writer

Chimes

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts
"Wind chimes,
dazzling across the room
sweet sounds of wood
drumming against wood. 
 
Bamboo shafts,
making soft thuds
float to me,
the soft breeze
 
picking up
to send me
an epiphany of noise,
a realization of music
 
played by no one.
Absent, 
the musician who plays me this rhyme,
the symphony 
 
of the Ocean waves,
crashing onto the beach
played by the rustling,
green leaves
 
with each tree,
swaying back and forth
in dance.
In step,
 
waltzing across the dancefloor
of my mind
a orchestra of noise
turned into high tunes,
 
afternoon desires
grow like blossoming petals;
slow to open.
Though,
 
a sight to see,
smell when finished,
the flower 
of all the sounds surrounding me
 
this southern Summer Saturday
comes together
to soothe me away
into a lull,
 
a state of mind
I wish to hold on to,
while I can.
Before Monday."
Author's Notes/Comments: 

Windchimes are wild.

Clumsy

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"A visit at my table, 

a very welcome visitor,

has a cup of coffee

set down,

 

but not before

the friend has seated herself

does the surface 

of the brew spill over,

 

splashing quietly 

as as she bumps the table with her knee.

Such a detail,

the dark, dark liquid

 

spread across the light brown

wood of where I write,

threatening to soil

the art being drawn.

 

The spillings

of the latest happenings,

the earnest devouring

of each others stories

 

lead to reading,

of depicting the next best thing

in lives still be finished,

download in progress.

 

A spiral

from one image to the next

from the warm-lit coffee shop

to digital acquisition.

 

Like this poem,

the conversation goes,

topics spiraling.

Not out of control,

 

but wildly different

in varient,

from the new job

made of dreams

 

to the steaming progress

of artwork creativity.

Reading,

the visitor stirring

 

with silent smiles

and sparkling eyes,

asking how and why

my poetry winds

 

into art so quickly,

but my answer is clumsy,

the failing of conveying

a real reason

 

for words written.

Awkward in handling it,

and unable still

to write out the soul

 

in one sentence,

stanza,

poem,

book, even. 

 

So let's write three,

I tell her,

and glee is sounded,

rounding back to her departure,

 

bumping coffee again.

But it's wiped away,

no evidence

of the one who sat across.

 

Nothing lost.

Meaning, rather.

No theme,

but a underlying feeling." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

When someone gets more excited about you're work than you do, you should:

- keep writing

- get more excited about your own writing

- question why you're not already.

 

Don't be scared to be hyped about your own art!

Palate

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"So fleeting,

the feelings that need to be written,

so we try,

lest we forget,

 

because we can end the story

right here.

 

 

 

But the writer didn't quit,

there's more than just words

to be conveyed,

painted.

 

So coast,

let the feelings become a little older,

bolder, embolden the taste

and let your mind

 

slip into space

where much will be needed,

actual space,

for too much had happened today,

 

looking for a place to be.

Matter of fact,

every little thing

had it's own story,

 

poetry to be painted for,

but the encompassing tone

is the gratuity of it all,

the gravity of thanks,

 

given time and again,

and how that can make

heartfelt words

turn empty.

 

A day

full of so many happenings

can dilute

the flavor of each herb;

 

the finite details 

of a singular moment

crowded by 

too many spices.

 

The palate becomes overwhelmed,

tastes come all sides, 

pungent, 

assaulted with bitter flavors,

 

or salty experiences. 

Even the savory, slow

succumbing to sweet memories

can lead to sour smiles.

 

Too strong a concentration

on the subject of flavor,

and you lose the whole picture,

the entire day.

 

Exertion, 

parading down the street,

or a humble pawn in the presence

of greatness,

 

balance is best

to appreciate the meal, if you will.

To appreciate every moment,

and the entire day they build."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A day full of so many flavors can distract your appreciation for the entire day itself.

A Poet Afloat

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Find out

exactly what it is about,

what words flirt around;

being inspired. 

 

Seeing, 

hearing 

a piece of art,

hardrock rhymes

 

that tell what has transpired,

what had rambled on by.

Hard times,

or that feel-good story

 

that is too cliche for news

nowadays,

no love to be found.

Between then and now,

 

after everything that has happened,

still trying to climb a side of a mountain.

