Tuesday, March 24, 2009

One In a Field of Follies and the Girl Who Watched From a Nearby Tree

There he sits in his chair, the world on his shoulders. Time may slowly pass, hour by hour, but his mind races in overtime, stopping for no distraction. He rubs his sleepy face into his hands, only to resurface and reveal a glassy-eyed stare...two deep pools of endless emerald sea grass. She would think they look like sea grass. His gaze at the computer screen shows no extreme interest in what tries so hard to keep his attention, but his thoughtfulness radiates from every pore. "What controls the inner workings of his mind?" the girl wonders and watches on, encaptured by his inner depth. There's a longing, a missing piece to who he is- a mystery never decoded, never pursued. The girl suddenly had the deepest urge to uncover the mystery of the boy...to see behind the troubles that trespass his mind, the padlock to his gated soul. To her it seemed his dark was the way and his light the place, but then who is it to figure the workings of one undiscovered?

Monday, March 31, 2008

My Sea

I wish that I could just give myself away, away into a dream, somewhere that would flow like a stream without that dreaded waterfall there to greedily swallow me whole, my soul. Don't hold back- just spill it out onto the floor, all the shards of me for everyone to see. A million asymmetrical pieces of my soul there for the taking. Look closely, magnify I in such small detail, see into the caverns I have hidden. Abandoned senses, I free fall into this oblivion of numbness where time and feeling and judgement are at bay and remain restrained from intervention with nakedness. A naked connectedness. It's alright. It's just me you see. There I go floating through infinity. 

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Sylvia Plath- Polly's Tree

A dream tree, Polly's tree;
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig
ending in a thin-paned
leaf unlike any
other on it
or in a ghost flower
flat as paper and
of a color
vaporish as frost-breath,
more finical than
any silk fan
the Chinese ladies use
to stir robin's egg
air. The silver-
haired seed of the milkweed
comes to roost there, frail
as the halo
rayed round a candle flame,
a will-o-wisp
nimbus, or puff
of cloud-stuff, tipping her
queer candelabrum.
Palely lit by 
snuff-ruffed dandelions,
white daisy wheels and 
a tiger faced
pansy, it glows. O it's
no family tree,
Polly's tree, nor 
a tree of heaven, though
it marry quartz-flake,
feather and rose.
It sprang from her pillow
whole as a cobweb
ribbed like a hand,
a dream tree. Polly's tree
wears a valentine 
arc of her tear-pearled
bleeding hearts on its sleeve
and crowning it, one
blue larkspur star.


here. golden rays shooting down
ever so slightly kissing my body
warming my fingertips
trickling down through my veins
and residing in my core.
a whisper breeze tangles itself
within my wild mane
gently lulling me back and forth, back and forth
to the music of my rustling body.
wetness seeps up and through the ground's surface
to moisten my feet.
it shoots through me 
refreshing my soul, strengthening my year.
iam here! i am alive!
the whole world is changing, moving around me
the earth shifts, time passes
people walk, cars speed
but here i will remain, unchanged 
beneath the light, grounded in earth.
for some life passes
others life's stuck
and still others, "what is life?"
but this is my life
it's here! i'm here!
with my arms outstretched 
entangled within one another
and my fingertips stretching 
to an infinite sky, unending light
my help, i daily recieve
each moment, each breath
each heart skip and
every reason to be alive.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

My Life Is...

an open book, pages unwritten, the fresh scent of bound paper...waiting to be filled, overflowed with fluid marking...waiting for unchartered land, beyond the expectation of others...weathered cover from the handlings of others, the battle scars of a journey...being filled, filled, filled with words, some familiar, some unknown, the world being recorded from one eye, one ear, one breath...life! being lived! being touched, grasped, kissed...the cosmos in agreement, the molecules in which our very existence persists, our very minds spin, our very hearts beat...the universe needs felt all over...dirty fingerprints covering the surface, explored, understood, wondered, swallowed, saved, marveled, taken in...a flower, petals tucked in, safe, protected, others fallen, trampled, weathered...the wonder of life...but the pages are colored, are smeared with watercolors... words run, run, run down off the page... don't need definition of beat... only that which colors, floats, runs away... that which reached down, creates... here, now, with touching and feeling and breathing in...an infinite and finite reaching down... to this earth, this very earth... to this life, an open book.