Friday, August 28, 2009


There is no reason,
it just happened to begin that way,
a shivering of fantasies up my spine and down again.

So sly, a glance between moments
eyes that linger, savour, caress.

Pinpoint the attraction, I cannot
fill in the meaning between the lines,
is it there?

Brush against me, scent of sanity,
taste the sweetness upon my lips.


Flowing freedom of silence,
does it mean anything to you?

The darkness and the moon,
snuff out the meaning, an illusion.

Risk everything upon the vision,
you, shimmering in the night.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Practice - Emotions

There was no stopping her, no reasoning, the clothes had to be washed and hung, baths taken, all before she could quit for the day.

Everyone sat, a pallor on their faces, avoiding the eyes of the others.

Not Hanna, she had scrubbed the floor with a will, beaten the rugs, swept the back porch and was now doing the washing. There was a glint in her unfocused eyes, she blinked, she must focus on the washing.

They couldn't understand her obsession, no one felt up to anything just then.

Minutes ticked away in a slow procession, each one holding up the others, until Ginny May ran through, irreverent. They tried to stop her, Minerva and Uncle Wes, but she was too quick to be caught.

'Charlie, out in the back, was digging up flowers, he had to be stopped or she was gonna hav to take grief again bout bringing home a stray. Oh lordie how she hated to hear them.'

Ginny May was a flash of sunshine, the others looked at each other when she had passed. But Hanna, she kept on working, Jim would need his shirt pressed.

Out the window, she could see Ginny, as she turned each shovel full of dirt. Hanna burned the shirt as she watched each spade full of dirt, filling the hole.

Sunday, August 23, 2009


At this late hour, darkness, like a silent friend awaits, awaits each flip of the switch, each click of the mouse, to turn off the distractions of the universe, to get reacquainted with eternity.

Eternal sleep, silence awaits, as your eyes close in circadian wonder and you are surrounded by the figments of thought that flicker through your mind, sometimes leaving you more confused than peaceful, a world where the sense of sense is senseless and your impassioned speeches are heard, or disregarded as the masses walk or your loved ones flit silently through your mind; each falling victim to your fears or your hopes in the wee small hours in your deepest sleep, remember that your impassioned speech may bring you to tears, but was never heard.

Friday, August 21, 2009

First Stanza From Keats Endymion

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.


Thursday, August 20, 2009


Can things ever be normal, with all this ambiguity?


thought, silence


Please identify!


can you feel the distance in my manner

can you?


At least explain the...


(I cannot live with this)

Even after I...



A note about my piece...

When I first wrote it, about a month ago, I felt uneasy posting it. I wrote it after reading Charles Dickens "A Tale of Two Cities" and wanted to capture a bit of his writing style in a piece.

The French Revolution was very dramatic, Dickens book about it is very vivid and telling. It is fast paced and the events move the book along rather than the plot.

So why feel uneasy posting my piece? Because it is a vivid, telling, and slightly unnerving piece. I think the feelings here in America are of frustration, I am certainly frustrated, yet we are far better off than the people of France leading up to the French revolution. Their injustices were many, they were a repressed people, at their breaking point.

So with that said, I liked the way that the piece helped me bring out a dramatic style, but still, it is a bit unnerving to read (ever spook yourself while telling ghost stories?) ;D


(and Ajey, I don't know how I managed to post a draft and the finished piece but I did... so you all get to see the draft below the "finished" piece.)

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Hunger (draft)

She was fair, had a certain air, walked every where, strove to care,

yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything. They have left the land of no hope, for the American dream so fair, a sure thing you bet, they have left, they have left with a hope and a dare.

yet the hunger lay in the strees, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!

Faces of gaunt children, hair receeding hope retreating. Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger.

hunger in the streets, yes the hunger that lay in the streets.

Then a cry, faint in its beginning faint who would have guessed the ignomity that they suffer, as their hopes fail them. Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.

Ho then congressman! Ho then tax man! We have no bread to tax, take pity!

They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed. Who will give them breath again? Their children cry, yet words and tears fall deaf on hearts, frozen in the fray.

Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid from aching backs of laborers, searching, searching for newer and better. Onward upward bless this house. Stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart, I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets.

Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression. Ignomity is in the past, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.

Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!

How do you carry forward the waters of life, when it is slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.

You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redeption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.

The throne of deception, the throne of desire you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets.

the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay there.

Hearts have stilled with the news,

In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, there is nothing to fear.

