She went there that day hoping to get away, to distract herself and be alone with her thoughts. Alone in a room full of people. She couldn’t bear to be by herself, but she dreaded having to make the effort of telling somebody what she was feeling or what she was thinking, or what she was, or having to act like all was right in her little world.

She didn't want to be alone, but she needed to be. She didn't want to see anybody, but she yearned for human interaction.

She hoped and prayed that somebody would catch her eye and smile, or that somebody would wave, or that somebody else would cry so that she didn't have to.

She wanted somebody to show her that she wasn't alone in this world. Maybe show her that things would get better... that things even could get better. That it wasn't the end of everything.

She stared blindly out into the cold, her chin resting on her palm, fingers lazily crossed over her mouth, and tried not to think. She tried take in the scene through the window, but her thoughts kept drifting back to all of it… all of everything.

So far, she had done alright. She hadn't cried since she had arrived, but she couldn't make any promises.

She looked back to the screen, trying to distract herself from the current state of everything in her life; from everything that was falling apart; from everything that was going perfectly but wasn't enough to make anything better; from how it felt like all of it would soon melt away.

After a while, she realized that nothing was getting any better. She packed up her things, stood up from her seat by the window, put on her coat and wrapper her scarf slowly around her neck, and left it all behind.

People. Cars. Wind. Snow. Lights. Conversations. Noise. Music. Traffic. Stars. Cold.

She grabbed a brush and began to paint, not knowing what it was she was painting. Not caring. She picked a cookie up from the plate sitting next to her, took a bite, and touched the brush back to the canvas. After some time, a face began to peer back at her. A face that was hurting.

She sat there for hours, just staring. She shivered against a chill. There was a draft in the run-down apartment, a sharp and persistent draft which had a way of always catching her by surprise.

The music was dark, yet quiet--calming.

It was crying: the face in the painting. She could see it now, and couldn't help but wonder what events were transpiring in the life of the face that was looking past her with vacant eyes. With each stroke, she became more convinced that she would soon figure it out... that this face would reveal things to her… things for which she had been searching for as long as she could remember.

The song changed. She shivered and held her coffee with both hands, trying to warm them up, but soon the coffee was cold and forgotten again, as she became more and more obsessed with the life of the face on the canvas. The bags under its eyes, the crow's feet... they told a story. She could almost hear it. She didn't know what it was she was almost hearing yet. Was it laughter? Crying? Conversation? The sound of a train passing through a small town at two in the morning, after everyone had fallen asleep? Was it a river? An ocean? The creaking sound of a radiator as it struggles against the cold?

She sat staring blankly out the window.

People. Cars. Wind. Snow. Lights. Conversations. Noise. Music. Traffic. Stars. Cold.

She sat staring.

Her breath fogged the glass.

She sat.

It was in that brief eternity that it happened.

She fell in a heap, holding herself tightly.

And she cried.

Before long she was unpacking her things and placing them on the table. She hadn't expected to be back so soon, but then again, these days she didn't expect much of anything at all. A couple was laughing at a table nearby. They were young, and somehow they were managing to enjoy it.

Was she still young? She wondered. What was youth, anyway? Was it an age, or a state of being? A state of innocence and exuberance? If that was it, then she didn't qualify. She had felt like that once, years before. She knew she had, but she couldn't place when and where that would have been, and under what circumstances. As of late, she had become unable to produce any memories that didn't feel exactly like she did in that singular moment.

Of course not. How could she? How could anyone? She wondered.

She was pretty. Of that she was certain. Mostly certain. More or less. But what difference did that make anyway? She wouldn't let it matter. Not again. Not a chance. Not today. Perhaps not ever. Yet maybe. Nothing could be ruled out.

The young girl--the feminine half of the young couple seated nearby--laughed and smiled with her whole body. Her happiness was beautiful, and under any other circumstances, might have served to brighten the day of the girl seated alone, as she watched it happen. She didn't know what made that youthful, innocent girl laugh, but she wanted it. She wanted it all. She wanted anything but what she had. Anything.

Anything at all.

A group of people was walking around, taking in the paintings on the wall. Discussing it. Appreciating. Somebody stirred their coffee. Somebody coughed. Somebody sighed, unaware that they were even doing it.

People crowded. Milled around. Something fell and somebody retrieved it. Somewhere, someone was falling asleep, and somebody was singing. Someone would take their own life, and someone else would be born. All these thing would happen. All these things were happening. But she couldn't tell if any if it were even real. She couldn't feel anything at all. She couldn't tell if she were even there, or if anybody even knew she existed, or if she even did exist at all.

Why?

That's all she could come up with. That's all she could think. That's all she ever felt anymore.

And so it continued. So everything went on, moment by moment, day by day, forever upon forever upon forever once again.

And so, she left...

it was a day so uniquely
and unremarkably not
unlike every other.
   
it was a monday,
            and it was painful.    
it was a thursday that was.
        ...harsh;
                       a sunday that was
                                    different;

                       a friday that was
                       wet.
   
and there it was;
        there it is;
    there it cannot be;
and there it persists.
   
persistence was her story.    
           the darkness, the fear,
the cold, the torture,
                        the crushing pain...    
           the persistence.
   

there it is;
   that it is;
           it is that;
                           it is monday.

surrounded by a
                    boisterous,
               cacophonous
        nothing.    
   enveloped by an
                insolent
too much.    

she is not surprised...
        wednesdays.    

silkworms cover everything,
       creating the illusion
of living walls and floors,
                            ceilings and rotting furniture.

           everything is still.    

the darkness hurts her eyes.    

the thorned vines tear at her skin
                            and crush her chest,
                                        forcing panic.    

the room is completely empty



except for her.    



no furniture,
                           no life,
no walls,
                           no vines,
no coffee,        
                           no people...

...too many people:
    she cannot breathe.    

she screams out
        the most silent
scream

        with every bit
of life

        that remains,

and she doesn't blink,
               doesn't move,
               momentarily forgets

                                                       to breathe.    


laughter,
                                                            anger,
               boredom,
                                                intellectualism,
                           nothing,
       silence,
                       music,
            crimson,


                           chairs,
    emptiness,
                                                   nothing,

friday.



