POM - BROWNINGS CHILDE!

Every month, we are going to feature one of our member's poetry! Please feel free to read, comment, and enjoy BROWNINGS CHILDE's works this month... I will start by posting 3 poems to discuss! They each have personal significance to me. ENJOY!

Congratulations, BROWNINGS CHILDE!!!!!!! :dance::dance::dance::dance::dance:


His Season

Life springs forth, anew and curious.
Trails untrodden, untaken, untried.
Lessons learned, a pace so furious,
As April thunderstorms collide.
A world of wonderous work awaits,
A willful one would soon descry.
Though as the novelty abates,
This wounderous world one will defy.

Summer sunshine, and rich desire.
A frantic race to experience all.
Each end of the candle alive with fire.
Carefree climb and ingnorant fall.
Newfound passion, hot as the sun,
Awkward lovers, entranced, enthralled.
His legacy he attempts to emblazon,
A disjointed message hastily scrawled.

Then in the Autumn, the passion cools.
His acorns, the squirrel methodically tolls.
Content to watch the younger fools,
Along his beaten path he strolls.
He sits and thinks all by himself,
Of how the pace of life has slowed,
Of polished dreams upon a shelf,
Unto his young they're now bestowed.

Bitter winter, now has come.
Weathered hands and aching bones.
Icy wind, a howling thrum,
Icicles long and gnarled have grown.
Though death is nigh he has no fear,
His life he's lived, his seed he's sown.
His season, long, shall pass this year,
As he came in, he leaves...alone.



A God Among Men

For he is a jolly good fellow,
Least thats what he'd have you believe.
A facade of a smile, and a "Hello",
With maniacal hate up his sleeve.

He's tidy and neat in appearance,
Yet inside, he boils with rage.
A master of more adherence,
The beast he keeps in his cage.

A spurious imposture by day,
Until he returns to his den.
At work, by the rules he will play,
But at home, he's a God among men.

He quietly tallies his victims.
He dreams of his glorious day.
No jury will ever convict him,
As he'll die soon after his prey.

And after his bloodthirst is slaked,
Confused and bewildered they'll be.
A life of camaraderie faked,
For a jolly good fellow was he.

Note: more in this poem is mor-aye (as in social standard)


Without Your Light

Without your light,
The soil of my soul would be barren.
No seed of happiness could find purchase there.
I would be an empty, wandering, shell of a man,
With no purpose or direction.

Your smile is my sustenance.
It strengthens and nourishes every fiber of my being.
Without it, I would shrivel and starve.

My existence would be futile,
My life, without purpose.
Indifferent to direction,
My compass could never again find true North,
Without your light.

I love Browning's poems; always have, since he started posting them, and I know a lot of them by heart - but just now a strange thing happened. I confess I haven't re-visited his thread for quite some time... and now that in the first poem Odetta posted (His Season) I stumbled upon that superb line -

...His legacy he attempts to emblazon,
A disjointed message hastily scrawled.... -

my first thought was - yes, sure, I recognize this line, it's an allusion, a quote from a classic - and then I stopped. I remembered the classic. It's right here. It's Browning's who is the classic. I was greatly impressed when I first saw the line as the title of the thread - and then, what with one thing and another, it kinda slipped my mind; not the line itself that has always been there, but in what context it was that I knew it. But the line has lived with me all the time, along with "if you can keep your head when all about you" or "thy eternal summer shall not fade" or "come in, she said, I'll give you shelter from the storm".

Very nice work. Thanks for posting these.

Wow, thanks. I'm honored. I haven't written anything in awhile. I can't wait for people to read my poem from In Mint Condition as I personally feel like it is the best one I've written.

With the exception of His Season, I'm surprised by your choices. His Season was written in response to one of our contests in which seasons had to be the theme. A God Among Men was written for one of our threads where you must write a poem in response to a provided line. (In this case, "For he's a jolly good fellow") The last one is just a little thing I wrote for my wife. I think I might have written it in a card. The last one is one I never would have thought would be selected as free verse is something I am not very comfortable with.

I picked those three for very different reasons. Each one spoke to me when I posted the thread, darlin'.

