![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
they don't normally take me like that
While I do write songs, or poems, now and then, it is usually for a bardic competition, or a gift for a friend, and while it often happens that one or two ideas for them come quickly, it usually takes fair bit of effort to get an entire song or poem completely written.
Last night, on the other hand, as I was about to crawl into bed a bit of a verse started bubbling up in my mind, so I grabbed my phone, opened an app in which I could type, and words just flowed out. Lots of them. When I was done I sent them, typos and all (without even so much as looking at what I had typed) to a friend, with a comment "Hopefully now I will sleep, tomorrow I can decide if it is worth cleaning up, or if it has served its purposes". When I woke up in the morning I saw that he had replied "Worth cleaning up.", so I copied the message I had sent him into a Word document (way easier than plugging the phone into a computer!) and had a look.
The only changes that have happened since then are fixing the typos induced by the phone's keyboard, a few minor changes of wording to better fit the rhythm, and sticking line breaks in at consistent places.
A pandemic poem
How oft has man seen man laid low,
struck down and ill, too weak to go,
and cried in anguish at the punishment
from god, or gods, whose cruel whim
does crush a mortal blow?
With time and learning have we found
a different tale; not gods, but simple
creatures seek to thrive and find
that niche where each can double grow,
and grow again, redoubled ever more.
Yet as they thrive, all unwitting
do they us bind; imprisoned in
our homes; none dare to leave until
that day that vaccine is achieved
can loose the binds and set us free.
Then to behold a world so changed
from what it was, a few brief weeks
before, so many dead, yet but
a drop in the bucket that is
the teeming flesh of mortal man,
who dared to justify rampant
breeding by their legends of old
of a god who gave dominion
unto his chosen race, to bend
to will all that they e're did see;
thus revelling with all their might,
spreading filth, and waste and ruin.
Even as we wrought our great works
of art and kindness; touched we all
our fellow man, and beast, one by
one spreading words of love and hope;
connections that bring joy to all
and wisdom to a chosen few.
But which will thrive in this new change-
ed state? Those who do hate and feel
themselves supreme, or those who with
kindness treat one and all? We can
not know from where we sit, and wait
as each slow page the turning book
reveals the twists of fate, slowly,
ever changed, we learn, once again
how to live with a small virus,
battering at the doors and some,
perhaps enough, of those who care
are in a place to bring new hope for all.
Last night, on the other hand, as I was about to crawl into bed a bit of a verse started bubbling up in my mind, so I grabbed my phone, opened an app in which I could type, and words just flowed out. Lots of them. When I was done I sent them, typos and all (without even so much as looking at what I had typed) to a friend, with a comment "Hopefully now I will sleep, tomorrow I can decide if it is worth cleaning up, or if it has served its purposes". When I woke up in the morning I saw that he had replied "Worth cleaning up.", so I copied the message I had sent him into a Word document (way easier than plugging the phone into a computer!) and had a look.
The only changes that have happened since then are fixing the typos induced by the phone's keyboard, a few minor changes of wording to better fit the rhythm, and sticking line breaks in at consistent places.
A pandemic poem
How oft has man seen man laid low,
struck down and ill, too weak to go,
and cried in anguish at the punishment
from god, or gods, whose cruel whim
does crush a mortal blow?
With time and learning have we found
a different tale; not gods, but simple
creatures seek to thrive and find
that niche where each can double grow,
and grow again, redoubled ever more.
Yet as they thrive, all unwitting
do they us bind; imprisoned in
our homes; none dare to leave until
that day that vaccine is achieved
can loose the binds and set us free.
Then to behold a world so changed
from what it was, a few brief weeks
before, so many dead, yet but
a drop in the bucket that is
the teeming flesh of mortal man,
who dared to justify rampant
breeding by their legends of old
of a god who gave dominion
unto his chosen race, to bend
to will all that they e're did see;
thus revelling with all their might,
spreading filth, and waste and ruin.
Even as we wrought our great works
of art and kindness; touched we all
our fellow man, and beast, one by
one spreading words of love and hope;
connections that bring joy to all
and wisdom to a chosen few.
But which will thrive in this new change-
ed state? Those who do hate and feel
themselves supreme, or those who with
kindness treat one and all? We can
not know from where we sit, and wait
as each slow page the turning book
reveals the twists of fate, slowly,
ever changed, we learn, once again
how to live with a small virus,
battering at the doors and some,
perhaps enough, of those who care
are in a place to bring new hope for all.