Monthly Archives: April 2013

Just A Writer

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A profound line to begin
What can I say to portray what my writing,
cannot.

Do I dare try?

As a lover on a mission to dream
Past the commencement of falling asleep from reality;
Learning to ignore the constant incessant chattering;
The noise that drives me to the brink,
I think.

As a human shell, I dwell
On the appropriateness of my reactions
Of how people take in my first few layers;
At introduction, I often wonder if he or she will be hungry

and bite into the onion;

To ignore the multiple hardened bandages,
and get to the core
To learn who I am and what I believe.

I can see, and then I’m instantly blinded;
My constant train of thought always trying to dismantle, this determined locomotive,

off of the tracks.

Ironically, disregarded as a sweet face, that no one can take seriously

As if I couldn’t possibly be anything or anybody, but I think I can;

No,
I know I already am:

An awkward talker, continuously writing,
Who gets lost in imagination;
The filmmaker of the dramatic operatic stage,

who’s recording every performance.
Where ghosts arrive in anticipated states of attention,
Thinking that maybe one day they’ll get noticed too.

But they already are, the crowd of transparent stars

with their marks: their shining scars;
The traditional seekers who claim to define society.
I am an observer of humanity, who doesn’t quite fit in:

A multiple frame thinker, flying through the higher 3-D layers

of atmospheric panels of time.
Do I live in the life of fame, fortune and

drown myself in contempt for the routine?

Or, delve into the chapters of a

Story where the Setting is created by Societal Standards;
Those postcard stamps of blue and black lines that are only intended to penetrate the whiteness?

But here I am, only, just a writer.
If you ask more than that
I might not give the same answer as the day before, or the day here-to-after 

Do I trust a vulnerable liability, capable of extinguishing everything that I feel within,

To let those in; nomads sharing the path that I’m walking,

Those who, care to try to uncover some of those onion layers that make me whole; 
Soul and all?

Sometimes on the trail, Someone walks next to me,

Another being who can handle the depths of contrasting views of reality,
Who ignores all of my first impressions and understands,
Who is challenged by the intertwining of their own universal, constant languages;
And enjoys the sweet manipulation, of the creation of history to exist;

In time.

When the moon rises,

When the tides fall back, to begin the ritual
Before the Sea washes away the day;
Hanging above us all in anticipation; blissfully alone.
A numbness soothes; lessening the intensity of the grip grasping the rocky walls,

that lead down to the abyss

Pacing myself, sometimes losing ground
Deleting the information saved within every insignificant memory
Trying to lose sight of reality, again,
For 20 minutes or less
That’s all I ask, beg, pray;
Give me a memory,

Without the fear of not being able to find my way back.

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Hammock Musings

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Toes curled, twisted in between the braided layers of fabric;
Shades of the Carolina sky
Floating; flying
Gravity bows down to the effortless embrace; of hammock to body
A sensual cocoon that caresses each spiny bump down the pale flesh of my back
My skin, fire; warm and in peace
As if sweating in the residual triumph of originality;
To defy the basic sense of reality, to escape the feeling of heavy
As lightweight as the marshmallow clouds that outline the illustration above; the open door to life and the unknown
A seat of creativity to dream up the classifications of different meanings
Ways to record a code of communicating;
Past the normal methods of understanding and learning
To remember what it means to keep dreaming, to keep believing
And to always be grateful.

I am grateful for education and the teachers/counsellors/mentors who voluntarily enter into the lives of those who need them.

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The Lost City*

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The Lost City

 

A faceless figure, I stood in the blue water

Letting the current sway my hips in a naturally provocative dance;

Gauging the distance, the risk, of giving in to escape, to reject chance

 

The floor, layered with broken bits of shell and coral, consumed me, my feet

Hungry enough to devour whatever it will;

Open holes, smiling mouths from Hades enticing friendly visits to the underworld

 

An oath immersed, followed by the muffled responses of a confession

By a god on a mission, to be the King of the sea;

To subject the curious to rules and gestures of an all-knowing authority.

To claim the throne of the unattainable, the lost city.

 

 

I am grateful for the next three days. ❤

Said No One

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The sounds, small and inconsequential to the reality of now

Just a passing picture of perfection that I clearly cannot see

Another hazy memory, a dream

What is this feeling? This state of being, of mind?

