Poetry's Square (Entry 2):

For poetry fans and readers: I break several conventions when I write poetry. The most confusing one for English teachers is that I habitually eliminate punctuation from the end of each line. It is my "style" if you will. In poetic convention, if you do not have punctuation at the end of each line; however, you are supposed to read through it and act like there is no break. For me, though, you can just assume that as each line ends...there is a hidden comma, period, colon, or semicolon there. most people pause at the end of each line anyway...but you aren't supposed to...I will try to insert the appropriate symbols for posts ...but if I miss a few that's why. They aren't there in my poetry folder. I think, for those who rigidly follow grammar, that if you will pause appropriately at the end of each line, esp. on the last post that you will more easily discover the underlying rhythym. But most of you didn't seem to have a problem...I suppose it's easier to find the pattern then I expected anyway...and I just realized that explanation was pointless since I will be inserting the punctuation from now on. Actually, just forget all of that...not every line pauses, and I didn't realize the problem, because I know in my mind how it is supposed to sound...here I'll fix it. ;)

That aside...
For the surreal-minded here is an interesting poem for you:
Ask yourself this question: What would the world look like without God?
Here is my answer to that question...

Where the Banshee Calls:

Shout a song of violence,
And see our hearts ignite.
Volcanoes deep within ourselves
Spew forth a hellish light.

Deep within a warlike psyche
Lays death, a latent strife.
Takes but a key to open up
Before Pandora bites.

Mirrors gleam upon the walls
And hearts stare back at us.
The mocking faces always call
And echo back our lusts.

Red and black--still we lack--
Our burning banish us;
To ever wander by ourselves
Amidst the curs’ed dust.

Wail and moan--death and groan--
The Banshee calls upon its own.
Upon our moonless nights of gray,
That turn to fire with the day.

There morning glistens with surprise,
On blades of blood, with red sunrise,
For all the world is burning.
There is no cure for what's inside.

Terror gleams and favor rides,
Upon the wings of death’s arise.
To endless sleep--we hear the call--
And rush to kill--and then we fall...

The shutter halts its onward thrust,
Our work--again--returns to dust.
For human is as human does;
We all are products of our lust.

Dissipation--haunting calls.
It echoes softly in our dreams,
As dreams to dust again return,
And silence reigns on flick'ring scenes...

~Dan Midgett 12/12/08 9:00 PM