well not quite, but sort of.
i'm going to keep this blog for just my writing, and dedicate my new blog to my musings of all types.
this be my new home: http://existthinkfeellive.blogspot.com/
keep writing.
live.
[ffffound.]
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
newest exercise
So there's this thing I've been trying out on my poetry for a little while. I wrote two separate poems on different days, and I decided after reading them both a couple of times that I wanted to put them together. So I waited a while and then alternated the lines. Then, after looking at them again a little while later, I edited. And then today I came across them after not seeing them for a while and edited again (haha my break from studying for my european history final). Yes, they are kind of depressing, as is most of my work, so sorry in advance if you like happy poems.
ORIGINAL TWO:
Learning
To break the spirit you must touch
crush, and then watch carefully
as the soul begins to seep
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
Watch as the limbs grow into branches
branching out, but never reaching
Roots travel deeper and deeper
How does it feel to be so stationary?
The eyes will sweep across the room
screaming because the mouth can't.
The arms will bend and twist like torture
when they're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
And then, only then,
when the unteachable learn their lesson,
will a girl flourish in such company.
Again, still.
The corners slept shrouded by the shadows,
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
AND THENNN TOGETHER WITH ALTERNATING LINES
To break the spirit you must touch
the corners that sleep shrouded by the shadows.
Crush, and then watch carefully
as their breaths become the whispers of the night,
as the soul begins to seep,
as his broken spirit lays wounded
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
While his too-long legs dangle over
watch as the limbs grow into branches
the side of his too-small bed
branching out, but never reaching.
No longer do the ghosts of his past haunt him
but roots travel deeper and deeper
and the ones of his present stay the night instead.
How does it feel to be so stationary?
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
The eyes will sweep across the room
and close, as if they were asleep,
screaming because the mouth can't.
But their whispers have joined the corners'
the arms will bend and twist like torture
in a song of guilt and shame.
And they're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
then, and only then,
but it was just too far away.
when the unteachable learn their lesson,
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread--
will a girl flourish in such company?
--and listened to the wind tap on her window.
THENNN MY MOST RECENT!
Step 1.
To break the spirit you must touch
the corners that sleep shrouded by the shadows.
Step 2.
Crush.
3.
Watch carefully
as their breaths become the whispers of the night,
as the soul begins to seep,
as his broken spirit lies wounded
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
Step 4.
While his too-long legs dangle over
watch as the limbs grow into branches
the side of his too-small bed
branching out, but never reaching.
5.
No longer will the ghosts of his past haunt him
but roots travel deeper and deeper
and the ones of his present stay the night instead.
How does it feel to be so stationary?
Step 6.
Curling up by his closet, they will lean their heads on the wall
The eyes will sweep across the room
and close, as if they were asleep,
screaming because the mouth can't.
7.
But their whispers have joined the corners'
the arms will bend and twist like torture
in a song of guilt and shame.
They're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
8.
She will try reaching for forgiveness,
then, and only then,
but it will be too far away.
9.
So when the unteachable learn their lesson,
she will sit on her polka-dot bedspread
and listen to the wind tap on her window.
Will a girl ever flourish in such company?
tell me what you think.
:) keep writing. love, me.
ORIGINAL TWO:
Learning
To break the spirit you must touch
crush, and then watch carefully
as the soul begins to seep
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
Watch as the limbs grow into branches
branching out, but never reaching
Roots travel deeper and deeper
How does it feel to be so stationary?
The eyes will sweep across the room
screaming because the mouth can't.
The arms will bend and twist like torture
when they're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
And then, only then,
when the unteachable learn their lesson,
will a girl flourish in such company.
Again, still.
The corners slept shrouded by the shadows,
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
AND THENNN TOGETHER WITH ALTERNATING LINES
To break the spirit you must touch
the corners that sleep shrouded by the shadows.
Crush, and then watch carefully
as their breaths become the whispers of the night,
as the soul begins to seep,
as his broken spirit lays wounded
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
While his too-long legs dangle over
watch as the limbs grow into branches
the side of his too-small bed
branching out, but never reaching.
No longer do the ghosts of his past haunt him
but roots travel deeper and deeper
and the ones of his present stay the night instead.
How does it feel to be so stationary?
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
The eyes will sweep across the room
and close, as if they were asleep,
screaming because the mouth can't.
