From Queen to Son

This is just a little exercise I thought I might try out.

The two accounts read perfectly well individually.

Also, you can take the odd lines of one and the even lines of the other to form a poem.
So, four poems in all; two free-verse and two with a paired-off rhyme scheme and not much rhythm...

Son of Perdition

1 A horse and buggy clop and clack down the cobblestone street
2 A young lad is working even before the day starts
3 He's mussed and dirty from shoveling slop in the filthy pig stye
4 He hangs his head in a regretful bow of inferiority
5 His wrists are covered up by leather sleeves that to his forearms reach
6 His hair hangs heavy, weighted by the morning dew
7 His world is miles away from the bickering of parliament
8 His countenance is sickly and his skin is pale and spotty
9 The boy wants nothing more than to be at peace within
10 His life's encapsulated in a hut by the creek
11 He wishes he was brighter and he wishes he was stronger
12 From the jaws of emptiness he needs greatly to be saved
13 No song could ever build his will
14 No strength could lift him up
15 No righteous deed could his guilt still
16 No hope could fill his cup
17 He needs a light to lift his sighs
18 He's in need of forgiveness for he has no excuse
19 He's in need of a beast, his burdens to bear
20 He needs a comforter, a keeper, a home
21 He runs from the harvest he surely will reap
22 He runs from the light and heads straight to hell's gate

Queen of Perdition (The Queen and the Son)

1 A trumpet sounds and curtains part
2 A royal figure is laid out upon satin sheets
3 She is voluptuous and tan with an air of superiority
4 Her eyes are like clouded jewels that reflect a stormy desert sky
5 Her hair flows like an infant stream, carrying the purest of brown hue
6 To see her lips is like tasting a crisp ripened peach
7 She is adorned with jewelery that falls across her body
8 And while they are more costly than the finest treasures of Solomon,
9 Her finery does no justice to the perfection of her physique
10 Her beauty blazes bright from a pyre beneath her skin
11 Her words echo throughout the gilded halls and into the ears of a thousand slaves
12 Each one is quick to do her bidding and struggles to look upon her
13 No man could ever hope to comprehend her
14 No artisan could ever hope to capture her
15 No army could ever hope to destroy her
16 She is beauty itself and holds all at attention
17 Her bidding is impossible for mortals to refuse
18 Yet her way is destruction and she speaks only lies
19 Yet her words are like daggers and she always sleeps alone
20 Yet her beauty is a guillotine and her fragrance a snare
21 Yet her path leads to loneliness, bitterness, and hate
22 She lives without life and dreams without sleep

Compelled

I am a man who lives and works in solitude
Tending gardens, praying for the destitute
I wear a simple habit and two simply fashioned sandals
And spend my nights reading by the light of a wax candle

The monastery's always been a home to me
I've never wondered how it might otherwise be
I keep a friendly feline I've named Randall
We spend our night sitting by the light of a wax candle

And I feed him
And I read to him
But he doesn't know the stories that I tell
In the garden
I beg God's pardon
And to a deeper life I often feel compelled

One day I walked into the town to get supplies
And as I strolled I turned and saw, to my surprise
An invalid who had no place to call his own
I asked and found that he was all alone

I took the man to a corner store and bought him food
And to the tailor who could fix his tattered suit
He told me of his life and how he made his ends
I told him of my solitude and feline friend

How I feed him
How I read to him
But he doesn't know the stories that I tell
How in the garden
I beg God's pardon
And to a deeper life I often feel compelled

Taking my sack, I started home and bid "goodbye"
He thanked me for the help I gave and then began to cry
I saw in him a need that I knew must be felled
That night I prayed to God and felt compelled

We live together now inside a humble cottage
I share my various recipes of warm pottage
Meeting the need of this friend I found, I am content
A deeper life, my God has finally sent

And I feed him
And I read to him
And he's thankful for the stories that I tell
When people ask
Why I had to act
My answer is that I had felt compelled

RE: "makeup"

I've had at least one person contact me about this poem because they were concerned about who this poem was about.

"makeup", like many other poems is only a picture, not a portrait. It describes a girl overcome by image to the point of losing identity. This is not about a specific person. As insulting as it would be if it were, I wouldn't have posted it if it were about a specific person. I can see where there would be confusion considering some of the language used, but the narrator in this one is NOT me. It's a voice that tells the story.

-Nick Hibbeler

last cry of humanity

world, close in and remove me
beauty takes place when i am removed
God empty your lungs and remove me
let wonder and majesty exist
remove my dreams remove my wants
remove my words remove my faults
God of creation or creation itself
exist on and on
exist without the spectator
wind whips and tree bends
exist and glorify on and on
water ripples and fish swims
exist and glorify on and on
nature plays and lives and breaths
exist without, go on and on
our souls are nothing
our lives are less
our thoughts are nothing
our words are less
a rock sits still and sings more loudly
a star shines bright and worships soundly
remove our stain
remove the pain
remove our greed
release the seed
let existence crowd me out
remove me God
remove me please
remove this evil parent of chaos

makeup

she's a woman of the world
looks to vogue to find her inner girl
her eyelashes will dance around their sinner's twirl
no light can pierce her eye-shadow
no ice can cool her blush
and in the solace of her makeup room there's not a hush
not a touch of human left under the paint
she's lost herself, identity is faint
she's glossed herself, identity is quaint

in a room upstairs she'll draw the stares
and justify the route she took to draw them there
straighten her hair and strip her insecurities bare
put her on her back and she'll be home sweet home
but don't attach anything to it, it must be sterilized
paralyzed by love, little boys will cry out their eyes
and she'll count the score and claim the prize
twisting every mental picture till the cock cries
while their cocks sigh and meaning takes the back seat to die

don't read too much into it all, cause i'll give you the digest
please excuse the emotional baggage while i digress:
i confess that to this mess i was a first-hand witness
you don't have to read between the lines to sense the stress
i guess my heart goes out to her because i know her well
she's living proof that death doesn't need to come before hell
she's no stranger to the danger of facing bitter truth
so like us, she'll lie to satisfy her sweet tooth
we all sing: ignorance is bliss
and since we don't know who she is or could possibly be
blissfully we'll come to find that illusion's all we see