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@nightfallslikefire
To say that I have a favorite poem is like saying I have a favorite word or book or place or person. Such exclusivity is not in my nature when there are so many shades of meaning in each definition. Still, there are some that I keep coming back to.
Every man is an island but every tear is a sea, and everyone's drowning to some small degree; and each time that I try just a little too hard I remember that water is flesh to be scarred.
Life has an affinity for puns. And irony. And paradoxes. (Paradoxii? Who cares.) Life likes things like: Did you hear about the man who was hit by a can of soda? He was lucky it was a soft drink. Except he wasn't, unless you count the fact that he now has a can of sugar to get him through that headache. Now that's irony. Here's one for you, Life: I used to be a banker. What? How is that funny? Well, you see, I lost interest. Don't walk away from me. Fine. I'll take a nap. Sleeping comes naturally to me. I can do it with my eyes closed. Besides, sleep is death without the commitment, and if your eyes are closed they are impervious to lemon juice.
My heart is a bitch I try to keep on a leash. She snaps and growls, violent tendencies for fearsome dangers, but sometimes terrifying creatures are downwind and she can't identify them correctly. When she wants something she lunges; I don't have a retractable leash to reel her back in. I have to pull, and tug, and wrap rough rope around my fingers until it burns, raw and red. I think she has some mastiff blood, because when she wants something she won't unclench her jaws. It costs so much to bring her back in line. I get bitten often. She doesn't always understand why I won't just let her run free, and it hurts me to keep her on a leash, but that leash is my lifeline.
Pews
Realization did not dawn 'til once again I languished on long gleaming rows of nameless wood-- for all I know from Lebanon.
All refuse to fold or bend. In theory so one will attend to lessons taught by motes of dust. We yield--and soon will mold to them!
I found some comfort in them, though. Peace carvéd, faceless forms bestowed upon my aimless, drifting heart, some quiet in the even rows.
I sit too long and then I ache; I long to stretch 'til bones I break! Yet I am used to wooden pews-- the solid seat that won't forsake.
They bring to mind a calmer year with nothing torn by doubt and fear-- when I had faith to fall upon. That thought alone sustains a tear.
I cannot lift the wooden pew. I'll sit, and let their strength imbue my soul with solidarity. I'll sit, and close my eyes anew.
I'm alright with being sad. I only wish my heart was constant-- not kaleidoscopically changing. I think I'm alright with being sad.
I used to want to speak in every situation, every conversation, all of the time. Now I can't even listen. My tongue has frozen; my hearing has faded. Isn't sound supposed to be last to go?
4:06 p.m.
Today some spring comes creeping in like extra ink from bleeding pen. Old Winter sighs and turns away. Months still to go, what's just one day? The warmer air comes, blasts and spins and swirls in form of gusting wind. Right now the sun is summer-long and old, dry leaves scrape--not quite gone. Convergent on the afternoon the seasons dance, all near or soon. One minute where they all are here; one minute 'til they disappear.
What is the butterfly effect? I think it should be renamed. "Butterfly effect" is the name I gave to the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I read your words. It doesn't belong to abstract concepts traced by cheerless sociologists. Implications is such a lonely word. What do these sentences mean? Will they start something new? Spark a fire in some other continent's woods from the ashes left in my mind's backyard? Reverberation is such a haunting word. What bell is tolling? Birth, love, or funeral? Resonate is such a catching word-- your soul and mine.
A Sad Conversation with Myself
I asked Myself: "why are you crying while on one side Moon bids you good-bye and Sun kisses your face in greeting on the other?" "Because," she admitted, "one is leaving and the other will soon. I can't catch them with these hands, although I've tried to transform their beams into ink and stain pages with them, to keep with me always." "You never had a chance of keeping them," I told Myself wistfully. "Now you have to let them go for some other poet to try and fail. Embrace the dawn."
The joy that winter took away— so cold and cruel is she!— Has been returned to pillag’d heart; has reappeared in me!
Lone bitter wind has lost it’s claws and split to breezes three, three old, warm friends to share the sun— though none of them I see.
The first runs fingers through my hair, embracing all the strands and pulling them away from me like little, tugging hands.
The second, laughing, skims o’er skin, caressing all my face and brings me soft, sweet lullabies of some far, warmer place.
The third blows neither skin nor hair, but gusts straight through my heart. I hope that we will never be torn e’er again apart.
The Words I Can't Say
I have emotions that ache inside of my chest. I don't understand all of them. They heat my cheeks; cool my laughter. There is a pressure beneath my breastbone-- not in my heart, that is reserved for passion-- centered in my core. Sometimes it pushes, trying to escape, pushing up my esophagus, as if I've swallowed the wind. It usually trickles out of my frozen fingertips, like icicles melting. I have an ocean of feelings drifting in me, wanting to pour out; overflow in everything I do. I haven't yet written or said anything adequately expressing it.
Ode to the Night Snow
Cast, dispersed, o'er open sky, purpled twilight painted dim 'cross the lines of dawn and dusk-- no beginning and no end-- clouds have settled down to rest ghostly as the old man, Death.
All the trees are muted, still dressed in glimm'ring shrouds of ice; shadowed blue by moonlight's shade; lighted by the stars' device. Silent sentinels still hold solemn posts in bitter cold.
Whispering throughout the air, muttering throughout the trees, blows the discontented wind-- swirls the winter's ancient breeze: On his brow a blust'ring crown echoing his toothy frown.
Tossed aside by wind and sky freshly frozen snow falls forth gracing specters of my mind with the clothing of the north. All the ground is covered, too; still the snow is pushing through.
On the morrow skies will shine-- glorious then the day will be! Trees will bid the world rejoice; wind express his jubilee. Now, though, I can but confess feelings night and snow express.
Winter Gardens and Regal Trees
They have faces like flowers, these snowflakes, and their clouds are like leaves on a tree. Still the wind blows their frozen white petals to be scattered like summer's debris. Oh, how long can these angelic blossoms cling so close to the frosted o'er ground? And how long will the winter trees glisten with their ice robe and snow flower crown?
My Heart
Soft like a turtle dove, warm like the spring, sweet like the south wind, vague as a dream, vibrant as fire, and cold as a king.
There are no Oceans in Space
What do the stars hear, high up in the sky? Can space echo with the refrain of tinkling, small steps on the highways of heaven? What echoes in that terrain? List'ning to cherubs sing hymns to the moon is really a glorious sound, but I find that thunder, and lightning, and rain leave me with something profound.
Intimations of Paranoia
I dreamed that I was eating glass, consuming door knobs made of brass. My hands were warping iron posts into a fence to keep out ghosts. Cold fingers twisted alloyed screws in shapes alike a conman's ruse. My fists were pounding stainless nails into a suit of dragon scales. To think, that I forgot to dream a villain for my shining scene.