Today, I used a glue stick to seal 150 envelopes because I was sure if I didn't, I would manage to paper cut my tongue.
I also learned that to seal exactly 150 envelopes, one entire glue stick is nessesary.
Oh work, the thrills and chills you give me!
But I got to do this too :)
Almost April
When trees birth leaves in tears of red
when translucent buds lift drooping heads
when streams rise up against their banks
It's almost April again.
As tears of glass turn the earth to clay
as worms weave their way through winter's decay
as cardinals give way to more flittering birds
It's almost April again.
Then wails the wind, chased from the trees
then wake the bears to threaten the bees
then I remember life came, and you went-
It's almost April again.
When your petal eyes closed, dusty lashes locked
as your breath finished giving life to the flowers
then spring became sorrow, birth became death-
it was almost April again.
Rainstorm
Light raining liquid
from saturated clouds of
molten, glowing, gold
Complete
They say we're 'just friends'
with implications of loss
but we are just, friends.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
A List of Poems
When I'm, filing papers at work or stuffing envelopes, I've been memorizing/re-learning poems. Some of them are classics. Some I learned in middle and high school and had to re-learn. Some are newer favorites. Here's a list of the ones I know so far. Let me know if you have any suggestions :)
1 At a Window Carl Sandburg
2 Somebody Said Anon.
3 A Flower leaves its’ Fragrance Helen Steiner Rice
4 Marc Anthony’s Speech William Shakespeare
5 Rainy Day Robert Frost
6 In a Station of the Metro Ezra Pound
7 Always Marry an April Girl Ogden Nash
8 Further Reflections on Parsley Ogden Nash
9 The Shrimp Ogden Nash
10 Follies Carl Sandburg
11 Sonnet 30 William Shakespeare
12 I Carry Your Heart e e cummings
13 Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening Robert Frost
14 in time of daffodils e e cummings
15 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Maya Angelou
16 Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why) Nikki Giovanni
17 Thursday Edna St. Vincent Millay
18 Song Thomas Lovell Beddoes
19 Crossing the Bar Alfred Lord Tennyson
20 A Dream Deferred Langston Hughes
21 Perhaps Not to Be is to Be Without Your Being Pablo Neruda
22 Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair Langston Hughes
23 The Road Less Traveled Robert Frost
24 The Tyger William Blake
25 Hope is the thing with feathers Emily Dickinson
26 Dessert Places Robert Frost
27 One Art Elizabeth Bishop
28 True Stories Margret Atwood
Now that you've seen this and my writting, you probably have a good idea of how much nothing I do at work some days...
;)
1 At a Window Carl Sandburg
2 Somebody Said Anon.
3 A Flower leaves its’ Fragrance Helen Steiner Rice
4 Marc Anthony’s Speech William Shakespeare
5 Rainy Day Robert Frost
6 In a Station of the Metro Ezra Pound
7 Always Marry an April Girl Ogden Nash
8 Further Reflections on Parsley Ogden Nash
9 The Shrimp Ogden Nash
10 Follies Carl Sandburg
11 Sonnet 30 William Shakespeare
12 I Carry Your Heart e e cummings
13 Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening Robert Frost
14 in time of daffodils e e cummings
15 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Maya Angelou
16 Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why) Nikki Giovanni
17 Thursday Edna St. Vincent Millay
18 Song Thomas Lovell Beddoes
19 Crossing the Bar Alfred Lord Tennyson
20 A Dream Deferred Langston Hughes
21 Perhaps Not to Be is to Be Without Your Being Pablo Neruda
22 Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair Langston Hughes
23 The Road Less Traveled Robert Frost
24 The Tyger William Blake
25 Hope is the thing with feathers Emily Dickinson
26 Dessert Places Robert Frost
27 One Art Elizabeth Bishop
28 True Stories Margret Atwood
Now that you've seen this and my writting, you probably have a good idea of how much nothing I do at work some days...
;)
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Summer and Rain
Last week, it felt like spring. Now the weather is chilly again, and I just want warm evenings and flowers. So since I can't have them. I'm writing them.
In addition, I've been working on a story for my book. I'm not sure what I think of it right now. I've complained about Charles Dickens and his habit of over-description (though some of his descriptions are the best parts of his books. I'll never forget "her nose was sharper than an autumn wind.") and I feel like I may be doing the very thing I've complained about. Then again, if Dickens did it, maybe I can get away with it too. Let me know what you think. My comments have been pretty lonely lately...
