The Road less Traveled
By Kristopher Pittman
PREFACE:
I have enjoyed writing for as long as I can remember. The chance to intelligently express my feelings and to perhaps create something of relevance is the main reason I choose to write in the first place. Poetry, for me, is yet another outlet of expression for a drive that, too often times, has ended up on the back shelf of priorities in my life.
The selections that I have included in the portfolio are all different glimpses into what makes me an individual. Some are obviously more serious than others, and still others offer a lighter prospective about the things that I enjoy. It is also apparent in reading these pieces that they, like me, are unfinished creations. I hope to look back on these poems with a fresh prospective in the future, and help them reach a more defined outcome.
It is my earnest hope that the poems that I write will be as entertaining for some to read, as they have been for me to write. I have truly enjoyed this challenge and I look forward to refining this craft in the future.
The selections that I have included in the portfolio are all different glimpses into what makes me an individual. Some are obviously more serious than others, and still others offer a lighter prospective about the things that I enjoy. It is also apparent in reading these pieces that they, like me, are unfinished creations. I hope to look back on these poems with a fresh prospective in the future, and help them reach a more defined outcome.
It is my earnest hope that the poems that I write will be as entertaining for some to read, as they have been for me to write. I have truly enjoyed this challenge and I look forward to refining this craft in the future.
I dedicate this Portfolio to:
The ever Charming And Beautiful Shea Eck, your inspiration has quite literally melted mountains,
To the friends and family that manage to tolerate my incessant ramblings,
And to my fellow Brown Coats,
May they never stop the signal.
Table of Contents:
1.) Kristopher
1.) Kristopher
2.) Red, Ayrah
3.) War
4.) Freckles
5.) Tornado Alley
6.) Father Time
7.) Jealousy
8.) Love at First Fizz
9.) Death Moan
10.) Death on Chowning
Acrostic Poetry
“Kristopher”
Kind hearted cynic
Rebelling against age
Imagination's content captive
Spewing sarcasm
Timid to a fault
Open minded to a point
Plodding through life
Head always in the clouds
Endeavoring to create something
Relevant
Rebelling against age
Imagination's content captive
Spewing sarcasm
Timid to a fault
Open minded to a point
Plodding through life
Head always in the clouds
Endeavoring to create something
Relevant
The Haiku
“Red” “Ayrah”
Blind torrents of rage Late night wandering
rushing over barricades pondering the slumbering
Facades are fading of so many souls
Narrative
"War"
"To the depths!" he exclaimed,
with such finality I would have followed him anywhere.
And like all good soldiers we marched.
Through worn leather and cracked skin we marched.
Over pools of blood and piles of bone we marched.
A unified cadence of breath and step we marched.
No time for ethics or introspective soul searching,
if the world held some grand meaning beyond our advance it was lost.
The steel behind the eyes of every man reflected the same resolve,
the same anticipation of the clash to come,
and as always, of how things might end.
For the lucky ones, the sweet release of rest.
As for the damned, we still marched.
A unified cadence of breath and step we marched.
"To the depths!" he exclaimed,
with such finality I would have followed him anywhere.
And like all good soldiers we marched.
Through worn leather and cracked skin we marched.
Over pools of blood and piles of bone we marched.
A unified cadence of breath and step we marched.
No time for ethics or introspective soul searching,
if the world held some grand meaning beyond our advance it was lost.
The steel behind the eyes of every man reflected the same resolve,
the same anticipation of the clash to come,
and as always, of how things might end.
For the lucky ones, the sweet release of rest.
As for the damned, we still marched.
A unified cadence of breath and step we marched.
3rd Person Narrative
”Freckles”
A blemish
Dirty specs on sun-kissed skin
Imperfection
Tiny objects of a lover's attention
like water-marks on a portrait
stains of an artist's affection
Accidental accents
left by the lips of an angel
Making us human
Unique
Beautiful in a broken way
Dirty specs on sun-kissed skin
Imperfection
Tiny objects of a lover's attention
like water-marks on a portrait
stains of an artist's affection
Accidental accents
left by the lips of an angel
Making us human
Unique
Beautiful in a broken way
Place
“Tornado Alley”
The rapping of rain against the window panes
signals another spring spent in Tornado alley.
Like a Doomsday prophet the night before Armageddon,
Meteorologist Mike Morgan mutters zealous warnings somewhere in the background.
"I'll believe it when I see it", I scoff.
The harsh thud of hail brings me into the present.
Packed like sardines we cram into a crowded closet,
an interesting mix of perfume and sweat cut with fear assaults my nose.