                                                                                 and there it is.

quick to fall

it is
  familiar

falling victim
     to the inadvertant
              wistfulness

to completely disgard
          any remnant
       of reasoning
   and embrace

        the
   absolute belief

that a single change
     in situation
        could cause
     the rest to
    slip away

that
  one
  single
  development
        could resolve
          any emptiness

despite
  having
     learned
     otherwise
          the thought
       always recurs

a notion
  that always
     seeks
      to replace
       rationality

an illusion
          that
         can somehow seem
      more real
         than the obvious
            reality

though such  longings
  will never be       relieved
    by those external cirumstance

but only
    from within

I think sometimes we forget...

I think sometimes we forget...

...that life is something to be ecstatic about...

...not something to be frustrated by...

...it's all in how you look at it.

Flipping through the pages,

the off-white, ruled paper

noisily gives way.

An unexpected record of thought is found,

though one which was never meant to be

any more than the resting place

for the tip of whatever writing instrument

had something to scrawl out.

Numbers, letters, and assorted

scribbles now came together to

tell a story of scattered thoughts

and passing whimsies.

The wind blows

and the crinkled pages

flip and whip about,

and faintly a whisper of its

words and thoughts

can almost be made out

in that singular, cacophanous

event.

"I am still here...."

... and then it is gone.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

The heat has a way of trying to follow him into the cooled building, but his attention is elsewhere. As he finds a table and as he sets up his things, he isn't considering the assiduous heat and he isn't lamenting the heavy humidity he has just left outside. He is letting his mind wander to the evening before.

How is it that he has let himself get this entrenched? How is it that, not too long ago, he knew he would never be involved, but today, he is drowning in it? It creeps up to his nostrils, and continually slips in to his lungs, coaxing out the painful, jagged coughs as it tries persistently to drown him in itself.

Occasionally, he finds a moment's respite in which to breathe. A moment to step back and try to get his mind thinking clearly again. It gives, though only a little, and after great efforts at allowing himself to let it go. Such moments of clarity last far too shortly, as he finds it creeping again into his lungs, and he is drowning yet again.

He knows that if he were to free himself of it, it would still linger in his clothes and over his body. It would drip slowly from his hair, without forgiveness, across stress lines which riddle his face as of late.

His soul has aged a decade in recent months, and his world has started to change to match. Though he hasn't realized it, his life begins to mirror that of the oppressive refuse that has been tormenting with increasing effectiveness in recent weeks.

He reaches out above everything, grasping and clawing for some sort of anchor outside of all of this, though he finds nothing, and finds himself sinking lower instead. He shuts his eyes and takes in a breath as it rises over his face, into his nose, and tries desperately to force its way under his eyelids and collects in his ears.

He thinks back to a day ten years ago, a time when he was completely unaware, and unafraid. Though his confidence at that time was a naive one, it nonetheless had proved a better way of living than the one he had practiced as of late. The one that had gotten him in this situation. He feels his lungs begin to tug, trying in vain to inform him of his situation.

He already knows. He is regretful and accepting of this fate. How could he expect any better than this? What has he done to earn any better? Who is he to expect any sort of freedom from this? He has made the bed in which he is about to sleep, and he accepts it with great humility and a morbid regret, and his arm is jerked as he is pulled up only enough to cough and spit before taking in a deep, desperate gasp of air. He stays nearly motionless with his eyes closed, hanging from his arm, breathing as residue on his face drips down to meet the rest of it, which presently remains just below his chin.

After what feels like minutes of pure silence, save the sound of his own breath beginning to return to a normal pace, he opens his eyes. His eyes are met with those of a face he is far too familiar with. He looks back and all hope vanishes. The face looks back at him with a shitty grin, awaiting his decision. He weighs the benefits and hangs there a minute longer, and nods in agreement.

As he begins to be pulled out of the mess, and back into the life that defines that night before with a certain perfection, he lets go of the hand pulling him out and crashes back down, immediately submerged and satisfied. He breathes in and his lungs begin to fight back before he can even realize what he has done. His body jerks and lashes out in every direction, his eyes open and burn along with his lungs and his throat and his nose. He tries to scream, but there is nothing.

In his last moment, he understands, and with his last thought, he forgives himself, and he is gone.

i am

        i am
       disheartened

                                       ...by...

           my
               consistently
               failed
               attempts
    at responsibility;


        my
               incessant
               inability to
                               ever
                               gain
                               full
                               control;


       this
               self-centered world
                   and this
                       self-defeating life;


       your
               inability
           to really understand
                    why it aggravates me;


       your
               outrageous
               arrogance
        in behaving
        as if
               you actually do;
                               or even could;


       my own irritation;

A conversation

You do know that
people read this.

What?

This page...

What do you mean?
I mean--what are

you talking about?

People come here,
and they read it

Do they?

Yes, they do, from
time to time.

Oh my...

Indeed!

We'll have to start doing
things differently,
then, won't we?

Yes we will.

Yes we will.

Poetic dissatisfaction

Even the darkest parts of life
  are undeniably poetic.
It is not something that
  can ever be escaped.

The heat

The sweat drips across my face.

   The wind is a relief,
        when it comes;
      welcomed, though brief

   A certain disappointment sets in
       once I realize that
      it hasn't swept me away
     from this place

Moments later, the heat comes back
   and the thoughts of salvation
        from its soulless injustice
      are quickly burned away.

    The periods between the gusts
       are nearly too much to bear
      breaking only when my spirits
        are
          all but given up.

       Teasing me with useless hope.

    I do not forget the drips of sweat
       that cover my face
          and burn in my eyes
       though I act as though I am oblivious;
            as if I do not notice

  In truth, I cannot help but denounce it
       in the deep recesses of my mind.

     It is my only solace
        that I never let on
           the disgust I have
          for that burden.

