Quitting

She said she had quit

so she lit her last cigarette

on the electric stove,

having no matches

She said she had quit

so she pushed the last traces

of vodka and soda back through lips,

cracking and swollen

She said she had quit

so she ran the blade across her thigh

and pretended it was an accident,

shaving her long legs

She said she had quit

so she waited till he was gone

before using the harder shit,

floating away

She said she had quit

so she used an open palm

instead of a fist,

leaving no marks

The Dress

She only wore the it only once

then it hung in her closet

smelling sweet as smoke and champagne,

soft as curls in candlelight

In that dress, she was magic

Smooth as silk, lovely as lace

Daring as the plunging neckline

and high as her hemline

She woke to it crumpled by her bed,

touched it softly her a first love,

and layed it gently away, till on the hard days

she would open her closet, and breathed in the night

Wonderland

Alice like I obediently sip

from the Drink Me bottle I'm given
and suddenly breath fully
bursting out of the corset
strung tight with fear and expectation
And I've grown too tall or the door's too small
but now I find can blow down the wall
and freely run off the path to pick
the rarest flowers in the darkest shadows
for I am the only wolf in this forest.
So let the red queen come to take my head
I'll flash her a smile, not to disappear,
but to show what big teeth I have, my dear
and those who fear you are simply
one dimensional paper doll people
who paint lies on roses in fear
and never move past tea times and nursery rhymes
blowing life away in smokey rings of forgetting
so if I see a beanstalk, I'll climb it because
I've heard that there are giants in the sky
and perhaps I'll find a place above it all
where no one tries to stand on my shoulders
or steal my strength.

Here and Back Again, a Rose's Tale

I was gone too long. I'll try to post more regularly again- wish me luck, and sorry for the rust on my poetry!

Icarus
Child on wings
did no one tell you when
you had flown to high-
where the wind dared not follow
where the sky would no longer filled your wings?

Did you miss their words
as the clouds filled your ears
and people grew small as blades of grass-
their warnings too weak to battle the breezes
their words too frightened to follow your flight?

Would you have listened
if you happened to hear
could you have stopped yourself-
foregoing the tempting taste of beyond
leaving untouched what was just beyond reach?

As you fell did you hear them
screaming your name in the night
reaching out,as if to catch-
your burning body, your blazing soul,
gone again, beyond the reach of mortal man?  

Child on wings
did no one tell you when
you had flown to high-
where the wind dared not follow
where the sky would no longer filled your wings?

Word of the month, window to the soul

This month was rather dramatic.  My dad, who I have a word of the month poetry exchange with, nearly died.  In fact, he should be dead according to the doctors- but he isn't.  Despite 2 weeks in the hospital, one of them so out he can't remember it, my dad finished his poem on time.  Now here's mine- only just squeaking in.  I really like this, I hope you do to!  (there may be more tinkering later, of course!)

Eyes


In your eyes, like mountain skies
and midnight lakes when the old moon dies
as lashes lift, between their bars
glow the radiant evening stars

And in between the galaxies
sits a girl by a wild oak tree
old dreams blow through dark brown hair
over fields of green, that surround them there

Dancing through the autumn breeze
fly warm summer's memories
turning over, tumbling round-
within the witching wind I found:

A silver sliver of a laughing child
the tears of a willow, a heart beguiled
a tangle of words left unsaid
boat sails a'billow, a story re-read

Above the wind, the girl, the tree
the stars multiplied in mad revelry
when burning light they meet the sun-
they paused and stopped time's rampant run

Your eyes, so wide, so full, so free
with one look have halted me
and though time may resume it's run
your stars will ever be chased by my sun.

Short and Salty?

So these are all short and more impressions than weighty meaty things.  But some of them feel heavy anyway.  As always- let me know what you think :)


Forest Fire

The forest is blazing
in swaths of blood and gold
the glowing embers glint
sizzling through violent winds
and soon only the silhouettes
of the Ash trees will survive,
smoldering into the cold night.

Sunrise
How did you come from the dark abyss,
how did you rise from the gloom?
Did the cloud shrouded stars
birth golden rays
with which to hide the moon?

How did you come from the empty spaces,
how did you rise from the cold?
Did the yawning chasm
shut with a snap
that sparked the fiery noon?

Morning
The sun rose slowly over her, sleeping-
Hair full of chlorine and adventures
Lips trembling with heights and hopes
And when her eyes opened, slowly
They shone with the light of a star,
Fallen on seas shimmering with ice and laughter.