I think my personal bubble just popped.
Wait for the train some say,
close your eyes and hold on tight.
All aboard! Next stop the Yellow Brick Road.
Not this night though,
the train never comes.
I suppose I should thank the conductor.
We spill from the closet like marbles scattering across a hardwood floor.
Disaster averted,
for now at least.
It is a long season after all.
signals another spring spent in Tornado alley.
Like a Doomsday prophet the night before Armageddon,
Meteorologist Mike Morgan mutters zealous warnings somewhere in the background.
"I'll believe it when I see it", I scoff.
The harsh thud of hail brings me into the present.
Packed like sardines we cram into a crowded closet,
an interesting mix of perfume and sweat cut with fear assaults my nose.
I think my personal bubble just popped.
Wait for the train some say,
close your eyes and hold on tight.
All aboard! Next stop the Yellow Brick Road.
Not this night though,
the train never comes.
I suppose I should thank the conductor.
We spill from the closet like marbles scattering across a hardwood floor.
Disaster averted,
for now at least.
It is a long season after all.
The Question Poem
”Father Time”
Where does the time go?
As if it's something we could possibly keep,
or lose for that matter.
Maybe, it slipped through a hole in my pocket.
Crowded by loose change it mounted a daring escape
and when no one was looking it fell carelessly to the floor.
Maybe, it crept quietly away while I slept,
taking a ratty knapsack,
a zip lock full of pb and j's,
and my darn alarm clock with it.
Or maybe, I didn't misplace it at all,
but rather
became misplaced in it.
Where does the time go?
I marched on like the white rabbit instructed.
Each step in sync with the second hand of his pocket watch.
Such a fickle thing, this obsession
always so much but too little.
Yet I grind on.
Cogs in the temporal machine
pining after that which has already been swallowed.
The Sonnet
"Jealousy"
Surprise me old friend, let the rumor unfold
I await the rush of your embrace
For I can hardly imagine lies untold
An all too familiar burn consumes my face
Always in half truths you whisper to me
A web full of deception gathers its mass
So eager to listen unable to see
My once calm demeanor shatters like glass
A life marred by regret I finally give in
Consumed by rage I explode
Covered in red that magnifies sin
Without hesitation I cast the first stone
Standing alone, no foundation remains
I have destroyed the trust it took a lifetime to obtain.
Surprise me old friend, let the rumor unfold
I await the rush of your embrace
For I can hardly imagine lies untold
An all too familiar burn consumes my face
Always in half truths you whisper to me
A web full of deception gathers its mass
So eager to listen unable to see
My once calm demeanor shatters like glass
A life marred by regret I finally give in
Consumed by rage I explode
Covered in red that magnifies sin
Without hesitation I cast the first stone
Standing alone, no foundation remains
I have destroyed the trust it took a lifetime to obtain.
Modern Ode
”Love at first fizz”
”Love at first fizz”
Lightly caressing your aluminum head,
I crack you open with a defiant hiss.
More addictive than greed I cherish every drop
that tingles that back of my parched throat.
The mild burning begins to do its trick,
and despite the early hour I can feel my body begin to wake.
23 flavors most certainly runs in this family,
I am a third generation slave of this thirst.
My girlfriend says that you'll eventually be the death of me
yet I can hardly refrain from sip after precious sip.
If death does come, I can only hope it will taste as sweet.
I crack you open with a defiant hiss.
More addictive than greed I cherish every drop
that tingles that back of my parched throat.
The mild burning begins to do its trick,
and despite the early hour I can feel my body begin to wake.
23 flavors most certainly runs in this family,
I am a third generation slave of this thirst.
My girlfriend says that you'll eventually be the death of me
yet I can hardly refrain from sip after precious sip.
If death does come, I can only hope it will taste as sweet.
Villanelle
"Death Moan"
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
The vacant eyes of the angry man
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
The end of the world now covered in red
I share the joke of the angry man
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
A numbing sense of swelling dread
Reflects the loss of the angry man
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
Does the soul leave too, when life has fled
The mangled chest of the angry man
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
His crimson mouth tears me to shreds
The vengeful moan of the angry man
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
My last regrets remain unsaid
I join the ranks of the angry man
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
The vacant eyes of the angry man
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
The end of the world now covered in red
I share the joke of the angry man
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
A numbing sense of swelling dread
Reflects the loss of the angry man
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
Does the soul leave too, when life has fled
The mangled chest of the angry man
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
His crimson mouth tears me to shreds
The vengeful moan of the angry man
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
My last regrets remain unsaid
I join the ranks of the angry man
A blood soaked grin trying to get fed
Gnashing teeth of the walking dead
Addressing a Person
“Death on Chowning”
I woke up this morning and I could feel
this crack spreading underneath my feet,
like there's a hole in the world
and it's swallowed me whole.
