This is the first poem of Spring, even if I actually wrote it last night before going to bed. Still, I think it's fitting that it's a poem written at springtime because to me it expresses an awakening of sorts, even a second awakening.
Dream of Hanging Rock
I awoke once, but slipped unnoticed into dreams again:
I was sitting at the cliffs edge; you stood behind me.
Surely you saw the hawks turning in the wind below
just as I felt the constant pressure on my back.
And looking at the valleys and mountains surrounding,
I didn’t see the rocks supporting me beneath,
and my worse half wanted to forget them, leave them,
join the flock of curving lines in this painting before me.
I could escape as one of them, or even as you.
But you told me the hills were beautiful as they rolled on;
you pointed out the trees reaching with green towards spring.
Remember the weakness of our knees and the silence
when the ground stepped from view, replaced by these:
the distant towns, the patchwork fields, the road home?
If I was once afraid of this height, I was more terrified of myself.
I didn’t believe you wanted to be me, or the birds,
until you yourself told me you dreamed of flying.
Thank you; I won’t forget again that you are me, in the end.
We’re getting up now; we’re slowly coming down.
--------
So multiple things contributed to the creation of this poem. The one influence is easily seen. Yesterday I went with a group of friends and hiked this place called "Hanging Rock" and it was great and the view was marvelous and I knew I wanted to write some poem about my feelings on the edge there, the weakness in my knees, and the hawks, or some type of bird, flying around in the wind below. But more of an influence is the "awakening" of sorts that I feel I had yesterday, realizing that it's no good imagining someone else has it better or that you wish you could be them, because we are more alike than we know. Just because you can't see their fears or insecurities, doesn't mean they don't have them, just as you do. Don't we ourselves often look and act more happy or impenetrable than we are? Envy is pointless and leads nowhere. We just have to be our best selves and realize everybody's trying hard, just like you. Life is complex stuff. I know I've learned this lesson in life before, but I guess i needed to learn it again. Not sure if that made sense, but I think the poem does, at least. Enjoy.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Unfinished Construction
Unfinished Construction
I walk by the towering structure on my way home.
The workers step down the concrete stairs
as they abandon this place to a different care.
The night air drifts through, and leaves it alone.
But there’s a cosmos that they leave behind:
the lights are always on, both day and night.
And when I come home late, I find the sight
more than mesmerizing, flashing on my mind.
In my bed, staring at the ceiling I find sky.
Sitting in my chair, reading a book, worlds expand
and I can’t contain the image; I understand
what’s left undone captures my inner eye.
In the fragmented minutes, I notice now the stars
when I’m lonely or in love, dreamy or down.
I am unfinished; these ideas wander around,
building lights within, in case I should stray far.
---------
So on the campus where I live there is an unfinished building with so many lights inside that every time I pass it, I can't help but think that the lights look like stars. I think about it and find it cool. And then I thought about it more and what it could symbolize an I thought it even cooler. So I've tried to convey my thoughts, but what do you think. Do you get something from this poem. I haven't really re-read it and I only just wrote it, but I hope I could get even a little bit of what I was thinking down. Enjoy! I'm going to bed now.
I walk by the towering structure on my way home.
The workers step down the concrete stairs
as they abandon this place to a different care.
The night air drifts through, and leaves it alone.
But there’s a cosmos that they leave behind:
the lights are always on, both day and night.
And when I come home late, I find the sight
more than mesmerizing, flashing on my mind.
In my bed, staring at the ceiling I find sky.
Sitting in my chair, reading a book, worlds expand
and I can’t contain the image; I understand
what’s left undone captures my inner eye.
In the fragmented minutes, I notice now the stars
when I’m lonely or in love, dreamy or down.
I am unfinished; these ideas wander around,
building lights within, in case I should stray far.
---------
So on the campus where I live there is an unfinished building with so many lights inside that every time I pass it, I can't help but think that the lights look like stars. I think about it and find it cool. And then I thought about it more and what it could symbolize an I thought it even cooler. So I've tried to convey my thoughts, but what do you think. Do you get something from this poem. I haven't really re-read it and I only just wrote it, but I hope I could get even a little bit of what I was thinking down. Enjoy! I'm going to bed now.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Portrait of Splashing Puddles
Portrait of Splashing Puddles
The mother chuckles and stops chasing.
Instead she watches her child
as he steps in and out of the puddles.
The boy giggles and looks at her
as the water soaks his cold toes.
The father slips off his shoes and socks
to join his son in the puddles,
the ageless water splashing upon them
as the rains still drips from their faces:
all smiles, watching each other laugh.