B minor, sustained
Pink petals fall soft
brushing lightly shoulders and lips,
drifting laughter floats through liquid light-
captured in a net of golden pollen,
resting on perfumed air full of
chirping crickets and sparkling fireflies
singing for you, and me, and the night.
Moment
When you hold my hand
Gold of dusk, Navy of dawn
meet between fingers
Change and Coffee
I love watching storms creep up on they city. Grey walls and grey towers meet grey skies with a bang that releases the deluge. Sheer sheets of grey fill streets and dull the usually vibrant colors that permeate Baltimore on its' smoggy, sunny days.
However, standing on a city street at that moment is an entirely different experience. I could smell the stench of mold and mildew that saturates the harbor air when the humidity rises, even above it's usual mugginess. The dew point feels like it is literally about to be reached, and spontaneous droplets may appear over the cars, street signs, and people.
Fumbling through my purse, in search of change I hoped the rain would hold off long enough for me to make it to my destination. I knew I had scads of change, but when you're looking for change in a hurry, you will never find any. Engrossed in my desperate search, I didn't notice him until he spoke to me. And it was only the years of experience with brothers sneaking up on me that kept me from jumping out of my skin when he asked from beside me "Looking for change, miss?"
I looked up and laughed, my default response when I'm not sure quite what's going on. "Yes I am! The sky is about to fall on my head, and I would like to avoid that if at all possible!"
He chuckled, and I took a moment to assess the situation. He was short, tight curls of black and grey rose from his wrinkled head. His jovial grin was missing several teeth and of the few that remained, most were dull metallics. His old eyes crinkled with the force of his smile, almost as much as his too big clothes crinkled over his too thin body. Despite the signs of wear and disrepair, the prominent feeling he exuded was joy.
If I actually had change, I would offer it to this guy. He's clearly about to get rained on, and he's still smiling. Shoot! I need to find some change, pay for parking, and get inside before it starts raining- I'm not sure I"ll keep smiling if I get soaked today! Ugh, but I'm going to feel bad getting my coffee after NOT giving this guy some change. And now I feel kind of bad for being mad that this guy.... Okay, stop. You only have a credit card, and a little bit of change SOMEWHERE. And it doesn't matter. This guy is not going to hate you for life if you don't give him a dollar. Oh! And maybe I can get cash back at the coffee shop and find him later. Okay, change, change, change...
I resume digging through my purse, making small talk about how I would loose my head if it wasn't attached, you never find things when you look for them, and if you do it's always the last spot- because if you kept looking, that would just be silly. Cliches fall from my lips easily and I honestly like this guy who smiles and chuckles under skies that don't threaten, but promise a chilly and wet end to the day.
Finally, I look at the sky and groan- "I'm gonna get wet, aren't I?"
He laughs, reaches a hand in his dingy pocket "I got this" he smiles
"No," I laugh, "I have change somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it!"
"No, I got this one." He says smiling but firm and begins to feed my meter.
My first impulse is to argue. I'm here for coffee, on a whim. He's here because he doesn't have anywhere else. I'm going to leave and get warm cloths, a nice bed. I don't know his exact situation, but a change of cloths seems as unlikely as a comfortable bed. But I look at him, still smiling warmly, nodding at passers by. He has a sort of dignity in this moment, and I need to let go of my pride, because it's clearly me, not him that has an issue with this.
"Okay, I guess you have more change than I do right now! Thanks for the help!"
"Not a problem, now get inside before you get rained on!" We laugh, together, in a busy street of people passing each other by. Then join the masses, going our inevitable separate ways.
I make it to the coffee shop, just ahead of the downpour.
In addition, I've been working on a story for my book. I'm not sure what I think of it right now. I've complained about Charles Dickens and his habit of over-description (though some of his descriptions are the best parts of his books. I'll never forget "her nose was sharper than an autumn wind.") and I feel like I may be doing the very thing I've complained about. Then again, if Dickens did it, maybe I can get away with it too. Let me know what you think. My comments have been pretty lonely lately...
B minor, sustained
Pink petals fall soft
brushing lightly shoulders and lips,
drifting laughter floats through liquid light-
captured in a net of golden pollen,
resting on perfumed air full of
chirping crickets and sparkling fireflies
singing for you, and me, and the night.
