What is poetry to me? Poetry is the ability to capture the moment in words. To provide a description so strong you can taste it, feel it, and your emotions react as such. The power of imagery is the mace of Poetry and she wields it with the strength of the writer. I believe poetry can be written by anyone. The simplest of words placed with the care of a Japanese stone garden can create remarkable art. The influence of the poem is measured by a full spectrum of attributes and it is thus very hard to compare and contrast one poem to another. It is like comparing art, for who can truly say what the artist intended but that person themselves.
My attraction to poetry is centered on the fact that a poem is written for me first. If I understand the lines and the meaning behind them that is all that matters. Your enjoyment is secondary. But if I succeed in my goal I should be able to take you places with me. Every time I write a poem I slit my proverbial wrist and pour my soul onto the page in hopes that a single feeling is felt. Whatever feeling that might be.
It matters not your surroundings you can hear her voice. It must be a woman, a man never sounded so sweet. She whispers even as she calls whatever sweet lullaby it is that she sings.
You can hear it with clarity in the mountains, where music’s purity can be witnessed unhindered. The song of the breeze can still be caught between man made stone mountains, but it may take the gift of the blind to hear it.
In my backyard there is a large garden bordered by a fence that probably soon needs to be repaired. A few trees line the fence and together they help create a barrier from the zooming sounds of human automobiles that vibrate from the street beyond. It is an amusing balance between a peaceful calm and the desperate pull of society’s daily life. Even now I can hear some birds chattering in idle curiosity about it.
Have you taken a moment to hear the breeze? Maybe it was that perfect time when the wind was busy with an agenda, the people were scarce around you, and you had the chance to breathe alone… To shatter the single care or thought trying to develop and instead to hear the breeze and listen to her wisdom.
Jealousy is an ugly emotion. It is unpredictable and many times lacks rational. A rich kid can be jealous of a poor kid’s possession and that is just an elementary example. Humans for the most part experience flashes of jealousy that come and go like a tornado. They generally dissolve like an ice cube over time, but on those rare occasions where the beast morphs into a monster… those are never good times. Never a sound decision was made during this period in a person’s life, because your life is no longer about you. It is about somebody else. Some individual, whether related or not, is eating your life because you are allowing it. I hate people eating my food, our forks joust like knights on a field of battle littered with the corpses of fallen vegetables and perfectly cooked meats… That was random.
What is it that flies the moon lit sky. I see it darting in between branches as quick as a blink. It pauses for a moment, graceful wings reflecting shards of misguided light. In that instance I feel it look at me. A connection is made, a promise given, a lie is said. And then like a flash of memory it is gone, barely kissing a twig as it clips the air in flight.
I stand for a moment and inhale the moment.
Shed not a tear for me world when I die. For I swear it will be the most amusing joke ever. So humorous will that event be that your face will be wet from the tears of laughter from above. A thunderous applause at an ending deserved? And what actor would not revel in the moment of glory that such a spectacle would have to present. I would not that is for sure, so take not my eden world and allow me my eve. When I die it will be to the sound of laughter and applause. What other ending would be more fitting?
We must turn our thoughts to common course and find similar path to dealing with enemies. Quietly may we slumber in the night, yet with the coming day problems troop in upon fresh feet. Where may respite be found from the continuous torrent of the world’s problems and issues? Our voices rise in anger, a mob’s demeanor is found quickly, as singular cause is raised upon banner’s head. And as we march forth, resolve strengthened by a rise in numbers, we take comfort in knowing we are not alone. The steady stamp of feet in time with our own forges a bond not found within familial ties. Unity may not have such lofty words as “nation and country” to aid it, but rather has been fastened with the strength found in the word “humanity.” Let those that share not our same ideals of goodness and righteousness fall from the light and embrace their own path. For surely such a path might lead nowhere else but towards the darkened abyss. And as they scream their never-ending screams of agony and regret, we shall smile and reflect upon the justice done for those three above.
I watch over them at night. The sleeping and the still awake. They are all equally oblivious to my presence. Do they walk with their heads down to ignore the rain, or perhaps because they feel the weight of my eyes upon them.
I could stop a heart with a stretch of a finger. The finality of an insignificant motion… how sweet is the realization of death. The bitterness that comes from knowing I carry such power, and yet I do not turn away from it. I embrace the moment.
I am their God. They know me even if they do not know my name. I am a sound, a thought, a prayer. To contain my essence in a word is a disservice to my own creation.
And still below the ants toil at their daily labor. They are as singular in their world as I am in my thoughts about them. I marvel at their life.
A thought not written is an ideal possibly wasted.
