Poem: The Spade For Me

The Spade For Me

A poem by Sam Oliver [Eris]

 

 

I am not afraid

Of the man and his heart

Where he stands

Far apart

From me

His folded set face

The fingers in place

At his sides

Threatening

Me

 

When he comes close

I drift back

Shadows at my heart

Certain- shaken up- at

Me.

 

I am not afraid

Of the way his hands move

Of how his eyes dart

Over body, over heart

Over me.

 

His mouth as it moves

Says how ‘it behooves’

Who does he think

That he is to

Me?

 

My fragile, frail life

Stretched thin before that knife

Which shines in his hands

And shines in

Me

 

I am not afraid

Of the worn ruddy red

A hymn for the dead

Through metal-

Through me.

 

Life slips through

Fingers slick, askew

Like glasses that slide

From my nose

From me.

 

They shatter on the floor

Their noise I abhor

But distant now how

Can I see

Past me?

 

I am not afraid

Of this man standing now

Above and within

My worn, torn heart

In me.

 

He cuts without his knife

With words thickened by strife

His fingers wrapped tight

Round my throat

Round me.

 

He’ll choke out my life

Like the other cut with knife

While my heart beats it’s last

I’ll see

Just me.

 

But I am not afraid

No, not of this man

Who thinks he has me

Controls me

Is me

 

I break free of his grip

Flutter heart, faint quip

Brought to mind by years of abuse

“Your end is nigh,” Slips from lips

Dry as bone

But me

Part of me.

 

A hand reaches out

Mine or his, spell is shout-

-ed like thunder raging forth

From me

It was me.

 

The years I was his slave

I will take to the grave

Like dreams that haunt

Forevermore

In me

 

Now I am not afraid

Of this man

In his grade

Of soil’d earth’s grip

Met anew

 

For I am she- who cut him down

For what he did to me

With spells and light and song I came;

His crime is now repaid

Tenfold, now with spade

It is me

Who sets him

To rest.

 

No I am not afraid

Of this man

In his grave

I am not afraid anymore

I told myself my fears

Washed clean by my tears

I can’t take back

What he stole and he sold

 

But I am not afraid

Of his heart that now beats no more

and I am not afraid

of the cold

and the filth

that settles on my skin like mold

I’ll shrug it off now

Free of pain, freed from how

Dirty one man

Made me.

 

Because in my heart

While lonely from the start

In forests that I once knew

My hands thick with soil

My eyes set unspoiled

I know that I’ll start

Anew

 

I know now I’ll find

Something new

 

i know that i need

someone new…

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Write from the Heart

Write from the heart. Write from your soul, write from your mind, write from the very core of what makes you- you. How can you plagiarize if you do that? How could you possibly take something from someone else and compare it with something that defines your very essence?

Well, long story short, you bloody well can’t. Everyone’s essence is different, despite surface similarities. What you do, who you meet, who you are- your writing will reflect all of this if it’s yours. Even if you take another person’s work and just copy/paste it- IT’S YOURS. The difference is that in the reflection, you show yourself to be lazy. As a reflection that’s not bad or good- at least not from my perspective. You might get in trouble with the police or law, but that’s their prerogative.

Stealing my work changes the portion of my work from mine to yours- but the reflection is different. Whereas I worked and poured sweat into the creation that you now feast your eyes on, the portion of stolen work may shine in a different light when viewed alongside someone elses’ name. You do no one but yourself harm when you decide to steal- the original author knows that it’s their work, and, if they’re like me, they’ll feel that it doesn’t matter.

The work itself doesn’t know exactly what it is, who it belongs to. And to me, someone who draws from a calm center, from an unknown place, from the heart, to recognize that no work is truly my own is something fundamental to writing it in the first place.

Where do I draw inspiration? Can a work really be mine if it contains so much of another person’s heart and soul? Ah, but who works it? Who creates, who finishes the product of that mind and that heart? Is it me? Yes.

Is it, then, that my work is a product of the hearts, souls, and minds of those I meet, of the essences of everyone, forged and brought to fiery life in myself, in my own– in part, a work of magic. A work of magecraft that no story character can match alone.

I make my stories, and they are pieces of me, but they are not truly mine. Credit for them goes to everyone I meet, to the unknown people I dream of, to the people I talk to and listen to and hope one day to be. My work is a collaboration on a grand scale, and I think in part, to be a writer is to be a weaver. To be a writer is to be one who forges tales and fashions fantasy from fact, then ties the two together to create something more. But the credit is not our own.

Who are we without material, without inspiration? We are nothing but ourselves.