Amber
Words drip slowly over moments
capturing beauty, banishing breath
preserving fragile husks of instants
lost in the long walk of time

Loneliness
We are never less alone than in loneliness
when the collective consciousness
presses it's hands to our hearts
and we gasp at the multitudinous solitude,
our isolation multiplied by the thousand single faces
that look out, together, at the world- on our own.

Manners
Hope is the human condition-
when you loose it,
politely excuse yourself
from the room.

I put on my best, and I stick out my chest, and I'm off to the races again!

And here are more poems!
I like them all (mostly)!
Possibly I am overconfident, but inspiration struck way more than lightning.  And luckily, less painfully.


Perhaps
I began, perhaps,
to love you
to hold you in my heart
closer than a thought
to let my mind marvel
over (maybe)
you, looking at me-
looking for me
only, across a room
crowded with
curves and smiles for you
that you didn't notice
because your eyes were full
of me.

I began to hope,
perhaps,
that someday I would
stop wondering
and start walking towards
you looking
not maybe, but surely
at me-
move away from
across
and toward near
and hold you in my heart
closer than air
in my lungs.


Paper Doll
I am not this collection of
worn pasts and
hopeful futures
you try to press on me
like a paper doll-
fitting, from memories,
ill made costumes
that even in your dreaming eyes
only hang loosely from my
thin shoulders.

I am not a play thing,
I have grown beyond
dolls and dress-ups
and into something quite new-
you are angry
not at me, but at the cardboard cut out
you hold up in front of my
flesh and blood self
so that you don't have to find out
what I have become.

Momma,
put away your fears
pack them away with the paper dresses
because I am something you began-
the fulfillment of a prayer
you made years ago
that you didn't really understand-
look at me standing, not propped up by
other hands, but standing
on my own, cutting carefully
my own patterns out of life
sturdy and free.

I will never be torn by careless hands
or tossed away into the wind.


Rose
The truest part of a rose
is the thorn.

The soft, purring petals
that lure
the thick, waltzing scent
that beckons
the eloquent, opulent colors
that enchant.

Soft, fragrant, lush
charming, disarming
in a word: breathtaking
Helen, Juliet,Venus
passion, innocence, love
every desire held
in one sweet symbol.

But, the true soul of the rose
is its' thorn.

Victory
Victory came late.
At sunset, beneath star shadows
emerging slowly from ebbing embers
of monumental blazes
she stepped forward, head high
white arms raised to salute the champion.

He had already fallen.
feet framed in flames,
roses of blood wreathing his body
his eyes staring upwards, hands clasping his sword
in one last prayer for Victory,
who came late to his battle.


Daisy

holding only today
only this moment
breathing only now-
one instant
is all
the daisy
carries
in
her
soul.

This one's for the girls! (well, the depressed dead writting ones anyway)

So I haven't made it out of the sad poem phase yet, but next week we have a new administrative assistant coming, and maybe that will cheer things up.  At the very least I'll be out of this silly office and back to a room with windows.  The word of the month is sunrise, and I'm hoping I can hold onto it long enough to make it warmer than what I've felt like writing lately.  But for now, here's what I've got.  Willow is because I haven't written anything fall-ish this year, and Woolf, Plath, & Parker is because I've been reading the work of several female authors (Vindication of the Rights of Women anyone? ) and I found a remark by Margaret Atwood to be true, and both funny and sad at the same time - "Like all twenty-one-year-old poets, I thought I would be dead by thirty, and Sylvia Plath had not set a helpful example. For a while there, you were made to feel that, if a poet and female, you could not really be serious about it unless you'd made a least one suicide attempt. So I felt I was running out of time." -Margaret Atwood.   So I wrote a poem for the girls, but I'm glad we have the Atwoods, Giovannis and Angelous to keep our spirits high these days :)


Willow

It was late September
and all her leaves were
dropping like tears-
cried for cold remembered
wept for pain to come
and if she had knees
they would have bent
to pray the winds would leave
and if she had arms
they would have reached
for the sun's last warming touch
but all she had was silence
thick as the forest floor
to break with the sound of falling
till she had nothing left to lose.


