Poem

Out in the field where the weeds rustle, and bend and shimmer in waves like golden honey.
Only the stars can see us, those stars, encapsulated by their deep folds of space
Their lights winking out one by one by one, until we're all that's left.

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Poem

I walked down my path through the trees; the sunlight streaming down in golden rays, and illuminating each individual needle on the towering pines beside me, dazzling my eyes.This spot in the forest was mine; there was no sign, no deed in my name, but it was mine. I could sense it in the way that the trees recognized me and waved their branches, could sense it in the whisper of the lazy wind as it made its way through the leaves; the sun warming my back like a friendly smile, or the deep reverberations of the earth, as it awakened with every step, welcoming me back. 














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Ocean

Sometimes I'm like an ocean.

I can feel waves and currents pulling the threads of my being into the deep.










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Desiderata

This basically sums up my whole life. This is everything I believe in, and everything that I strive to be. It's the model by which I live. It's simple and perfect.

Desiderata is Latin for "desired things".

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Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

-Max Ehrmann

Change (poem)

I took a walk today, and I met someone along the way.

She was wearing a long white dress, no shoes, with a bright yellow flower in her hair.
We walked awhile, wending our way leisurely down the path as the wind blew warm laughter through the leaves and the light danced with shadow, waltzing in circles around our feet.

We spoke no words.
Everything we needed to say passed between us in heartbeats and the crunch of pebbles beneath our feet.

As we walked along, the trees began to change. The sunlight grew thin and the leaves began their dying dance toward the expectant earth.

I looked over at her, but she had changed too. She was now striking in a black dress, with lips painted deep crimson and a black hat that dipped down and covered her eyes.

The path became uneasy now. The air grew colder, the surroundings increasingly barren until all I could see were tree skeletons and the unspoken words my breath left like crystals on the frigid air.

I looked back again, but she was gone.
Nothing left but her name, the word, left like a faint whisper of gold dust in the air.
Change...



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Fireworks (poem)

The canvas of my mind is dark like the night sky.
There are stars and planets that faintly dot the darkness with points of light
Occasionally, the moon comes up, in a variance of one of its cycles, and casts a soft glow over everything.

But that's not what I want.

What I want are fireworks.
I want explosions of color to paint my sky, different and unique bursts of light and shapes cascading and spiraling and painting vibrant pictures that tell stories.

I don't want my life to be another night panged with anticipation. Another bland night where I watch the sky, just hoping for something to happen.

No. I'm ready to take action. And if I have to strike the match and light the fuse myself, I will.




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Poem

I don't know why i wrote this poem.
Languishing in what's wrong, Outside of myself, lingering there.
Vacant in my own skin, Every thought painted in red, gold and black
You probably don't know why i wrote this either. Obvious, is how i feel, obtuse, sometimes.
but i'm often wrong. Unless you can't hear the loud thoughts coming from my brain,
this is for you.


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Twinkling (poem)

Eyes glazed, teeth frosted
Frozen cold articulates form crystals on the tongue
Do I dare?
Whispers and thoughts spin in shapes around my head
Divisions, revisions, decisions
Do I dare?
Left, right, up, down, side to side
My thoughts are in a flurry as each grain of my sand slips through Time's hourglass
Do I dare?
My silhouette is the only shape visible against the horizon
As the sky leans down and whispers,
"Do you dare?"

I do.

I'm taken gently upward, and my thoughts are calmed
Time has shelved my golden hourglass,
And I am changed.

Further upward now, stretched north and south, then east and west.
And in a twinkling, I'm twinkling.


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Invisible Numbers (poem)

Can you count the wind?
I can.
I can count each separate breeze as it brushes through the leaves and trees.
I can also count each ray of sun, the beams igniting one by one.
A mote of dust, a grain of sand
Each separate bit my eyes can land,
and count.

But you.

I can't count you.

The hair you toss over your shoulder,
The calculative stares from eyes that smolder
The smiles that play around your lips,
Your vocal cords that issue quips

It's all the things that i can't count
The things that make you paramount
in my eyes.

My eyes.
My eyes that see, full of stars,
my eyes, that see exactly what you are.

And yet I still can't count you.



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Butterflies (poem)

Butterflies?

More like killer bees.

My stomach feels the buzz of their wings when I'm with you, but once you're gone, the sting sets in.

You're like a drug, I see the world through different eyes, feel different things, but once the high has worn off, I want more, and I regret it.

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Short story

This is an excerpt from a short story that I'm writing that I'm stuck on. I thought maybe posting it here would maybe spark some ideas.    

            

           Jeff climbed out on the windowsill, dangling his feet out over the edge. It was raining, brushing gently across his face and getting caught in his eyelashes. This was his favorite place to sit when it rained, because you could be right in the middle of it, feeling like you were a part of it—without actually having to get all wet. It was hard to describe rain, he thought, as he looked out across the rooftops, seeing trees bend in the wind and small droplets of water slanting down sideways. Because with rain you couldn’t really describe the smell, or that feeling that it makes you feel, something close to satisfaction. The way that the rain changed all of the colors of the world, making the greens greener and the thick blanket of grey that covers the sky, makes it all that much harder to take in; like your senses can’t absorb it, like no matter how long you look at it you’ll never be able to remember exactly how the scene was, everything blurring together into one vague memory, all of the pleasant things extracted and compressed, until when, later, you try to recall the memory all you get is a faint echo. Jeff sighed. The rain had turned to a light drizzle now, now making him look like a very damp, very crazy person hanging out of a window. “As if I actually care what anyone thinks,” he thought to himself as he climbed back inside his room, and flopped backwards onto his bed.

