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Sunday, September 3, 2000

procrastination

it is a way for me to

stay in denial

Tuesday, August 8, 2000

This is another poem I wrote in 1997...that was my last year of really attempting to write poetry. (Besides the recent magnetic poetry boom.) This one was written specifically for Michael, but in rereading it, I'm seeing myself somewhat.


Malachite


a sun trembles shyly behind the clouds it considers safe,
still radiating its essence to needy on lookers.
smiling upon the personalities of those below,
it greets each brightly
allowing them to bask in the glory they probably don't deserve.
but the sun gives freely, brightening all the rays fall upon
and where is the source of the suns warmth?
and why does the sun continually shine?

a white rabbit blends into its snowy background.
but it isn't like the whiteness around it.
it breathes and moves, wiggles and needs
it's warm, even in the bitter cold around it.
soft fur, like an electric blanket for the creature creates the cocoon of self for him
but he is recognizable as a rabbit, even without his fur.

a curious child plays in his sandbox
creating art and science with tools of his choosing
with each displaced grain of sand, he questions his world:
is this right? does it work? is it pleasing? do i like it?
the child makes what he wants others to see.
and he is happy in his choice, but longs to make the sandbox his.

This is a poem I wrote about 3 years ago. I just came across it again recently...a friend has been holding on to it since I wrote it. (Thanks Michael.)


the box

a child tweaked
stares at the box in front of her
wondering if what she's been offered
is a gift, wrapped in silk and comfort
or a joke, waiting for her to spring it's trap

At first, the box was like a monster under the child's bed
she would have traveled the world not to be near it
she heard stories and rumors and lived in ignorance of the box's power

then, she grew older, but was still a child
her friends talked about the box, but still, she knew nothing
the box wasn't a monster, but still couldn't be trusted

later, the box became a familiar to the child
it had been there so long, but was still unopened
the child began to dote upon the box when she had free time
but, it was still a box.

now, the box looms large in the child's head
she wants to open her box, but is afraid of the consequences
after all, it's THE box.
the child plays with the ribbons, trying to tease the secrets of the box
out of them with out opening it yet
but still, she's afraid.

one day, perhaps when she opens the box, the child will become what many
people she knows are
but boxphobia sets in somedays
and womanhood seems long away

Monday, August 7, 2000

Before the Earth was fresh and new,
There was You.
Long ago, before false was true,
There was You.
Time forgets, and time recalls,
But you will always be there for me - standing tall.
I thank You for all those days,
When the slightest smile gave me hope;
When the smallest laugh opened my heart;
And when I could see in others, You, there for Me.

(c) Matthew O'Leary 2000

Today, I chased the sun and clouds away.
Another fire burns out, and returns to the dust.
What reason do we have
but to work and toil, all for nothing?
No - everything, not nothing, indeed.
All the suffering, all the pain,
the greed, the loss, the hurt, the strain;
it's all for life, and one more day
to chase our sun and clouds away.

(c) M. O'Leary 2000

Wanting the deep;
Needing the
     Longing;
     Craving the
          Feed;
          Feeding the
               Crave.
               Wanting to
Need.

(c) M. O'Leary 2000

Thursday, August 3, 2000

Here's my favorite Shakespeare Sonnet:

Sonnet 80

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.



Thanks to The searchable Shakespearean Database for this.

-M.

Monday, July 31, 2000

she is free like music

i give essential rain

you soar above

Thursday, July 27, 2000

worhsip enormous symphony

whisper goddess flood

luscious delicious change

celebrate language

frantic beauty kiss

rhythm apparatus

essential eternity picture

always here

said true

concrete after.

slow moan + the here

blush behind the never after.

Preface to these poems. They're all done with Magnetic Poetry and they probably are nothing but words put together. I don't care. =)

Tuesday, July 18, 2000

Ok..I've been meaning to post here for awhile, but haven't had the time lately..now that I have the time, mainly because I don't want to pack..I posted some of my favorite poems I wrote with the magnetic poetry. Read below.
-M.

Men;

They love power;

Most could be brilliant.

Always stiff,

Their love never my embrace,



...but chocolate is delicious.

Time is delicious;

Translucent magic grass dream -

Drive the air and

show dirt.

Manipulate Life,

Concrete Fever,

Elaborate Whisper.

Wednesday, May 17, 2000

I still don't get it,

This blogging stuff.

Did I do this right??

Wednesday, May 10, 2000

So drunk.

Tuesday, May 9, 2000

moist eruptness

wake, angel

eye god's morning

whispering with live desire