But their whispers have joined the corners'
the arms will bend and twist like torture
in a song of guilt and shame.
And they're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
then, and only then,
but it was just too far away.
when the unteachable learn their lesson,
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread--
will a girl flourish in such company?
--and listened to the wind tap on her window.
THENNN MY MOST RECENT!
Step 1.
To break the spirit you must touch
the corners that sleep shrouded by the shadows.
Step 2.
Crush.
3.
Watch carefully
as their breaths become the whispers of the night,
as the soul begins to seep,
as his broken spirit lies wounded
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
Step 4.
While his too-long legs dangle over
watch as the limbs grow into branches
the side of his too-small bed
branching out, but never reaching.
5.
No longer will the ghosts of his past haunt him
but roots travel deeper and deeper
and the ones of his present stay the night instead.
How does it feel to be so stationary?
Step 6.
Curling up by his closet, they will lean their heads on the wall
The eyes will sweep across the room
and close, as if they were asleep,
screaming because the mouth can't.
7.
But their whispers have joined the corners'
the arms will bend and twist like torture
in a song of guilt and shame.
They're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
8.
She will try reaching for forgiveness,
then, and only then,
but it will be too far away.
9.
So when the unteachable learn their lesson,
she will sit on her polka-dot bedspread
and listen to the wind tap on her window.
Will a girl ever flourish in such company?
tell me what you think.
:) keep writing. love, me.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Again, still.
The corners slept shrouded by the shadows,
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Maybe.
Maybe these six word things will help me write again.
I miss the feeling of pen on paper. I miss
sharpening my pencils.
Or waking up in a panic at three o'clock in the morning just to write four words down because they're in such a perfect order that if you forget then your life is over.
I miss writing something and editing and editing
and editing. or even writing something
and knowing, at least for five minutes, that you got it right the first time.
I even miss writers block.
I miss the rush- when your handwriting becomes illegible because your mind is moving too fast for your hand and there is no possible way you can keep the entire sentence in there.
I miss writing in the margins.
Keeping three sentences in my head at once and moving them around as I walk to my next class.
I miss being able to get inspiration from anywhere and everywhere.
I miss knowing that my handwriting was going to change
halfway through a sentence.
(I miss the smell of bookstores and old books.)
I miss trying to figure out what I had written five minutes before.
I miss writing.
I miss the feeling of pen on paper. I miss
sharpening my pencils.
Or waking up in a panic at three o'clock in the morning just to write four words down because they're in such a perfect order that if you forget then your life is over.
I miss writing something and editing and editing
and editing. or even writing something
and knowing, at least for five minutes, that you got it right the first time.
I even miss writers block.
I miss the rush- when your handwriting becomes illegible because your mind is moving too fast for your hand and there is no possible way you can keep the entire sentence in there.
I miss writing in the margins.
Keeping three sentences in my head at once and moving them around as I walk to my next class.
I miss being able to get inspiration from anywhere and everywhere.
I miss knowing that my handwriting was going to change
halfway through a sentence.
(I miss the smell of bookstores and old books.)
I miss trying to figure out what I had written five minutes before.
I miss writing.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
mirages, holographs, etc. (for corey)
i haven't written in a while. which depresses me. but i was washing dishes (when i do all of my deepest thinking, randomly) and decided to write. here's what came out. still a work in progress i think.
Sometimes things aren't what they seem.
They shimmer at the edge of your senses
so you can feel them, but you try and touch
and they dissipate at your fingertips
disappearing into a world you can only hope to ever see again.
the rythmic hum of your heart sounds under my ear.
it calms me and my breath in and out match the beat
there is no beginning or end,
and i forget where you start and i finish,
where we meet is all i dream of.
I bring my fingers to my mouth and taste the iridescence.
i think it tastes like you, but i'm no longer sure.
it's been so long.
i reach further and further back into my mind
streching to the recesses,
wondering if i'll ever remember.
and then you're back
and its been so long.
But my lips remember the way yours wrap around them
and my fingers remember how they intertwine
my body remembers how it feels when you touch me
and when my eyes find yours easily in this crowded room
i know i never forgot.
Sometimes things aren't what they seem.
They shimmer at the edge of your senses
so you can feel them, but you try and touch
and they dissipate at your fingertips
disappearing into a world you can only hope to ever see again.
the rythmic hum of your heart sounds under my ear.
it calms me and my breath in and out match the beat
there is no beginning or end,
and i forget where you start and i finish,
where we meet is all i dream of.
