan and tell so well of what is built from Olympus. You speak so as we may eat from the fruits of knowledge. Sealing in a sweet garden the nectar, that on winged foot, is trickled to the ear of those that need it most.
From the first note to the last you know to lead from the lighted world to the shadows depth. Along that narrow trail that tracks to the black you offer guidance. When all has lost its stay with the light, to Pluto and Hades you lead. The far reaches of plutos face and hades’ shade are no strange terrain to you.
I didn’t know how to put this forward or make it clear, but here it goes. I’m going to be making some noise in this little space of mine for a little while. I’m working on a little series for the poetry fans who wonder this way, hopefully it will be for fans of any kind of written work. This is something to get me playing with style a little bit more, keep me in touch with the blogger-sphere and fellow writers, I’m calling it …
Poems for Planets!!
Don’t worry, I’m saving the creativity for the actual content, hopefully this allows me a pass on this title.
I’ll open the series on a light note, something to brighten the tone. Here I present to you my opening Haiku.
heavens bands of fire
Washing the earth with light.
Waiting for winter.
-The Blissful Nomad
Stay tuned for the rest of the 9 planets, feel free to play along or share the fun.
Let’s forget reason and charge into the mist. The night will pay us no consideration when it blots our guide from its zenith. Reservations are reserved for the few who will sleep in nights reach. Tomorrow we would have reached to the promised place.
Bring with you courage and a tonic of twisted sanity. No linear thought can traverse the jagged edges of nights winding road. Your feet might not hold familiar shape, but they will be strong. Your heart might wither at times, in time it will drink fortitude.
I aligned myself with your vision because it is devorsed of myopia. It failed to believe the vail of the tidy walls that sheltered our flock from the beasts. Such separation from danger had maimed my skill, I had forgotten to hunt, in being hunted I became prey to the consumption of certainty, avoid this outcome at all costs.
My nomad brother, home was where mothered kept you stay and surrendered your adventure to care for ears of maize, amazed when you showed power to till more than your share, your might is more than credited for. Home is where my father went away to a wooded place, a venture which was presented as a mere nightmare to me, stories of wonten peril. He wasn’t always willing to show us the bow that strained his grasp of fragile things, the trophies that nurtured his pride, never was a tale told of the cunning cultivated by stalking the boar. I will carry you into the wood.
Together we will slay the mystery.
There are stories that portray courage as a commonplace, amongst uncommon men this legend is known. Amongst uncommon women, whose gathered bounties sport rarities that lift us out of common lethargy, the strories that crackle in moonlit fires were the common cadence of there clapping undulation.
We’d brave the watery slopes of reason for a magic that is tucked into the pockets of the old mystics. Only in coming close to these forbidden friends are we able to reach into those pockets and draw out the dried bones that she reads our fortunes from. Evidence of a tale as old as time and pacified by the city walls. The village will mourn the passing of your innocence into the wilderness, save the mystic, she will applaude our zeal, sending well wishing thought into the mountain pass.
The chieftens conglomerates will sire the next heir to the cities. The mountain pass through wooded mystery will braze the iron few into swords of hope to severe ties with the world that sysiphus shamelessly carried.
Standing over there, they are drawing pictures of home, I wonder how that feels. I wonder if there is as scrambled an image as this Rorschach war chest hidden inside my head. hanging from hinges opened and closed far too often, so weathered by indecision to feel firm in themselves. Draw for me those borders that make your sanctuary separate to mine, the differences have blurred. Faith is blind, it tests my trust in sight.
These are my crutches, drawn out conversations, longing for longevity. Wincing at silence, each declarative sentence sounds too much like goodbye, too much like dying light, my footing feels shy.
When the world hasn’t yet owned any shape, when so much of a formless noise surrounds me, so much of this, so much of that, the certainty of other people’s voices gives sustenance to ambiguity.
I will willingly unbuckled my prejudice to breathe. The tightness of a small world has a way of twisting my diaphragm, finite words are not of the kingdoms best suited to the tomorrow I believe in.
Speaking some sense of directions for the auditorium of speculative spectators paints me with lovely strokes of certainty and it make me believe there version of my events. Their rhetoric is a double edged sword that will not hesitate in cutting me loose from my pride, my falling lacks beauty and grace.
“Hard hands knead dough, everybody needs bread.”
She has shouldered this burden for years. Life had taken liberty with the course she dreamt out, veering her along a path molded by necessity. Her mornings lead her deeper into a world where the hammer and anvil speak louder than prayer.
Once upon a time she had silken palms, soft hands that busied themselves in acts of freedom. She would spend time lending life to canvas. Her fingers, tipped with magic, painted heaven into blanks sheets. Those very hands have changed, becoming shadows of their former selves, hardened souls dedicating themselves to prying sustenance from the toils of labor. They have become strangers to the paint and brush, her pallet of inks seem weightless in this new world. Having carried more than their fair share her fingertips barley recognize the easel. These strangers are lost to the rhythm of cold work, mimicking the coarseness of a granite wheels that marks time at the old mill. Lost in a colorless world, her palms remain numb to a tenderness she once knew.
Her eyes have been hostage to the low lights for too long. Its been 6 years since she began working at the mill, 6 years since seeing her spirit fade as the earth opened up to swallow her light. It seems as though she has lost touch with the world around her, I have found it harder to pieces together a semblance of my mother in those vacant stares. She is often vanishing beyond the window pane ,prospecting for hope. Though I wonder where she goes, I know the familiar song her memory play, she revisits a time when love was still in reach, Father was gone too soon.
My fathers passing saddled my mother with darkness, to carry on mother had took to working at the mill. To see a whisper of her shine through the shadows of that building speaks volumes of her heart, a love forever lit, regardless of the odds she carries one.
Ill never know what a life without that pain would have offered her, I only know this version of things. I’m ashamed to admit that I allowed years to creep by before I took notice of the hands that fed me, the way they bartered their tenderness for my sustenance, the way they pieced together strength, the way the carried me away from ever wilting on my feet. Despite the falling of her kingdom she found the grace to raise a King. Those hands knead the hope that feeds my spirit. She is deserving of the world in return.