Zphal's Poetry

[Zphal]

“The Divinity of Ten Thousand Wings”

An attempt at the Sonnet form

The Monarch she’s the Queen of the Butterflies.
Sun dancing on her vibrant irridensent orange wings,
as she flits through the air you can hear that she sings
a song, a Butterfly ballad to guide, her fragile decrepit little subjects by.
A compass points in her heart and she knows where to go,
she amasses them patiently in a flock of many thousands
to traverse north and south to the great breeding land,
She flies them as if they a royal array of splendor and show.
She rests and dips her delicate beak into the nectar,
to drink from the flower who opens its petals
like arms in prayer to the Goddess’ mettle,
for her compassion has brought them horizions far.
The Monarch is the Queen of the Butterflies,
her rule shall not end, even when she dies.  

[Zphal]

“Penny Wise and Pound Foolish”

An epigraph poem

The swipe of a credit card, the dance of the stylus across the plastic surface, scarred by a thousand John Hancocks, the sloppy pixels displaying the amount owed in digits, a long trail of a receipt spat out, dotted with ink, and down at the bottom the small printed words, “Congratulations customer, today you saved $2.39 by shopping at Safeway.”  

[Zphal]

“Breakfast in Bed”

Playing with ryhme

Desperation made a maiden choke on her food
trying to influence her favorite foppish dude
to be right, it really made quite a ruckus
betwixt Queen Beatrix and King Koofluxus.

Oh how the harlots they laughed when they heard
they tittered and twittered like a licentious little birds
t’is a tale even travelers would tell, it be true,
spreading the dread news no matter how rue.

Lore swept across the land as they lamented fair lass
while swanky swashbucklers still sat on their a**
the peasantry thought it was quite crass
to buffet said maiden of unmistakable class.

The bards said it was discord that made her choke,
the jesters conjectured it might have been her soap.

While the king in his misery made an amendment
to ban e’ery merchant from marketing any pendant,
a medallion which made public apparent mirth
at the young maiden’s death and the young maiden’s birth.

They buried her body by the burbling creek
so all warriors would stop by to weep
a fair maiden taken from them far too soon
before they could court her and be her buffoon.

No one will ever forget maiden fair,
but I think that I will leave you a dare,
If you have muster and if you have might
ride out on your stead to that creek bed tonight
and hie! see if you can hear her mysterious ghost
calling out in unfathomable fury and cursing her toast.  

[Zphal]

“Penny for your Thoughts”

Playing with the prose-poem

I brought you here to this railroad yard because I want to tell you something,

I know this place ain’t much, but if you stand just here, yes there, and look up– see?– you can see the stars for miles and all the little ones too that you never get to see,

unless you’re out camping, but you can see them here, it’s so lovely– oh yes, that’s right, what I wanted to tell you, don’t worry, I’m getting to that,

but come along here, along beside me dear, now follow the tracks, do you know who laid these? I don’t know either, but it sure must have been a lot of work,

look closer now, see the pins holding the rail to the wood, look how these ones are coming up, how these beams are rotting beneath the track, imagine the weight they must have to bear,

can you believe how many tons?– now now, be patient with me, remember we have all night, I’ll tell you, don’t worry, but c’mon let me show you these old boxcars,

look at their tattooed sides, layered with spray paint and lead, do you see? get closer, come here, from this angle– now do you see the color?

how many youth do you think stood here like us now and made their mark on these old cars, like dogs marking their territory?– no, I haven’t forgotten, I just wanted to share,

walk around to the back, see these old couplers? meaty hooks like on those boys in the bar arm-wrestling, but just think how many tournaments

these babies might have won, if they had been given the chance– of course it’s getting late– but hear! do you hear that, that whistle? quiet, listen, give it a moment, it’s in the air, there! quick, bend down, feel the tracks, can you feel that rumble? she’s coming this way!– no, no, now’s not the time! give me your coin purse, here put it down on the track, there now come on, up up, let’s wait behind here, don’t worry, it’ll be a token for you to keep for all the memories– what do you mean you don’t understand– there she is! see her three headlights? cover your ears! count the cars, you don’t know if she’ll ever come back– thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five– she’s going by too fast, and there look, see the caboose? and now she’s gone, yes,

yes, I’m almost ready to tell you, I know, you’ve been waiting patiently all night– now here, feel how smooth and flat your penny is, careful, it’s still warm,

