To Love a Poem

Some say, it is to reach out,

take a forbidden hand,

run with her

through soft midnight beads,

a million pieces of an eye ,

to look away, with her,

as the world blankly stares

into heaven's endless embrace.

Some say, it is to love nothing,

to see her doe eyes

gaze from every lost dream;

through time not promised to her

you hear her whispers, a dandelion's

silver trees in the air-

hope is the thing with feathers.

I say it is worse- to be thirsty rain,

angry ice with fingers

blown from broken trees,

thinning wind still longing

to hear you find its name;

For me,

for these,

the sun shines on another day.

A Poem...Blogs

Free verse, my sage,
My rebel child.
So far wandered,
My sweet Captive of a cloud.

No rhyme, no reason,
So they say,
Forever, at meters so forth
You distant sway.

Yet, beauty of you,
Dear unknown,
Sheds time and wings
That ask for themselves.
Perhaps, then,
I don't know all.

Library

Columns of brick like columns of stone:
Young, like the people.
Books always new, old friends
Who never needed remembering.

Adobe tiles, crevices
Hide a fortress of time, the wars
Always wage themselves,
But the bulwark never walked away.

So much sunshine upon old walls, thread
New silence that is found within:
That true enlightenment
Shining through balmy shadows.

Rain will curtain in and out,
Skeletons of storm, untouched
Specters against the windows,
Where spiders narrow rule.

In the end, we are like them all:
Lines like the pale folds of webs,
The volumes, cradled stories
Building, rebuilding the shelves.

Half the Brilliance

Those silly notions,
Dancing upon old drums
To mere rhythms that slap
On the fine mesh air!

Fancy did finger, surely,
Strum the wisps of will
Til they frayed and waxed
Like old sailor's knots.

If only, if only
They were smooth
And not splintered,
Like all the other planks
Where I chanced a plunge.

The Given Things

Threading the earth
With persistent memories
That shade a marble sky,

That cool stained glass of long ago,
Glowing and fresh in little saplings
That sleep, knotted at the roots.

It never needed silly dreams,
Vague songs with crystal spools
Of icy taste and twang,
Steamed cold when plucked
From the stores of the mind.

A forgotten loom was in those shadows
That raced darkness up the wall
Weaving in a teetering dance.

Spring, summer, winter, fall;
Always but a few memories
As they tangle in the grove,
Where words still court them.

Ode to Poetry

Thou ill-formed lover,
No friend of mine.
That I should see
A merry heart, thine.

Thou, who lovest not hours
And not summer days,
When all the world
Doth love as praise.

Thou, who keepest night
Fain a gift to thee,
To quake my dreams
With felled mystery.

A saucy fool, thou dress to be,
Thy gold my eyes have yet to see,
But to thy handsome, timid glee,
I do call thou my curiosity.

Poems and such

I think this blog is like my front desk to the world, the small small world that it is. I'm a fairly shy person, after all. Consequently, I'm given the liberty to discuss to my satisfaction all of the little things that greet me and sit in front of me when they decide to wander beyond the main road for a while and see me.

I did the "Love" exercise again today, which is basically a list of 100 things that one loves and cannot live without. It does help orient one's creativity in the right direction, even if the gears are basically restarting and do need time to reboot. It did take me a while to get my consciousness and my words back on track. It's like my mini-rehab, on the go. Once I was back, it felt great!

Hopefully my overflow of poetry this time will be better than last time?

Sunrise

Soft morning breaks in little blocks
Like butter in the dish.

First tendrils of a newest taste
Easy on the skin, the eyes
Before it begins to sizzle,
And time fries.

Our minds are cold,
Preserved vaguely from the day before.
Freezer burned, some could say,
Refridgerated all the more.

Sunrise is the first reminder,
Surviving the remains of the day
To tell us how it goes;
Working a sleeping recipe
But awaking us-
Our crackling starts-
As it flows.

[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]

Night

A living soul finds no answers,
Awakened in a world of dreams.
For reason lies, unescaped
From the mind, such curious seams.

Dreams become the dreamer,
Shadows become solid sweet
As the numbing skull.
Fancies become questions
But to no doors they pull.

No heavy curtains reveal the dark,
But clumsy, stained glass eyes
Seldom hold the murky ink
Prewritten, to night's surprise.

[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]

Amusement Park (II)

Unmask the fears
Of humans past.
Turn off the unknown,
Tie the fear to its last.

Embroidered edges of true goodbye,
Cut, the sharp, unending sigh:
Unneeded, to just recall one chance
For a million collected present a lance:
Defiance, to shake the living unreal,
A pretty penny just to feel.

After all,
The sharpest spear is brushed to hone
Until it becomes a stepping stone.

[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]

Simplicity of Life

Things of beauty
Grow from cold ground.
Watered by anger
That makes not a sound.

Pushing, pushing
Fresh humility to dew.
Icy drops glinting
Slowly as they grew.

Until the sun rose
To see its steady pride,
But blocks of fresh color
To take in its stride.

[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]

Amusement Park

Questions, questions
Coursing through my mind!
Stop the fear, stop the flow
Of happy things unwind.

Touch upon the things unknown,
Be silent, for good times already spent.
Stay trapped within a grounded stop
Even though my dreams repent.

In my sleep I'll feel the wind
Brush screams upon my veins.
My iron nerves will fall away,
The theme of the day retains.

[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]

On of the Shoulders of Giants

Standing on the slopes of boulders,
Spirits heavy and minds long gone,
The sun becomes a measured shadow,
I wonder what I stand upon.