Woolf, Plath, & Parker
A thousand ways to die
each day, at least
I see them fall -
white, luminous snowflakes
and I stick out my tongue
waiting to catch just one
of the flakes falling
between heaven and hell
turning softly, seductively
moments suspended
in a pounding heartbeat
a peripheral glance
or a subconscious chill
a thousand ways to die, each day-
at least! But none of them
has, yet, chosen
to fall
on me.

Sorry in advance

I promise I'm not as sad as my poems.  But all of this rain and the extra stress at work mean I need an outlet.  Hence the more than slightly gloomy poetry.  My favorites are the last two, but I like the idea of the first, so I left it here too.  I'll try to write something sunnier soon :)

Hope
Hope, the hell I live in
the fire I can not quench-
phoenix flames that bring me back
are burning, always burning

Hope, the bird whose razor beak
pierces my Promethean skin
to steal my heart each sunrise
when the night had won it back.

Hope, the fraud I trusted
who knows my every dream,
promised peace and laughter
but left me misery

Hope I have abandoned
but its' hands still cling to me
and pull me down, drowning
in the never ending sea.

Surrender
Give me no skies out of reach
no more beckoning blue to taunt me
I want no sun to light the long way
and strengthen the shadows behind me
Give me no laughter and I'll find no tears
I want no brief hopes bought with despair
Let me lie alone, in a room of my own
Where only the darkness will find me.

Graveyard
Shadows so cold
the darkness shivers
stone so hard
the wild grass withers
bones so old
the worms won't stay
death so deep
the ground gives way
tears so heavy
they can't be held
arms so empty
they hug themselves.

Another Begining

Here's the beginning of another story.  I've been super busy at work, and a bit stressed out, but when I had a moment to write, this is what needed to be written.  So that's what I wrote.  Still working on my books.... Focus is key :)
Without further explanation, the story begins as such:


Once upon a time, a small girl grew up slowly in a World all her own. The world that everyone else assured her was real, was so full of vanishing shadows she could never tell who was going to be there when she woke up. So she played games with her Imaginary friends who grew and changed, but were always themselves and never left her.


In the real world, people called her something like “mary” or “sally,” possibly even “jane,” but in the other world, she was simply Trowel (She heard her mother say it one day, before she could remember when. It had a nice growly sort of sound to it, but it turned out to be something useful for finding worms, making burrows, building dirt castles, magic making and all kinds of other things). The real world of suzie (or maybe beth) was hardly worth speaking of. There was a mother and a father somewhere in the background, and there were lots of noisy children (brothers and sisters they were called by the grown ups) who came and went with laughter, tears, snot, an occasional nibble, and lots of sticky fingers. There was a big house, plain as a shoe box before you put a diorama in it. There was a lawn with just enough weeds to make chains out of and just enough grass to turn cartwheels on. It was, to Trowel, a very vague sort of place where anything could (and generally did) happen, but the things that happened muddled themselves up so badly you couldn’t tell what they really were.

But in the Other world, stories grow thick as leaves in an enchanted forest. They fall lightly to the ground and begin to unfold as they are picked up by curious hands and held to the ever glowing light of imagining eyes. Here, when you asked a question, someone always answered you in words that you understood. So while the grown ups thought jill-jen-alice was sitting in her favorite tree, Trowel had actually just walked into a train station.

Trowel looked up, and as she looked, she slowly rose onto her tip toes, because the space was so vast she felt she had to fill a little more of it, or she might vanish in largness of it all. It was just like Grand Central Station, but with a little bit more room and a lot more magic. It was underground, just so the riders could feel the wind rush trough underground mazes and do silly things to their hair and cloths. It was well lit so you could see the intricate carvings in the marble walls and admire the bronze and gold inlay on the steam trains that chugged delightfully through an underground world full of diamond mines an and occasional gremlins (most of them had been scared away long ago, but every so often one got lost and lucky passengers would catch a glimpse of shining purple eyes in the dark tunnels).

Trowel was on a mission, the Empress of New York had sent her to this station to meet her friend D, and together they were to go on a quest that they had to win or Everyone in the World might Die. It was a very exciting proposition. Trowel scanned the crowed, filled with women in Victorian clothes, men in top hats, and children in covered in suspenders, bows, petticoats, and patches. The trouble with meeting D places was that he was awfully hard to find. D was different things on different days, so one never knew exactly who he was until he appeared. When Trowel finally felt a tap on her shoulder, she turned around to discover that D was actually Demitri today. He had on a loose white tunic top, baggy pants, and a decidedly Russian cap (I’m not quite sure how Trowel knew it was Russian, but she is better at that kind of thing than I am). He smiled his familiar smile at her, winked first one eye, then the other, and wiggled his shoulders in a burst of excitement.

