Morning Dew – frozen from the exiting darkness
The sun appearing beyond dense flat clouds
Sublimation expedites its departure from the bent limbs
Now breathing the particles that recently soaked the tops of my shoes
Every inch the sun grows on the clouds ameliorates my day, my attitude
I still ponder how I can be like the dew and skip steps in the process
Skip to the end without cutting anyone off
The process of tomorrow, and the day after that
Nature knows more about that than I.
ameliorate \uh-MEEL-yuh-rayt\, transitive verb:
1. To make better; to improve.
intransitive verb:
1. To grow better.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Ballad In Plain D - Bob Dylan
I once loved a girl, her skin it was bronze.
With the innocence of a lamb, she was gentle like a fawn.
I courted her proudly but now she is gone,
Gone as the season she’s taken.
Through young summer’s breeze, I stole her away
From her mother and sister, though close did they stay.
Each one of them suffering from the failures of their day.
With strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us.
Of the two sisters, I loved the young.
With sensitive instincts, she was the creative one.
The constant scapegoat, she was easily undone.
By the jealousy of others around her.
For her parasite sister, I had no respect,
Bound by her boredom, her pride to protect.
Countless visions of the other she’d reflect
As a crutch for her scenes and her society.
Myself, for what I did, I cannot be excused,
The changes I was going through can’t even be used,
For the lies that I told her in hopes not to lose
The could-be dream-lover of my lifetime.
With unknown consciousness, I possessed in my grip
A magnificent mantelpiece, though its heart being chipped,
Noticing not that I’d already slipped
To a sin of love’s false security.
From silhouetted anger to manufactured peace,
Answers of emptiness, voice vacancies,
Till the tombstones of damage read me no questions but, “Please,
What’s wrong and what’s exactly the matter?”
And so it did happen like it could have been foreseen,
The timeless explosion of fantasy’s dream.
At the peak of the night, the king and the queen
Tumbled all down into pieces.
“The tragic figure!” her sister did shout,
“Leave her alone, God damn you, get out!”
And I in my armor, turning about
And nailing her to the ruins of her pettiness.
Beneath a bare light bulb the plaster did pound
Her sister and I in a screaming battleground.
And she in between, the victim of sound,
Soon shattered as a child ‘neath her shadows.
All is gone, all is gone, admit it, take flight.
I gagged twice, doubled, tears blinding my sight.
My mind it was mangled, I ran into the night
Leaving all of love’s ashes behind me.
The wind knocks my window, the room it is wet.
The words to say I’m sorry, I haven’t found yet.
I think of her often and hope whoever she’s met
Will be fully aware of how precious she is.
Ah, my friends from the prison, they ask unto me,
”How good, how good does it feel to be free?”
And I answer them most mysteriously,
”Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?”
With the innocence of a lamb, she was gentle like a fawn.
I courted her proudly but now she is gone,
Gone as the season she’s taken.
Through young summer’s breeze, I stole her away
From her mother and sister, though close did they stay.
Each one of them suffering from the failures of their day.
With strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us.
Of the two sisters, I loved the young.
With sensitive instincts, she was the creative one.
The constant scapegoat, she was easily undone.
By the jealousy of others around her.
For her parasite sister, I had no respect,
Bound by her boredom, her pride to protect.
Countless visions of the other she’d reflect
As a crutch for her scenes and her society.
Myself, for what I did, I cannot be excused,
The changes I was going through can’t even be used,
For the lies that I told her in hopes not to lose
The could-be dream-lover of my lifetime.
With unknown consciousness, I possessed in my grip
A magnificent mantelpiece, though its heart being chipped,
Noticing not that I’d already slipped
To a sin of love’s false security.
From silhouetted anger to manufactured peace,
Answers of emptiness, voice vacancies,
Till the tombstones of damage read me no questions but, “Please,
What’s wrong and what’s exactly the matter?”
And so it did happen like it could have been foreseen,
The timeless explosion of fantasy’s dream.
At the peak of the night, the king and the queen
Tumbled all down into pieces.
“The tragic figure!” her sister did shout,
“Leave her alone, God damn you, get out!”
And I in my armor, turning about
And nailing her to the ruins of her pettiness.
Beneath a bare light bulb the plaster did pound
Her sister and I in a screaming battleground.
And she in between, the victim of sound,
Soon shattered as a child ‘neath her shadows.
All is gone, all is gone, admit it, take flight.
I gagged twice, doubled, tears blinding my sight.
My mind it was mangled, I ran into the night
Leaving all of love’s ashes behind me.
The wind knocks my window, the room it is wet.
The words to say I’m sorry, I haven’t found yet.
I think of her often and hope whoever she’s met
Will be fully aware of how precious she is.
Ah, my friends from the prison, they ask unto me,
”How good, how good does it feel to be free?”
And I answer them most mysteriously,
”Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?”
Solitude 11/5/2007
Loneliness creeps in like chilled wind past an old window
It tastes of stale crackers, familiar, but undesired
Thoughts of your life, your decisions can’t leave the room
The very windows letting in the chill keep your thoughts prisoner
Their glass, wavy from age, reflects your situation warped like a circus mirror
Opening them would blast you with frigid air,
Keeping them shut may drive you insane….
The choices of your life come back like an annoying neighbor
Knocking at your door at the most inopportune times
The fun you had, the responsibilities you avoided, the phobias you created
Now turn your Saturday night from “the weekend” to an internal war of thoughts
Drawn out slowly, keeping the residents in constant fear
A war that occurs inside your mind, but seems to consume your body.