I bring my fingers to my mouth and taste the iridescence.
i think it tastes like you, but i'm no longer sure.
it's been so long.
i reach further and further back into my mind
streching to the recesses,
wondering if i'll ever remember.
and then you're back
and its been so long.
But my lips remember the way yours wrap around them
and my fingers remember how they intertwine
my body remembers how it feels when you touch me
and when my eyes find yours easily in this crowded room
i know i never forgot.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
apology.....
so because I actually just moved all of my posts, some of the time references will not make sense... however, some are timeless.
you'll figure it out.
happy writing :)
you'll figure it out.
happy writing :)
6.2.09: (I don’t know what to title it yet)
I wrote this in the morning on the bus. You would think that the poem would be happier. It was sunny and I wasn’t at all in a bad mood. Who knows…. when the words come, they come….
I move slower than myself in spirit form
because it hurts to be away from my body for so long.
It’s harder to bear separation when you’re not used to it,
when your heart has never had a piece wrenched from it,
when your soul is still as unblemished as the day
you tumbled from your mother’s body.
A piece of her was ripped out then, too.
You were unaware that one day you would cry out
because your spirit was being torn from you,
leaving you only to wish that being meant you never felt pain.
I move slower than myself in spirit form
because it hurts to be away from my body for so long.
It’s harder to bear separation when you’re not used to it,
when your heart has never had a piece wrenched from it,
when your soul is still as unblemished as the day
you tumbled from your mother’s body.
A piece of her was ripped out then, too.
You were unaware that one day you would cry out
because your spirit was being torn from you,
leaving you only to wish that being meant you never felt pain.
6.1.09: Father and Son
This was also written during and after seeing Rita speak. I hadn’t written in a little while, at least, not poetry. But this moved me. So I wrote.
The father and the son walk through the crowded rows of books.
They both have the remnants of a smile resting on their faces
from some shared inside joke.
They’re reuniting- boy returning home after years of schooling
that taught him less than his mama and her waltzing feet did.
And father- just happy to see that his son is growing up
into perhaps, just perhaps, more of a man than he was.
The son holds his jacket in the crook of his arm- the slight breeze doesn’t bother him-
and his hands are thrust into his pockets.
And like a dutiful son, his collared shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
But he smiles, watching his father squint at the small letters
on the back of the book,
And with a chuckle, plucks his father’s bifocals out of the breast pocket
With a movement too quick to feel his heart beat.
But knowing, assured, that it’s there
Although for how long, indeterminate.
The father and the son walk through the crowded rows of books.
They both have the remnants of a smile resting on their faces
from some shared inside joke.
They’re reuniting- boy returning home after years of schooling
that taught him less than his mama and her waltzing feet did.
And father- just happy to see that his son is growing up
into perhaps, just perhaps, more of a man than he was.
The son holds his jacket in the crook of his arm- the slight breeze doesn’t bother him-
and his hands are thrust into his pockets.
And like a dutiful son, his collared shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
But he smiles, watching his father squint at the small letters
on the back of the book,
And with a chuckle, plucks his father’s bifocals out of the breast pocket
With a movement too quick to feel his heart beat.
But knowing, assured, that it’s there
Although for how long, indeterminate.
6.1.09: To The Books I Haven’t Picked Up In A While: Reading
I wrote this in Harvard Book Store on Mass Ave. while watching a little girl pick a book out with her mother. I was there for a poetry reading by Rita Dove, who by the way, is amazing. She speaks as though she’s singing, some inner rhythm pulsing through her.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
Shimmery Black Holes & Dead Stars
Sometimes I wonder if you’re actually here.
Or if you’re floating between two worlds
not really sure which one is real.
Am I some mirage you stumbled upon
in a drunken state, that you see
but don’t understand how it got there
or whether or not it will disappear in the next moment?
Is the effervescent irridescence ethereal
or do those shiny things we wish on last forever?
Is forever really what it seems, or are those
supposedly logical people relying on an
infinity that doesn’t actually exist?
Sometimes I wonder if you actually see me
or if I’m transparent, like a fog hanging over
a still-sleeping town.
Or if you’re floating between two worlds
not really sure which one is real.
Am I some mirage you stumbled upon
in a drunken state, that you see
but don’t understand how it got there
or whether or not it will disappear in the next moment?