I know what I want

But sometimes, I just can't put it on paper.  I've been working on the Guinevere poem for awhile now, but I just haven't been able to make it what I want it to be.  However, I like what I have enough that I'll post it here and take a break before having another crack at it.  Sometimes, you just need to let things go.

The other poem, Metamorphosis started with the last two lines and turned out rather different than I expected, but still good.  It started with an idea I had after reading The Little Prince for the 250 billionth time.  You see, I'd identified with so many of the characters on different readings.  Sometimes I was the pilot, sometimes I was the fox, sometimes I was the lamp lighter, sometimes I was even the prince.  But I was never the rose.  Seeing as my name is Rosanne, I've rarely felt particularly rose-like.  I liked briar rose, and rose red- both both had an idea of wildness and thorns to them.  I never really felt like a sweet or romantic type rose.  When my sister was talking about the kind of wedding she envisioned for me, she wanted dozens of roses and crystals and sparkles and faries... not really, but that was the vibe.  Me?  I always wanted orchids and bright colors and woodsy.  She wants the fairytale palace, I guess what I want is the enchanted forest.  I love my name, but someties I feel like the least rosey-rose of all time.  But about a week ago, I read the little prince again, and I was the rose.  I feel weirdly like I've entered a new era of life... but I doubt you'd get that from this poem ;)

Also, just so you know, I'm aware that I sometimes repeate phrases in poems.  But I only do that until I put a phrase I like in a poem I think is good enough.  The rest of the poems with that prase I probably have an issue with and won't really use for anything if I ever manage to publish (without Extensive re-tooling at any rate). 

Guinevere

At my feet you lay the blame
for the breaking of your dream
for your failing hero's hearts
and the loss of Camelot.

Nevermind the hurt, nevermind the pain
of a husband who never comes home
who loves his kingdom, loves his creed
more than the woman he promised to hold.

Foreget the friend who forgot his brother,
the knight who betrayed his king
Laud the skill and laud the honor
Of the man who gave dishonor to me.

Oh, if knights were true and kings were wise
they would tell you I'm not the sole reason
but they remain silent, I take the blame
for their faling heros' hearts
for the loss of Camelot.


Metamorphosis
I've been a tree
grasping the sky
I've been a cloud
swimming in lakes
I've been the wind,
the air in your lungs
I've been the earth
under your feet
I've been the masses
crowding the streets
I've been an island
lost in the foam
I've been the dreams
of the always asleep
I've been the wanderer
waiting on home
but this morning
I woke just a rose.

What a week!

It's been quite a week.  I broke my toe.  As a dancer, that breaks my heart.  I don't just dance because it's fun, I dance because I need to.  Even before I started Lindy hopping (<3) I had to move to music to be happy.  When I'm angry, I have to dance.  When I'm sad, I have to dance. When I'm happy I have to dance.  My movement expresses and releases my emotion in the same way my poetry does, but in a way it is the first, most raw expression.  To write good poetry, I have to be in a place where my head is clear enough that I can articulate my emotions and thoughts.  I when I dance, I can express things I haven't yet figured out how to say.  So, the frustration I have with my broken toe is very hard to express without dancing.  Ick. 

But my dear friend (who this blog is for) talked me down from my anger and sadness and got me to a place where I could write. Necklace I wrote last week, but never put up.  Resigning and Turning Pages were last night's projects.  Let me know what you think!


Necklace
I love to watch you holding,
softly as a new father,
the thin gold chain of my life.
I love to watch your eyes,
full of wonder, marveling
at its' shining fragility
lying dwarfed in your hands.


Resigning
I could leave you
one day you may wake up
and as your dreams fade
you will find emptiness-
a dent in the pillow where my head
always rested,
never again.

I could leave you
one afternoon you may call
with absent minded fingers
my worn number
and hear only the sound
of a nameless operator's
pre-recorded platitudes.

I could leave you
one night you may go to bed
and find only chilly
straigtened sheets
to welcome your worn body
and there will be nothing
to hold.

I will leave you
Someday soon you will blink
and I will be gone
leaving, like the gost of lilacs,
a dull sweet ache,
empty as your eyes
when they look at me.


