To read any stories you can look here.
Stress of Joy
Beauty is everywhere, beauty is poetic,
Poems must be written, poems must be beautiful,
Poems must be songs, songs must be original, must be played,
Songs must be sung, must be rhythmic,
Artists must not fail,
Artists are human, humans fail, singing off tune and rhythm,
Other humans are laughers, critics, rejecters,
Not all laughter and criticism or rejection is appreciated,
Discouragement is discouraging, saddening, depressing,
Depression is tragically beautiful, beauty is poetic,
Poems must be written, poems must be beautiful.
This one isn't dated but I think it was written in late 2009 if I remember correctly. I don't like much of it anymore but the concept makes me smile and I can still relate a little to this younger, slightly pathetic version of me.
Moments Like This
If only moments like this could be placed on the page,
If only the led could tell the story,
I may try to relate this scene and all that I sense at this moment,
But a memory is a hollow ghost of the past,
What was is dead and what I feel now is very much alive,
Dare I murder the time?
Murder it by reveling its shadow to all?
No I am but an element in this event and it is not for me to rob the divine,
For a poet I am,
And a thief I am not.
I do, despite the amount of time between then and now, remember that moment. Still not mine to tell.
September 14, 2008
Evening’s Walk
Soft percussion on my hood,
Silent ripples in the puddles,
Quick bubbles sail their first and final voyage,
A few birds sing in the branches over head,
All around rain whispers it’s beauty,
Calm light from unseen force,
Dances on the wet green grass,
I turn back to the town but splendor continues,
In the growing darkness the streetlights turn the asphalt to pure gold,
The quiet roar of tire on fresh road fill my ears,
A smile charms my lips as the rumbling sound moves on and look down into a settling puddle,
To see another smiling visage peering up at me,
The pure flash of the lightning lights the neighborhood bright as day,
Like a window into the future of tomorrow,
I lift my face to the sky above and close my eyes,
As Heaven’s tears of joy wash over me,
I grin at the vibrations of thunder cracking and rolling over me,
The downpour seeped into me as I lift my hands,
To praise the Creator of the deluge,
Master of thunder and the coming rainbow.
The blank page before me.
My eyes wander from the blank page in my lap to the window,As the world speeds by,
Misty emotions seeking names new inside me,
I pray they age like wine and not milk,
How to begin to clear the blur in my head?
And how too find the end?
With the click of the pen and seasoned motions,
The fog is stired and the feelings are as fresh as the were miles ago,
When the sun was young in the days sky,
And smiles touched my eyes,
Touched by a spark of dancing fire,
By cool moon light,
Back before the blank page was a beggar,
And before I was eager to fill it's outstretched hand,
And empty my overflowing pockets,
But what too fill it with?
If I have no answers to the many questions,
And no proverbs to help understand the coming questions,
What can I give that's solid enough too hold?
If I pore out myself it will only run threw the receiver's hand,
Like millions of dry grains of sand,
Take what little I give, my friend,
And spend it as you will,
A sanctuary is only that if there's something to hide from,
Family is what makes a home,
Heaven on Earth is to be savored,
And tastes only last so long.
I wrote this on the train taking me from camp back home. (August 2, 2008) I didn't really know what I was writing, I was just writing and this evolved.