        By shutting it in,
               I am shutting it out.

i will

    you are
      lost in a world so vast
          grasping at the strands
               trying to keep from being swept away

     wandering the streets
          desperately trying to keep from drowning
               as the endless days pass you by
            and the fallen leaves swirl around your feet

            nobody seems to notice
     not a soul reaches out
            and you don't know how
       to make contact

     the world is crashing through your door
            and you struggle to hold it back
               trying to keep yourself safe

     running never gets you far enough;
         hiding under the covers--pressed
             securely against the warm bed--
                         never holds it off long enough

     each and every day
               the world sits and waits
                         watching you as you struggle
     to keep your head above water
          unrelenting, unforgiving, unforgetting

     but, someday i will find you
               i will smile, and you'll smile too
                 i will hold you up
                   and help you breathe
               i will stand up to the world in your name,
                         though we've never met

     i will hold you up
       i will hold you close
         i will hold you tight

       i will be here

I seem to go about everything in all the wrong ways,

    though there seems to be little I can do to change that.

When will this all end?

   I fear too long from now.

      I fear a lengthy dissatisfaction

 in which I often wonder aloud

           that very question.

When will this all end?

These days, I sit alone.
        I find this heart has grown
                 but still it must bemoan
                          unconscious hearts of stone
                  though they are not my own.
           I find this bird has flown.

Until that time I change my mind...

Until that time I change my mind,

This state of mine of smoke and wine

Will oft remind of lesser time

And make me blind, and make me blind.

These days

These days, I'm not sure where it is I've come from...
       what it is that has made me the way I seemingly am.

These days, I sit and watch, too often, so many others,
       as hours and days are spent in quick-motion--
                zipping by with little said,
                        and so much apparently understood--
       and I wonder what makes me
                so unlike those I often observe .
                        These days, I wonder what makes me dissimilar,
                                       and why I feel so.

       These days, I find little dissension to my individuality,
                and much agreement to my belief that
                        something inside seems off-color,
                though something not necessarily unsound.

       These days, I question others less,
                and sigh wistfully so much more.

       These days, I find myself lost in thought more often,
                and only find answers after struggling.

       These days, I imagine people avoid me
                with a gaining popularity.

       These days, I wonder about who I truly am.

These days, I relent to disbelief.

These days, I feel alone
       when surrounded by others.

These days, I withdraw
       as a means to protect myself.

I am lost
       in a world of fitting in, these days,

though I cannot fit in.

Prose: A Fiction (Pending a complete re-write)

As the conversation wound down, he felt her breathing begin to slow, even as his own words started to trail off with consistently more frequency. She used her feet to push off her plaid-patterned flats and rubbed her feet together as the shoes dropped to the floor, landing with one resting on top of the other. She reached up and pulled a fragment of off-colored lint from his shirt, very near to her face, and in her sleepy sense of humor, placed it in his shirt pocket, taking care to button it closed, thus keeping the lint safe so that he might come across it some time in the future and likely discard it at that time.

As she pulled her hand back and rested it next to her face, her palm down laying softly against his chest, she fell into a peaceful sleep. His eyes barely open, he looked across her hair, somewhat tousled from the time spent laying against each other. His gaze continued as he followed the folds of her delicately beautiful sundress, which somehow found a way to make this perfectly enchanting woman even more attractive; so much so, that he struggled to keep his eyes dry.

He leaned his head forward and, taking in the smell of her hair, kissed her softly atop her head as stray hairs tickled his face and stuck to his re-emerging beard. Before pulling back, he kissed her head once more and, in doing so, lost the ability to hold back his tears any longer. As he lay back, his arm holding her gently, secretly hoping to shroud her from any unhappiness that might ever come into her life, tears rolled over his face in perfect silence. She made a soft sound in her sleep, and he used his other hand to dry his face. Moments later, he took to sleep with him the acceptance that he would never know the love he had lived for since he had met her so many years before, when they were children, unmarred by life, and yet innocent.

Memories of their times together filled his dreams: the sight of her face as she laughed with her entire soul, and the way her eyes squinted ever so slightly from the resulting smile that could make anybody's day that much better. He dreamed of her running ahead of him in a race which always started with her taking off before a race had ever declared. As he ran to catch up, she would be laughing uncontrollably, while running with her dress pulled up enough to keep it from tripping her up, just barely revealing her soft and delicate legs, tapering off into her bare feet, which, even covered in dust, seemed to express flawlessness. The race would always end in her declaring herself the victor—her present position suddenly having become the unofficial finish line—and turning to watch him make his way to meet her as she laughed in delight.

After each such race, he detests himself for not having swept her into his arms upon catching up to her and kissing her in a way that would make her hope it might never end so that she could stand there kissing him forever. He had always wanted to kiss her like that, and he knew that there was no other person on earth who could ever kiss her in such a way. There was no other person who had shared with her that time together, who had talked with her for endless hours until both had fallen asleep, who had covered her up at the first hint of a shiver, though she had never been aware of either the cold, or of his act of caring.

Enjoying the Journey

when a thoughtful man sits
alone, pondering the
unpredictable movements of
love, he is often unaware
of that which is before him

the coffee in his cup holds
no direction for the
attainment of an intimacy
that would last against
a lifetime of mishaps
and mistakes

the girl in the miniskirt
and poetically impeccable makeup
exists solely in a world of affluence
far from his own world...
one which is peaceful
and down-to-earth

the music playing over
the speakers secretly
places him along
an avenue of thought
which he is presently in
no hurry to leave behind

he is no closer to the life of
fulfilling passion he seeks,
yet he is entirely contented
with the place and time
wherein he finds himself

yet... does he even know,
or does it even matter?

The Twenty-Fifth of August, Two Thousand and Eight

On an idle afternoon, a
fair-skinned girl breathes inward
in a peaceful, unhurried manner

Her chest expands, taking in life
with a peace that shows
the lack of awareness
with which this single, momentous
act is performed

As she inhales,
the air in the room is
momentarily changed,
as she takes it into her lungs
and it flows through her veins,
passing over every organ, every cell,
touching each and every fragment
of her being only a fraction
of an instant before it
is expelled back into the room,
fantastically unlike anything
it had ever been before

When the brief moment has passed,
it has done so without her ever knowing

The knowledge of such a singular,
momentous action has escaped her
completely, yet this takes
nothing away from its beauty...

...nor from her own

And, while pondering
the impact of that fleeting
moment, he fails to notice
she has gone... all evidence
of her presence having left
with her, save the whisper
of a breath left in the air
of the crowded, busy coffee shop,
never again to be the same

"evenings marked by spirits and self-indulgence"

Alcohol and cigarettes
fill the time from
when I get home to
when I fall asleep.