Is the effervescent irridescence ethereal
or do those shiny things we wish on last forever?
Is forever really what it seems, or are those
supposedly logical people relying on an
infinity that doesn’t actually exist?
Sometimes I wonder if you actually see me
or if I’m transparent, like a fog hanging over
a still-sleeping town.
summer
i hate not knowing what i’m going to do with myself this summer….. argh.
………..but its really my fault. so i have no right to complain
………..but its really my fault. so i have no right to complain
Hi people…
Hi… I have no idea who reads this, and if anyone does. But if you do, I’m sorry that I haven’t written in so long. But hopefully I’m back School is about to be out, and these past few weeks have been reallly reallly stressful.
Blogging/ writing in general helps me to relieve some of that. I’m actually thinking of moving this blog to a place a little more open… maybe blogspot or something, who knows? but for now I’m staying with edublogs I’m not going anywhere yet.
sooo… a little while ago, my AP Drawing class went on a field trip to a cemetary up the street from Forrest Hills Station in Boston. We were told to just go out in pairs and find a little spot and do a couple of drawings. Afterwards, you could do whatever you wanted: read, nap, write, eat, whatever…
I decided to write, and a poem came out of it. argh….. don’t remember the date. I want to say it was the 3rd of April… but I’m really not sure.
Listen to the wind.
Let it say what it has to before interrupting,
thinking that you know everything.
You, with your pen in your hand:
Take time to watch the waves dance with the fish
before painting them like someone important enough
to think you can capture this on canvas.
Let the rain touch you, run down your face.
Lift the wobbly glass to your mouth
and taste the reality that you will never
truly know.
Understand that not even by changing the background,
or the lighting, or the day, or time, media, or colors,
can you ever get it right.
Blogging/ writing in general helps me to relieve some of that. I’m actually thinking of moving this blog to a place a little more open… maybe blogspot or something, who knows? but for now I’m staying with edublogs I’m not going anywhere yet.
sooo… a little while ago, my AP Drawing class went on a field trip to a cemetary up the street from Forrest Hills Station in Boston. We were told to just go out in pairs and find a little spot and do a couple of drawings. Afterwards, you could do whatever you wanted: read, nap, write, eat, whatever…
I decided to write, and a poem came out of it. argh….. don’t remember the date. I want to say it was the 3rd of April… but I’m really not sure.
Listen to the wind.
Let it say what it has to before interrupting,
thinking that you know everything.
You, with your pen in your hand:
Take time to watch the waves dance with the fish
before painting them like someone important enough
to think you can capture this on canvas.
Let the rain touch you, run down your face.
Lift the wobbly glass to your mouth
and taste the reality that you will never
truly know.
Understand that not even by changing the background,
or the lighting, or the day, or time, media, or colors,
can you ever get it right.
(1/4/08- Morning after wake): Dear Sœur Suze,
L’Éternel est mon berger:
je ne manquerai de rien.
Il me fait reposer dans le
I hope you’re lying in green pastures.
You know, they read that
psalm at the wake,
the deacons and the deaconesses
walking single file into the church.
It wasn’t a large affair,
I mean, it was a big church
but the service was small, humble, like you.
The pastor was supposed to console us.
I guess in a way he did, how he kept
rambling on about the night.
I wanted him to say something like
“It’s when it gets as dark as it can get
the stars come out.” But he didn’t.
He just kept going on and on about the night.
I wonder what souls look like:
where they go. Is yours a wanderer?
Is it floating, an effervescent bubble,
Like the one she just popped by
coming into my room and asking questions?
You can’t ask Death questions like
Why? or What are you doing?
I read once that Death is like
a blind man, pointing a bony finger…
something like that.
I pray for your soul.
That it isn’t just out there,
that it has found a resting place,
that you have found a resting place,
where Death can’t interrupt anymore.
je ne manquerai de rien.
Il me fait reposer dans le
I hope you’re lying in green pastures.
You know, they read that
psalm at the wake,
the deacons and the deaconesses
walking single file into the church.
It wasn’t a large affair,
I mean, it was a big church
but the service was small, humble, like you.
The pastor was supposed to console us.
I guess in a way he did, how he kept
rambling on about the night.
I wanted him to say something like
“It’s when it gets as dark as it can get
the stars come out.” But he didn’t.
He just kept going on and on about the night.