Turning Pages
I count my life in books,
in the pages of old friends
who sit on my shelves
never higher than I can reach
standing tip toed on my desk chair.

I count my life in stories,
in characters I become
and the secrets they whisper
that tell me who I am today,
yesterday and tomorrow.

I count my life in pages
in turning and discovering
in the drawn out moments
of simple scenes rich, always,
with elegant lines of meaning.

I count my life in writing,
in old sentences that fill my heart
or empty it- leaving clarity,
replacing confusion and doubt
left in the wake of evanescent speech.

Procrastinating is good for poeming

More Poems! I got this stuck in my head the other day, and I finally stole a moment to put it on paper:
Sinking Sand
My life is made of sinking sand,
but I intend to float
my open hands are paddles
this empty heart the boat.

Within the limitless lake of dust
I glide, a glinting mote
I've build a mast of stubbornness-
the sail I'll weave of hope

Though I may never find firm land
within this desert remote
I'll keep my soul light and free
for I intend to float.

I've been reading a lot of Sara Teasdale (And I strongly recommend you do the same). She's a poet after my own heart, a lot of her stuff is short, it's rich and often has a twist to it. It doesn't feel didactic or preachy, but it does say something new. I was excited to find that she wrote a lot of poems about April (Being born then, I've always been partial to it) and I started thinking about why she would write so much about that month particularly. I love April, but while it's the first month of spring, it tends to still be chilly and often dreary. You want flowers and sun, but you get mud and rain. The world is starting to wake up, but it isn't dressed yet and it certainly hasn't done it's hair or make up. (Hum... I like that... it may show up somewhere else someday :) So then I wrote this poem (But that sentence may be better than the poem, now it's gonna have an inferiority complex, poor thing ;)

April
April is the beginning
that hasn't yet begun
a promise not yet broken
because it hasn't yet become

It's the question to an answer
that hasn't yet appeared
it's waiting for a wish
we've dreamed of in our tears.

I'm trying to really start working on "my novel" which seems like a horribly pretentious thing to say I'm doing. I've always been a bit shy of showing my work, and it seems kind of arrogant to think I have that much to say that anyone else will want to hear. But, I talk A LOT and people still like me, so maybe this is kind of like that ;) Anyway, I think that as an English major, I am doomed to eventually attempt this, so better sooner than later. In consequence, my poetry may slow down (or speed up as I have something bigger to procrastinate on) but, I want to go back and work on some of the poems I talked about but never finished. Like the stuff from the Bach concert. And the feminist one (I really want to see where that ends up). So hopefully August will be full of book writing and poetry.


To start it off, here's last month's poem. The word was miscommunication:

Miscommunication
Between my lips and your ears
words war their way through
a no-mans-land of mines and booby traps
their disfigured bodies, unrecognizable,
whisper through death, caught in their throats,
the lies they’ve learned on the way.

Then I wrote a poem using a list of somebody's 10 most beautiful words in the English language (chimes, dawn, golden, hush, lullaby, luminous, melody, mist, murmuring, tranquil). Pretty words are kind of boring to work with, so it isn't my favorite. Also, they are kind of similar. Boring. But I wrote it because I challenged myself to, and it turned out alright after all:

Poetic
In the golden hush of dawn
before the waking wind
sweeps away the final chimes
of midnight lullabies
the luminous fingers of dawn stroke
languid latitude lines, strumming
the murmuring melody of mist
as it presses itself into the tranquil earth.

Next, a poem using Edward Sheldon's ugliest words in the English language (funeral parlor,galluses, housewife, intelligentsia). Which was the second part of my challange.  I figure if you can make a poem out of pretty words, so what? But ugly words, that's something. And I like this one a lot better :)

Prose
He walked, head down, shoulders slouched
into the funeral parlor on the fourteenth of May.
The only thing about his person that did not succumb
to the day's gravity were his pants,
prosaically supported by old, brown galluses.
She was just a housewife, and he was no intelligentsia
but the picture of him, stooping over her
worn and hollow was the most perfect thing
the photographer had ever snapped
(but was not included in the next day's paper
Due to the stunning indiscretion of a Notable socialite).