Waking again the same way
I have a thousand times before,
the morning comes on time, as
always, and as expected,
though sleep rarely turns
out to be as refreshing as
I always imagine it will.

Important, empty tasks
mark each day's toil and
show how each day matters,
though somehow I feel like
I can't seem to make it
matter quite as much
as it once used to.

Today's labors lead
directly towards tomorrow's
which lead me still
on to the stressful
promises of the next.

Nothing has improved;
nothing has changed...
except perhaps my own perception
of how impressed the world has
become with my dedication
and proven worth.

The toils of days soon
melt into the toils
of many weeks, many months,
and still nothing has changed.

Endless efforts spotted with
fleeting weekends and evenings
marked by spirits and self-indulgence.

Literature, art, film,
small corner coffeehouses,
employment, exercise,
school, family,
friends...

Yet what have I really accomplished?

dichotic whispers; they wish to believe.

one million thoughts on a million different days.
dichotic whispers debasing
morality in favor of a sordid,
primal discontent.
shallow ears listen with a feigned fervency,
affecting amicable associations:
      incoherent fallacies.

callous minds comment socially
on the sad state of affairs,
commending their caring words
and selfless, disingenuous actions.

the mind battles its own presence.

it hides behind its own
self-entertainment, believing
itself to be noble and effectual
and set. it pushes out
thoughts of enmity, marking them
off as echoes of television and literature
it has once seen or read or heard.

the darker minds write it down or
take it in, thus perpetrating the
primal perversion that never seems
to completely lose its grasp in base
human passions and prejudices.

fear and hatred consume even
those who abhor the thoughts.

those who hate the hatred
are not free from
hating themselves, and
hide their hideous, their
horrendous, their
failings.

nobody is as innocent as

They wish to believe.

i am an old fool,
      blind to his age
            and his fruitless attempts
  at importance,
              slave to the motions
      of a passionless world.

      i am
inconsequential;   i am
        oblivious;       i
am hurting; i am fooled.

my ignorance keeps me around;
my complacence keeps me alive.

i am fooled; i am blind;
i am empty; i am here.

syncopations

lies truth and heart
all wrapped up and churned out
in a flurry of syncopated
rhythms

dull emotions
contradicting senseless outbursts
forming a greater sense
of sanity through
off-timed bursts
of insanity
mirroring the predictable
unpredictability
of life

light, coffee, dust, everything

the light drifts
     into the empty breadshop

dust covers everything

     she sits
              solemnly, stoically,

      staring out through
               the dusty window.

her coffee is cold
   yet she still
     huddles over it
          for warmth



draped in the aged
       blanket that was…

   …once enough…

          to keep her warm


its holes bring back memories
            she would sooner forget


her eyebrow…
       her eyelashes…
    her breath
against the cold
     morning
           windowpane

she shivers silently,
     to no one but herself…


on the other side of the window,
the world moves,
        life happens,
              everything progresses.


but she is alone…
  
      the only person
   on the other side of the glass
             where nothing happens
          and nobody seems to care

the rotting cabinets that
         once housed her childhood
      mimic the slow rot of her heart,
             her spirit, her mind.

                loneliness is unforgiving
            tears are unforgetful
                   and nothing fixes anything

the world closes in,
        but she’s not around
             to see it.


        sunlight
                    …drifts…
              in
     as the wind
            brushes the dry and
                 lifeless leaves down the
      sidewalk and across
            the barren doormat

nobody walks on it anymore
     nobody notices it is even there.

   nobody asks questions
           about the girl
      who sits in the breadshop

…alone…

          …and silent…
       …and still…


            nobody sees her cry
                     nobody sees her smile

     her coffee is cold.
                 nobody asks why

she exists in a peaceful, silent world

she exists in a peaceful,
     silent world…

     …alone.

   the water around her dances slowly
     to the melancholy song
        of her thoughts, gradually
                   pitching her back and forth.

off-color lighting
       casts long, dreary shadows
   across the empty room,
            and across the textured
                       ceiling.

                   one hand…

             rests solemnly
        next to her naval
                 as her breasts gently
           rise and fall, matching
                         the rhythm of her
                 somber breathing.

out-of-place paintings
                      tell stories that seem so
     unreal…

             these things don’t happen in
         her abandoned world…

she lets out a short,
         selfish laugh
    at the woman
                 hanging on the wall…

                             not in her world.

her knees sympathetically
           rest together as…

  
                   she turns away from the room…


          from the yellow lighting
       and the dreary

                    …shadows…

            from the out-of-place paintings.

she leaves her one hand…


     softly…


resting against her belly.

             and places the other
        over her eyes, as an anguished
            frown erupts across her face.



                      she gasps for breath.


what is all this for?
what does any of it mean?

painted strokes tell
         a story of imbalanced joy
   and impossible contentment
             while her life continues to
         seem out of reach and
                 without forgiveness


she lets the waters…

             pour over her face,
         washing it all away…

      and again the waters sway
            to that melancholy song…

                  silently.

            …

                            she sighs…

                …

          another day.    

30fps

So strange, this day…
So unreal…
So seemingly unemphatic.

Anxious
Nervous
Distant…

Watching this life
flash by at 30
frames per second…
laugh now, cry now

Smile
Giggle
Shout…


we are awed;
we are empty.


Thirty-second stories
tell us how to feel,
what to wear, whom to love…
We smile and nod,
and accept our places.


we are individuals;
we are followers;
we are blind.


The frames pass by
in seamless motion,
marking importance which
might otherwise go unnoticed.

“Isn’t that funny?
Isn’t that sad?
Don’t you feel like clapping?”

We clap;
we laugh; we cheer;
we sigh and smile.


we are happy;
we are clueless


Well-written scripts
and clever cue cards
guide our words and smiles;
our thoughts and feelings…

“Please; thank you”
“Good job; well done”
“Maybe next time.”

“How could you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“They deserved it!”

“Good riddance.”
“Welcome home!”
“Congratulations!”

“You’re hired!”
“You’re fired!”
“This is shit.”


we are witty;
we are clever;
we are stupid.


What happens when
the reel breaks?
When the script no
longer corresponds with the events
in this life and we find
ourselves lost and alone?