No one has listened, who knows what the silence means yet it lingers.

A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, charon awaits, there is hunger in the streets it is there.

With each stone that falls from the foundations, from the walls as you walk down the streets of desertion. Your grasping for something, grasping, grasping...

and the children they cry in the streets, yes their children they cry in the streets.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Beautiful Fabric

Beautiful Fabric
As children we make tenuous connections friendships based on a glance from a friendly face.

Giving trust wholeheartedly, willing to kiss and hug one another with no reserve.

How shortly this lasts as other desires come into our little hearts, to have more than the other, to be stronger, or smarter. So kids pinch and they pull, surprised when their little friendships are hurt.

and how deep that hurt can be, innocent hearts, trusting hearts, hearts that thrummed together in friendship can be easily broken.

Hopefully we learn respect.

How innocent is the interest of childish desires. Desires awakening in the breast of young girls, and young boys.

Holding hands, trusting, claiming each other, how short lived is this little bond. As young hearts, growing still, bump up against each other, mixed with the messages that they have received from the adult world around them.

This adulthood bond, what does it mean? Holding hands, a kiss on the lips, a look, laying in bed?

Awakening children reach out to each other, hiding in the van by the house to touch lips together and wonder at the meaning of the sparks that fly.

Holding each other close, as they lay in the grass, Edens bed, innocent still.

and innocently hurt each other as well. There is so much more to understand than children know.

As they grow, so does the curiosity. So does the intensity of the flame, they test this flame, to find that it can burn. That with the give and take between them that immaturity can mean more take than give and intense encounters can leave a heart broken and empty.

As adults we find that there are threads, they reach between two separate hearts connecting each to the other. These threads are formed by the trust that is given, one heart to another. Hearts that have faced the reality of imperfection, hearts that know each other.

These threads are woven each time we choose each other, woven and made stronger with the experiences that we share. Forming a fabric, creating something beautiful to wrap new little babies in. Forming a fabric to insulate each other from the harshness of continual judgement, the judgement of the world.

With the trust comes true inhibition. The flames formed from intertwined hearts can be strong and beautiful.

That is, unless... you break a little thread here or there, little hurts, little disrespects. Little things that tell me that I am not all that you dreamed of.

Little words said, mistrust, abuse, judgement of the other.

Pulling away, snipping at, cutting at the threads you believe bind you. Not willing to give your trust, not believing in the theory of intertwined hearts. Never reaching that climax, because of dissatisfaction.

and it hurts, it really does.

I believe in the theory of intertwined hearts. I have woven beautiful fabric, and I have sipped at threads. Then I have sewn them again, and refused to let the threads be cut, they sometimes are cut. I have felt that hurt.

It is hard to trust.

Yet, weaving beautiful fabric together is worth it.


This is a little story my Dad told me about this guy, Owen... I typed it up pretty much as he told it, I want to change it around sometime, it is a neat little story.

(A good excuse to get my Dad talking about the past, not like he needs any excuse and all...)

Owen walked everywhere, he didn't have much in the way of worldly possessions. In fact he only ever wore tattered overalls and he lived in a little trailer on the edge of his brothers property. Owen would walk past our house every day, on his way to the store. Sometimes Todd and I would see him, walking along the railroad tracks, his beard hanging down, colored yellow by the "Prince Albert" tabacco that he chewed. We would stop and talk to him every once in a while, he liked to talk. He would tell us about World War I and even speak a bit of French for us. Todd and I noticed that he had piles and piles of tuna fish cans piled outside his door, we told dad about it and dad started to give him deer meat from the freezer whenever he passed. After that we noticed that Owen started to walk on the other side of the street, guess he didn't like deer meat all that much. One day Owen was walking by our house, he was wearing a new pair of overalls. My old dog rebel took off after him, tore a chunk of fabric right out of the leg, I still feel bad about that. That was Owen, his family still lives in our neighborhood.

the one

Probe this sadness, probe it with me
in hidden hollows, achiness, release.

Hollows hidden in my heart, sadness
I know not whence it came, whence it will go.


Touch upon hidden places,
into and out of the corners.

Achy, pent up reserves of tears,
release them, explore them, taste them on your tongue.

Mourning, weeping, wailing.

Enter Thalia daughter of the goddess,
restore happiness unto me.

Thalia, restore happiness to my breast,
thou deity of old.

Restore my heart, return to me,
limbs torn asunder in the wind, through the storm.