I find myself coasting lately and I dislike it. The middle lane is for coasting, the right lane is for the slow pokes, and the left lane is obviously the fast lane. This is the lane where the speeders dwell, the ones that know where they are headed in life. They zip past those in the other two lanes and normally don’t pay much notice to those that live life at a slower pace.
Growing up I was constantly told to “slow down and enjoy the moment.” This was always hard for someone with a compulsory personality because there is always something driving us on towards the next step, the next process needed to accomplish some future goal. It can be a satisfying and often frustrating life to live, always chasing the next dream. You end up feeling a bit lost and overwhelmed some days as you stare ahead at the shining light that is your guidance and always seems to be bobbing out of reach. You become so focused upon that singular point that you miss the scenery that passes by you on either side.
A normal human being is constantly changing lanes according to the varying pace of everyday life. Sane people do not live with the pedal to the metal every day with no rest. There must be a period of recuperation and perhaps even reflection on accomplishment. That is an important building block in not just living, but also growing as a human being. How do we grow as an individual if we never take the time to consider what we have learned that day?
I live most of my life in the fast lane. I know where I want to be, what I need to be doing, and what I should be doing next. I rarely put things off and I dislike falling behind on my mental lists. I set a hard pace for myself in terms of goals and achievement, because I have come to realize no one else in life is ever going to push me as hard as I push myself. I recently had a conversation with my wife in which I reflected on how I don’t keep friends very long. There is a definite oddity in a personality that doesn’t require validation or companionship from other mortals. I suppose that makes me odd. The problem with a personality such as mine is that I truly believe that there is nothing worthwhile that most people can teach me.
This is not to say that I consider myself a genius, I have repeatedly said I am not one. I also fail continuously at proper grammar and punctuation, so there will never be a MacArthur Fellowship in my mailbox. What I do have is a proud personality and enough marbles in my head to form an ego that won’t fit the package god gave me. I also have heard enough stupidity from humans in my life that I have an all-around low opinion of society in general.
So what do low views of humanity and changing lanes have to do with each other? I have been pondering some things this weekend and I am pretty close to a decision.
A written word encased in a paper tomb is worth a lifetime of tears. What is one to do when the object of your desire changes form with the setting of the sun. -OM
Can I write something that makes you feel emotion? Do you see what I see now? Have we shared a breath of air or suffered the sting from the same pain?
Our hearts beat as one. They share the same rhythm with the rest of the world. Close your eyes and listen to them. Their steady, constant beat awakens the night so that it lives. I feel them joining me as I stand on my deck.
I feel you.
I seem to walk on a middle path between being alert and being asleep most days. Granted much of that has to do with my graveyard shift, but I also make decisions that seem to keep my feet walking that same line. It isn’t a bad life, I catch up on sleep for the most part during the weekend and I am alert around the kids most of the time. Being caught between states of awareness can have its downfalls. Retention of memory can certainly suffer when I am overly exhausted, but I still don’t battle too much with this side-effect as I use memory exercises daily to combat that.
I catch myself feeling guilt sometimes for one key reason. The internal struggle over whether or not I am always in the moment fully. I wonder if I am consciously appreciating each moment with my daughters and wife because of my mental imbalance. This is referring to the mental state I am in due to being tired or a general “hangover” feeling from the life habits in which I engage. I berate myself when I dwell on these internal struggles for too long because they are counterproductive. The bottom line is that I am here for my kids and I am working hard each day to provide a good life for them. That is all one may can hope to do, and can really ever do in life. Accepting this fact is harder on some days than others.
He says what he thinks and writes his thoughts without fear. He glances up from his desk and notices similar writing stations all around his. Desks of every fashion with busy individuals hard at work can be seen as far as the eye can see. It is an amazing image.
He picks up his pen once more, but then he notices a box of colored pencils on his desk. Upon inspection it seems everyone has colored pencils as well. What are they coloring? He wonders as he begins to write again, but now he is distracted and frustrated. Finally he gets up to go see what he is missing.
As he walks in between the countless rows of desks he beholds a wonder. He watches as the writers, nameless beings, begin to color their words. But it is not the words that they are coloring, it is in fact their own opinions that they are fashioning. It is a miraculous occurrence happening in front of his eyes. He cannot break his vision apart from what he now beholds because it feels as if a gift or an answer is being given to him. And yet he struggles to grasp it. It is maddening, as if an answer is on the tip of his tongue waiting to be spoken… and then vanishes.
He scurries to his desk, passion enflamed, and is enthused to share his own opinions. And as he sits down at his desk to color the world he opens his box of colored pencils and dumps them onto his desk. They are all the same color… gray. The writer cries.