Moment
When you hold my hand
Gold of dusk, Navy of dawn
meet between fingers
Change and Coffee
I love watching storms creep up on they city. Grey walls and grey towers meet grey skies with a bang that releases the deluge. Sheer sheets of grey fill streets and dull the usually vibrant colors that permeate Baltimore on its' smoggy, sunny days.
However, standing on a city street at that moment is an entirely different experience. I could smell the stench of mold and mildew that saturates the harbor air when the humidity rises, even above it's usual mugginess. The dew point feels like it is literally about to be reached, and spontaneous droplets may appear over the cars, street signs, and people.
Fumbling through my purse, in search of change I hoped the rain would hold off long enough for me to make it to my destination. I knew I had scads of change, but when you're looking for change in a hurry, you will never find any. Engrossed in my desperate search, I didn't notice him until he spoke to me. And it was only the years of experience with brothers sneaking up on me that kept me from jumping out of my skin when he asked from beside me "Looking for change, miss?"
I looked up and laughed, my default response when I'm not sure quite what's going on. "Yes I am! The sky is about to fall on my head, and I would like to avoid that if at all possible!"
He chuckled, and I took a moment to assess the situation. He was short, tight curls of black and grey rose from his wrinkled head. His jovial grin was missing several teeth and of the few that remained, most were dull metallics. His old eyes crinkled with the force of his smile, almost as much as his too big clothes crinkled over his too thin body. Despite the signs of wear and disrepair, the prominent feeling he exuded was joy.
If I actually had change, I would offer it to this guy. He's clearly about to get rained on, and he's still smiling. Shoot! I need to find some change, pay for parking, and get inside before it starts raining- I'm not sure I"ll keep smiling if I get soaked today! Ugh, but I'm going to feel bad getting my coffee after NOT giving this guy some change. And now I feel kind of bad for being mad that this guy.... Okay, stop. You only have a credit card, and a little bit of change SOMEWHERE. And it doesn't matter. This guy is not going to hate you for life if you don't give him a dollar. Oh! And maybe I can get cash back at the coffee shop and find him later. Okay, change, change, change...
I resume digging through my purse, making small talk about how I would loose my head if it wasn't attached, you never find things when you look for them, and if you do it's always the last spot- because if you kept looking, that would just be silly. Cliches fall from my lips easily and I honestly like this guy who smiles and chuckles under skies that don't threaten, but promise a chilly and wet end to the day.
Finally, I look at the sky and groan- "I'm gonna get wet, aren't I?"
He laughs, reaches a hand in his dingy pocket "I got this" he smiles
"No," I laugh, "I have change somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it!"
"No, I got this one." He says smiling but firm and begins to feed my meter.
My first impulse is to argue. I'm here for coffee, on a whim. He's here because he doesn't have anywhere else. I'm going to leave and get warm cloths, a nice bed. I don't know his exact situation, but a change of cloths seems as unlikely as a comfortable bed. But I look at him, still smiling warmly, nodding at passers by. He has a sort of dignity in this moment, and I need to let go of my pride, because it's clearly me, not him that has an issue with this.
"Okay, I guess you have more change than I do right now! Thanks for the help!"
"Not a problem, now get inside before you get rained on!" We laugh, together, in a busy street of people passing each other by. Then join the masses, going our inevitable separate ways.
I make it to the coffee shop, just ahead of the downpour.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Villanelles are Villainous.. >:(
So far, two of these are my least favorites (lately at any rate), they aren't my normal style and they don't feel as much like me. BUT, I've been working on control and being able to write better within standard frameworks. So more Frost than cummings- more Tennyson than Atwood. One has just a hint of structure, the other is so structured I could hardly stand it. But I did. For the sake of growth and not just writing one way because that comes most easily to me. Variety! However, the Villanelle nearly killed me- its' iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme is:
A1/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1/A2
So you have to really wrestle with words to force them into the framework. Or at least that's how I feel :(
I may work on a sonnet next week- or just right whatever I want. We'll see how I feel and how much time I have.
Also, you may notice that the two seashell poems are really similar. That was a) to see how form affected what I write and b) because the villanelle started as an idea from something I got for my moms birthday, but the finish product was not something she would super enjoy. So yes, I know they are super similar. Also, I spent so much time on that Villanelle, I wanted to get a little more out of all that brain teasing.
