''Folly''
''Eyes Of Summer''
By K. Scott Smith
1.Sprawling sunlight,
extroverted feeding frenzy,
looks beautiful, fragile and pale,
sitting up in the chair,
eyes closed, music plays.
spoken with sincerity with nothing to gain
and nothing to lose.
The Suns blaze,
a star's gaze,
like ten thousand eyes of summer,
all bent and peering at once.
2.Purple drifting alliances,
shifting of powers,
the Emperor is made:
Will adrift in a sea of will.
But none will last-
Life will see to that.
Names carved into columns of stone,
or ancient symbols etched into the' Lions Throne'.
Blood and flesh and heart and bone,
Overcome.
Some living longer than others,
some remembered (some remembered well).
3.Have we casks of wine,
and scenic villas,
and westbound suns?
Do giants await us?
Did I lose my way?
There are so many.
I wont even know until it's too late,
or later.
4.Slow vengeance is slow dying.
Dead men lift dead arms to a dead sea.
All that Is,
or was, is dead.
Shadows cast, then discarded like some bad omen.
5.Gentle Mercutio,
Laid at villains feet,
and slain by squab ling houses,
and new lovers dreams.
Killing that which most deserves life.
Gentle Mercutio,
Laid the feet of villains.
6.Saying no a thousand times...
Say yes but once!
Give me my garden of obscenities,
and leaves that will bleed,
when winter's end and summers head
meet like drunken lovers,
in the changing light.
7.The writing will blossom or it will stop,
all motion will cease,
and falling into heaps,
-as the skinny arms of Time,
stretch around you.
Disregarding ''certain strengths'',
Leave it where you found it.
Look how foolishly
you chose your battleground
Tactics fall short
barely keeping your head.
8.*We are Rimbaud and Verlaine,
In the Black Forrest,
Parting ways.
Ancient waves,
Love and Loves demise
all recorded for History and unseen reward.
I shutter to think who is who!
One of us will leave the country,
the other will squint their eye, making rueful, childish faces.
Laughter in fits..then tears.
To lay my own hands upon this world,
and abandon this venture (writing) all together.
9. We rarely admit how fragile life is
Until its broken.
10.Two angels sat and sang a tune,
Melodies of Quantum perfection,
Like some madman's( or woman's) refuge,
some poor, unfortunate bastard's so lice.
They sing to me as sirens sing to sailors,
or weary and careless travelers.
The patron saint of travelers is no longer a saint.
(It becomes absurd at this point)
Today I destroyed an entire world,
and made a child smile,
who sadly, I found weeping.
11.Childlike seeker,
A would be King or King's assassin,
Some lesser Caesar, lower.
Take your pills,
Grow your hair,
Save yourself.
12.Is grace sometimes the price of violence?
Do we stand alone? Do we stand apart?
Are there great armies moving closer?
Ships, set ablaze, on the horizon,
like floating candles- far off,
in the deep, dark water.
I do not wish to leave ''control''
to some idea I may reject later,
As I'm sure I will.
13. Early morning creative powers,
the constant hum of the days beginning,
as if it ever ended.
Insects sound like the delicate plucking of nylon strings,
from a very old and expensive classical guitar.
I swear the clouds don't move,
outside where there are no clocks...
Wild men and beast still roam in bands.
14.The Day will not submit by itself,
Only set can conquer him.
But truly, which is the usurper?
One mighty King made into two squabbling princes.
And though I ''see'' the separation-
I ''know'' it does not exist.
So many lives, stars, courses,
teetering on the head of a pin,
All in the mischievous balance
of constant fluxuation
Behold! All is transient!
When cement and Forrest meet,
at the cruel Western God's feet,
The pagans will not rejoice
or be dismayed.
Behold! All is transient.
15.Words and wordless ways.
Math and politics
millitant lunatics
in the midts of a laughing fit-
a hundred summers this laugh,
all mangled and hoarse from stress,
will finally dissolve below a banner,
with symbols laid in Gold.
Who will remain?
What will be remembered (or remembered well?)
What will become hidden?
What will we seek as our new mysteries?
What disciplines will we hide?
What data will we misuse, misunderstand, misshape?
What will become of History?
Of poerty?
What will become of theater?
What if someday Homer is forgotten?
What strange myths and gods will we hoist up to our alters?
16.The first day of summer,
and the last day of summer,
Where rivers bend and locacst fall,
from the trees, leaving shells and former selves,
in heaps upon the window seal, on the screen,
and all about on the ground.
They are only quiet at night when predators roam.
I reflect upon the city.
Great cities,
and the great many people that live therein,
I think of all the crowded places.
I think of the ''half''' or ''semi-silence'' of the coutryside,
where I sit writing these words,
on a bed, legs crossed, shirtless, window open-
the periodic sound of a passing train invokes sullen amd melodic concertos
in keys we barely remember,
Tonight I remember.
I think of these two worlds,
and how they meet in me.
How they intersect and intertwine,
throughout me.
Each pulling me,
each pushing me,
In due rank and order.
Like the first day of summer
and last day of summer.
17.Rain at summers outset,
weeping spring, soon to depart,
in defeated concertos, strings and horns-
drips from an old rooftop to collect beneath the door,
in rootless rythems, symphonies of dust.
Water is still mother is every shape, form and fashion.
The Moon is distilled into fine liquids,
a dark, drunken lecture,
that (at last ) shimmers and shares
in the Evening's intoxicating necture.
18.To who or what do I belong,
when the wind cannot even keep or carry me(long).