I wonder what souls look like:
where they go. Is yours a wanderer?
Is it floating, an effervescent bubble,
Like the one she just popped by
coming into my room and asking questions?
You can’t ask Death questions like
Why? or What are you doing?
I read once that Death is like
a blind man, pointing a bony finger…
something like that.
I pray for your soul.
That it isn’t just out there,
that it has found a resting place,
that you have found a resting place,
where Death can’t interrupt anymore.
(12/17/08): Laura
Navigational systems only take you so far.
Far enough that you can see the end of the street,
and you can touch the end of the street,
but you can’t go past it.
The annoying voice tells you when to go right,
or left, but then leaves you hanging at the intersection because it has to reset itself.
–
There was a time when I couldn’t feel anything.
When I wouldn’t see the stars come out
and it wouldn’t bother me because the shining
and the winking had no meaning.
A time when each would sit on a shoulder
and whisper light and dark into my ears,
and I had to choose between the two.
It was about that time when my GPS stopped working
and I would stay lost for long periods of time.
My compass had no magnet
pinning it to the earth and it would spin freely.
It was when I could dance ballet,
and pirouette on the big toe of my left foot.
And then, upon falling, I wouldn’t get up.
–
But it was then Laura’s voice would return
to bring me back to the top of the street.
Far enough that you can see the end of the street,
and you can touch the end of the street,
but you can’t go past it.
The annoying voice tells you when to go right,
or left, but then leaves you hanging at the intersection because it has to reset itself.
–
There was a time when I couldn’t feel anything.
When I wouldn’t see the stars come out
and it wouldn’t bother me because the shining
and the winking had no meaning.
A time when each would sit on a shoulder
and whisper light and dark into my ears,
and I had to choose between the two.
It was about that time when my GPS stopped working
and I would stay lost for long periods of time.
My compass had no magnet
pinning it to the earth and it would spin freely.
It was when I could dance ballet,
and pirouette on the big toe of my left foot.
And then, upon falling, I wouldn’t get up.
–
But it was then Laura’s voice would return
to bring me back to the top of the street.
Persona Poem: Nana’s Broken Taillight
For this exercise we had to write a poem about someone else in the class. We sat and talked for a little while, asked eachother questions, and then wrote. I wrote a poem about McCallum & his nana.
He’s long forgotten his dream, and is staring
at the red lines in the American Flag above his bed.
Not sure what they remind him of, he shuts his eyes
And breathes: in, out, in, his breath catches.
A sparkle of light finds the tear as it rolls
down the plane of his face towards his ear.
He doesn’t wipe it away and it pools
In the space at the crest of helix. It tickles.
So he swings his legs down, and places
His feet on the floor. He reaches for his shoes
Left first, then right. He needs the routine
More then ever now, for what he’s about to do.
Nana’s already awake and he can hear her voice
in the kitchen, her soft steps on the hardwood.
In the hallway wanting to dream again, he closes his eyes
but is thrust back into the darkness when he hears
“Mac, is that you? Come on in here… Breakfast is on the table.”
Hesitating a fraction of a second before the slightly open door,
he stands up straight and opens it wider,
momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the kitchen.
His grandmother walks over to say good morning,
and he lets her, a shadow passing over his face.
He knows he doesn’t deserve her affection.
His mother catches it and looks at him, questioning.
But he can’t tell her, because he has to tell Nana.
“Nana, can I tell you something?”
His shoulders are hunched and he can’t meet her gaze.
He begins to stutter out, “Nana, Nana, I….”
Her softly lilting voice interrupts, and he finally remembers.
“I know Mac, I know, and you’re forgiven.”
He’s long forgotten his dream, and is staring
at the red lines in the American Flag above his bed.
Not sure what they remind him of, he shuts his eyes
And breathes: in, out, in, his breath catches.
A sparkle of light finds the tear as it rolls
down the plane of his face towards his ear.
He doesn’t wipe it away and it pools
In the space at the crest of helix. It tickles.
So he swings his legs down, and places
His feet on the floor. He reaches for his shoes
Left first, then right. He needs the routine
More then ever now, for what he’s about to do.
Nana’s already awake and he can hear her voice
in the kitchen, her soft steps on the hardwood.
In the hallway wanting to dream again, he closes his eyes
but is thrust back into the darkness when he hears
“Mac, is that you? Come on in here… Breakfast is on the table.”