Beauty beyond and pleasure close,
I look, entranced by the musty view
From the silent peace of heroes left
Exhaustion with their present spew.

And what of my day, then?
Just beyond their critique, their swerving eye.
What am I to capture in this widest world
When the past is all I pry?

[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]

A Window Into a Soul

A soul not far from my own,
The sun shining in a different place,
In a different time zone.
A different caution we all create and live,
Of course, for no two tick alike,
No two have the same cogs...

Those things that push us forward
And wind us back,
Grinding forth when we must meet
Ourselves, and two ways to run
The same route, the same process;
Writing, if for the world it is.

Flat dimensions do run forward and back,
After all,
Sifting down to find the "up",
Falling down to rise elsewhere,
Such this life, an infinite stream
Of words, words that live apart.

PS: This was an activity from the Writer's Guild meeting that I had today. It was to interview someone else and learn about them, then write an autobiography for them. This took about four minutes, give or take. I meant for this to be a bit of a portrait.

A Morning Away

My thoughts were lost to the open sea
As I set them on the sand.
New ones, I wove through a heart of rocks
Where the veins of the waves coax land.

Out, my words tumbled when the tide came in.
In, as I went to the lonely, barren shore.
How my mind came to me in tricking lace,
Hooked to the horizon, tied to the sea floor.

So much is lost in this unending land
Where the "where" becomes the "why".
Restraint is spilled, but easily a fool
When the land knows more than the eye.

Love

It's so strange how there are two areas of my life to which my heart heads when one or the other becomes too unbearable. It's as if I'm walking on a tightrope. On one end, there is a safe, but noisy and chaotic room that never seems to end in its tipping, clanging scales and understated cabarets. The other side is a room with an unending masquerade ball, in which the masks only come off when one believes too deeply. Everyone seems to look so majestic in their ball gowns and airs, while I'm still in my tight-rope walking, practical clothing desperately trying to draw on a good mask to hide the vulnerabilities and frailties.

At the moment, I'm loving the rowdy informal room a lot more. The drama that supposedly happens in show choir hasn't caught up to me until now. Of course, it's fairly mild, but that doesn't mean that it's not making me feel more vulnerable. Ironically, these buzzing rumors have helped me fit in! Still, the tight rope hasn't quite stopped wobbling. At some points, I feel as if I'm barely hanging on.

All these disappointments that I feel mix with the soap opera that runs through my head whenever I grow bored of reality. I was going to write a script about it, but I don't feel comfortable doing that. It seems to lack the artistic element that I love in poetry and that I highly tolerate and admire in novels and especially in short stories. I think I'm going to give up Script Frenzy. Maybe I'd be more commited to it if I had the time. Yet, I don't have the time or the motivation for it. Right now I'm wishing for the next noveling challenge. Apparently the Labor Day challenge had an entrance fee, so I don't think I'm going to do it. It would be fun, but I'm not sure fifty dollars is worth it. Maybe I'll just do it for my own sake and not be an official participant.

The Early-bird's Lament

So I had a choir meeting on Thursday morning at 10 AM. But then, there was no way I could get a ride at that time, because my mom leaves for work at 9. So I decided to ask her to take me to school on her way to work. An hour wouldn't be too long to wait, right? Well, I started to think differently once I saw all these other school organizations doing whatever they were doing. I'm naturally introverted, and I haven't come in contact with huge crowds of people in a long time. I just wanted to hide, at one point in time. But then, of course, I needed something to fill up that one hour of loneliness. The drumline was practicing right behind me when I was writing this, so maybe that's why it's got a natural rhythm about it. Or maybe it's just the fact that I was unnaturally focused. I'm usually pretty laidback, but I needed to really drill myself into my words with all the noise around me.
______________________________________________________________________________

Decisions lay in untouched mess
While time ambles its solid path.
Regret appears in thoughtful digress
Coated with a sheepish laugh.


As the obligation comes again,
Steady as it was before.
Facing the crowd to real just when
I'd fended off a field of lore.


A powerful desire to disappear
Into the walls I knew too well.
Deep down I know naught to fear
The shadows did my mind repell.


But minutes never sit to rest
And neither should the world.
To find a smile in feared detest
As courage does unfurl.

The World in My Hands

Love puts the world
In the palm of my hand.
To light with a touch.
To rest with a blink.
Once my vision whirled
I soared, my eyes panned.
The world so small, so much
Possibility clogged the sink.
And so imagination swirled.
Overflowed the land.
My heart skipped double dutch.
So much to do, to think!
But a frame is but a square
Vain in my hands,
If one face fills to brink.

Inspiration: Amelia's most recent poem, "Decisions". :) Though I kind of go off on a tangent with my main point.

Spanish poetry

I usually don't write poetry in Spanish, but I had to do so for a school assignment. Of course, I know enough Spanish to be able to express myself the best I could, and, since this is another milestone in my hobby as a poet, I thought I should show the world!

Sandia

Memorias vidas
Manchado y agotado,
Dulce y familiar;
Rosa, en mi memoria.

Un vez, pegajoso.
Una fragrancia.
Sonrisa de tiempo
En el sol del verano.

Un vez, fresca,
Sencillo y serenidad.
Como mis días
Como mis noches.

Ahora, no más.
Pero el sabor
De mi niñez,
Nunca me olvido.

Me

In the void, I find solace
And solace never void.
Empty, boundless, flooding
Potential to be toyed.

The rush of life is silent
Thoughts halted in their flow.
All but a hollow drip.
Persistent leaks echo.

But all the world is mine to see
In the rustle of a pen.
All the moments in between
The who, what, and when.