Monthly Archives: October 2013

Gypsies

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I’d never grow the beard

The billowy cotton ball of distinction

A definable mark of classification

From one great thinker to the next

Getting frustrated with infant limitations

And becoming lost within the movements of the day

To gaze into any mirror

Eyes to eyes, I’ve seen them before

A mane to border jawline and highbrow

Tempting lovers and hiding those looks of

questioning wonder

What will become, if and when, red turns to gray, to white

Mimicking the strands down the

faces of whiskers and partially hiding the whispers

of the deep introductions into the

very being of the various lives to live?

 

The state of mind that seems, within each tiny fingered grasp

Of holding fate closer to heart than balancing the weight on top of head;

The heaviest of utopian dreams that seem

attainable, worthy of the burden to carry, says Sally Paradise

of that place of mind that often changes

to accommodate

what can be said over and over

Written words that claim anything

wondered upon

Thoughts of the everyday, of you and me, of creation

of anything colorfully flourishing at all,

until color does indeed dye a softer hue than the once brighter shade that

loses saturation as the excitement of youth slowly subsides

and succumbs to the affordable gray of wisdom

 

I feel misrepresented in choice, this

belief of growing old

Learning the lessons, one by one, until gray hairs

remain the only memories of the past;

But call out for attention demanding the acknowledgment

of character, from all of the other quilted bodies with their

mismatched undertones and uneven layers

of relatable temptations, of whatever,

calls to exist

To call a polymath anything, to give it a name at all

instead of the classical tradition of student to master,

and then again master to student,

Age being mistaken for the roads taken

of gaining knowledge, rather than the movie-like perception

on the road

 

Where we find the

Gypsy trains of Renaissance men and women

dancing through the jungles in their colorful

patterns of metal jingles singing above the group of

women mysteriously chattering, in the story

Where there is always some ancient white bearded man

or semi-toothless, sometimes also bearded, granny

offering their tales of mischief and triumphs and

reliving emotions once passed;

Our elders, who once questioned the kind of feelings examined

by all, and determining our own way of thoughts, right now, like

Remembering those Da Vinci quotes, picturing how

he might look saying anything through his own billowing beard; that

led me to question if there is anyone looking for the

brain in the gilded painting hanging on the wall

or do we all just inherently stumble upon it at the

last stages of life when drawing conclusions is

loud enough for even the next group to hear?

 

I am grateful for all of the storytellers ❤

Burning Down the Castle Walls

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The view is pointy
The picture is tall
This magnificent structure
Built stone by stone
Gray blocks of power and wealth
Shielding the sun
Covering halls in darkness
The damp collection of memories, treasures
Decorating the coldness within…

One day, a loose ember set ablaze
The flowered curtains and rugs covering rock
Igniting the impenetrable from within
Burning down the castle walls
The view is open
The picture is endless
Another dawn rises on the lawn
Hearts claim ownership of the land
Ruling the new beginnings

 

I am grateful for a couple of days off ❤

On, Off

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Bare flesh, lightly visible in the moon’s spark of the black night

Standing before the massive outline of shapely treetops

darkened purpled by the densely expanse of an unknown

Staring into the depths as if looking into its genius, the creator of it all

without seeing to confirm the visual awareness of surroundings

feeling more emotion from the darkness as it demands attention by

sucking out light to anything that crosses the

boundary of shadows; dictator to all of the nightly critters, those

egotistical orators claiming the highest pitch of the chorus

to offer his or her version of story to the world

 

All of this, as I gaze out through the field

A grassy plain isolated, vulnerable to any watchful eye

A lamp goes on there, and then turns back off

on, off, on, off, on;

Proudly illuminating the nearest blanket of grass

trying to demand some of the night for itself

Covering its land in a hauntingly shade of yellow

only enhanced by the purity of each blade,

and again off

 

Now pale, dimmed within the natural light of the moon

Creating a normal hue to walk through

without feeling the suffocating grip of man

Low flying clouds churn out an embraceable

wind, that collapsed within the cloth;

protecting my skin from the harshness of touch

A kiss upon brow, satisfied

that sacrificing anything else

would kill the magic of the current

flow, frumpling feathers and giving

flight to the creatures above,

on

 

Masking identity behind palms

out, sheltering others as much as

isolating self

A cluster of memories to ruffle the

tendrils of every curly strand

Each one grasping on to a single thread

of thought attached

Highlights set aglow by flashes of

reflections;

Trying to imitate the stars overhead and

all of their tinkle tinkling

A trendy scene for a fairytale themed movie or play

With characters to love and

characters to hate

For moments of happiness and a few

remembrances of the bitter

unfortunate periods of sadness

Even those times of numb stoicness, where

giving only all to self and shutting down

any honest part of the truth, is easier than

being alive at all

A question of validation to never be answered but

to continually be pondered, because there are

always two sides to every thought

As there are to every random misplaced impulsive

reaction to any kind of sensation,

off

 

Is this what you want? I implore you;

ask, as you might demand the answer

if given the opportunity,

on

 

I think to offer surrender, like an adolescent of angst

forsaking all responsibilities and

tempting fate into showing face

Crying wolf and risking the emptiness of the

other side of faith, as it is

now but I don’t know how I could ever bear

the possibility of the worst kind of confirmation

That this is all we’ve got

I’ve resolved myself to hope, to suggest that it’s not;

 

Off.