I do like Lemon, however. That was less about structure, and more about a challange. My dad challanged me to a write off. We both had to write an 'Ode to a Lemon,' inspired by the poem by Pablo Neruda. I've included both my poem, and the original. So enjoy! Have a great week:)
Seashell Villanelle
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Echoes of music and rhythms of wave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
She was the sea, but all tides disappear
Even gold sun the moon's call can not stave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Soul in body, sound in shelly veneer
This fragile vessel her memories save
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
From happier pasts, sounds slowly appear
Cities of memories, coral enclave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Voices singing to the tune of a tear
Listen still after I’m gone to the grave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Ocean’s ghost in a shell- echoes, my dear
Remembrance held in trivial cave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Sea Shell Memories
Singing sweet secrets of coral enclaves,
Winding through opalescent tunnels-
The sounding of sea, the whip of the wind
Old waves crash in whispering caves
Dancing through the corridors of my mind
Feet beet a cadence, laughter ringing chimes
Like the tune that turns inside my head
Old whispers of you in remembrance unwind
And even when we are apart I'll hear
Echos of you on empty paths-
Heart beats that create
Your song in a shell, held close to my ear.
Lemon
Pablo Neruda
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
A1/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1/A2
So you have to really wrestle with words to force them into the framework. Or at least that's how I feel :(
I may work on a sonnet next week- or just right whatever I want. We'll see how I feel and how much time I have.
Also, you may notice that the two seashell poems are really similar. That was a) to see how form affected what I write and b) because the villanelle started as an idea from something I got for my moms birthday, but the finish product was not something she would super enjoy. So yes, I know they are super similar. Also, I spent so much time on that Villanelle, I wanted to get a little more out of all that brain teasing.
I do like Lemon, however. That was less about structure, and more about a challange. My dad challanged me to a write off. We both had to write an 'Ode to a Lemon,' inspired by the poem by Pablo Neruda. I've included both my poem, and the original. So enjoy! Have a great week:)
Seashell Villanelle
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Echoes of music and rhythms of wave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
She was the sea, but all tides disappear
Even gold sun the moon's call can not stave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Soul in body, sound in shelly veneer
This fragile vessel her memories save
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
From happier pasts, sounds slowly appear
Cities of memories, coral enclave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Voices singing to the tune of a tear
Listen still after I’m gone to the grave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Ocean’s ghost in a shell- echoes, my dear
Remembrance held in trivial cave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Sea Shell Memories
Singing sweet secrets of coral enclaves,
Winding through opalescent tunnels-
The sounding of sea, the whip of the wind
Old waves crash in whispering caves
Dancing through the corridors of my mind
Feet beet a cadence, laughter ringing chimes
Like the tune that turns inside my head
Old whispers of you in remembrance unwind
And even when we are apart I'll hear
Echos of you on empty paths-
Heart beats that create
Your song in a shell, held close to my ear.
Lemon
between the seas of orange and green
under the glare of flourescent sun
summer sits yellow on moldering shelves
pinching cheeks and twisting tongues
refreshing tang of floridian trees
summer slips slow through parched lips
sliced and diced; squeezed and parted
sprig of mint and dash of gin
summer floats soft on liquid skies
cleaning counters, polishing chairs
astringent perfume stings my hands
summer smells heavy in the hot air
between the dunes of sandy white
under the glow of kitchen sunlight
summer sits in the palm of my hand.
Ode to a Lemon
Pablo Neruda
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Paper Cuts and Poetry
Here's what I did today.
Oh, and I got more paper cuts. Perhaps that's why these poems aren't in a shiny mood. But I am!
I think my favorite to day is park fountain. Hope is a concept I've played with for awhile, I like this approach, but I want to change up some words to make it better.
Double Exposure
Ghosts pose-
what is overlaying what could have been
filling, pale and transparent
every moment.
Ghosts of those who were-
and are
but are no longer who
they were.
Ghosts, filling
negative spaces
blurring the solid faces
until it is impossible to see.
Ghosts- I know enough
of letting go-am not interested
in grasping at these illusions
resting in my hands.
Ghosts of film and memory,
developed in the dark room of my mind
I will take you out into the light,
let the sun bleach you bare.
Hope
Hope lies
In the eyes of white trimmed brides
In the smiles of sleeping children
In the stomachs of mothers to be
Hope lies
In the eyes of the too soon expiring
In the smiles of the slowly starving
In the stomachs of mothers, miscarried
Yes, sometimes hope lies
Park Fountain
words
fall from your lips
like water from a fountain
indiscriminately flowing
looping through, recycled
refilled by infrequent rain
as evaporation and loss
leave room for a little more
water,
flowing out of the mouths of fountains
as we walk in the park.