Hesitating a fraction of a second before the slightly open door,
he stands up straight and opens it wider,
momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the kitchen.
His grandmother walks over to say good morning,
and he lets her, a shadow passing over his face.
He knows he doesn’t deserve her affection.
His mother catches it and looks at him, questioning.
But he can’t tell her, because he has to tell Nana.
“Nana, can I tell you something?”
His shoulders are hunched and he can’t meet her gaze.
He begins to stutter out, “Nana, Nana, I….”
Her softly lilting voice interrupts, and he finally remembers.
“I know Mac, I know, and you’re forgiven.”
(12/14/08): The Snooze Button
No longer do I understand the point of asking questions
if they are not going to be answered anyway.
The question is in the air filling space,
floating between two worlds, unused.
The sweetness of punctuation has been lost
in the noise that the words surrounding create.
A long awaited pause is necessary, but it never arrives,
creating a traffic jam on the interstate-95.
The excess fluid overflows, into the street,
and forms a towering wave of bubbles,
popping silently over the stalled cars.
No one tries to catch the snowflakes anymore.
The weather isn’t great, so not a lot of people are out
But out are the worms, chewing the soft dirt
and turning it over and over and over,
rhythmically to the beat of nature.
And I tap my foot softly to that song
that’s been in my head all day, and hasn’t left yet.
And I ask my self whether or not I will wake up early
tomorrow morning, or if I’ll just sleep in.
if they are not going to be answered anyway.
The question is in the air filling space,
floating between two worlds, unused.
The sweetness of punctuation has been lost
in the noise that the words surrounding create.
A long awaited pause is necessary, but it never arrives,
creating a traffic jam on the interstate-95.
The excess fluid overflows, into the street,
and forms a towering wave of bubbles,
popping silently over the stalled cars.
No one tries to catch the snowflakes anymore.
The weather isn’t great, so not a lot of people are out
But out are the worms, chewing the soft dirt
and turning it over and over and over,
rhythmically to the beat of nature.
And I tap my foot softly to that song
that’s been in my head all day, and hasn’t left yet.
And I ask my self whether or not I will wake up early
tomorrow morning, or if I’ll just sleep in.
(12/13/08): Ignis Fatuus
“Everything happens for a reason” -Anonymous
I have no idea what I was put on this Earth to do.
I am wandering aimlessly upon this hard ground
kneeling on rocks that pierce my skin and bruise,
and pinch, and create sores that travel
all the way to my soul.
Walking though the fields, I bend and my back smarts
from the whip that has been brought down
one too many times upon the skin that seems not able
to protect what’s within.
I have been put here for nothing, forever running
towards a future I cannot see, blinded by noxious fumes
I cough, and out comes a mucus so thick that it chokes
the life that was put in these veins for a reason.
Further and further away I climb away, or towards
but the staircase never ends. Its supposed to.
I’m supposed to be at the top, but life doesn’t work
the way its supposed to.
Knowing I have to live has made life that much harder
Knowing I can’t just opt out, check a box and be free.
Knowing that climbing won’t do anything,
but that I have to climb, towards nothing
but those noxious fumes.
I have no idea what I was put on this Earth to do.
I am wandering aimlessly upon this hard ground
kneeling on rocks that pierce my skin and bruise,
and pinch, and create sores that travel
all the way to my soul.
Walking though the fields, I bend and my back smarts
from the whip that has been brought down
one too many times upon the skin that seems not able
to protect what’s within.
I have been put here for nothing, forever running
towards a future I cannot see, blinded by noxious fumes
I cough, and out comes a mucus so thick that it chokes
the life that was put in these veins for a reason.
Further and further away I climb away, or towards
but the staircase never ends. Its supposed to.
I’m supposed to be at the top, but life doesn’t work
the way its supposed to.
Knowing I have to live has made life that much harder
Knowing I can’t just opt out, check a box and be free.
Knowing that climbing won’t do anything,
but that I have to climb, towards nothing
but those noxious fumes.
(12/6/08): The Air Near Me
Riverbeds aren’t rocky or round
And I like the sun better than any of the other things
that come from the sky. Together
or apart. The rain washes me over and over again.
The piano keys dwarf my fingers
They used to, anyway, when the sun would shine
through the window and land,
catching itself in the net of my hair, stuck.
The insects would land in my hair
too. But I acted like I didn’t notice so my body
could be near his when he reached over
and plucked them out, a smile in the corner of his mouth.
