The trail

I love the trail
It doesn’t judge or care how you look or feel
It doesn’t care if its your first run or your millionth
the trail doesn’t see you as an adversary or a friend
it doesn’t even know you are there but it rises to meet you every time
The trail is quiet and listens to your cadence and rhythm
it offers no commentary or advice
It just gives you want you seek
A challenge, a reason to run, a goal to meet
the trail is the one thing you can always count on to give you nothing and everything whenever you need it

I used to do art work, not paintings, or sculpture. but odd prints made with turpentine and photocopies transferred to canvas or paper. I used to write poetry, quite a bit. Then I stopped doing all things creative and I’m not entirely sure why. I have a couple of hundred poems in various degrees of completeness in many notebooks, on scraps of paper, and rattling around in the chaos that is my mind. A couple of years back, my wife took a lot of time to transcribe all my scribblings into a compiled word document, which I’m sure took her quite a long time because of the voluminous amounts of verbiage, compounded by my horrible handwriting.

I was sitting at my desk today during lunch (thanks to crummy weather) and decided to try and write a poem. it’s similar in vein to many of my older works, but is heavily influenced by the fact that The Hollywood Undead were playing on Slacker, and I watched two episodes of Dexter last night. It is by no means complete, but it is what it is; me dipping my toe back into the creative waters.

Without further adieu, I present SOciopath (yep the o is supposed to be capitalized)

When you look do you see me
The real me
the one with the empty eyes, barren soul
the one who is callus and apathetic
the one I protect not
The me I project
the one with all the answers
the one with the confidence
the one who cares about the trivial little things in your life
The razor barbed nerves frayed and frazzled or
the charming gent who has you dazzled
SO
When you look do you see me
or who you want me to be

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright–
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done–
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!”

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead–
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would be grand!”

“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

“O Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head–
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat–
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more–
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed–
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf–
I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.