The day will come when
we find ourselves watching this
TV screen of a life wondering what
went wrong and what we should
have said or done differently,
or what we still might be able to do.


we are foolish;
we are insignificant;
we are egotists believing
in a simple world where
we are always pleased.

we are inept.


On that day, when our life
loses synchronicity with
its witty, clever commentary, we
either die, or learn to pick up a pen,
a typewriter, a stick in the sand,
and begin to write our own script.
and build our own tracks to travel down…
no longer subject to the whims
of a childish world
and self-serving society.

Let me know when that day comes…
When you let go…
When you are free…

When you find out
who you really are
and what you’re really meant to be

Until that day,
we are here;
this is now;
this is life…
enjoy it as you can…
until then.

A Golden Autumn Afternoon

The cool, soft breeze toys with the tiny hairs on my arms, and whispers her breath through the tall grass as though the blades were gorgeous strands of hair, and whispers gently through the Autumn-tinged leaves of a young oak, which glisten in the golden light of the late afternoon sun, creating a green, red, and gold masterpiece against a vivid blue sky.

And other shades of trees
with other shades of leaves
rustling nearby--
the burnt crimsons and auburns
of early Autumn--
threatening to cast their rusty foliage
heavily upon the world in one momentous act,
signifying the cycle of life
and the beauty of fair Nature's creation...

The aging wooden sign swings against the soft, cool breeze, creaking in harmony with the last of the songbirds that have yet to fly to warmer climes.

The breeze picks up the lighter ends of her dark brown hair, kissed by the sun at the water's edge over the last of youthful Summers. She smiles and laughs as the wind throws wisps of hair across her face, unaware of the dance it is having with this early Autumn breeze... the breeze that brushes across our faces and recalls the scent of Autumns past... the scent of falling leaves and chimney smoke... the scent of the year's harvest coming to its end.

Her laughter fills the air and plays against the songbird's melody and the slow creek of the aging wooden sign to compose the first song of Autumn:

A song that captures the breeze
and the Autumn-tinged leaves
and the the cinnamon scent of fallen leaves
mixed with the familiar smell of chimney smoke
that brings back the memories of the Autumns of our youths;

Such a song as would fill the heart of any person once young with the happiness that deems it impossible not to smile at least a little, while recalling the falling leaves of years long past and all but forgot, or the long-lost scent of home-cooked meals that spreads throughout the neighborhood as children share their love of fall outdoors.

And just so, a smile finds its way across my face, to answer the smile and laughter which find their roots deep within her beautiful and jovial heart. With that smile on my face, I reach across to brush the dancing wisps of hair from her pretty face, which has been playfully trying to hide her stunning, happy eyes and gorgeous, luminous smile.

The smile on her face and in her eyes catches on the breeze and wafts over across my face, touching my heart and forever marking my soul as our hands find their way into each other's grasp, sharing a love so profound our hearts can barely understand.

The burnt, ruddy crimson and auburn leaves rustle as they blow past our feet, and we shiver in unison as the late afternoon breeze picks up an early evening chill, the full harvest moon already visible in the darkening vivid blue sky.

The wind whispers her breath through the tall grass as we stand to find a warmer place to sit and laugh, and as I pull her warm Autumn jacket up over her shoulders, the chilled, scented breeze brings her dark brown hair to dance softly across my face and across a smile that affects my very soul, and we turn to embrace each other with laughter in our hearts.

And in this way, arm in arm, we walk on: with the joviality of youth and the joy of love in our hearts. A playful kiss on her soft, warm cheek brings a smile back to her face and laughter back to my ears on a golden Autumn afternoon and early Autumn evening I will never, ever forget.

Sonnet XXXII - To Melancholy

Sonnet XXXII - To Melancholy
By Charlotte Smith, 1785

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE ARUN, OCTOBER 1785.

WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil
And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Thro' the half leafless wood that breathes the gale.
For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail!
Pity's own Otway, I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind!
Oh Melancholy! -- such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And soothe the pensive visionary mind!

Love's Promised Fate

A simple request
Upon your departure
In feeling so blessed
By Love's little Archer:

To kiss it so lightly:
Your soft little brow
Of which I dream nightly
And missed until now.

A kiss on the left,
A kiss on the right.
I hold you bereft,
I hold you so tight

Thoughts of you leaving
Fill me with sadness;
Thoughts so deceiving
To steal all my gladness.

So here will I wait
For treasured return
While Love's promised fate
I ardently yearn...

Fire and Forge and Ocean's Waves

With fire and forge surrounding,
This one can find no friend.
The Ocean’s waves are drowning
This one who fears its end.

Such times when minds transcend
The tortures of their souls,
This one might lightly mend
The forge and Ocean’s tolls.

Then if this one is smiling
Against what he contends
Then match him in his timing:
Resilient strength commend.

For from which mighty mold
Heroic strength is wrought
This one was formed so bold
To challenge burdened thought.

To stand against the flames
And face that forge surrounding
To use what breath remains
To fight the Ocean’s drowning.

And if a soul could fight
‘Gainst such unending foe,
That soul would dress the night
In god and mortal glow.

So watch it as it conquers
And watch it when it falls
You’ll find this one is stronger
To walk immortal halls.

Let Faith and Patience lead you
To guide him through his plight,
For at its end he’ll need you.
To tend him through the night.

What path is sculpted by her heart...

What does one do when finds his love apart,
Her thoughts from him and on some foreign art?
What would he say to steal her coveted ear,
To see and know what love is in her heart?
How selfish he to keep her thoughts so dear!
What man is he who cannot lend with love
But time, with kindness that she breathe enough
The breath of youth that finds her soul and starts
Her on what path is sculpted by her heart?
To trust in love; allowing her to live…
To let her grow, and grace and freedom give…
To help her find herself that she might know
Down which path the gentle breeze might blow.
And what a path impassioned feet will tread!
Never stopping, never failing, and never found unled.

When we danced in that communal place...