Reach up above and find purchase,

pull yourself onto the ledge,

 

overcome that edge.

Inspirational,

overcoming what supposed story

has made times get harder.

 

Determination

denotes what is to be,

or what can be deemed

a possibility. 

 

So is it inspirational,

it being anything, 

just because it had been done

by one who downplays the feat?

 

Nay,

it feels good instead,

the rushing feeling

of creating, being

 

involved in something more than me,

kittens and puppies,

dogs too,

more than you,

 

inspired to make a difference

because I had made made one 

to your day, 

or so you say.

 

As long as what is being inspired

doesn't bring the end

of art,

of love and life,

 

I'll do it every day,

I'll inspire,

unintentionally,

that's the point.

 

I think.

 

Nothing in this world compares,

being lost at sea;

tidal waves won't let me be.

 

So poetry,

a release to me,

inpires others?

I can live with that,

 

be it the truth."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Having written poetry for a little more than a year now I see a lot of comments about how much people can relate to my work, mostly due to how some can read it and feel a sense of vulnerability, or truth. I never try to write a piece to just one person but time and again more people feel that some of my work is almost made out to just them. 

 

I'm okay with that, since I get that comment more than once. Ego on high, I suppose.

Ascendancy

Folder: 
Hand Written
"To think, 
back when I had asked
the exhausted man looking back,
eyes bloodshot, 
 
cheeks lined with scruff,
sweat on brow,
mr. mirror, who are you? 
Why are you here?
 
To think, 
years ago, barely alive,
that five more since then
I'd be sitting in this chair, 
 
typing away like I once did,
amid all the vivid scenes
that replay in my head,
when I could be dead,
 
instead flit the pen,
the flutter it dances across the page,
signing
not my life away,
 
but my name,
in another book,
the fifth,
the poetry that has kept me alive,
 
kept me going,
from the time I wanted to die,
words spinning for no reason
to now,
 
hard to believe 
that perhaps destiny
kept me writing,
and I have succeeded.
 
Not in making it big,
not in making money,
but making art.
Five years apart."
Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's been a while! Please stay tuned for what's next! (Serious, this time!)

The Reign

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"Where so many rush to fall asleep,

I tend to creep,

afraid of the a lack of light, 

what's in store for tonight. 

 

Would you like to know why?

I'm afraid of what's inside,

what I always seem to need,

what sleeps within me.

 

When the darkness falls

and my mind succumbs to sweet slumber,

lumbering in comes the pattering of feet,

clawed, and I can't seem to scream.

 

I try to get out from underneath the covers,

to run away, but I am stayed 

by the sudden jacket, holding arms back,

while at my heels chases the maniac. 

 

It is the ghoul, it's in my room,

and now theres nothing but abyss,

amiss of clothes and shoe and tooth

as I run to only bring closer nothingness.

 

And now I am within reach, looking back

at the black teeth, to tear my wide and tall,

before tripping onto face,

no hands to break the fall. 

 

And looking to what had cause the trip,

innocent children, empty faces,

look into me, through me, and it hurts,

it burns, no clue why they are in my plight.

 

And now taking flight, they chase me too,

I am running to a single point,

straight jacket still applied,

my escape impossible, my voice mute. 

 

Again, so focued to the rear,

I forget about the front, 

looking ahead to see now in front of me

the biggest snake ever slithers on scene. 

 

The snake grows bigger, stopping,

rearing its head, baring its fangs,

it wraps me in it's tail,

and squeezes me tight.

 

I can't stand the grip, crying out,

but no sound comes, 

just the sound of my eyes popping out,

and the sound of the plop.

 

The drop of me, hitting the carpet,

falling onto the floor, blanket wrapped around me,

back in my room, not monsters,

no snake no ghoul.

 

Just the sweat drenched shirt,

the paper-dry throat,

rattled, another night lost

to the internal battle. Nightmares reign."  

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So many have issues falling asleep, though the reasons are as numerous as some of them terrorizing. 

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The Girl And Her Wyrm

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"The Castle was gigantic. 

Expansive, was it's wide thrust,

filled with cracks, crevices and uneven bricks

pock-marked with mortar turning to dust.

 

Inside the deep recess

was a dormant terror,

up in it's highest tower,

a princess lived, none fairer. 

 

But both were locked up,

the furnace inside the gargantuan beast

kept the Castle warm,

the ovens hot, promoting many a feast. 