Bombs and grenades explode inside whether they hit or miss the target
An attack on the enemy is one in the same with an attack on the good guys
The room becomes ever more cold, the windows start to whine
The noise and the cold are tag-teaming you
Trying to plug the cracks is futile
Hypothermia may kill you before the sound makes you go mad
Freezing to death seems like a good analogy for the pain of lost love
A slow descent from mild discomfort to suffocating anguish
Small bits of it are annoying, but its consistency will kill you
The consistency of the loss, of the mental punishment is what is killing me
The lack of improvement of the patient, no signs of the willpower needed to fight
The sword uses both sides to cut, the double edge
You can leave the house for a few hours when a friend calls
Or you have to work, but you have no where to go but home
the wind never warms, nor the whine subsides
it looks nice outside, but the windows hold only hardship
The more you try to ignore it the louder and colder it becomes
The more clothes you put on, the heavier you feel
Naked on the floor you are broken
You have nothing to give, nothing to remove
The base of a being is found in pain and suffering
From here there is only up, but it is so hard to see anything but down
The floor can relate to you, the ceiling is not even in reach of your wildest dreams
Alone you wait to die, or be saved
By yourself.
It tastes of stale crackers, familiar, but undesired
Thoughts of your life, your decisions can’t leave the room
The very windows letting in the chill keep your thoughts prisoner
Their glass, wavy from age, reflects your situation warped like a circus mirror
Opening them would blast you with frigid air,
Keeping them shut may drive you insane….
The choices of your life come back like an annoying neighbor
Knocking at your door at the most inopportune times
The fun you had, the responsibilities you avoided, the phobias you created
Now turn your Saturday night from “the weekend” to an internal war of thoughts
Drawn out slowly, keeping the residents in constant fear
A war that occurs inside your mind, but seems to consume your body.
Bombs and grenades explode inside whether they hit or miss the target
An attack on the enemy is one in the same with an attack on the good guys
The room becomes ever more cold, the windows start to whine
The noise and the cold are tag-teaming you
Trying to plug the cracks is futile
Hypothermia may kill you before the sound makes you go mad
Freezing to death seems like a good analogy for the pain of lost love
A slow descent from mild discomfort to suffocating anguish
Small bits of it are annoying, but its consistency will kill you
The consistency of the loss, of the mental punishment is what is killing me
The lack of improvement of the patient, no signs of the willpower needed to fight
The sword uses both sides to cut, the double edge
You can leave the house for a few hours when a friend calls
Or you have to work, but you have no where to go but home
the wind never warms, nor the whine subsides
it looks nice outside, but the windows hold only hardship
The more you try to ignore it the louder and colder it becomes
The more clothes you put on, the heavier you feel
Naked on the floor you are broken
You have nothing to give, nothing to remove
The base of a being is found in pain and suffering
From here there is only up, but it is so hard to see anything but down
The floor can relate to you, the ceiling is not even in reach of your wildest dreams
Alone you wait to die, or be saved
By yourself.
Resistance 11/07/2007
Fealty to self
Snow flakes rest on green grass blades;
Ones awakening
fealty \FEE-uhl-tee\, noun:
1. Fidelity to one's lord; the feudal obligation by which the tenant or vassal was bound to be faithful to his lord.
2. The oath by which this obligation was assumed.
3. Fidelity; allegiance; faithfulness.
REM denied 11/06/2007
I had always worried,
That if I let her go
She’d come and get me in my sleep
Unlike a large ball slowly rolling at me,
My most recognizable bete noire,
A representation of inescapable doom.
Her appearance in my dreams was much worse.
Her form was not scary or disturbing,
Nor were her actions fear inducing
Actually, quite the opposite.
It was the delayed realization…..
The realization that her presence forced upon me
The realization that she would disappear at dawn
This was the nightmare
The glimpse of what might have been
Followed by the cold wisp of the truth
Shutting my eyes at night, knowing what is likely to come.
Being unsure of which was more painful
The false pleasure of dreams,
Or the harsh reality of morning.
Bete noire \bet-NWAHR\, noun:
Something or someone particularly detested or avoided; a bugbear.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Moving on 10/15/2007
The painting is not done
Knowing when to stop,
The sign of a good artist
The struggle of the widow-
The pain and thought prove your love
But only to you
Realize you have been lost-
Lost in your sorrow
Find yourself
She knows.
Your days are precious
Continue your painting.
Knowing when to stop,
The sign of a good artist
The struggle of the widow-
The pain and thought prove your love
But only to you
Realize you have been lost-
Lost in your sorrow
Find yourself
She knows.
Your days are precious
Continue your painting.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
St. Peters Denial 10/10/07
Waking up on your death bed
tubes in your arm
sensors on your chest
no clue how you got there
grasping for the recent past
seeing feet at the end of the bed
peeking out from tustled blankets
knowing they are yours, but also knowing they don't look like yours
you can move them, but they still look fake
eyes sweeping the empty room, hearing nothing
eyes stop on the phone, blank gaze, mental pause
there is a defined moment in timee when you realize who that call would go to
silence broken by the audible beep of your heart rate rising
trying to cope with that reality
if you could reach the phone, or get up, you would call her first
trying to cope with that reality
dying would have been painless,
onlookers would have probably thought otherwise
waking up is going to turn out to be more difficult than the alternative.
tubes in your arm
sensors on your chest
no clue how you got there
grasping for the recent past
seeing feet at the end of the bed
peeking out from tustled blankets
knowing they are yours, but also knowing they don't look like yours
you can move them, but they still look fake
eyes sweeping the empty room, hearing nothing
eyes stop on the phone, blank gaze, mental pause
there is a defined moment in timee when you realize who that call would go to
silence broken by the audible beep of your heart rate rising
trying to cope with that reality
if you could reach the phone, or get up, you would call her first
trying to cope with that reality
dying would have been painless,
onlookers would have probably thought otherwise
waking up is going to turn out to be more difficult than the alternative.
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