A classification of nothingness, or undefinable nothing; in a way that something can always mean nothing

Perhaps we stumble and fall through the cracks of the sidewalk, the pavement, escape the steps that lie just ahead

Those pathways that stare at us,  concrete square faces that mock us, in an all-knowing fashion, because of course, we’re the only ones that are ever blind

So we fall instead of bravely continuing the journey, whether reeling from glances of maturity, or proudly listening to the tiresome humming and nagging

“This is life! This is the way things must be!”

Thought us all but said no one ever.

I am grateful for kite flying. ❤

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Weeds

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Weeds
I awoke this morning to the sound of birds chirping,
It was barely audible at first but as the seconds past,
As I continued my journey from the dreamland,
I had a few blissful moments of a Sunday morning.
As if the sun planned to say hello! as soon as I opened my swollen eyelids.
It sang to me, the sun, and I listened
I couldn’t escape the diamonds glistening through the shades, nor the melody that the day had chosen
So I shoved on each shoe, rubbing against my bare-feet,
slipped a jacket over the mismatched threads that I slept in,
and stepped out into the world.
Where I was met with nothing at all,
and it was blissful, spiritual.
And as I inspected the grassy ground beneath my feet, walking forward,
seeking what the freedom offered me,
I stumbled upon one lone flower,
A yellow weed all by itself
And I smiled, what a blessing
As if god had placed this one flower in my path to get my attention;
Learning to depend on the simple wonders of living, surviving.
Offering a vibrant piece of life to demonstrate
What it means to relate, speculate, what dreams might be.
I am grateful for new friends. ❤

Freedom

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Today, I woke up contemplating freedom. What does it really mean? Are we free if we can afford to pay off all of our debts?
Is someone free, who decides to quit his/her job/family and become a nomad?
Or, are we only ever free in death; no longer exhausted by the trials of being mortal and flesh?

Can the word “freedom” take on a personification of itself? We salute the flag in America to proudly honor those who have died for our freedoms. So now we are forced to worship the flag for people unknown to all of us individuals? We are taught a ritual to worship freedom, losing the freedom to salute those in honor, the way we would choose. The word “freedom” has multiple meanings for each of us; depending on family, situation, country, religion, demographic, etc. If I were to make a stand and suggest that the flag never be saluted again, would I then, be taking away another person’s freedom?

Is a person who is free, or one who experiences freedom, ultimately happy? For the nomad wanderer, does the thought of freedom lie within the decisions that are based on a moment’s notice? Is the nomad happy? Or, is he merely only choosing a different life because his definition of living is different than my idea of living?

I’m not necessarily afraid of the bounds and shackles used to make a person feel their loss of “freedom.” I am more concerned with the censorship of voice, of heart. So, what exactly am I afraid of?

Is freedom just a concept to help us remember fear? Without freedom, we have the fear of what our judges, our “gods” would decide for us; as our fate is determined by men and women who also have their own ideas about what freedom is. With freedom, are we constantly afraid of losing it?

Moreover, how does one become free within the realms of a time, or a place, where it is just not possible? Am I merely free when someone can define me as such? Am I free if I claim that I am?

For me, freedom more closely resembles something within me; a state of mind. I am shackled to societal standards and debts but my mind is FREE to explore anything that I can imagine. I can conjure up any idea and then stitch it into the lives of other minds.

I guess freedom means to me, probably what it means to everybody else. An idea/concept that is limitless in every aspect.

What do you think?

I am grateful to have the tools I need to explore my Freedom to its fullest. ❤

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The Window

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I inspect the window, determining its role
Reflecting in the sun,
I see all of the dust and dirt marks,
Giving the outside world a distorted representation of
what home is:
Maybe, it’s within the forests of trees,
and the mountain streams,
with their moss-ridden river rocks,
casting edges to the effervescent flow
Smelling of pureness, only found in the seeking, beating heart.
Or, perhaps, of the blue expanse of discovery,
where the broken bits of sand collect to tell a story;
The mystery of obscurity that somehow seems familiar
What is it, that I expect to see,
Staring out of this window in front of me; with its blinded view of 22 rectangles of collective panoramic angles to entertain;
A view obscured by the old cedar tree,
Where the birds like to come and inspect,
peck, to dig down to the secrets of its history?
And I gaze out past the bark,
Past the pine needles,
and the sprouting buds
Eyes hazed over,
No longer inspecting the reflection but,
Wondering what a glimpse past your window brings, and imagining,
That I can see it too.

I am grateful to have a sunny spot to sit. ❤

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