Monthly Archives: April 2012

Poetry: Crown of Leaves


My heart is like an old, oak tree,
Experienced, with broken-in skin,
It remains still until it’s moved,
by a force that moves within.

Made flexible to endure seasons,
The branches praise the sky,
Uselessly bound to nature,
Hopelessly living to die.

Colors meant and bred to distract you,
With every burst of natural decline,
And it hurts me to consider,
You won’t notice my heart’s resign.

For this tree lives not to see a new year,
Nature only grants so many reprieves,
My heart can endure no longer, I fear,
In lieu, I left you, my crown of leaves.

Poetry: And You and Me and the Moon


And you,
The fist of Polaris,
A great, blazing star,
In alignment to my axis
Of rotation, from me,
You look so far.

And me,
A martyr marked for death,
A poorly written story,
Refusing to renounce breath
For anything less
Than glory.

I am an eager witness for your soul,
When you’ll pass towards me the bowl,
Such sacrifice for divinest,
Much madness at its finest,

But the inevitable drew near,
And paralysis struck fear,
So we sought like birds to quell
All manners and gestures of farewell,

And we make a fuss
In sight of such
A modest moon
Night catches us,
Get well soon.

Poetry: All The Way Through


You’re a fire within
a body of containment,
Together we make sin
and reckless entertainment,

You first loved me when I was bubbly,
personable and true,
But I never said I was lovely
all the way through.

At my best, I use poetry to turn
my affections into song
But my careless words often burn
through you like napalm.

I know I don’t deserve¬† you,
Even more so than the rest,
But if you’ll stay, I’ll promise to
Learn to love you best.

And maybe we can find someone to fix this
Faulty heart in my chest,
Maybe I’ll learn to get better at this,
Maybe we’ll move out West.

 

 

The Living Throne


If you were to construct a throne in my heart,
You would find no rivals,
You are the inspiration for my art,
Every beat missed, you are liable.

You are my sustaining anchor,
You allow me to enjoy life,
You are everything I am thankful for,
You are the shelter from all of my strife.

Control is an illusion I surrender to you;
I find my joy in your sovereignty,
With every road I came to,
You were all I could see.

Your words evoke an excellence in me,
All my love for you comes with ease.

Poetry (sort of): Loss/Contempt. (Aye, Dream. West, Fall in.)


My fresh roots were pulled up,
and I was forced to look upon a green that stretched towards eternity.
The view, overwhelmed by the fresh scent of betrayal,
and I could not yet appreciate another’s harmony.

HOW COULD YOU FORSAKE ME?
We were so good together, dear.
You gave, and you gave, and I spent it well,
Oh man, did I spend it all.

I never knew your return was not promised in your departure,
Or I would’ve never allowed you to leave.
Now I am left like a phone without its charger,
Like a widow unable to grieve.

This is the mid-life crisis of a mind, abused over years of carelessness.
I washed my hands of the filth in twenty-one years of bad decisions,
only to be cut down, trimmed back by a hairdresser
with a clumsy grip on the blade.

She is unaware of what is alive, still good and fruitful,
and with swift pulls, she yanks out, unknowingly,
the heartbeats of my every song, leaves in its absence,
the promise of lifetimes spent dying after a word.

And a fierce war was hedged against ennui,
and in its aftermath lies the inability to grasp from insanity-
a wholesome word, tasteful to the tongue, rich in its melody,
Trying and difficult, a rebel flowing freely.

The halls of the mind are empty, void and decadent.
The only thing that remains, God, spare me,
is the haunting syllables of cellar door,
The echoes of beauty beckoning, “more.”

But the dream festers on inside me, barely alive,
Like a parasite feeding on the brain of a defeated conqueror.
All the while, looking on and out from the darkness to see the adversary- flourishing!

Squeezing, tightening, the flesh pulls together at the top of the mask,
Burrowing down in self-loathing, wallowing in defeat,
Condemned by the stark pain of loss, grief
And responsibility.

I WAS ONCE MORE THAN A MEMORY,
My sanity screams,
But no one believes,
And why should they?

I’m just trying, and I’m just dying here.
Gift of God, please.
Return to me.