Abe Lincoln’s head is all mashed into the copper like he wasn’t minted at all, no no, keep it it’s for you, put it in your palm, there now squeeze it tight,

I just want to show you the locomotive, the engine, see the number? see the soot? my grandpa once told me this little riddle and it goes something like this–

“Railroad crossing, watch out for the cars. Can you spell that without any ‘r’s?” no, that is why we are here tonight, I wanted to tell you something, no, you’re the one

who doesn’t understand, I just wanted to show you this junction, where the track splits off into two  

[Zphal]

"Untitled"

A weird idea I got coming back from Calculus...

A master took his servant to a grassy field one day,

Said the master to the servant “Servant, I wish to know how many blades of grass are in this field. I want you to count every blade and when you are done, tell me how many there are. If your answer is off, even by one blade, you will be put to death, understand?”

Said the servant to the master “I will do as you ask.”

So the servant began to count each blade meticulously, one by one, by hand, he rested only to eat and to sleep,

Five years later the servant came back to his master and said “Master, I have counted the blades”

Before the servant could utter his number the master interrupted “Did you double check, servant?”

The servant bowed and said to the master “I have not, I will do as you ask.”

So the servant returned to the field and for another five years the servant counted the blades of grass in the field meticulously, one by one, by hand,

He came back to his master with tears in his eyes and threw himself down at his feet and cried “My master, I have failed you. The number of blades I counted this time was different than the first. I am ready to be put to death, for I could not do as you asked.”

Said the master to the servant “Arise my dear servant, you have not failed me, for time is the fourth dimension. We have no control over time, only space, and the grass has grown while you counted. Sometimes the things that we ask are unknowable, and you have done very well. For this service I give to you your freedom and a house for your family to live and land for you to own and tend, peace be with you my dear friend.”

Said the servant to the master “My lord, you are most kind! Thank you, sir, thank you.”

The master bowed to the servant and said “T’was nothing compared to you.”  

[Zphal]

“Justin’s Church”

In honor of a good friend who died on a mission trip we were on.

I’m standing on the top of a mountain. Ten
thousand feet tall,
I’m holding the camera up
to my face. I squeeze one eye shut
and with the other peer though that tiny square
to see a miniature world
of the world
I am standing in right now.
I’m checking to make sure every
thing is in the picture.
These are my memories
I wouldn’t want
to get the wrong shot
take the wrong picture.
I make sure I get the church in the corner
it looks so picturesque that way
and with the mountains
caving down towards the center
sloping, falling, diving, pitching, dipping, plunging, plummeting.

I click the button
now the memory is locked inside
pixel by pixel
I can’t forget
I won’t forget.

I’m walking back down the mountain. The
slope is steep and
rain is just beginning to fall
making the mud a little slicker
tiny droplets on a foreign tribute
as I come back down I
see my friends, reminded
again they exist
I get lost in a world
like this one
we’re the foreigners
and I love it
swallowing every breath of humid
air I could stay here forever.
And I will
I’ve got it trapped
in a box that will come alive
it’s something material that cannot be stolen,
my memories feel taste touch
like this earth, like this world
I’ll cling, I’ll grasp

I’m sitting on a rock on the mountain. The
pastor told the others
to hurry down to the church
to go get the medical kit.
I think someone’s
banged their knee
scraped their shin.
I guess no one ever expects
the worst,
why should I?
But he’s dead now.