If happiness were truly caught, they'd find
That harsh would trade for supple and sublime.
For when we danced in that communal place,
'Twas sadness, wist and worry were replaced.
For longed I just to hold her precious hand,
But silent music's gentle dance was planned.
'Twas weeks and months I turned her form around
And seemed unending that we gently kissed.
And with one motion quickly off the ground
I held the one whom I had greatly missed.
Then softly as I held her gentle wrist
I hid a tear behind a loving kiss

A kiss before was so unlike this gift
By which I did my love to her impart…
And when at last my eyes did slowly lift
I felt abundant love pour from her heart.

How happy, I, who never could have dreamt
To find a one whose heart made mine content,
That looked I long into her peaceful eyes
And kissed them both in peaceful, soft replies.
A smile so tender came upon her lips--
So sweetly sad we knew that we would part--
I greeted them to give a tender kiss
And held her close, that she could feel my heart.
And held her there until she would depart.

So far away I dream of her so dear
And wish to find a way to hold her near…
To see that smile so tender on her lips,
And greet her tender smile with tender kiss
Then softly just to hold her gentle wrist
And hide a tear behind a loving kiss...
Such happy tears behind a loving kiss.

"I dreamt a dream of dark and rolling fog..."

I dreamt a dream of dark and rolling fog
Upon and through the grasses of a field
That traveled past and caused my thoughts to jog
On mem’ries lost and feelings that were sealed
In doubt and fear that they could not be healed.
Such fog to bring these mem'ries back from deep
And cause my heart to leap at secrets I should keep.

And in that cautious state I met a man:
A man in whom was certain I could trust…
And in that trust I found my words began:
“Although I know you not, I know I must
Confide to you such things should be discussed.”
And at that time I found I could reveal
Those things I would conceal for fear they never heal.

The man then turned his aged eyes to me
And spoke as though he heard not what I said.
For what had I presumed that he could see,
This man who knew not what was in my head?
But just as soon I knew I could be dead
And no one then would ever hear that truth:
The stories and the truth and follies of my youth.

I spoke to him again and told him how
My life had come and gone and now was spent
For poorest choice and darkest, painful vow:
A secret kept while given my consent;
A secret swept beneath a carpet crept
Up o’er my life and confidence coerced...
Now half my life traversed, I find my travels cursed.

Once again this aged fool did turn
And spake to me in such an open way:
No wrinkled brow nor sign of such concern;
No lowered voice or dread did he convey;
Although, unholy truth did he betray
When spake he of those things I did reveal,
And for my faults did he to Providence appeal.

In fear and dread I begged him to desist
To Holy ears could not my tale be told,
For life indeed would cease if he insist
And find me cast beyond the darkest cold;
If Providence my truths would yet behold.
When silence at my heartfelt pleas was not
Yet given unto me I knew all hope forgot.

So listened I unto his honest tongue
That told the Father what this heart had done,
That told the pain and mis’ry it had brung,
That spoke those words ‘twould never be undone;
It seemed at last fair justice had begun.
And when at once the shadowed fog rolled back
I knew no punishment nor consequence would lack.

But then I found it with these weary eyes
That from that dream so fearful I awoke.
I heard the voice that Providence devised
Would serve to speak to mortals when he spoke.
The words it gave these tears it did provoke,
And silence filled my chamber as it left,
And left this soul divested, broken and bereft.

The silence hanging then provoked my thoughts
That nothing could have given me the same
As what it was wise Providence had brought:
A freedom and forgiveness for my name
That could restore and mend this broken frame.
And then I knew what truly I once lost:
What price my life had cost, what love would not exhaust.

In silence lost and darkness wrapped I wept
To think that one so broken had been freed.
Then slowly up forgotten feelings crept:
This conscience and those feelings then agreed
By freedom would this life sustained be.
A warming sun then shone through shutters drawn,
And welcomed me on that the first of many dawn.

"When nights suspend by burdened thought"

When nights suspend by burdened thought,
With loneliness is my heart fraught.
When thoughts of you would touch my heart,
It brings me tears that we would part.
When wake I from my dreams of you,
My heart is grieved to see it through.
Such sadness has but shown my mind
This heart hast found that special love.
Though when in love you gaze I find
‘Tis sorrow that I’m set above.
Yet in your absence, I will love,
For ‘twas your heart I did await,
Whose love would touch my soul, my fate.

But when you part I pray for sleep,
For when you’re gone I fear so much.
I pray at night your heart to keep.
‘Tis for your love I pray too much.
For if it’s found that I could know
How your heart pains, it would be so
That I could let these worries go
And once again could find some rest…
But was it then I slept the best?
When there was none whose love I missed
Did I not pray to dream of this?
And when I laid awake each night,
Would I not long for love so bright?
Did anguish haunt my ev’ry night?

So when I pause to think of you,
I pray in thanks for love so true.
Forget I such a pain as this
As when I find your love I miss.
With joy I pray and thank the Lord
That I am in your eyes adored;
That through the pain and through the tears,
You’d hold me tight and face our fears;
That when I find myself distressed,
You rest your head upon my chest.
You feel my heart and know my thoughts
And guide my soul so lovingly.
You show me how in love you’re caught:
Beneath my arm, you’re caught with me.
You give me love, though I could not
Believe with me your love was bought.
But now I feel it in your kiss
That such a love sublime is this...
In such a simple, brilliant kiss,
That such a love sublime is this.

"This Morning Blue" by Joe Purdy

Woke up next to you this morning blue...
Your eyes they opened so slow...
    To the things they did not want to see...
    And Lord I'm praying that it wasn't me...

You say you love me sometimes...
I say I love you way too much...
    You got a different way of showing things...
    And now knowing you is killing me...

The only thing I know is true...
Is when I close my eyes at night...
    The only thing I see is you...
    And I believe that we can see it through...
          And I'm praying that you see it too...

- Joe Purdy
      "This Morning Blue" - Stompingrounds

To Happier Weather...

Tell us a story
      of times yet begun,
of battle and glory,
      of races to run.

Fill it with laughter,
      with joy and delight;
and shortly thereafter,
      with sadness and plight.

Set us to worry
      and fear for the worst;
make our thoughts hurried
      of torment reversed.

Bring all back together,
      our tensions worthwhile.
To happier weather!
      and tears with our smiles.
                                    - end -

The Summers of Their Youth

I picture you in the sun,
              lamenting Summer's children--
      your commission-- who loose themselves
                  against your watchful eye,
    unaware of your silent toil
          and selfless patience.