And life has been really good lately. I'm still getting better, still finding my way towards the happiness I used to find so easily. But I've turned another corner and it's been huge for me. I keep thinking, in a way, that this is it. That I'm finally back, and it feels like that this time too. Partially because, I think, I know I'm not going back to what I was. You can't. Your physical body turns over, new cells replacing the old, so that you can never be literally the person you were, even when you are "all grown up." So instead, I'm finding the things I used to love and putting them together with the lessons I've learned about life and together, it's making life beautiful again. Beautiful in a way that makes me catch my breath at random moments because it just hits me how beautiful that moment is. I'm glad.

But whenever I feel happier, whenever I move a little further on, I miss Angel a little more again. I've been thinking of her a lot this weekend, and some of the memories that felt like they were fading came back, really strong. So I have a weird combination of the sadness of missing her and the gladness that even if it makes me sad, I still have her. But the poem that came out about her today is kind of sad, but it's something I think about. So here that is:

Bereavement
Every death is yours.
The tombstones crumbling
with a hundred years decay
are memorials of your passing.
Obituaries in daily papers mark
Your sweetness, missed.
Even deaths, splashed across
wide screens of make believe
Are yours.
You die with the day at every sun set.
And I love every death for you.

Anyway, Now I should really do some book-work. See you later!

It's not much but it's something....

Gadgets
Glossy gold, platinum, copper, bronze with
elegant lines joining hypnotic curves
silk smooth, mink soft
nothing cheep, nothing gaudy
that's how he likes his girls.

Give him the next
Best thing, right off the assembly line-
they run through his hands
like wine turning to water.

The name's Bond, Stocks and Bonds
Tough as diamonds, hard as
the titanium band on his left hand
grasping high on her thigh.

The latest plaything
To have and to hold,
until the first fingerprint smudges
tarnish the fools gold finish
and the next model winks.

Only one today....

But I have lots of inspiration to sort through in the next few days, so we'll see what happens :)


Living


“Life is made of leaving
and we're living for the spaces
between goodbyes.”
I said, as we walked
hand in hand down
streets of broken asphalt.

“Life is made of longing
and we're living on the hope
of maybe, someday.”
I said, as we sat
side by side on
a weather worn bench.

“Life is made of loneliness
and we're living between ghosts and graves,
all our loves are yesterdays'.”
I said, as we looked
eye to eye across
wind weary waves.

“Life is made of losing
and we're living with the knowledge
that we'll misplace our favorites.”
I said, as we curled
cheek to cheek in
shabby sheets and old blankets.

“Life is made of illusions
and we're living in the delusion
that dreams come true.”
I said, as we stood
shoulder to shoulder by
a tree of wilting flowers.

Wishing on the Sun

When I was little, my dad used to take us out to see the stars. When we climbed the Blue Ridge mountain range, we saw the Milky Way spill across the night sky. When we visited relatives in the middle of nowhere NY, we lay in the middle of a small town street and looked for Cassiopeia, Orion, and the dippers. At home, in the heart of suburbia (because, despite rumors to the contrary, it does have one), we watched meteors streak the sky over street lamps and headlights.

We didn’t wish on the stars then. We didn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny- just the tooth fairy. We looked at the stars because they were beautiful, because they were the sailor’s constants in the sea of daily uncertainty. People come and go, but the stars stay. People change, but constellations are constants.

I changed. And I started wishing on stars. I still didn’t believe in them, but I wanted to -so I wished. And I changed again. The stars were no longer full of wishes for the future- they were the laughter of a girl who was gone. The stars in the night sky weren’t pinpricks of hope for tomorrow- they were memories of things that would never be again. So I loved them even more than I had before.

I needed more then ever, however, something to wish on. A magic, even if I couldn’t really believe in it, to help me make it through the day. I stopped wishing on Orion’s belt buckle, on the gilded edges of Cassiopeia’s chaise, on the water sparkling on dippers’ rims. I started wishing on the sun.

The star we build our lives around. That numbers our days and counts out the hours. The star who always shines somewhere in the world. The star that, on blinking out, will end our need for wishes anyway.

Science, the Big Bang, and God. .... And I'm Not Quite Sure What My Point Is.....

We know all about conservation of mass/energy. We know that there is no such thing as spontaneous generation (and, of course, by know I mean that is the current understanding of Science on this matter. Science, being man's current belief scheme as supported by facts elicited through observation and experimentation. A belief scheme that changes just as much as religion has, as we build upon the ideas and discover the mistakes of the past). So then: some matter, some energy always existed. I call that God. Actually, I just said that because it sounds neat and concise. I desperately want this to be neat and concise, but it is not. So let me start again.

