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Category: My Poetry


The Songs of the Spheres

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Songs of the Spheres: A Precessional Poem

by Eric Crew

As the sky pours out the heavens and the stars begin to fall,

When our days become much shorter and our words have grown too tall.

A forgetful trend of bitterness; our History that’s ensued, The stars will start their game again, the pieces have been renewed.

The Suns set soon upon the board; two Kings are all but left, Our minds yet turn to other things, more pressing than of this theft.

For the pawns have all retreated, our Time now put to test, In Space a tone has sounded; the Storm that follows rest.

Change will come chaotically and not at all as planned, With knowledge of these changes; the seers seen as damned.

At least by eyes untrained to see the truth of days that passed, But recognition is self-evident and with it happens fast;

The consciousness of duality, with its void laid bare to see, Which cocreates reality; which in turn will set you free.

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Do Not Follow – Zen Poetry

Do Not Follow

Zen Poetry.

Do not follow me;

Each step you take in my direction,

will be a step further away from yourself.

Do not listen to what I say;

My language is my own and will,

always be best understood by myself alone.

Do not think I need praise;

I am a King among Kings,

and the humblest of slaves.

Eric Anthony Crew

Eric Anthony Crew

September, 12 2011

A Runner’s Song

A Runner’s Song

Inhale.
Before I go there is always a feeling of calm that grips me.
A satisfying rush above all others before I begin.
Exhale.

Forward.
Constantly moving forward.
I would look back if I were brave, but the inertia keeps me in check.
Inhale.

My steps;
Elongated from my stride, crash along the pavement below me.
That abrasive sound pushes me even further.
Exhale.

Nothing.
Nothingness moves me.
The moment the ground is pushed away from my foot it becomes just that,
Nothing.

Inhale.
I seek the difficult paths or dangerous trails to travel.
The city provides me with living obstacles to confront, unlike the wild woods.
Exhale.

Forward.
I should stop now that I see the road isn’t clear ahead.
Yet, somehow I know when I get to that point the way will be opened, so I press on.
Forward.

Inhale.
So, I continue, no concept of anything other than what I am doing.
No ideas or beliefs to stop me now, I just am.
Nothing.

Eric Anthony Crew
April 16, 2010

Death Watch

Angels In Heaven watch down on me,
Even though I do not see,

Keeping Death away at bay,
No matter what I do or say,

He’s come for me once before,
My soul was claimed and was no more,

My heart was silent, I took no breath,
Until my Angels took me from Death,

Rekindled was my breath and heart,
A second chance for life to start,

Perhaps that’s why I cannot see,
These Angels that watch down on me,

Keeping Death away at bay,
No matter what I do or say.

Eric Anthony Crew

AP Note: This poem was written by me many years back, during a time when I did not understand my place in the world and was often obsessed with my stint with Death.

I was dead for over 7 minutes and later was in a coma for a while when I was only 14, an event that would later shape my understanding of… everything. But only after a period of transition, this poem marked the beginning of that transition.

I guess my point for bringing this up is to say that everything changes; even the darkest of nights ends in a beautiful dawn.

-Eric A Crew

It’s Me – A Self Portrait


A Self Portrait

It’s me;

I am the order strewn about my floor in sporadic chaos.
Each paper blooming out from the other like a fire,
Twisting in fragments of neglected thoughts and ink,
Forgotten like a kaleidoscope of partial dreams.

Scrutinize the pallets and I am there;

I tread slowly along the solemn blues in my sobriety.
My desire for affection is splayed in the spotty smears of desperate reds.
And my envy has its roots deep beneath the incorrigible greens,
Begrudging what I desire as it grows slyly across the page.

I am that surge of anticipation before starting;

That fleeting moment of clarity as a masterpiece rears its head from the future,
The lingering fetor of paint reeks of my own stubborn miasma.
Its resolve mirrors my own like the shifting consistency of clay,
Easily changed yet through fire and force I am hardened.

I am that dreadful resentment upon completion;

The ache of a medium as it fades from potential to actual.
I am the question that follows and thus always remain the answer.
I realize then that I am not an artisan, for it is art that dictates me.
I am contingent of art and of its existence and otherwise just wouldn’t be.

Eric Anthony Crew

M3

Originally Written 4/16/2010



As The Storm Rages
A powerful thunder rolls over the sky like a dragon,
It’s hypnotic song dances through the malevolent clouds,
The darkness that encroached the land brightens before my very eyes.

Explosions of light strike down at the beaten Earth,

As if to remind the living of a stronger Force.
The sky is sullen and wary; ready for its renewal,
Yet, in the absence of color and light; there is still beauty,
That magnificent void that can be seen without eyes,Experienced without flesh and heard with no sound.
Yet under these blanketing clouds, I find redemption;
In the shifting rain, I find your comfort,
The pressure of each drip is like your hand guiding me forward.
In the howling wind, I hear your wisdom,
The sounds of your whispers are all around me and within,
And through the Darkness, I can feel your Light,
Your Soul,
Your presence,
And I know.
I understand;
That in me,
 Your love will live forever.

I Stand Alone

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I Stand Alone
Eric Anthony Crew

 

Into the green fields and luscious foliage I roam,

Embracing the sweet smell of roses and flowers as I tread,

Smiling, wider still; I inhale the particles of air and dander that beseech my lungs to a deeper taste.

Around myself, a great loneliness encompasses me.

I find myself comforted by the stillness of the night,

For we are never truly alone.

The towering trees wash over me with their cold shadows,

Kissing my skin lightly as I wander further into the path that beckons me.

What great thoughts and images have I endured that I will never remember?

What horrible things have I done that I will never forget?

A bittersweet complacency fills me as I realize that nothing will ever matter more than this very moment.

As my eyes open wide once again to my reality,

My solemn expression brightens the cold city that surrounds me.

The symphony of the wind cuts into my ears as the temperature melts into my consciousness.

The busy lives of many men flow like a stream between the still and silent buildings around me,

My breath escapes from me and is torn away into the night.

As I search the crowd for another to notice as I do the inconsequential details of life,

I once again look up from the masses and watch as the empty sky swallows the rooftops.

Suddenly, I remember the roses blooming and the sun fleeting through the leaves in the trees,

I remember the smells of spring and the tides of a distant shore calling.

And amidst the crowd under the shrouding darkness of the city,

I remember that immense loneliness that makes time stand still.

And as the next pass of wind washes over me, a smile spreads,

For that is the most comforting feeling of all.

April 16th, 2010


City Smiles

My Poetry

Pathways – Philosophical Poetry

Pathways…

 

In all the choices we make,

beneath our feet in the directions we choose to step,

the effects of our own mindset are all around us,

the energy we exude collides with the spirals of light we cross,

the emotion we portray billows into the empathy of another,

the thoughts we believe are sacred will influence the stranger you just passed,

and the truth behind it all is within your eyes,

and to behold the truth one need only to look inside,

for we always knew and always will know,

that life is tangible, pliable and easily changed,

so why then do you ask of me,
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Dining With Pulchritude

Delicately perched and displaced from their gazes,

She postures herself so as not to forget,

The curse that courses through all of her graces,

From her disengaged grin to her dress’ own slit,

If else had noticed, it was not on their faces,

As her insides recede to a cavernous pit,

But hers is a curse in demand in these places,

And by those who seem to have only a bit.

Surely this hexing must then be a blessing,

Cold emerald eyes like a dead president’s print,

No pestering questions too ponderous or pressing,

A toast with her glass of swirled liquor and mint,

She’s immaculate and lavish and yet patently known,

That her table is empty for she dines all alone.

Eric Anthony Crew
March 14, 2009

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