Iambic Magic

Iambic Magic
by Paul Lumsdaine

You first find out just what you need
And then you write with utmost speed.
The flick and flit of your swift pen
will make this sweet magic happen
Make sure to cast your thoughts quite well
so you might speak your final spell
This alchemy is hard to see
with lack of skill for melody.
If untrained ears can not quite hear–
this magic will not reappear.
But hold stead fast to these few words
hold on real tight to what you’ve heard.
Because this type of flowing verse
will be with you until the hearse.

So now before I go to the hearse
I will recite this flowing verse
to which you thought you might have heard
eavesdropping over my few words
that startle you when they reappear.
I amaze myself when I first hear
a sweet and skillful melody
that flows in me so I can see
the whole world entranced in a spell.
A flow of words dipped from the well
of not knowing what will soon happen
when I set down the tip of my pen.
And so I write with utmost speed
cause I find out just what I need.


Sloppy G.I. Joe

Sweet smell of beef and sweat,
strapped in your camo-elegance with
sand paper shoe soles.

Sorry. You won’t be going home as
soon as they told you. But I
Saw you on the news last night, with

sad faces of Shi’ite corpses
strewn in your path. There were
soldiers laughing at the rotten

smell of foreign flesh
still lingering in the air.
Sirens screamed till you were dead
silent. You can’t feel
sorry for those you have
slain because you have
surrendered reason for the
swift judgment of the sword.


Mid-morning leaves soak up the remaining dew,
as a bird flies down and picks a twig or two.
Theres a ground worm shuffling through the silt
who does not know a new nest is being built.

A dog is right there at this time,
digging his way to any place he can find,
barking so loud when he sees the bird,

A voice comes from inside,
forcing the dog to be still,
urging the bird to hide,
while the worm enjoys the till.

The voice rolls down the road
and is ready to take a spill.
The voice is forgetting what it was told
as it crashes into a bed of daffodils.

The daffys dance with the breeze
and easily attract a little bee
who takes the flower by surprise
by slowly opening up the pistil wide.

A snail slowly slimes its way beside
the stalk where the bee sits on top
and theres no word but just a vibe
that makes everything suddenly stop.

Inside the house, the voice feels it too,
and is taken over by the commotion.
As if all creatures played in perfect tune
and a steady rhythm kept it in motion.

The Threads

was once a band. Not just a group of musicians, but a band of friends. We silently fell apart, our throats aching from the screams in our songs, our bodies worn down from nefarious night activities and self-abuse. We gave up. I gave up. Others tried to keep it going, but it had lost its momentum. There was something special in those “Five Stabs to the Throat” that I still feel even to this day. I feel the sting of the words, the piercing melody of the guitars, the soft murmur of the bass and synth. I miss that feeling. I miss those guys. Sure, we had our differences and ended up hating each other’s guts. I think I can speak for everyone in saying that the only thing we regret is not sticking in it for longer, not giving it our all, not forgetting our differences to make the beautiful music we were destined to make. I think each one of us keeps the spirit of The Threads alive in ourselves, in some way. But it will be a long time before another band like that comes along. And I sit in the shadows and wait for that day to come.

The Threads were:
Brandon Fink – vocals
Matt Carr – guitar
Ryan Gracey – guitar
Mark Legaspi – bass
Dustin Fuijikawa – keys
Paul Lumsdaine – drums

Sunlight kills.

If you want the songs from the album “Five Stabs to Throat”, contact me, and I will mail you a cd with album art and all included.

Figure of Speech

Figure of Speech
by Paul Lumsdaine

It is here.
You can feel it pulsating
pulling apart the nerves under your skin
with a sensation that there’s a larger
connotation creeping in.

Your eyes can hardly believe
these strange words you see,
as if there were a beast
just within your reach
trying to somehow break
through the bars of the cage
that separate lines on a page.

And believe me when I say
that it was meant to be this way.
To shake and stir and startle your mind
so that as you read it time after time
it will never cease to be as sublime
as the first moment you saw it
with your very own eyes.

It is here.
For you to disbelieve and dissect
with a keen eye and trembling hand.
But it often takes more than that
to completely understand
the flash of images
creatively conjured
by the flick and flit
of a careful pen.

And there are many
who will let imagery fly right by,
who will not attempt to comprehend
the greater meaning that lies
below the surface of a
double a rhyme.

Yes, you will die
and its a chilling fact
that the fire burning within
your heart is but a brief candle
that fights vigoursly with the wind
to maintain its flame to the bitter end.

You can scream, you can bawl,
but you should sigh with relief
for this path that lies before you
is just a figure of speech.

Poets are Insane

Poets are one step away
from being completely insane.

Thats why I stay
as far away
as I can
from any of those
who don’t write standard academic prose.

Those creatures
who huddle over their tomes
and hold their hearts up to expose
themselves to the rest of humanity.

As if we actually cared
what one fuzzy haired
poet had to say
about a life care-free and gay!

Need I say more to prove my self?
A poet is useless off of the shelf!

Just lock up those pages in dust and time,
discard the unnecessary meter and rhyme.
Burn every tangible sign
of a poet and his troubled mind.

Because poets are one step away
from being completely insane.
And no matter how beautiful their words may be,
they have absolutely nothing to do with me.


What an amazing add-in for FireFox. FoxyTunes allows you to place your favorite audio player right in your browser. It downloads album art and supports almost any audio player you can think of (WMP, iTunes, WinAmp, Musicmatch) . It is a really neat extension and I recommend it whole heartedly. Check out the FireFox Add-Ons page for more great extensions.

And listen to good music while you’re at it.

throw it away

the trashcan sneezed. as odd as it sounds a large sneeze just came from the trashcan. the left side to be exact. and on that same side sits a few shards of a photograph of someone who recently died. at least i thought he was dead. but he just sneezed. inside of the trashcan of course.

Falling from the Sky

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is finally here. Falling from the Sky a collection of 44 stories by 37 authors. One of those authors just so happens to be me. So you can pre-order the book and help out with the costs of producing such a massive undertaking. The book is scheduled to be out early March. I am very excited. Please keep checking back at AnotherSky.org for more details and the finalized release date.

Also, keep checking back to my blog also, all you few happy blog viewers of mine, which probably includes a few of my good friends, my girlfriend and my mother. Hi mom.

saw you standing there

this is a poem i wrote one day about a man I saw standing on a street corner.

I saw you standing there
in the dark gloom of a tired stance.

There’s no telling how soon
the gloom of your decisions will fade.

I stare into the azure blue sky
and don’t see any of your gray clouds

The shroud of indecision
has been cut with an incision
through my mind.
I take three steps towards new hope
but away from you.

You fall back on your tired legs
and beg the tax man for some spare change.
Its been too long since you thought about death
and the weight of your breath
and who knows when you’ll decide
to shape up and ship out of this town.

I proceed down the path with five smiles in my pocket
and not one frown.

Cause I’m leaving this town, oh yah I’m leaving this town.
You can have these broken walls, shattered dreams, siren screams
I’m leaving this town,
and not a moment too soon.
I’m leaving this town cause I’m afraid of you.

I’m a rich white suburbanite and you’re Johnny Ghetto,
sleeping in the alleyways of the American Mind.

Only time can tell how long you will live in this hell,
before you leave this town without a frown
and walk away with five smiles in your pocket.