I suppose in a roundabout way, this is a thank you. I love my readers. I really do. I love that I can pop on here everyday and see that people have been reading– if not necessarily appreciating– my work. It’s a wonderful feeling to know that someone reads that which I craft. As much as I enjoy writing it, I enjoy having it read even more, terrifying as it is.

So thank you, everyone. If you write, write from your heart.

If you read, find yourself in part.

We are the whole of everyone we see, hear, touch, feel and meet. The characters we write are an expression of that.

Expression is life.

-Eris

Poem: Heart – Memory

Heart – Memory

An experimental dual poem in quatrains by Sam Oliver [Eris]

 

With every floating shining bubble,

Drifting in my mind,

The heart’s desire is not a bauble,

To be paid in kind

 

It isn’t something that you grasp

Whilst grinning ear to ear

Or something else that has a clasp

To hold from webs held dear

 

You cannot touch it with your hand

You cannot see it with your eyes

If you try to feel a strand

You’ll find it slowly dies

 

Withers away and while you watch

You cannot drag it back

A memory falls and makes a match

But not a one that lies on track

 

From time to time we’ll find a heart

With memories all aflow

To say it is ’till death do us part’

To set the candle aglow

 

A candle of love like life long lost

A candle of hope with no fear

A candle that sings of winter’s frost

A candle that burns too near

 

To wax which melts and runs to form

A memory from the dust

You cannot bring it back to norm

No matter what your lust

 

The wax is run

The time is now

If make it done

Renewed

 

The heart which beat

To fill this life

With memory sweet

Unglued

 

In time and time again you’ll see

The beat will beat no more

In time and time again I’ll be

A memory,

on the

floor.

 

 

©2012 Sam Oliver [Eris]

—————–

I like this poem. I have nothing further to say.

-Eris

PS: In case it wasn’t obvious, the idea was that I wanted to write something in nothing but quatrains with the ABABCDCD rhyming scheme. So there you go. Also, each pair of rhyming lines should have similar length as far as syllables go. I changed it up a bit solely because it matched the flow. It was a structured decision and it’s MY darn poem, so hush.

Poem: Shifter Song

Shifter Song

A poem by Sam Oliver [Eris]

I am a lizard

With fire and ice

My teeth are long

My tail has spikes

I am a lizard

With heart of gold

Wings in the red

Of tales untold

 

And now it is time to change.

 

The song of the shifter

Forever and now lost

Sung through the times

When all was bitter frost.

 

When all was bitter frost,

We put on warm scales

Our hearts like unbled molten gold

Our heat locked in our tails

When all was bitter frost

We grew hard with scaly snouts

For shifters never feel the need

To harbor any doubts.

 

I am a bird

With flames in its tail

Fire in its feathers

To live without fail

When ashes are made

I rise up again

Immortal, undying

And proud to defend

My young from the hunters

Though I’ll never see

Them grow from the hatchlings

I know them to be

I’ll trust in my beak

In my claws

In my flame

When time comes to run

I’ll burn just the same

Heat like a nova

Expands in a blast

Never dying, never dead

A form built to last-

 

But now it is time to change.

 

A song for the shapeless

Unwanted, unbelonging

With hearts ever changing

And minds never dying

 

A song for the shifters

Forever and now lost

A time without cold

In lava we trust.

 

In lava we trust,

Our forms grew their feathers

Our hearts grew their wings

Our flames swallowed all

In lava we trust,

We were immortal at last

For shifters seldom shift

To be fragile as glass.

 

I am a spider

Who sits in he/r web

Waiting and watching

And spinning in time

Lies and the truths

Both intertwine

We could be friends

Or lost enemies

It matters not

If careless you’ll freeze

And keep in my web

Of scattered, shattered past

Until I remove  you

For food–

Or the company

Are all spiders lonely?

We could spend always

Right here

I weave the right time

To spin out of line

And sing of the pasts that I fear.

Regret the last thing

With four limbs to swing

And another four holding you back

A spider can weave

The very threads of-

 

Now, it is time to change.

 

A song for the broken

The shattered and shapeless

The shifters all sitting alone

A song for the ones

With no shape to themselves

And nothing to call their own

A song for the heartless

The faultless and perfect

Their forms without err or sin

Their features are sweet and their smiles are neat

To disguise the turmoil

Within

 

Are all shifters lonely? Or is it just me?

I want to be whole

Again

My friends are all gone

Or hidden

Or wrong

But one day I’ll be with

My kin.

 

©2012 Sam Oliver [Eris]

 

 

This poem is making me cry. Enjoy.

-Eris