There were a million and one things running through his head, as he lay down on his bed.  Each image blurred into the next until they became one humming drone of bumblebees buzzing and bouncing drunkenly around the inside of his skull. He closed his eyes but the images didn’t stop; he could just see the nauseating colors in greater focus. He sat up suddenly, as if awakening from a dream. Reality had slipped; but returned just as quickly, transforming, leaving an impression and a recurrent headache.




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Laila Majnu

Rachel showed me this. I was skeptical at first, but it is amazing. Watch it. Even though it's in Hindi.
I couldn't find a version with English subtitles, but if you have netflix, it's on there. Just search "Aaja Nachle" and skip until there's only 30 minutes remaining. And it has English subtitles.

Poem

Another day, marching along in time
Like a machine, I have no choice in what my next move will be.
Repetition, repetition, repetition.
My parts are rusted, my hinges squeak
No more can I repeat, repeat.
Pieces that once shined, now black, and unrecognizable,
With bolts and screws turning loose.
Soon I'll be nothing more than useless scraps,
That will be forgotten and tossed about.


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Poem

The strings and webs that I seek after are spun by spiders that don't exist.
Or do they?
Are they invisible from only me?
Can anyone else see the quiet arachnids that exist on thought?
I can feel them creep through my brain and along my spine and out my fingers.
Their silent scuttle, the painted lines, the paths of those who have no rules.

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Mirror

This is a poem written by Sylvia Plath, one of my favorite authors.
This is one of my favorite poems, too.


Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.  

Poem

Inspiration for this poem hit me while I was at work today. It was odd, because I don't normally write poems that rhyme.
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Take me under your wing, she said
Teach me how to fly
No more will my soul be dead
I'll live up in the sky

The color blue will hold me there
And no more will I ache
Clouds I'll mold and fold and wear
Sunshine in my wake

Problems from the ground won't bind me
Stifling and black
Forever forward will my eyes be
I promise I won't look back

Now she stands there quietly,
With an earnest, pleading look
I wink and smile, come with me,
I'll add you to my book.

Now the evil's kept at bay
Now there's no more strife
I will give you wings, I say
I will give you life.


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Poem

It's time to say goodbye again, to shallow hearts, to shallow graves.
No more will the objects of my affection be an objection.
I can now forever rest with the brimstone that resides within my brain.


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Poem

Okay, so one week in poetry club, the assignment was to write a poem in a style that we weren't comfortable with.
I suck at writing love poems, so that's what I chose.
It isn't about anyone in particular, it was one of those poems where I just saw pictures in my head and described what I saw.

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I'm jealous of the sun
the way it reaches down when you look up and gently kisses you on the cheek
You smile as the gentle warmth touches you, the smile that makes me smile, the guarded grin that weaves cocoons of anticipation and longing in my stomach that hatch into dark grey butterflies that travel to my brain once you leave, and land softly on branches of my thoughts

I'm jealous of the music you make, the guitar you strum.
You take a simple tool of metal and wood and transform it into something beautiful, something of worth.
You use it as a tool to make melodies that spin thought and stop sadness.
Could you do that with me?
Take my rough materials of insecurity and self-doubt, and turn them into something valuable?
Teach me to weave webs as bright as the light that touches your face, and to sing harmony to each quiet song that emanates from those around me?
I bet you could. You can do anything.

I'm jealous of the tress you sit under, as you steal away beside the sweet grass and whispering stream
They reach out their long arms to protect you from the open sky, just as I would.
They stick their roots down deep, promising to never leave, just as I would.
And when the sky bares its teeth and opens its mouth to blow you away from me, I'll stand strong.
I might bend from the gusts, and a few branches might break off, but you'll be there to put me back together again, because you took care of me when I was just a seed, and helped me put down the roots that are keeping me in place.

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Poem

I want a locket to carry next to my heart.
The locket and heart would talk to each other,
creating their own bond of metal and muscle.

When I open the locket, a new bond will be made.
Eyes, brain, heart and locket would become one, then.
But when the locket closes, the connection is broken,
and the eyes and brain are left with only echoes.

The echoes are only shadowy pulses that fade.

Only the heart and metal remember.

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Quotes about writing

"Writing does more than mirror our mind, it can clarify it, sharped our thinking, and enrich our mind with an understanding that was not here before we wrote."

"Clarity is a gift writing gives to our thinking."

"When we pour water out of a glass, we are emptying the glass, but when we pour thoughts out of our brains onto paper we are filling our brain...hence this powerful paradox as we write something we create it both on the paper and in our mind. Thus, as we write we grow richer."