My Writing
| Legacy of Man: this poem is one of the earliest that I've written. Surprisingly, I have had to change it very little from the very first draft. This remains one of my favorites because of it lilting meter and intricate rhyme scheme. | The End of Tomorrow: this is a somewhat less successful attempt at the same type of poem as "Legacy of Man." Even though it was written after the previous poem, the events it details occur just before the beginning of "Legacy." |
| Black Hole: this and the next poem are sister poems. They represent opposite sides of the same coin. At least, for me they do. Read for yourself and decide what you think. | White Nova: this poem analyzes the concerns expressed in "Black Hole" in a totally opposite light. I can't say which view I agree with, but this provides two answers to the question. |
| Servitude: this is the simplest, shortest, and most direct of the poems here. It was written for an English class and pretty much explains itself. The title is ironic to the poem's meaning. | Through the Door: this was written about an important event in my life. But the odd thing about this poem is that everyone that reads it has a different interpretation of it. |
| The Card: this short story was published in a local magazine. It is not the most subtle thing I have written, but it is effective, I think, in conveying its message. |
Under the blackened sky, a plain
does stretch-an endless sea.
Acrid mists and smoke curl up,
malicious jinn set free.
The land itself is marred and etched with misery and pain.
This scorch�d prison of our hate,
our realization comes too late.
And o’er this blasted land, a man
does stand upon a rise.
He has seen today’s eclipse;
awaits tomorrow’s demise.
Caretaker of an infant race he has done all he can.
The wasted armies of mankind
fight their wars within his mind.
There’s nothing more that can be done
to save them, anymore.
They won every battle but
they couldn’t win the war.
Now their final armies’ battle’s versus everyone.
The soulless troops march closer still,
forgotten what it is to kill.
The final poker chip’s been bet.
The cards are bridged and dealt.
No matter that the deck was stacked
nor how the people felt.
Gambling leaders lost the game and still how they forget:
The table’s closed, casino’s burned.
All their debts will be returned.
Top of Page
Through the rising mist I peer,
over the ruined plain.
On the horizon a shape draws near-
a sight that’s full of sorrow.
This day is fraught with pain.
This shadow crests a rising hill.
Its purpose is painfully clear.
This army without human will
no shred of humanity borrow.
The end of a race is here.
'The society lacked a moral base.
‘Twas a place where children could kill.
In that twisted, hackneyed place,
the cries of warning rang hollow.
Their doom drew closer still.
The end of tomorrow was yesterday,
a monster without a face.
Their future was ruined in every way.
And yet more people did follow
to the final resting place.
Again through the murky smoke I look.
Man’s future draws ever near.
And all the things that mankind took
returned; thus ends tomorrow.
The reckoning day is here.
The human robots now attack
their own without compunction.
They move-a blood-crazed, silent pack
Without a shred of sorrow,
they serve their only function.
Man engineered his own dark fate
because he couldn’t look back.
and see until it was too late
that this was the end of tomorrow.
His own was the end of tomorrow.
Today is the end of tomorrow.
Top of Page
In the depths of space and time unknown
a ball of light and energy explodes.
It’s crimson light is giving way to black.
Now I’m trapped inside; no turning back.
And yet I cannot fully enter here.
Trapped at fringe’s edge I’ll still be near
enough to see inside-what’s going on?
Cannot stay-or leave-forgotten one.
Forever trapped inside this cold, dark hole,
attempting to be seen: my only goal.
And yet again I’m almost cast back out
but somehow stay to make this final shout:
“What’s the meaning of eternal void?
What’s the purpose? I am trapped inside!
What’s the reason that I cannot leave?
What if I was dead? Would you all grieve?
Can’t you see me here? I’m trapped outside!
No comfort do you deign to provide!
Void of vagueness keeps me near, not here.
Dichotomy forever-you don’t care!”
Top of Page
What
corporeal eye sees, eye of mind so oft forgets.
And
is it really true that kindness new kindness begets?
If
that is how it is, then I am blind; I lack the sight
to
see the struggle there-a soul turned bare-is futile fight.
