Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem.
Seize the Day!
--The Dead Poets Society
Aug. 23. 2014
2.24am

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

What Am I?

KIERSTEN BENSON 

(1997-20--)

STAG

THE KING of solace,

Grazes in the wood.

A crown of timber rests upon his head.

Damp earth quells below him. 

Deep roots bow within him.

Yet the sky is not his victim.

Trees and life become his cloak.

He carries nothing else.

A steady traveler, he becomes. 

His call is composed,

The film of white he'll never see.

A captive to a lonesome heart, he remains.  

No army bears his name.

Misting breath swirls as his flag.

He is brave, yet he stands alone. 

His enemies whisper in the dark.

The music of the forest entices,

Trembling through his pulsing slippers.

Marrow and freedom meet silently.

Woodlands create cathedrals.

As always, he kneels to no one.

His eyes trace your outline, 

Though he sees far behind you. 

Forevermore, he beckons no one.

Silence is his cradle. 

The stars are his companions. 

Forever the King of Solace, he remains. 

(k.b.)

August 7. 2014 

8.06PM // Thurs.

THE STAG'S CROWN

"WINGS"

August 7, 2014
Thursday
1:03PM

"Wings"

"Here we go," He whispered. 
But, I didn't want to do it. 
Here we stood, rooted to a cathedral
more regal than the sky. 
Here we stood, staring at the apostles
hoping they could stop us,
snatch our broken spirits and
make us whole.
Or perhaps the wind could stop us, 
breathe us away to another time, 
a better time than where we existed now.
Make the world forget us.
But it wouldn't.
The lights go down, 
I just want to be yours. 
Not the skies. 
These walls will be my anguish.
My heart begins to thrash.  
"The night will be your rapport,"
Only my thoughts can save me now.
We begin to rapture in unison.
Air agitates around us, enclosing
the world we knew, to nothing. 
"One more step into the unknown,"
He doesn't see my tortured soul. 
No one ever did. 
The escaping sunlight illuminates our skin,
clouds begin to whisper. 
Night comes creeping in.
He takes my hand, my thoughts slip away
and then he thinks of me. 
"Ready,"
A part of me is.
"Just one breath,"
Then we fall. 
My lungs betrayed me.
One small step and then 
we fell. 
If only these wings could fly... 
Somehow they do.
My fingertips dance with the spirit of freedom.
My hair ignites the sky. 
"Wings aren't meant for flying," He spoke, above the heavens.
I wonder why, in a moment of fierce freedom, 
why he cares to speak. 
"They're meant for seeing,"
They always were. 

(k.b.)