Shatter me with your conviction and cause me to falter from flying banner. Impress upon me the truth behind your words even if I consider them a lie. For what is worth saying, writing, or doing if we don’t care?
Every week I consider stopping and every week I end up trying a little harder. It is what we do now. Only one life.
And yet I am tired. One more beer, finally work is done.
“You should look for miracles, not try to create them.” I have found humans are often wrong so at some point in life I decided to try and create miracles… not look for them. Walking on water has been unsuccessful, but I am making great strides in turning water into wine.
“Better late than never!” Uh… actually how about no. How about “better on time than late” asshole! I swear “being on time” is a lost art and somewhere along the way kids stopped learning the importance. I absolutely hate being late and it wasn’t only because in the military “if you are on time you are late.” My parents always had us ready early and we learned that behavior from them… imagine that. You mean if a parent teaches their kid something they learn it? Unreal. Get out.
“I knew someone once.” This means you are about to tell me a secondhand story that is not about you or really anyone important. You simply feel the need to talk OR it is really funny. It had better be hilarious. I am listening…
“Just any old thing.” People that say this are almost always the most picky humans in the world and when you get “that any old thing” wrong, your ass is grass.
“They are book smart.” We are basically saying you are intelligent, can read and write, but that you might not have the most common sense known to man. In fact you might be a danger to those around you.
*When you use “what not” or “exactly” as a period. I want to hit you with a shoe like an Asian politician.
“It is the best show ever.” I swear everyone has a “best show ever” and I have learned to just pick my own.
Note: I’ll just use some of my pics from the trip for random posts. They won’t really be related…
- You order the Sun to stop.
- You give your husband lists of chores greater than the number one.
- People keep asking you if something is bothering you or what is wrong.
- People physically droop when you begin to speak at work.
- You love “parties” because you get to control everyone… Everyone! Like puppets!
- You tried to fire your own boss.
- You try to order ants around. Ants are highly organized creatures, they don’t need your input.
- Instead of leaving Santa Claus a “Wish List” you left him a list of “Improvements for Next Year.”
- You order snowmen to melt faster.
- Your dog actually does chores too.
Is there a difference between “bullying” and “normal adolescent teasing?” Are we becoming too sensitive as a society and now labeling everything as bullying?
Do you believe there is life on other planets?
Could I write the formation of a tear in your eye? Causing such emotion that each of my words seems to ravage your soul. My pen becomes a microphone to your heart and the connection that is created beats with similar rhythm. We sway together with the words and realize the meaning within.
Could I pen a scene for your coming dreams? Taking away your freedom of thought and inserting my own imagination. Would you step without fear into my world? Or close your eyes in despair against the coming darkness.
Could I but write something worth remembering. Entombing the words forever upon the surface of a thought. I desperately seek the meaning by the last line and hope that I have done justice to the passing of a day.
- You weren’t the loudest to laugh at the boss’s bad jokes.
- You actually understood the concept of a Christmas party with an “open bar” to mean all rules were off. How were you to know you could offend so many people in one night?
- You suck at golf.
- You still haven’t figured out what this “in group” is and why everyone that seems to get promoted is part of it.
- Your boss is a Patriots fan and you love Peyton Manning.
- You smell funny.
- You have one of “those” last names. We are not having a Vice President named Mr. Butts around here, sorry.
- You have twenty kids. I don’t think they allow people with that many kids to make it above team lead actually.
- You are a walking lawsuit. Yes, you know what I mean.
- You are a seriously oppressed Korean that the world seems to hate and that can’t seem to buy a chance with a bucket of quarters. Help me help you world!
If you could travel back in time and live what period would you choose and why?
What religion are you?
- On my fourth Christmas I did not get the Super Soaker 2000.
- On my fifth Christmas my brother did not turn into a donkey.
- On my sixth Christmas no magic beans arrived. I am pretty sure one single bean would have worked Santa.
- On my seventh Christmas I saw him drinking beer in an alley. He did not look very Santa like.
- On my eighth Christmas, the last year I “believed,” I was given a set of Encyclopedias. What kind of Santa Claus would do that to a child?
- The sixth “Christmas” I finally figured out if you celebrate all the holidays… you keep getting presents.
I see your eyes still, even though parted we have been. They look back at me while bouncing against ice cubes, caught in the turbulence of the alcohol of my choice. Choices, they line before me like pawns. Only these pawns do not look so small while standing on the chessboard of life. Who the hell upgraded them to badass knights? Is that the Queen standing yonder? What symbol adorns that banner there, I know it not. But her eyes I do know. They are the eyes of my mother.
How long does it normally take you to write a post? On average how many words do you write?