 

But lest the monster

breaks its shackles!

As once had happened before,

the quest none could tackle.

 

Knight after knight

fell to the flame,

the winged lizard licking tongues

of fire all about, untamed. 

 

Many an arrow was shot

from hunters brave, 

but no purchase for any arrow

was, by the monster hide, gave. 

 

Spear was no better,

having been thrown hard and true,

but not a single mighty heft

would force a metal tip through.

 

Then one day,

the princess who lived above,

just asked, 'give me a chance!',

but her father would allow no tug.

 

So that night,

while the great serpent ravaged the land,

she scaled down her tall tower

with the most daring plan.

 

She crept along the meadow,

in the cold of the moonlit night,

and up the the snoozing beast

she stomped her boot with all her might.

 

The beast sprung up,

startled awake by such a petite thing,

but before he bellowed flame,

she started to sing.

 

Sweetly, softly, 

she sang out her heart,

and through spirit, ripped hers out,

and handed it over, so that they'd never be apart.

 

Since then,

the two remain locked up with no regret.

The land has since healed.

But many don't forget.

 

Of the Girl and her Wyrm,

the star-crossed lovers never meant to be.

And how through love and song

she saved all the eye could ever see."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Mighty verus Meek. I've learned time and again to not underestimate those of small build; their characters are so often bigger than most.

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Kenopsia

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"Almost tiring,

the bump of the shoulders passing by,

the hallways so full of students, mean, 

their intentions unknown to what they vie. 

 

But the Janitor, 

mop handle twisting in wrists, 

cleans the bustling halls, murder

of the sparkling floors committed with fervor.

 

Moreover, the students don't care!

But no matter, the Janitor smiles as he cleans,

leaning on his swab bucket, no flair

for how unfair redoing the swab job is.

 

But now it is after five,

the older gentleman is working his way up and down,

the passageways now empty, 

all the students long gone home. 

 

Quite the opposite scene,

from when the school was full,

a loud and swarming event, specifcally

during the lunch periods. 

 

And during those times? While constantly 

going back and forth, picking up spills

and keeping the floor clean,

he even feels grumpy.

 

But only now at this momement,

a longing, a forlorn feeling wraps itself

over the un-bumped shoulders of the man,

alone, doing his job.

 

The sudden wish the students were there,

to fill the empty space he cleans, 

the abandoned place to fill up soon,

but not a moment too late, he steams.

 

All the moments that he's spent,

breaking up a fight between two boys,

frankly taking both collars in each hand

and talking to them sharply, they listened.

 

The time he talked to the crying girl,

leaning on the mop handle, wise counsel

spewed at a comforting rate to the young one

who had her first broken heart. 

 

Or the time he tutored the troubled youth,

not in math or english but in life,

the boy sticking around while he cleaned. 

alone, his only brother having been knifed. 

 

Every smile he evoked,

with silly, word-play jokes,

every time he snapped at young students passing by, 

keeping the rowdy in line. 

 

The old man now smiled himself,

finishing up the entire school,

looking forward to the bustle to come,

the lockers that will slam, voices, loud.

 

The end of this feeling, eerie,

sudden, and no more farther then

when he will grumble, with a slight smile,

of the busy hallways where he will be bumped again."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A imagined scene of an old man janitor that we may or may not all remember or think back to.

On Faithfulness

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Don't get so frustrated, 

it's only a book, 

or a few words

that you threw,

 

hoping they might stick.

Sound familiar?

Surreal,

especially if you've stuck with it.

 

Life can be funny like that,

in fact, it is,

that the same things

seem to alwaus happen

 

to people who may wish

it wasn't the case;

assuming it's negative.

Once you give it a second

 

to process,

it's wild to think

the same exact advice

you give

 

is the opposite

of how you live

your own life.

Some advice...

 

Twice now I've had to step in.

To stop the golden desires

of sundrops on skin,

forbidden,

 

when there has already been seeds sown,

a tree has been growing,

and now there's doubt,

the axe lays on its side

 

nearby. Nearly every time,

it can hurt to cry,

but not if infidelity

is the reason why. At least,

 

let's hope 

that's not the case.

I'd hate to see the fallout,

it'd be all over the place."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just some thoughts on my ever-increasing number of friends who have yet to reach relationship goals...