Fresh, life, renew, eternity

The aching building dam of sadness,
awaken, awoken fresh fears.

Dead, you have gone and I am left empty
as though you had died, have you not?

Mourn with me, upon the mount,
thou living God, are you not the one?

I confess to have felt you,
for your arms I have sought.

Explore the depths of my mourning,
probe my heart, we join together,
harmoniously seeking the depths, despair.

Thou hast abandoned me, I am,

Explore this sadness, probe the depths
enter in, kiss my tears away.

Gasping I release the anger, the pent up tears,
hidden ecstasy, relieve my agony.


Can I live, breath, through you?
Release, relieve, mourning, weeping, wailing.

Fears, deep fears, narrowly escape,
realization denied, Thalia cried

she had died.

Tread lightly, in the shadows
relieve the burden, upon my soul.

and on the third day was restored.

he is the one

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Imperfectly Perfect

The rigours, the means, the might and emotion of being normal.

Normal in a world of flawless beauty,

the chipped vase on the counter,

the dent in the new car,

the flaw that is hidden, yet still there.

Imperfect in proportion, crooked, lopsided,

yet wonder

that I and you together can combine

to create

the tiny fingers that we marvel at in wonder,

the sigh of a new infant

a perfect soul in an imperfect world,

who will grow to become imperfectly perfect.

Monday, August 10, 2009


The dark solemn night, a gentle gust of wind blew, glimmering radiant wings shone, fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Butterfly's in hues of blue, green, bright monarchs, rising upward towards the moon.

A solemn procession of beauty heralding the hopes of a lost world, words uttered in prayer, echoing over the high mountain peaks and concentrated onto the spot where the dawning of a new day had begun.

A child fresh from the womb emerged, her tears cried out to be heard. She was carried by her grandmother, to be hid from the world for three days, a world in which the colors of life had faded, faded like flowers carried many hours.

Sipapu the place of emergence.

Her aunts gathered, braiding the new mothers hair, cleansing her body, restoring her to wholeness. Brightly colored beads were woven into it, signifying her triumph over death.

The baby was bathed and wrapped in a soft doe skin blanket gently nursed at her mothers breast, the life force flowed between them.

On the third day, a meal was prepared, prayers were uttered, and mother emerged with her daughter, stepping out into the hues of the early sunrise, they name her kurena.

We come at sunrise
to greet you.
We call you
at sunrise.
Father of the clouds
you are beautiful
at sunrise.

(Native American poetry and some artistic elements found here

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Israel Restored

Silence, like death in the valley of Israel
awake, restore my strength.

renew, reveal

Silence, from the depths of a broken heart
broken in ignorance, innocence.

promises, hope

The gentle cadence of thy lips upon my own
swallows the lies of my fears.

empty, ignorance

Your voice like a light upon the high mountain
dawn breaking over the horizon.

wise, tears

Lightly I touch my lips in remembrance
of thy sweetness.

heaven, restored

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Free the life Within you

Fresh, new, feral, an instinct for preservation, new life, freedom, being, wholeness, fidelity. life. love. happiness.

Reinvent, make new, become who you have always wanted to be in your wildest dreams, the achingly beautiful specter of freedom, cling to the harmonious bows of the trees as you sway and give way to the breeze.

Laugh, love, dance and become, become, become you have won. It matters not what fickle fate has dealt if you ache for it, reach for it, pull and tug at the hand of destiny.

Where ere you may go, seek for the snow, pure driven beautiful illusion of an image, mirage, focus only on becoming a saint, a martyr. Empty your pockets of delusions of grander, become a swaying goddess in the early morning hours become a temple of beauty to flock unto.

Appoint the place that you dwell with palatial beauty and friendliness. Ache, ache, let your heart be released, let your fears fade away let life and harmony flow through your slender typing hands as you tenderly stroke the soft baby's cheek.

Throbbing with life, growing with life, in tune with the universe, become an angel of deliverance. Hold the precious gift in your hands, tiny, perfect beautiful gift. Womanhood revealed.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep (Classic)

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush.
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Monday, August 3, 2009


It isn't, it couldn't be, that is me?

No, I refuse to accept that

it is an illusion.

Mud spattered image, a heap on the floor,

the last groveling bit of humanity


It makes me angry to see that heap,

I would pile it up and kick it,

grab a hold of the mass of ugliness and throw.

I would look in the mirror

to see something else.

A shining bit of polished person,

a bit of worthy matter

to walk around in.