Snake oil sales man
the carefully crafted smile you wear
is as well made as the briefcase in your hand
(how many of your clients know that it is a sham)
the tidal wave of familiarity you ride
fills the room like the cologne you wear
(you never say: a little goes a long way, quality over quantity)
"let me start off by saying, I'm not like the others"
even your navy suit is just a little different
(connotations and denotations are very important with words)
You won't leave empty handed, your words run on
I hand you a business card and walk you to the door
(then back to work, stopping only to wash the oil from my hands)
Oh, and I got more paper cuts. Perhaps that's why these poems aren't in a shiny mood. But I am!
I think my favorite to day is park fountain. Hope is a concept I've played with for awhile, I like this approach, but I want to change up some words to make it better.
Double Exposure
Ghosts pose-
what is overlaying what could have been
filling, pale and transparent
every moment.
Ghosts of those who were-
and are
but are no longer who
they were.
Ghosts, filling
negative spaces
blurring the solid faces
until it is impossible to see.
Ghosts- I know enough
of letting go-am not interested
in grasping at these illusions
resting in my hands.
Ghosts of film and memory,
developed in the dark room of my mind
I will take you out into the light,
let the sun bleach you bare.
Hope
Hope lies
In the eyes of white trimmed brides
In the smiles of sleeping children
In the stomachs of mothers to be
Hope lies
In the eyes of the too soon expiring
In the smiles of the slowly starving
In the stomachs of mothers, miscarried
Yes, sometimes hope lies
Park Fountain
words
fall from your lips
like water from a fountain
indiscriminately flowing
looping through, recycled
refilled by infrequent rain
as evaporation and loss
leave room for a little more
water,
flowing out of the mouths of fountains
as we walk in the park.
Snake oil sales man
the carefully crafted smile you wear
is as well made as the briefcase in your hand
(how many of your clients know that it is a sham)
the tidal wave of familiarity you ride
fills the room like the cologne you wear
(you never say: a little goes a long way, quality over quantity)
"let me start off by saying, I'm not like the others"
even your navy suit is just a little different
(connotations and denotations are very important with words)
You won't leave empty handed, your words run on
I hand you a business card and walk you to the door
(then back to work, stopping only to wash the oil from my hands)
Monday, March 14, 2011
Worst part of writing blog posts?
The titles.
Empty
Incandescent
The marvelous vanity of soap bubbles
Opalescent, filled with light and the breath
Silvers flickering over rainbowed sheen
Glowing with a borrowed light
Wafting sweetly in the breeze
Worlds of water and of soap
Ephemeral as our own.
Creation
Galaxies,
caught in the branches of trees
preform the dance of fireflies
falling in love
creating new stars
above my head.
How to tell you
Words I speak to you
float softly in the air and
dissipate like scent.
Words I write to you
sink deep, ink into paper
and live forever.
Meaty
Words, written a world ago
proclaiming deep human truth
are marinate over the years,
picking up flavors from--
the empires and the royals
the communists and the anarchists
the peace-lovers and the warriors
the believers and the atheists
the rock n' rollers and the classicists
the minorities and the masses--
And the words become something more
than they were written to be.
I really don't think the last title works,so that'll change before long....
Empty
Incandescent
The marvelous vanity of soap bubbles
Opalescent, filled with light and the breath
Silvers flickering over rainbowed sheen
Glowing with a borrowed light
Wafting sweetly in the breeze
Worlds of water and of soap
Ephemeral as our own.
Creation
Galaxies,
caught in the branches of trees
preform the dance of fireflies
falling in love
creating new stars
above my head.
How to tell you
Words I speak to you
float softly in the air and
dissipate like scent.
Words I write to you
sink deep, ink into paper
and live forever.
Meaty
Words, written a world ago
proclaiming deep human truth
are marinate over the years,
picking up flavors from--
the empires and the royals
the communists and the anarchists
the peace-lovers and the warriors
the believers and the atheists
the rock n' rollers and the classicists
the minorities and the masses--
And the words become something more
than they were written to be.
I really don't think the last title works,so that'll change before long....
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Back already... because this is what I do at work.