The rain and the leaves are coming
down together but one day I know they’ll come alone.
No longer sharing the same particles,
they will go their separate ways and not talk again.
The grass used to be lush green
but now I’m afraid to sit down on it for fear that I would
sit in one of the patches
and get the dress I had borrowed from my mother dirty.
Even so, I like the stars sometimes,
and I lie back with my hands behind my head, a pillow,
and look for the North Star
But I start to cry because I can’t find it; I don’t know where I am.
And I like the sun better than any of the other things
that come from the sky. Together
or apart. The rain washes me over and over again.
The piano keys dwarf my fingers
They used to, anyway, when the sun would shine
through the window and land,
catching itself in the net of my hair, stuck.
The insects would land in my hair
too. But I acted like I didn’t notice so my body
could be near his when he reached over
and plucked them out, a smile in the corner of his mouth.
The rain and the leaves are coming
down together but one day I know they’ll come alone.
No longer sharing the same particles,
they will go their separate ways and not talk again.
The grass used to be lush green
but now I’m afraid to sit down on it for fear that I would
sit in one of the patches
and get the dress I had borrowed from my mother dirty.
Even so, I like the stars sometimes,
and I lie back with my hands behind my head, a pillow,
and look for the North Star
But I start to cry because I can’t find it; I don’t know where I am.
SDLC/PoCC(11/5/08): I Know Where I’ve Been
I know where I’ve been.
It was a place where you could touch
The creamy clouds and sit with God.
A place where I was a live and well
I was infused with an energy
That was not my own; I was home.
I opened my mouth and took step
Not realizing that I had traveled
To a place where I had never been.
A place of effervescent light
Shimmering brightness, blinding.
But I can see clearer than ever before.
I don’t know where I’ve been
An ignorance shuts me off from the
World from which I am- the world
To which I’m supposed to belong.
My shadows are reaching, trying
To connect to theirs. And I’m trying-
I’m trying to understand my place,
And my life, my purpose, my being,
My spirit, my God, my reason, my passion,
Me.
But you can’t tell me where I’ve been,
Who I am, what I need. Not why I’m here,
Until I know, until I understand.
I understand, and you understand
That you can’t judge, and I can’t judge
And you don’t know me,
And I don’t know you.
But I can question.
I have the ability to ask, ponder.
Think, process. The ability to move on-
Move on from this time,
These unmoving breezes that aren’t
Bringing me- bringing us anywhere.
To move past the statues that
Block my path, choke my dreams,
Squeeze the life from these veins.
Yes, I can be free and you can’t
Tell me no. Because if I don’t believe,
It won’t be true.
It was a place where you could touch
The creamy clouds and sit with God.
A place where I was a live and well
I was infused with an energy
That was not my own; I was home.
I opened my mouth and took step
Not realizing that I had traveled
To a place where I had never been.
A place of effervescent light
Shimmering brightness, blinding.
But I can see clearer than ever before.
I don’t know where I’ve been
An ignorance shuts me off from the
World from which I am- the world
To which I’m supposed to belong.
My shadows are reaching, trying
To connect to theirs. And I’m trying-
I’m trying to understand my place,
And my life, my purpose, my being,
My spirit, my God, my reason, my passion,
Me.
But you can’t tell me where I’ve been,
Who I am, what I need. Not why I’m here,
Until I know, until I understand.
I understand, and you understand
That you can’t judge, and I can’t judge
And you don’t know me,
And I don’t know you.
But I can question.
I have the ability to ask, ponder.
Think, process. The ability to move on-
Move on from this time,
These unmoving breezes that aren’t
Bringing me- bringing us anywhere.
To move past the statues that
Block my path, choke my dreams,
Squeeze the life from these veins.
Yes, I can be free and you can’t
Tell me no. Because if I don’t believe,
It won’t be true.
Dawn Advanced Power: The Ultra Concentrated Kind
The soap didn’t want to go into the container.
It kept spilling over- the thick blue liquid
moving ever so slowly down the black surface.
I told her to take out the funnel- that worked-
but only for a little while, until it overflowed
again. She said it just wasn’t her day.
It kept spilling over- the thick blue liquid
moving ever so slowly down the black surface.
I told her to take out the funnel- that worked-
but only for a little while, until it overflowed
again. She said it just wasn’t her day.
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