His Season... I was thinking about how beautiful Spring is where I live,

A God Among Men... I am in the middle of a huge fight with my father, some of your words make me think of him,

Without Your Light... similar feelings for my husband that you expressed for your wife.

I am trying to pick my three favorite of Browning's. It's hard. I think I'll cheat and make it more than three.

His Season is one of my favorites. It started as no more than a traditional, Longfellow-inspired, nature poem, about the changing of seasons. However the poem soon evolved into a metaphor for life. I love how the progression of the seasons follows life's trend. New birth and early childhood in the spring. Fervent adolescence in the summer. Slowing middle-age in the Fall, and winter's end.

I thought I'd put my three favorites:

The Sun God

Of courage and strength, an amalgamation,
His gaze as furious a conflagration,
As the searing heat and rolling flame,
Smoke choked screams, and ash like rain.

Amid the chaos, a realm infernal,
No trepidation, he stands eternal.
His golden plumage, stained black and red.
He spreads his wings, and soars ahead.

The inferno greets him, its blaze unleashed.
He rushes in to quench the beast.
The battle ensues, the embers hiss.
It flares to give its deadly kiss.

The hellish demon spits its flame.
The devil writhes and screams in pain.
And when the fiend at last is tame.
The hero finally stops his rain.

The struggle done, he quits his hose.
And from the ash, the Phoenix rose.



All Hallow's Eve

The westering sun soaks the earth,
With tints of burning crimson.
Sinister shadows creep behind,
Or crawl along ahead.

All Hallows Eve's crepuscular rays,
Bring gloaming death in season.
The darkness bests the sun's assault,
And fills the soul with dread.

The children laugh from door to door,
As demons watch and wait.
Ensconsed within each gloom and shade,
They'll stay untill they've fed.

As monster's scream from plastic masks,
With threats of "Trick or Treat",
The real ghouls lurk with growing need,
To rent, and tear, and shred.

A groaning wind whines through the trees,
It whispers and it sighes.
Jack-O-Lanterns search the night,
With eyes of gleaming red.

As ghosts and witches roam the streets,
A straggler falls behind.
The ambush happens silently,
And in the dark he's bled.

Though most will make it home of course,
With candy in their bags.
At least in one child's room tonight,
There'll be an empty bed.

And a song:

Silver Tongued Devil

A busted string on a worn guitar
A simple thing to replace
But I don't feel like playin' and my thoughts are strayin'
I just put it back in its case.

Cause broken dreams are on my mind it seems,
And all the songs left unsung.
Our laughs we shared and our souls we bared,
Back when we were all still so young.

If its a race to the end, then your the winner,
You silver tongued sinner, turned saint.
You ran so fast, you nearly shook your past,
But even so you wound up late.

Now in the darkest sky, there is a glimmer,
A star with a shimmer and shine.
I'll meet you in the end, I'll see you then my friend,
And we'll be singin' again sometime.

A moment frozen in the camera's eye
A happier time and place.
Where the whiskey's flowin' with no signs of slowin'
A smile stretched across your face.

And all the memories stream up from the well of dreams,
And all the songs that we've sung.
Our time together, it'll last forever,
Even after this life is done.

If its a race to the end, then your the winner,
You silver tongued sinner, turned saint.
You ran so fast, you nearly shook your past,
But even so you wound up late.

Now in the darkest sky, there is a glimmer,
A star with a shimmer and shine.
I'll meet you in the end, I'll see you then my friend,
And we'll be singing again sometime.

I'll meet you in the end, I'll see you then my friend,
And we'll be singing again sometime.

"Mr. Scratch's Murder Circus" by Mr. BROWNINGS CHILDE is so damn good, it was the first selection for In Mint Condition: 2013 that we made, and we chose to have it start off the book. It also probably had something to do with the fact that he was one of the first to send us something ... lol

Thanks Shannon, I think the content of that poem makes it a great selection to lead off a collection of short horror fiction. Not so much the quality of writing...it just fits.

Not just horror fiction, all genres.

I am curious about your songs, BROWNING...