SO, the upside to a currently boring (hopefully to be improved) job is that I have plenty of time to spend doing things like memorizing poetry and writing. How much time you ask... enough to memorize or relearn more than 10 poems and write 5 new poems. I liked the last ones I posted better, but I like these ones pretty awesomely too. So here they are:
World Apart
I do not reach for you
when I wake in a twisted field of cotton, hands searching for the light
I do not look for you
as the tears warm my eyes, oceanic rain watering the pallid plains of my face
I do not call you
while my earth quakes and I gasp for air as the ground disappears
I do not need to
You simply are-
rising through my apocalypse,
refusing displacement by
the insubstantial cataclysm
Your memory alone, enough
to restore my world.
Counting
To find you
I have folded the pages of a thousand paper cranes
I have broken the hearts of three hundred fortune cookies
I have snatched from the wind one hundred will-o-wisp wishes
I have searched the sky for the burning trails of fifty falling stars
I have pulled from the ground forty four leaf clovers
I have blown candles from twenty-four birthday cakes
And I am still counting....
World Apart
I do not reach for you
when I wake in a twisted field of cotton, hands searching for the light
I do not look for you
as the tears warm my eyes, oceanic rain watering the pallid plains of my face
I do not call you
while my earth quakes and I gasp for air as the ground disappears
I do not need to
You simply are-
rising through my apocalypse,
refusing displacement by
the insubstantial cataclysm
Your memory alone, enough
to restore my world.
Counting
To find you
I have folded the pages of a thousand paper cranes
I have broken the hearts of three hundred fortune cookies
I have snatched from the wind one hundred will-o-wisp wishes
I have searched the sky for the burning trails of fifty falling stars
I have pulled from the ground forty four leaf clovers
I have blown candles from twenty-four birthday cakes
And I am still counting....
Monday, March 7, 2011
Wait, what happened to February?
Oh, I know! I quit one job, went to Cleveland, than Hawaii, then started a new job.
So March it is, and so far a very productive month. Well, at least a productive day :)
Let me know what you think!
Love Letter
And your words fill my mouth like a kiss
sweet phrases fluttering on tongue and lips
tasting warm as wine, spiced by cardamon and cinnamon sticks
Thoughts divorced from my reality still strung in the rhythm of my breath
pictures pressed to paper, the swift strokes of your pen race my heart
breaking between the final punctuation and the Love,
You
Conversation
We speak of
God,
without the bull shit called religion
Poetry,
inhaled, softly sipped like too expensive wine
Coffee,
as the first velvety overtones fade to the jittery taste of withdraw
Friends,
whose faceless names we known and love for each other
Music,
no, we don't speak it, we sing- loud and proud, and oh, so bad
Futures,
of the children: homeless, fatherless, motherless- longing to make less
Pasts,
the cold fingers of still-living ghosts grasping at the soul
Dreams,
long steeped in silence, these cups overflow with strength and purpose
And with our words, we build a world
you and I
Walk This Way
Her eyes dance with secrets
She hums a playful tune
With her there are no regrets
She'll fly you to the moon
Her heals pound the heartbeat
Of men stopping in the street-
With her Je ne se qua
Que Sera Sera
and from the look of her, it's gonna be good.
So March it is, and so far a very productive month. Well, at least a productive day :)
Let me know what you think!
Love Letter
And your words fill my mouth like a kiss
sweet phrases fluttering on tongue and lips
tasting warm as wine, spiced by cardamon and cinnamon sticks
Thoughts divorced from my reality still strung in the rhythm of my breath
pictures pressed to paper, the swift strokes of your pen race my heart
breaking between the final punctuation and the Love,
You
Conversation
We speak of
God,
without the bull shit called religion
Poetry,
inhaled, softly sipped like too expensive wine
Coffee,
as the first velvety overtones fade to the jittery taste of withdraw
Friends,
whose faceless names we known and love for each other
Music,
no, we don't speak it, we sing- loud and proud, and oh, so bad
Futures,
of the children: homeless, fatherless, motherless- longing to make less
Pasts,
the cold fingers of still-living ghosts grasping at the soul
Dreams,
long steeped in silence, these cups overflow with strength and purpose
And with our words, we build a world
you and I
Walk This Way
Her eyes dance with secrets
She hums a playful tune
With her there are no regrets
She'll fly you to the moon
Her heals pound the heartbeat
Of men stopping in the street-
With her Je ne se qua
Que Sera Sera
and from the look of her, it's gonna be good.
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