Absent mindedly discarded I begin my descent
like a pebble tossed down a well.
I woke up this morning and I could feel
this crack spreading underneath my feet,
like there's a hole in the world
and it's swallowed me whole.
Absent mindedly discarded I begin my descent
like a pebble tossed down a well.
Always, only, drawn to you
And in this loss of gravity my heart spills over,
the silver shards of mist from a broken wave.
And if only for that moment these pieces of me shimmer and shine,
tiny apparitions sparking tremors that shake the very soul of me.
My life's beauty woven tightly amidst strands of blonde hair,
I never knew I could fall so far until I landed here.
the silver shards of mist from a broken wave.
And if only for that moment these pieces of me shimmer and shine,
tiny apparitions sparking tremors that shake the very soul of me.
My life's beauty woven tightly amidst strands of blonde hair,
I never knew I could fall so far until I landed here.
Always, only, drawn to you
A rush of emotions and I'm back to the night I died,
a guest in my own memories, the ghost of a time since past.
I see shadows or flickers of shadows,
silhouettes rushing past me,
blurs of luminescence, dancing in corners
like the fleeting light off a dying candle flame.
a guest in my own memories, the ghost of a time since past.
I see shadows or flickers of shadows,
silhouettes rushing past me,
blurs of luminescence, dancing in corners
like the fleeting light off a dying candle flame.
Always, only, drawn to you
A hooded stranger I'm forced to huddle outside,
a rouge wind playing at my back,
ferrying stray leaves across an asphalt ocean.
Cloaked in moonlight I stare through smudged windowpanes
carefully observing the two specters spinning inside.
That night you held me captive.
a rouge wind playing at my back,
ferrying stray leaves across an asphalt ocean.
Cloaked in moonlight I stare through smudged windowpanes
carefully observing the two specters spinning inside.
That night you held me captive.
Always, only, drawn to you
And I, a petty thief, stealing glances in the presence of a goddess.
Marooned on an island of plaid couch cushions we sat,
a vast sea of carpet keeping us worlds apart.
And then it happened, suddenly so close I could touch you.
I realize now I never stood a chance.
I simply react to the way you move me.
Always, only, drawn to you
Marooned on an island of plaid couch cushions we sat,
a vast sea of carpet keeping us worlds apart.
And then it happened, suddenly so close I could touch you.
I realize now I never stood a chance.
I simply react to the way you move me.
Always, only, drawn to you
Fated, if there were such a thing,
a derelict novelty we cling to like a parent’s hand.
Conjuring Notions of Crossing Stars,
comets staining the sky with brilliant sapphire.
a derelict novelty we cling to like a parent’s hand.
Conjuring Notions of Crossing Stars,
comets staining the sky with brilliant sapphire.
So unreal, yet here I am,
and if this isn’t real, then I forfeit my awareness.
Always, only, drawn to you
Always, only, drawn to you
Unimaginable, though I dare to imagine,
you compel me that way,
pulling me through space and time,
you compel me that way,
pulling me through space and time,
calling me past world and reality.
All weightless in your orbit we turn, held in place by your beauty,
All weightless in your orbit we turn, held in place by your beauty,
and I, the unworthy prisoner of that obsession.
Always, only, drawn to you
Effulgent, answering only to itself
Our Love, our Monet colored sky
Circling back into itself, a blueprint of perfection
It simply is
You simply are
I simply am
Always, only, drawn to you
Effulgent, answering only to itself
Our Love, our Monet colored sky
Circling back into itself, a blueprint of perfection
It simply is
You simply are
I simply am
Always, only, drawn to you
Biography:
Kristopher Pittman is just your average, freakishly strong, charismatically witty, devilishly rugged and handsome, "Rogue Zombie Hunter"; on the raggedy edge of the verse bringin' the fuzzy wuzzies of clandestine dealings to those that happen across his path.
That, and maybe share in a few laughs, a few drinks, and if he finds your company pleasant enough, just maybe he'll show you his immense comic book collection. He's seldom if ever to be taken seriously, and has been burdened with an over abundance of sarcasm, so much so even he can't even tell when he's joking. He finds most aspects of life extremely amusing and is all but convinced that we're all just tired guests on some old man's ant farm.