END PART ONE
1.Sprawling sunlight,
extroverted feeding frenzy,
looks beautiful, fragile and pale,
sitting up in the chair,
eyes closed, music plays.
spoken with sincerity with nothing to gain
and nothing to lose.
The Suns blaze,
a star's gaze,
like ten thousand eyes of summer,
all bent and peering at once.
2.Purple drifting alliances,
shifting of powers,
the Emperor is made:
Will adrift in a sea of will.
But none will last-
Life will see to that.
Names carved into columns of stone,
or ancient symbols etched into the' Lions Throne'.
Blood and flesh and heart and bone,
Overcome.
Some living longer than others,
some remembered (some remembered well).
3.Have we casks of wine,
and scenic villas,
and westbound suns?
Do giants await us?
Did I lose my way?
There are so many.
I wont even know until it's too late,
or later.
4.Slow vengeance is slow dying.
Dead men lift dead arms to a dead sea.
All that Is,
or was, is dead.
Shadows cast, then discarded like some bad omen.
5.Gentle Mercutio,
Laid at villains feet,
and slain by squab ling houses,
and new lovers dreams.
Killing that which most deserves life.
Gentle Mercutio,
Laid the feet of villains.
6.Saying no a thousand times...
Say yes but once!
Give me my garden of obscenities,
and leaves that will bleed,
when winter's end and summers head
meet like drunken lovers,
in the changing light.
7.The writing will blossom or it will stop,
all motion will cease,
and falling into heaps,
-as the skinny arms of Time,
stretch around you.
Disregarding ''certain strengths'',
Leave it where you found it.
Look how foolishly
you chose your battleground
Tactics fall short
barely keeping your head.
8.*We are Rimbaud and Verlaine,
In the Black Forrest,
Parting ways.
Ancient waves,
Love and Loves demise
all recorded for History and unseen reward.
I shutter to think who is who!
One of us will leave the country,
the other will squint their eye, making rueful, childish faces.
Laughter in fits..then tears.
To lay my own hands upon this world,
and abandon this venture (writing) all together.
9. We rarely admit how fragile life is
Until its broken.
10.Two angels sat and sang a tune,
Melodies of Quantum perfection,
Like some madman's( or woman's) refuge,
some poor, unfortunate bastard's so lice.
They sing to me as sirens sing to sailors,
or weary and careless travelers.
The patron saint of travelers is no longer a saint.
(It becomes absurd at this point)
Today I destroyed an entire world,
and made a child smile,
who sadly, I found weeping.
11.Childlike seeker,
A would be King or King's assassin,
Some lesser Caesar, lower.
Take your pills,
Grow your hair,
Save yourself.
12.Is grace sometimes the price of violence?
Do we stand alone? Do we stand apart?
Are there great armies moving closer?
Ships, set ablaze, on the horizon,
like floating candles- far off,
in the deep, dark water.
I do not wish to leave ''control''
to some idea I may reject later,
As I'm sure I will.
13. Early morning creative powers,
the constant hum of the days beginning,
as if it ever ended.
Insects sound like the delicate plucking of nylon strings,
from a very old and expensive classical guitar.
I swear the clouds don't move,
outside where there are no clocks...
Wild men and beast still roam in bands.
14.The Day will not submit by itself,
Only set can conquer him.
But truly, which is the usurper?
One mighty King made into two squabbling princes.
And though I ''see'' the separation-
I ''know'' it does not exist.
So many lives, stars, courses,
teetering on the head of a pin,
All in the mischievous balance
of constant fluxuation
Behold! All is transient!
When cement and Forrest meet,
at the cruel Western God's feet,
The pagans will not rejoice
or be dismayed.
Behold! All is transient.
15.Words and wordless ways.
Math and politics
millitant lunatics
in the midts of a laughing fit-
a hundred summers this laugh,
all mangled and hoarse from stress,
will finally dissolve below a banner,
with symbols laid in Gold.
Who will remain?
What will be remembered (or remembered well?)
What will become hidden?
What will we seek as our new mysteries?
What disciplines will we hide?
What data will we misuse, misunderstand, misshape?
What will become of History?
Of poerty?
What will become of theater?
What if someday Homer is forgotten?
What strange myths and gods will we hoist up to our alters?
16.The first day of summer,
and the last day of summer,
Where rivers bend and locacst fall,
from the trees, leaving shells and former selves,
in heaps upon the window seal, on the screen,
and all about on the ground.
They are only quiet at night when predators roam.
I reflect upon the city.
Great cities,
and the great many people that live therein,
I think of all the crowded places.
I think of the ''half''' or ''semi-silence'' of the coutryside,
where I sit writing these words,
on a bed, legs crossed, shirtless, window open-
the periodic sound of a passing train invokes sullen amd melodic concertos
in keys we barely remember,
Tonight I remember.
I think of these two worlds,
and how they meet in me.
How they intersect and intertwine,
throughout me.
Each pulling me,
each pushing me,
In due rank and order.
Like the first day of summer
and last day of summer.
17.Rain at summers outset,
weeping spring, soon to depart,
in defeated concertos, strings and horns-
drips from an old rooftop to collect beneath the door,
in rootless rythems, symphonies of dust.
Water is still mother is every shape, form and fashion.
The Moon is distilled into fine liquids,
a dark, drunken lecture,
that (at last ) shimmers and shares
in the Evening's intoxicating necture.
18.To who or what do I belong,
when the wind cannot even keep or carry me(long).
END PART ONE
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``Eyes Of Summer``
``Eyes Of Summer``