I am grateful for playing in the light and the dark; it is what we make it. ❤

Soul

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Staring into face, eyes that move in awareness;
a humanistic trait of tiny windows into the

abstract understanding of life
How could it not be there?

This word of attachment of superiority

or, comparison to that
Relating to the beast as true self feels instinct
Sees the pureness of Soul before the

crippling grip of intelligence weighs in
Like a bag of rocks, the heavier the more expensive
To compare cost of brain is like proving worth of goods
Forgetting the very core of oneself to

the point of complete misunderstanding
Of anything, including the very brain in question

of purpose of degree
With every fact crammed into tiny cranial spaces claiming ownership of

the random considerations one used to make
Do we miss these traits or inherently lose them,

like we lose the childlike wonderment of the everyday?
If seeing is feeling and even believing in having a soul at all,

Then of course animals have souls.

 

Image

 

I am grateful for Penelope ❤

Hurt So Good

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My heart was breaking long before the final blow;

when thoughts became words that wormed their way in

and tried to eat flesh,  to dig down and claim

domination of the basic foundation of soul

Where north was south and east was west,

forgetting time existed and fighting back moments of

seeing into the depths of hell

the darkest chamber of grief, guilt, hate, etc.

all of the negative desires that derive out of passion;

Painful yet numbing

So unnatural from any human feeling at all

beyond comparison to the worst physical

touch; the mind always hurts more

Escaping movie reel flashbacks of scenes so

hauntingly clear, forgetting becomes more of a job

than any kind of shift work

Muscles strain where I’ve never felt them before

Senses fail at the briefest of vulnerabilities

of bothering to go over these disgusting narratives,

again

There’s no such thing as a love that can hurt so good

 

 

I am grateful for these last few months ❤

Originally Written

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Sometimes feeling the power of movement from pen to paper offers a

more satisfyingly embrace of a language

uncharacteristic of fingers to keys;

 

unless of course the keys produce the vibrational

sound of something inspiring like one of Mozart’s symphonies

 

but not in the case of this definitional confusing

of one word or phrase, meaning something entirely

different from the former thought before

getting distracted by the various amounts of rants, excuse me…

 

Ahem, so thereby standing on the placidly positioned

soapbox of feministic qualities, though I

rarely try to label an individual’s activities,

especially those to classify as my own,

My restlessness speaks volumes, as my

injured hand can attest

 

To feel moved to creation whereas typing any word seems

disheartening, not as interesting as to

Write for the excitement of feeling; of the trailing of thought

shooting out of psyche and sprouting down into index finger

and thumb, balancing on the delicate

 

bird only addressed, usually by some

douchebag distracted: one hand on wheel, one hand caressing cell;

A momentary lapse of judgment that is peculiar for this gender,

or so it would seem, portrayed as even now

as I continue choosing dedication over comfort

 

With sword in mouth ready to slice down,

willing to action of emitting random passions

Sharp intestinal misgivings of simple realities

 

even as unaware of own, claiming idols

worthy of noteworthy admiration and a bit of honorary

imitation, but there is still a slightly

less than relatable piece for me, missing from their

well-versed lines and spiritually bending

phrases, as if human can only relate to human

a true bond, for sure but not quite the answer

 

to the riddle playing its familiar melody of

whispering quandaries of

culture, gender, religion, spirit, death, life

Where do we belong in a piece written

by one but to be addressed to us all?

To connect in hand, placing words in text to hold onto,

instead of a sweaty handshake

or an awkward hug

 

My silence is weak, I sometimes can go

days without tracing out some thought

through the maze of my head

Trudging through the hedging, trying to

find the way out

Lost, alone, Nay!

 

That’s what they say; if a hedge is a wall built to stand up against those

willing to blindly follow an isolated pathway

forward

Getting lost in the tunnel vision view of the artistically enhanced corn

being recorded for the loner’s documentary of the world;

it’s numbing to write of everyone else,

to escape one’s thoughts that lead to the downward pathway

to hell? No,

but it’s easier to see than to ignore, easier to sleep than

stay awake with the unmistakable guilt, my definition of hell

Maybe different than yours? like a cliché metaphoric

labyrinth comparison to fields of starches:

 

Indefinable routes to confuse, to make it difficult to navigate, persuading

looping circles of repetitive moments of frustration

lapses in navigation of self that lead to the same heartbreaking dead ends

Any escape out of the hedge is congratulated

by storytellers who sit on the edge

addicted to the thrill of the tournament and the shame of the

horror

Continuing tradition of keeping score, figures as pawns

in a different kind of sport

Hiding in the leaves, forever writing down their perceptions in

sketches and notes

 

But as for me, I see a hedge and branches, breakable twigs

Moldable objects destined to be worked by an imagination capable of cutting down

any barrier presentable to man, or woman;

(boots firmly placed on box of stance

asking for attention in the power of height

Raising the volume of the mic and positioning spotlight

as if declaring awareness just by the production of it all)

 

If a hedge is a wall and a wall separates two pieces of the puzzle

that connect everything together

then the wall is a chapter, a small hurdle of

situation and placement

easily defeated by will of the heart;

mine fueling the fire to burn each green leaf

to the ground, flaming up in an orange shade of rust

A hole in the greenery

 

Burning out a definable pathway, following the trail

Laying out my own personal depiction of the yellow brick road of

escaping the sticky spiderweb of self and

Introducing one’s own world of amazement at the end of the

short story;

Originally written.

 

I am grateful for peppermint patties ❤