On a more somber note, say something in b flat. He tends to enjoy a touch of solitude, occasional late night strolls in the desert, left alone with his shovel, and a neat glass of scotch every evening to help his self reflections become a less tyrannical.
He has been writing ever since he can remember and he hopes to one day make money from it. Not an exuberant amount mind you, just enough to say, "Hey world, I did it!" He is a fan of both fiction and non fiction and favor's the genres of sci-fi and fantasy. As for poetry, he believes it is the one creative language that he'll never quite master, but enjoys every aspect of such a personal and difficult craft.
Kristopher Pittman is just your average, freakishly strong, charismatically witty, devilishly rugged and handsome, "Rogue Zombie Hunter"; on the raggedy edge of the verse bringin' the fuzzy wuzzies of clandestine dealings to those that happen across his path.
That, and maybe share in a few laughs, a few drinks, and if he finds your company pleasant enough, just maybe he'll show you his immense comic book collection. He's seldom if ever to be taken seriously, and has been burdened with an over abundance of sarcasm, so much so even he can't even tell when he's joking. He finds most aspects of life extremely amusing and is all but convinced that we're all just tired guests on some old man's ant farm.
On a more somber note, say something in b flat. He tends to enjoy a touch of solitude, occasional late night strolls in the desert, left alone with his shovel, and a neat glass of scotch every evening to help his self reflections become a less tyrannical.
He has been writing ever since he can remember and he hopes to one day make money from it. Not an exuberant amount mind you, just enough to say, "Hey world, I did it!" He is a fan of both fiction and non fiction and favor's the genres of sci-fi and fantasy. As for poetry, he believes it is the one creative language that he'll never quite master, but enjoys every aspect of such a personal and difficult craft.
Reviews of Mr. Pittman’s Literary Works:
-I loved the descriptions in this poem. I lived in an old farm house growing up and we spent many summer nights in the basement waiting for the tornado to lift or come our way. I really enjoyed how you were able to procure the exact feeling of the air when that kind of natural threat is present. I really enjoyed this piece.
-This is a sweet way of looking at beauties "little imperfections."
-This narrative you wrote was really meaningful. I grasped the idea of soldiers marching to their doom, fighting a war where meaninglessness is the theme. I really liked a lot of the diction you used because it wasn't straight forward, but it was not hard to understand either. With marching, one can anticipate a "rhythm" to the feet of the soldiers. I felt like your poem did the same, creating repetition in the words "we marched." Great job.
-What a fantastic poem. Truly one of my favorites so far in this class. The word usage makes this poem poignant, especially the repetition of "we marched". There was so much in this poem it felt like a soldier loading a gun and aiming, with the feeling that the climax of pulling the trigger was going to occur at any moment. I could feel the depth and emotion behind this all the way through, fantastic.
-I really love your word choices! They add great intensity to your poems and they are fun to read! The second poem is my favorite. I love the two lines “pondering the slumbering of so many souls”. It’s memorable. Thank you for sharing your work!
-You wrote one of the most amazing poems I have read in a long time. I think you captured this mystical experience of love that ends in a blissful recognition of drowning. I have been there working through my perceptions and realizing I, too, have seen nothing but the dream I longed to understand. I could write more. Your poem makes me want to write more!
-This is a sweet way of looking at beauties "little imperfections."
-This narrative you wrote was really meaningful. I grasped the idea of soldiers marching to their doom, fighting a war where meaninglessness is the theme. I really liked a lot of the diction you used because it wasn't straight forward, but it was not hard to understand either. With marching, one can anticipate a "rhythm" to the feet of the soldiers. I felt like your poem did the same, creating repetition in the words "we marched." Great job.
-What a fantastic poem. Truly one of my favorites so far in this class. The word usage makes this poem poignant, especially the repetition of "we marched". There was so much in this poem it felt like a soldier loading a gun and aiming, with the feeling that the climax of pulling the trigger was going to occur at any moment. I could feel the depth and emotion behind this all the way through, fantastic.
-I really love your word choices! They add great intensity to your poems and they are fun to read! The second poem is my favorite. I love the two lines “pondering the slumbering of so many souls”. It’s memorable. Thank you for sharing your work!
-You wrote one of the most amazing poems I have read in a long time. I think you captured this mystical experience of love that ends in a blissful recognition of drowning. I have been there working through my perceptions and realizing I, too, have seen nothing but the dream I longed to understand. I could write more. Your poem makes me want to write more!