This
nova’s blinding light is burning bright; I cannot see
that
everywhere I go (though I don’t know) they care for me.
My
exile: self-imposed, my mind: so closed, they demonstrate
their
attitude to me-if I won’t see-I view as hate.
Top of Page
Although you told me, "Bow! Get on your knee!"
I never did, but you refused to see.
Top of Page
Behold the day to end all days--
a thousand deaths, a million ways.
Tired and mute, the songbirds sing no more
but fear instead what must come through that door.
The oaken door, the path to light,
its wood was cured with timeless plight.
The metal knob was forged with words of pain.
The lock is that which must be felt again.
The stage is set, the time is nigh
for horrid low and mournful sigh.
Now open wide the egress of the soul
and see the last spark of a dying coal.
Unheard, the phantom anguished cries.
Unseen, the tears in tearless eyes.
Those feelings of dark pain were needed sins.
The door is closed and now the joy begins.
Top of Page
THE CARD
Tyson A. Cremaicie smiled as he entered the bright foyer of his house.
Ahhh, he thought. The king of the castle. There was a large bundle of letters, cards, and
assorted junk mail in Tyson’s hand; he had just gotten the mail. It was Christmas
season and many expensive, richly festooned cards adorned his walls. Tyson had many
expensive, richly festooned friends. These people were Good. They sent cards to each other
at Christmastime. That was something Good people did. Tyson had just gotten home from
work. Tyson was a hard worker. The neighborhood where he lived was New, and Expensive,
and, best of all, Nice. It really was a Nice neighborhood. Not like in the City. The City
was a bad place, full of crimes and hate. But out here, where the City was visible only on
the horizon as a hazy mirage, people were Good and Nice. Nothing bad ever happened here.
As he stepped through the door, one of the expensive, richly festooned cards fell from his
hands and fluttered to the floor. Tyson laughed. Oh silly Tyson, he thought, you’ve
gone and dropped one of your expensive, richly festooned Christmas cards onto the floor.
Tyson laughed and smiled a lot. He was fun to be around, or so people told him. The card
was deep red with green foil lettering. The return address was 7 Moribund Avenue. Why,
that was from Gabby Seraph, one of Richard’s newest friends. Richard decided to open
it on the spot.
“I look forward to spending the season with you,”
it read. Was she coming over? How soon? Tyson decided to prepare for guests, just in case.
He set the card on an end table and walked down the hallway. It had snowed the previous
morning and the sun was losing a battle to shine around the lingering clouds. The hallway
was dark. Tyson flipped a switch and a light came on at the end of the hallway. But
something was wrong. There was something at the end of the hallway, lying on the floor. It
looked like one of his shirts, only…different somehow. Curious (but not the least bit
afraid), Tyson slowly crept down the hallway. His eye caught an old picture album on a
bookshelf. It contained many of his baby pictures, up through childhood, and into
marriage. Tyson had three young daughters. They were safe in this Nice neighborhood.
It’s as if that book contains my whole life, he thought absently. These thoughts had
preoccupied Tyson as he approached whatever it was that was on the floor. Now it looked
like a sleeping person. He leaned over looked closely at the sleeping figure. There was
something red on the floor. By golly, it was one of his shirts! He reached down to nudge
the person, but his hand passed through as though it was merely an afterimage. Kneeling
down, Tyson caught a glimpse of the hand he had used. It was red. Bright red. The color of
that card. He put a hand to his chest to steady his frantic heart. His hand encountered no
resistance. With a squeal, Tyson leapt up. What was happening? Slowly, the (body,
his mind persisted, even though it bore no substance) thing on the ground began to roll
over on its own. Soon, Tyson could see into the “face” of the image. It was as
if he was looking into mirror. No, Tyson thought, it can’t be! He reeled back at this
horrible mockery of life, this nightmarish tumor on the Goodness and Wholeness that was
Tyson A. Cremaicie's
“-body was found in his home this morning. He had just collected his mail, when
neighbors claim to have heard several shots. This is the first murder reported in Pure
Lakes. If you have any information on this case, the police urge you to call. To repeat, a
new, heretofore unblemished development has been shattered at the news of this, its first
murder.”