I’m thinking at the bottom of the mountain. The
only thing I can feel
is the box as it begins to get
heavier in my hands,
snapshots of what?
I’ve forgotten now
save I remember.
I can check on the digital screen
if my batteries weren’t dying.
And all I can hear
is his voice last night
booming in the church proclaiming

“If I died tomorrow, I know where I would go. I would go to Heaven.”

God-bless you, dear saint,
all those Peruvian men and women
who flocked then to your side
proclaiming as well
gleeful, tearful
acceptance at last as they cast away–

I’m breaking down.

I’m not alone. His
sister is sobbing uncontrollably
no one tries to stop her
the others are singing all those
songs they taught you in Bible school.

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...”

“Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so...”

All the verses I used to forget
rush back to me
like words sprung fresh
to my lips,
drinking deep of their solace
this is the only way
for us to keep time
to regulate the way
time seeps like an open wound
without end
I keep singing.
Three concussions, five broken ribs puncturing the lungs, a broken leg, a fractured skull.
An angel never fell so gracefully.

If memories could rattle,
the box dangling from my wrist
would be rattling the way
the bus rattled back down the dirt road
winding as we passed by burrows
and blackberry vines.
How the driver drove I never knew
the natives cried
as hard as us
their love had grown so strong.

I heard one boy took pictures
of his body before he knew
he wasn’t coming back,
I wonder how he must feel now,
if my camera feels this heavy
made of lead or maybe gold
what’s yours full of, friend?
Can you carry it,
or will you drop it? Let
it fall away.

I’m standing in the airport. My
bags and carrying cases and luggage
don’t weigh me down the way I thought
they would with all these souvenirs.
The carousel spins and spins,
I clutch at my camera
as my mother holds me tight
in her arms
like she’d never let
me go again.
They had to ship his body
back to America to have the funeral.

I wish I could tell someone
I snapped the photo
about the same time he fell.
I do
I did
I still.

“This is the air I breathe
This is the air I breathe
Your holy presence living in me.
This is my daily bread
This is my daily bread
Your very word spoken to me
And I
I'm desperate for you
And I
I'm lost without you.”

Justin died tomorrow three years ago at the age of seventeen.  

[Zphal]

“Band-Aid”

-My mom called me emo for this one.

It takes a while to settle into the fact
that no one loves you.
For some of us, it takes an entire
lifetime.

The pool of crimson runs out my wrists
like faucets.


I’m starting to get sleepy.


I guess you should have told me sooner
not to do it.
I’m still here for now but...


It takes a while to settle into the fact
that I was too late.
You lay bleeding, bleeding me
helpless.
For some of us, it may take
forever.  

[Zphal]

“Return to Illiteracy”

n00bspeak isn’t that much different
from Middle English
Today in theatre class I saw scratched in chalk
the words

“ju suk balz”

Immediately I seized upon the message
of this childlike endeavor to convey
some insulting terminology
through a paltry bit of inflammation
of an older language.
In the context of a “flame,”
I realized easily
n00bspeak isn’t that much different
from Middle English.

I’d go so far as to prove
that spending time on the internet
forums might make learning
Middle English a breeze!
it’s a crash-course in Shakespeare,
a blast from the 1600s,
when literacy was defunk.

“lyk oic u up their on teh baclonee lol!
wut’s ina name? taht which we call a rows,
bai any1 other word wuld semll as sweat!”

“See how she leanes her cheeke vpon her hand.
O that I were a Gloue vpon that hand,
That I might touch that cheeke.”

Allowing for misspellings, typos,
n00bspeak isn’t that much different
from Middle English

In fact now that I think about it,
all those “bawdy” references–
“My naked weapon is out!”–
are just as bad as all those n00bs
comparing p***s size electronically–
“omg! chek outt these pix1!!”

No, I don’t think that Middle English
would be all that hard to learn
in comparison to the challenge of
communication between n00bs.

n00bspeak isn’t that much different
from Middle English
don’t even mention the L337.