Explanation: I normally wouldn’t do this, but I suppose I’d rather not have someone say it’s about a lover breaking up with me again.
I personify my ability to write and my muses as lovers that have been in bed with everyone but me. It’s also about my slow-brewing resentment towards more consistent, more brilliant writers, one man in particular who is the main recipient of my envy.

Poetry: Untitled


The cure concocted for every failing hope
is a painted needle meant for a pale white host,
It’s here where the tantalizing games begin,
the drug-addled words found with burbon and gin.

And the reverberating imaginations resound,
giving way to leaps and bounds
of nightmares and myriad delusions,
inspired by stark and naked conclusions.

Ideas of grandeur show forth no meekness
In revealing the immortality of my mind-
it remains juxtaposed to the weakness,
shyly shown in every cough and sigh.

Cut, cut me down, Jehovah,
With piercing words of truth,
Like the tree you planted in Eden,
Like the gods believed by Ruth.

Prose: The Balancing Act.


Every day I am faced with the same conflict in writing; To be personable and to praise G-d. The tension resides in the fact that I write both to write and be read. One challenge of writing about the spiritual side of Christianity (I don’t associate with the religious side, whatever that means) is you have to bring near-incomprehensible ideas into words. The product of this, as I’ve seen, is often sounding pompous, self-esteemed and “holier than thou.” Most writers, if not all, have a desired and geared towards audience, picked and chosen for them based on their subject field of writing. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Richard Dawkins, Anne Coulter. When you hear these names, you undoubtedly associate them with a genre of reading material. Problem with me is, I don’t want to be associated with the religion section of the bookstore. Even I don’t relate with most Christian writers and almost none of my favorite books are based on theology. I can’t ever imagine myself writing how-to’s for Christianity. The whole idea sounds absurd and degrading. On the other side of things, I can’t leave G-d out. I wish I could, believe me, I do. But He is ingrained in every fiber of my being. To not praise Him with the things I am most passionate about is to deny, essentially, the very essence of who I am, or who He has made me. When you love someone, you share your whole life with them, not just the parts that are convenient to share.

So, every day it seems, with my back to my bedroom window and my hands hovering in the air over the keyboard, patiently waiting for the words to come, I sit there and wonder how I might forge a connection between the spiritual concepts of G-d and more central, innate concepts. I can’t count the days I’ve been frustrated by the burden of holding both sides of myself in each hand, wishing I could find a way to grasp all of the madness in one giant gonzo fist.

Yesterday afternoon, I was at a friend’s house, watching my favorite Hunter S. Thompson documentary and pondering this idea when a spurt of inspiration came to me. I hopped up from the couch, making erratic hand motions until my fingers found a pen and paper. I wrote for two hours. I wrote until the thoughts weren’t even connected anymore. I wrote until every angle of the original idea had been exhausted. I wrote until the sentences became scribbles I couldn’t be sure were real words anymore. I wrote until my wrist hurt, and then I wrote until it felt like it might have some internal bleeding. I wrote until the only thing that made sense to me anymore was the pen in my hand.

Today, I looked at what I had. It was trash, absolute trash. I hadn’t managed to put my thoughts down effectively, the gap between my brain and my hand had been far too large and elusive. I couldn’t believe the waste it had been. I couldn’t believe the disillusionment I had felt in the process. I let myself down, and there is no greater defeat than that. I post this as a memorial to the idea that I will ever be able to make this connection for myself or for other people. I will simply have to continue on in this limbo, this erratic balancing act of praising G-d whilst simultaneously entertaining the many other facets of existence through every word that proceeds forth into the vast black hole dubbed the internet through my highly incompetent, yet wonderfully made fingertips.

The only peace I find is in prayer and in music. Thank the GRACIOUS LORD ALMIGHTY for music. I leave you with a wonderful Elton John song, originally wrote about and dedicated to Marilyn Monroe, but worldly famous for the re-make he produced for Princess Diana’s funeral… “Candle in the Wind.” For any writers out there, I hope this song inspires you as much as it has inspired the writing of both Hunter S. Thompson and I.

(By the way, that was not a comparison of quality. Just a random fact. I am not simple-minded enough to think any single paragraph I write, ever, might be placed anywhere near the calibur of mere phrases by H.S.T.)