Do not hold their merriment against them,
        but show kindness,
    that they would fondly recall
              the Summers of their youth.
                                - end -

The Sails of Child's Play

Of wonders lost and loves foretold from lands
untread by human feet -- of which would lie
untouched, unharmed, unseen by human eye –
of sentence served, of lives but lost, of man's
beleaguered pains, those tender minds make plans.
To captain ships with shipsmen full, to die
for country brave, to fight for freedom's cry,
the sails of child's play guided by their hands.
With hostile storms of dreams and loves naïve
embellished by romantic circumstance,
these children find their fancies entertained.
When find themselves against the rocks besieged,
then cling they to their unrestrained romance
that finds them by their fancy e'er sustained.

                                    -- Friday, May 12, 2006

The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)

Just have to remind myself sometimes, In the words of Paul Simon…

            Slow down you move too fast
              You got to make the moment last

"Dost thou not see the joy in life?"

Dost thou not see the joy of life?
If not for love this life should be,
Still canst thou live it gracefully:
With no such woes, and no such strife.
When seeking life, heed this advice:
Reach all thy goals, but be thou free.
Forgive thyself incessantly --
Let life not be thy sacrifice.

Not one can help that life would pass,
So watch not as thy time doth go.
With peace but find thy grief replaced.
Allow thyself a time to laugh,
Permit thyself a chance to grow,
And gain thyself a cultured taste.

For thou couldst not attempt it twice:
To try again this life to lead.
Let not a cautious life it be,
But live it full -- SUCH JOY, this life!
Let not regret become thy plight,
Yet find thyself with cares turned free,
That thou couldst live life hopefully,
Not grieve it through, thine heart contrite.

Give to those who can’t give back,
Teach to those who cannot know,
Applaud the first and love the last,
And voyage where thine heart would go.
Let not this troubled life but pass.
Reach for thy dreams!
                            And watch them grow…

"Kindness is but a form of happiness..."

Kindness is but a form of happiness,
Found in the soul.

It is not an attempt at pleasantness,
But rather a profound peace from within.

It cannot be created
And it cannot be destroyed,
Nor does it borrow need to be.

Seek not its subtle nature within yourself,
As it cannot be compelled.
Only let it be what it is,
And let it show itself to those you care about.

It is its own master,
And through its subtle, selfless nature,
It will leave its unmistakable mark on your soul.

Life's Stubborn Progression

The radio tower blinks off and on.
        Life progresses.
    Life goes on.

Problems arise,
         Life goes on.

It doesn’t wait...
       It doesn’t ask your permission...
    It heads forward with full disregard.

Life doesn’t give you time to deal with its burdens,
        Nor does it give you time to figure them out.
      Life is, and does…
               And does as it pleases.

And when you’ve figured all this out --
         When you’ve righted yourself --
      It will continue to do the same.
                
And as the radio tower blinks off and on,
      So will life progress.
             So will life go on.
            

This Concession

Weariness has taken me.
   So long did I fight against it with vigor and passion,
       But no longer do I see the need to resist.

If none other shall try,
       Why shall I?

Everywhere my hopeful eye has looked,
       I have seen but an unbound potential.
   Everyone whom my hopeful eye has looked upon
           Has cast down any words of truth or confidence.

If they need not to hear it,
      Then perhaps I should let them find their own way.
   They live their lives in the places where they choose to stand,
            And they ask why they have been bound there.
        Yet, if one was to tell them the binding was their own,
     They would not accept, and would not step out.  

How many times can one such as I be scoffed at
         Before he sees his counsel is not needed?

Such a bleak world that would not stand up for itself.
            Such a gloomy goal that would not fight for its own achievement.
      For shame.

They said, “why try?”
   They said, “failure is inevitable.”

The truth in their statements only springs
      From their ability to say them,
    And their acceptance of them as truisms.

One cannot surpass his own lackluster ambition.
     And if such a one has set his beliefs on a pessimistic future,
            What can be done?

So I assent, “why try?”
        Why try to convince somebody whose
     Beliefs are set that they are wrong?

I am weary of this fight.
        I am tired of running and of battle.
    I concede my task.

Go home, young optimist,
        Your counsel is not wanted here.  

This Mind's Mischief

So tired that I can’t even sleep…
    So thoughtful, I can’t even think
           -- My thoughts swirling and twirling and dead.
      Yet tired.
            So, so tired.

But sleep is elusive…
          And wiley.

And following its lead,
      My thoughts keep just past
    The bounds of my control…
            Elusive…
                   And wiley.

These fingertips flow through
       The ribbons of thought
    That lag behind, just enough
              To keep me informed
           Of their unpermitted intentions –
         Unrelenting and unforgiving.

And they keep me tired –
      Confused, lost, and tired –
    While they tend to their
           Mischievous, carefree goals.
    - end -

        - April 15, 2006

Searching for olde acquaintance

When one such as this finds himself
     With no veritable response,
   Does he yet give in?

I say that it should not be so,
  For it is the pessimistic one
     Who would but forget an honorable quest.

   Yet this one is not such an one...
For he sees the fantastic nature of his goal.

His is the goal
      That would not be forgotten,
   And shall not be lost.

The soft spring air, and time well spent

Taking a break from the toils of a day,
       I find myself and my cares swept away.
   The gentle, flowing breeze carries the scent
         of the soft spring air, and time well spent,
   and carries my worries and troubles away.

On the turntable:

On the turntable: KT Tunstall - "Eye to the Telescope" February 7, 2006 Release - Relentless Records - LPREL06 (US Version - 12" Vinyl LP) # Title 1 Other Side of the World 2 Another Place to Fall 3 Under the Weather 4 Black Horse and the Cherry Tree 5 Miniature Disasters 6 Silent Sea 7 Universe & U 8 False Alarm 9 Suddenly I See 10 Stoppin' the Love 11 Heal Over 12 Through the Dark

A Feather Caught by the Wind

A feather, flitting on a wintry gust,
         Far from the warm security of its home,
     Where it once found itself nestled deep
             Under the wing of a lighthearted sparrow.