Some matter, some energy has always existed. In order to explain the big bang, some existing force had to act upon some existing matter. The Big Bang theory has never been an explanation of how matter and energy came to be. It assumes the existence of both matter and energy, and extrapolates how they formed the world as we see it today. It is not, in essence anti-theistic because it does not explain the origin of original matter and energy (A point that is not really what I'm talking about, but bears keeping in mind).

Whether approaching the creation of the world from a scientific or deistic point of view, there needs to be an acknowledgment that matter/energy/life do not spontaneously occur. Some force has to act on the appropriate matter in order to create mass/energy/life. I believe this force is a divine being.

Why? Well, firstly-why not? Really, Pascal's Wager people.

Secondly, life experiences. I know! So suggestible, biased, and unscientific. I get it, after all, I am by nature fairly skeptical. I doubt strongly the experiences of others due to emotional and hopeful natures. But I know my life, and I know that the most profound experiences I have had are all linked to God. Scoff, mock, or agree, God has unavoidably put himself into my life's story at several critical times.

Thirdly, and a little more scientifically (However, I think we should all know by now that you can neither prove the existence of a god nor the lack of existence of a god. Nor can we scientifically prove phenomena that there was no witness to. Both sides of the Deist/Atheist debate can only extrapolate the creation of the world, etc. using the evidence we have before us now.) I believe in God because there is something in me, as a human, anthropologically, that wants to. Because humanity as a whole seeks to explain things outside of our frame of reference. Because we, as people, never create a truly new idea. Because the probability of this world being formed by chance are so minute, I struggle to grasp the tiny odds.

If I was trying to explain my belief in God in terms of the humanities, which is, admittedly, the way I am inclined to look at the world, and therefore God, I'd have a whole different set of reasons. But here, I'm trying to explain my belief in the second language of my brain (science, not humanities). I know many people who are scientists, doctors, mathematicians that understand these ideas better than I do, but they don't often choose to use their second language, writing, to explain these things. So this was a stab in the dark, hopefully a workable translation that will get ideas and thoughts started.



PS: I would like to point out that: I really only have one friend who reads this blog regularly, so this is not for you. It's for me and her, and if you want to eavesdrop, go right ahead. I know it's public property out here on the inter-webs. But don't be offended if you don't like this 'cause it isn't for you (And friend, I won't be offended if you don't like this). Also, I know I'm not a scientist. I just am trying to put down what makes sense to me in light of what I know. If anyone reads this and would like to politely point out errors in my understanding, thanks oodles for your tact. I doubt anyone is actually gonna read this who isn't my friend (hi again, friend :) but just in case, I wanted to be clear about the intent of this. Also, If you do actually read this for the poetry and stories and found this random religious dissertation, um... I doubt this will happen very often, so come back soon for more of our regularly scheduled programing.  Thanks for reading, and I hope you had fun!


And....
If you are here for the poems, here's one:

Angel

Heaven should be

The way earth was, when you were on it

When there was hair, not streets, of gold

When the gates to your soul were the only sapphires

When the daisies fell from your fingertips, sweetly

When your lily skin curved against my body

When milk and honey rolled themselves into words

Trilled from your tongue through lips like love

Heaven will be

The way earth was, when you were on it.

Longer

My theme for this week has been writing longer. I love writing small poetry: haikus, limericks, etc. I love making every word count and giving depth to small ideas, or making a large one as simple as possible. Or, using the least amount of words to paint the most detailed pictures. And that's good. What is bad is that sometimes I think to myself, this poem could be longer, but I'm afraid I'll mess it up, so I'll stop here. Or I'm too lazy to add to a poem that would probably work better longer, and with a more full story. So this week, I tried to write poems with multiple stanzas, continuing ideas that demand more than just a few lines. Let me know what you think!


Also, I did write something between the 5th and now, I just am not ready to put it online.  So if you want to read it, Facebook or email me and I'll send it on over :)

My favorite parts (Just FYI): Fourth stanza of Nothing....  stanzas two and four and the ideas of stanza's three and five of Losing.





Nothing Good Can Stay
When February falls frozen
And March trudges on her way
Then die the thrushes,
--nothing good can stay

When April rains, harsh and heavy,
that flowers might bloom in May
Then drown the seedlings
--nothing good can stay

When June brings the desert,
July follows with fiery ray
Then burn the forests
--nothing good can stay

When August sends a shiver-
September turns gold to hay
then death to all the roses
--nothing good can stay

When October skies darken,
November nights steal the day
Then sleep steals from the woodland
--nothing good can stay

When December strikes the death blow
January turns bright eyes away
Then dies the old year
--nothing good can stay.