Are they put to music? Or are they waiting for the right melody?

They all have accompaniment with guitar that I've written.

A few more questions...

acoustic? electric?
What genre?

Tried my best to pick only three:


Solitude

Away from all the others,
I can scarcely hear them scream.
I watch them from a distance.
Surreal as if a dream.
Popcorn and corndogs,
I taste in wisps of air.
Flashing lights and ringing bells,
The world without a care.
A fleeting thought of joining,
But no, I do not dare.
Cause I am always over here,
And they are over there.

(Note: the first time I saw it, I read "I do not care" instead of "dare"; still do sometimes when I repeat it to myself)

Old Glory

Old Mother Glory, encased in glass,
Asleep atop my shelf.
Your navy blue, once royal now,
Despondent as myself.

Lines of claret, strong and proud,
Your sanguine gift to me.
Streaks of white, a blinding light,
A star for all to see.

Folded tight by soldier's gloves,
Then placed in trembling hands.
A shroud for you, a badge for me,
Of courage, for which it stands.

The Vigil

This old house,
Is full of creaks,
Of groaning boards,
That squeal and squeak.

Is that a haunt,
That roams the halls,
Or something else,
That creeps and crawls?

I mustn't sleep,
Or even blink.
They'll come for sure,
If I should wink.

Outside my window,
Lurks the beast.
Upon my flesh,
It yearns to feast.

Another waits,
Beneath my bed.
If I should look,
I'd lose my head.

So I lie still,
Eyes open wide.
Until the morn,
I must abide.

I cannot move,
Or make a peep,
But above all,
I mustn't sleep.

No, it can't be only three!!! Here are another three:

Go Slow
Unwanted Perseverence
All Hallow's Eve*

* Brownings' himself picked this one too!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Odetta

A few more questions...

acoustic? electric?
What genre?

---

I have songs that range from blues to classic rock to almost country.
Silver Tongue Devil is the one that sounds fairly country. I use an acoustic guitar and it is finger picked (think Dust in the Wind if it was written by Willie Nelson)
Go Slow - I wrote only the lyrics to a song that my friend wrote. It is also acoustic, but more rock (Think Dave Matthews meets Jack Johnson)
Empty Bottle and Borrow, Beg or Steal are both deep blues (Think Stevie Ray Vaughn - my biggest influence) They can be played either electrically or acoustically depending on the mood.
Ungratefully departed is a classic rock tune with several guitar parts that are intricately woven together. (Think Eagles)
Wanting more is my sad introspective song (Think Excess Baggage by Staind)
I have more and in different styles but I cant think of them right now.

Thank you... knowing that gives me a different impression of the songs! Changes the perspective just slightly!

I really enjoyed reading "Old Glory". The last two lines are spot on and perfect.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Ben Staad

I really enjoyed reading "Old Glory". The last two lines are spot on and perfect.

---

Thanks, the poem is inspired by my experience of receiving the folded flag at the military funeral for my grandfather. On a side note, when my grandmother died some 20 years later, I placed the flag in her coffin and she was buried with it.

Just a few more days before I crown another POTM! Last chance to tell Brownings how awesome the poems are!


(well, you can still do that after the month, it's all good)

As much as I was tempted to leave the number of replies at 19, I just wanted to say again that it was an honor to be picked as our first Poet of the Month. I had hoped for more questions, as I love to discuss my poems and poetry in general. Providing insight as to their origins and pointing out subtle nuances to their rhyming scheme or meter that might have been missed by the rushed skimming of the material. There are a few that I am not so excited about, but there are quite a few now that I think could be tweaked into something publishable. Now, I need to get to work creating some more. As always, I hope some will visit my thread http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/...inted+messages and provide some comments/critique. All criticism is welcomed and encouraged, as a poem can always be made better.
Thanks again.

Are you submitting something for In Mint Condition: 2014?

Yeah, except this time I will submit a short story.

Well, we're very excited to read it. And ... in addition to the Contributor's Copy, we're offering monetary compensation as well! Drumroll ... ... ... $50!

When are you going to start taking submissions?

We're starting the whole process up again in June with the Call for Submissions.