Graceful feather, how were you misplaced?
         What have you done to find yourself alone,
      Blown about by the frosty, incessant wind?
  How is it that you could have given up
       The care and protection of that home?

If freedom was your goal,
        Have you not found yourself mistaken?
    Can you not see the greys and whites of Winter,
                    Her snowy landscapes and bleak climes?

Surely the cold air
        Has found its way into your soul,
    Now forever marked with its bite.

How you must but wish for your
        Warm and safe home,
     So far away now,
             Traveling above the breeze,
             Unaware of your absence.

How could you ever find it again?
            How could you ever go back?

       Dearest feather,
               Warm down to a lone sparrow’s breast,
          Find your place in the loft tonight,
                In the shelter of the barn,
       Resting on the farmer’s hay
                     And protected from Winter’s icy assaults.

        Though you might not find that home again,
            In which you soared high on the wind, unafraid,
      Find a new home up there,
              High up in that loft,
         Sheltered, and enveloped in warmth,
                 Resting on that farmer’s hay,
                          Your cares once more swept away.    

Such a fickle gender...

Such a fickle gender, woman is,
            That with words enough
      They can securely hide what they might mean,
                  Though meaning to reveal what they feel so severely.  

Perhaps I cannot understand
      The message -- under the message -- under the words,
            Which find their way to mine ear,
                   -- Though it seemingly speaks not your language --
         And what truths you know and acknowledge,
   But would refuse to believe.

Such a selfless cause can prove kindhearted,
      And such a selfless cause can prove
            To be a shelter and security
                  From grief, and heartache.
         Seek out an answer, and know the truth,
   That you might learn to follow your heart, unafraid.

Look up.

If I could present to the world the story of my life,
       One might ask how it is that I can continue to be optimistic
              In a world that treats me so.  
       How it is I can fall, and then rise right back up,
              Smiling and ready for the next step.

I’m not so sure myself.
       I sometimes find myself wondering the very same thing…
       How it is I don’t grow bitter…
              Or cold…

All I can figure is that this life, if left to regret,
              would find itself far past not worth living.
       And the only reason to live a life of regret,
                     would be to attempt unhappiness.

I can’t live a life dwelling on the things which may or may not have gone my way.
       Things don’t always go my way, but it never means that the next one will not.

Life is always available
              To anyone who would have it.
Success,
              To anybody who would accept it.
Happiness,
              To anybody who would put it in their heart.

There is nowhere to go to seek it,
       There is no person to find from whom to receive it,
              And there is no action to perform by which to obtain it.

There is only yourself,
       And the acceptance that you’ve done well
              With what you’ve had.
       That you’ve tried the best you could
              In the time you had.
       Or even that you were a little lazy,
              But were able to enjoy life.

Accept that about your past,
       And know that tomorrow can worry about itself.
       What good will it ever do to worry about something
                     That cannot be forced to change?  

But if you cannot be optimistic for your own sake,
        Do it for the sake of others.
Do it for the sake of those who can’t see that it’s even possible.
        Let them know that they’ve nothing to regret in this lifetime...  
              Nothing that can’t be made up for through the sanguine future.  

       Let them know that there is no limit
              And are no bounds that can be placed
                     On the potential of a human being
                            Confident in the unscripted future.
                     And by doing so,
                            You may find confidence
                                   And contentment in your own.

"What worry holds you back?"

As you lie under the sun,
       And consider life,
              What do you feel?
       What emotions torment you?

What worries keep your feet
       Constantly traveling
              -- Constantly wandering,
       Never stopping to rest --
              In a direction that keeps you separate
       From anyone else?

Why do you run from Love,
       Dear child?
              What beast has Love become
       That it would trouble your wearied soul?

What feelings keep you apart
              From that which could serve
       To free that troubled, wearied soul?
              Or what feelings are lacking?
                     What worry holds you back?

Speak it plainly, dear child,
       That those with ears might hear.
And consider it thoughtfully,
       That your gentle heart
              Might find its own answer.

For what good is it to speak the truth,
       If you cannot know it yourself?
What good is it to know the answer to the question
       If you cannot find the reason behind the question itself?

So reflect upon a question --
       Reflect upon a life
              -- And spend time to find yourself,
       And the beauty which makes you who you are,
              And look past the self-decaying thoughts
                     Of worry and doubt, to see that beauty.

                            And set yourself free.

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

I’ve taken to putting good poems on this page when I find them, or when they’re revealed to me, as this one was.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

                 -- Robert Frost

                              (courtesy of Tristan)

Lucius and Ivy

The quiet young man stands in his place,
       Tending to his work, silent;
              Pulling his weight
       In the peaceful, tiny village.

He tends to his chores
       Never forgetting a step
              And never failing in doing
                     The best job that he can,
       Yet he cannot help but think of something else…
              His every thought belonging to someone else.

But he would never tell her,
       Though he sees her every day
Though she speaks to him
       As if the whole world were theirs.

Yet as he does his work --
       Always faithful…
              Never failing…
       -- He thinks of her,
              Worries that she never feel pain,
       And longs to hold her,
                     Or just to see her --
                            To be near her.

His heart’s envy
       -- Beautiful, though unseeing
              -- More beautiful still for it,
                     And most delicate of all
       -- Is never but a short walk away,
              In the peaceful, tiny village.
                     Yet he is afraid to seek her out.

              What would he say?
                            What could he do?

Though he rarely says anything,
              Speaking only as a tool for communication,
       And is known for it.

Yet his unseeing beloved
       Is known for the kindness
              In her forthright speech
       -- always saying what is on her mind
              and always saying what she means.
Long since her glorious vision failed,
       She learned to hear
              The truth in others’ voices
       And cares only to share the truth in her own.

And the kindness
       -- Oh, the kindness
              he can never forget! --
       rings always in his heart,
              freeing him from his pains,
                     though pouring on him more still.

Yet he knows he could never tell her,
       But does not see
              That she hears it in his silence,
       And loves him for it.
              Yet she is kind,
                     And patiently awaits that day
                            In which he holds back no more
              And says what his tormented heart
                            Has been waiting to say for so long.

When she thinks of that day --
       While he performs his duties
              And tends to his chores,
       Unable to free his mind --
                     She is happy
                            And she smiles.