Losing
I lost you, like the keys to an old house
hurriedly thrust in some coat's pocket,
fallen on the floor, soon buried, forgotten

I lost you, like a handful of loose change
drifting in the ether of grey car seats,
fallen careless from fickle fingers

I lost you, like flowers fading on a table
petals tenuously hanging, wearily awaiting
the inevitable doom of all things picked

I lost you, like the last shard of the moon
slipping slowly into obscurity
on a night of wind and clouds.

I lost you, like the memory of a sunny afternoon
that perfect moment, forgotten by a mind
that would have remembered rain

I lost you, like a long year spent sloppily
on splashy second-rate entertainment,
regretted long before it was over

I lost you, like hours wasted on a dream
wrapped in maybes that would never be yeses
living for hopes that hadn't a prayer

I lost you, like love, asked too many times
for forgiving and forgetting, finally closing the door-
leaving only the sound of its' locking.

Mythology

I've always loved mythology. The grand scale of the stories, magic and the telling of how the world became what it is. I was thinking about the gods and goddesses awhile ago, and the idea of the modern Greek tragedies stuck in my head. The gods living on, neglected by mortals, impotent. I also thought about Hera, how nobody likes her. But I feel sorry for her, and I wanted her side oft e story. Maybe its' the feminist in me, but when I think about women living in a society where their only power comes from what man they marry and the children they have by him, I can't help but feel sympathy. So, this is the beginning of that concept. I've done a couple of pictures based on this idea, but I decided to switch over to words- because I'll never do the idea justice with my limited artistic talent.

This is kind of a prologue. Hera talking to Atlas about life leading up to the story. I'm not sure what the story is exactly, but I know it involves Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite, and Poseidon with Atlas serving as an audience. We'll see how it goes.
Oh! But before that, here's a poem I wrote that made me decide to turn the tragedies from pictures to words:

Star Gazing
I watched
Liquid light fall from dipper's rim
where Orion paused to drink before
his hunt, shining pelts swinging from his belt
Cassiopeia, watched lounging on a throne
glistening, resplendent, with silver inlay.
Sparks flew from Draco's open mouth
and virgins trembled, hair glistening in it's light
as Hercules sword arced, flashing, toward the flames.
Andromeda strums her golden lyre,
awaiting Peruses' return as creatures of the deep
swim swift around her feet.
I lay on the onyx grass and watched
the diamonds dance their epic paths
of tragic glory one soft summer night.


HERA: Greek Tragedies

Atlas, stooped and old: wrinkles sagging, bagging eyes. Atlas the proud and powerful, the world on his shoulders. Once the world was a trap he fell into, but as the years pass, he has turned it into heroism. He holds the world, and he believes that he stands between it and destruction, dashed to pieces on the heaven's floor. But he has been deluded, like all of us. He is unnecessary: the world hangs on the strong string of science, suspended between the earth and the infinite. But no one will tell him this. We remember. So he sits, the world on his shoulders, and the years roll on.

I don't know if anyone else ever visits him. If they too demand an audience from this captive, I have never heard of it. I started coming here years ago, because where else could I go? Cuckolded queen of the gods. Goddess of the family, yes, who can't keep a husband. Queen, above- and removed from -all. By the power I hold over them still. Or perhaps by the bitterness that emanates from my eyes. What will she do next? I hear them whisper. Just loud enough for my ears, daring me to take them on too. Don't they understand? I've seen them do these things too. Proud, insolent, young. That's what we were. With the might of the mountain coursing though our veins. But as they have, I also have aged. I have, and we have, grown wise. Or I have. I hope.

Atlas, like so many times, I have come to talk. But I have not yet found the words so I sit.

I stare at the world on his back. If I were him, I'd just let the earth fall. I would hope there was no chain to hold it after I was gone. I would laugh as the world turned and I would smile over the screams of the countless lovers during the short drop. Then I would pull a broom from the star-shapes and sweep the shattered glass from my parlor floor, throwing it out into the evening and forming a new constellation. That one is earth, that one is there to remind you what happens when you forget.

Atlas, we have been forgotten. But I have been forgotten longest.