----------
Again I get inspiration hanging out with my sister and her family. This actually happened. I love writing portraits, or what I call portraits, because I get a lot out of them. Fun stuff. Hope you like it.
The mother chuckles and stops chasing.
Instead she watches her child
as he steps in and out of the puddles.
The boy giggles and looks at her
as the water soaks his cold toes.
The father slips off his shoes and socks
to join his son in the puddles,
the ageless water splashing upon them
as the rains still drips from their faces:
all smiles, watching each other laugh.
----------
Again I get inspiration hanging out with my sister and her family. This actually happened. I love writing portraits, or what I call portraits, because I get a lot out of them. Fun stuff. Hope you like it.
Friday, March 12, 2010
In Rhyme 2.0
Well, I ran the original by my Mom, my best critic, and she shot it down in flames. But my poems are like phoenixes: they rise from the ashes. So here's the new and hopefully improved version.
In Rhyme
Imagine we spoke in poetry, you and I.
If I left out a line, you could fill it
and the emptiness would disappear.
For now, my words are lacking wit,
and the silence holds my fear
for I can’t speak in rhyme.
The cadence falls short, we’re losing time.
If you could read my face a little bit
we might discuss it and draw near
and we would see the rhythm fits.
But sadly speechless, we don’t hear
the brush strokes of our minds.
The images I have become these lines.
If picture perfect never quit
or I was skillful at being clear,
what color painting would transmit
the thoughts that I hold dear
and would the dyes entwine?
---------
Please tell me what you think. Better? Worse? Some parts better, some parts worse? Be specific, please. Bring on the flamethrower. =)
In Rhyme
Imagine we spoke in poetry, you and I.
If I left out a line, you could fill it
and the emptiness would disappear.
For now, my words are lacking wit,
and the silence holds my fear
for I can’t speak in rhyme.
The cadence falls short, we’re losing time.
If you could read my face a little bit
we might discuss it and draw near
and we would see the rhythm fits.
But sadly speechless, we don’t hear
the brush strokes of our minds.
The images I have become these lines.
If picture perfect never quit
or I was skillful at being clear,
what color painting would transmit
the thoughts that I hold dear
and would the dyes entwine?
---------
Please tell me what you think. Better? Worse? Some parts better, some parts worse? Be specific, please. Bring on the flamethrower. =)
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Four Poems
Here's three night poems. Unfortunately, I tend to write a lot of my poetry in the moments between when I say that I'm going to go to bed, and when I actually do go to bed. Weird, huh? Well, here you go:
The Night Goes On
The night goes on and it won’t stop.
The restlessness and the drag on my mind,
like the cars gliding in the darkness,
seem to lack a clear destination
I’m being sucked in like a yawn,
a gaping hole, a chaos in my mind.
A nod of the head beckons the darkness,
but sometimes I fear tomorrow.
Sleep is not an easy destination
nor does it take the weight off my mind
from that which lurks in the darkness,
the night running at tomorrow.
I wouldn’t nod the head or yawn
if the body could escape the mind,
but it rests in peace, covered in darkness.
I wish, sometimes, the cars would never stop.
-------
A poem about the contradictory feelings of wanting to stay up, yet wanting to sleep.
-------
Like Steam
Look at this. Sadness rising like steam
and then dripping down the window
of my eyes. Whether I’m about to dream,
upset and tired, or ready to follow
the corridors of a child’s mess,
I sense warmth coming from below,
the tender ashes of forgetfulness.
Memory gives way to a calm within
that I cannot hold down or keep
because like flames they are thin
and fading. The past still lurks in the deep
and will grow again. Thus it begins.
But this time I will watch the sadness
and with one hand extend a gentle caress.
-------
A poem about dealing with sadness. Don't worry, I wasn't sad at the time. I think it was my sleepiness that watered my eyes slightly.
-------
The Sidelines
I get tired of sleeping where you can always find me
silent on the sidelines trying to be free,
where the shadows grow, beginning to be real
where what I dream is what I cannot see.
It’s like a dance; I stand at the wall and drum
the rhythm at my fingers, telling me to come,
telling me to love myself enough that I might dream
that stories can happen to anyone, to me.
Or beneath a snowstorm, beside a stream
the night is covered with the darkest gleam
and I wonder what it means to heal,
to be warm inside and say what I mean.
-------
I was thinking about the feeling of being symbolically on the sidelines. The nervousness of not knowing what to do, and therefore doing nothing.
-------
The Journey
Goodnight. The crickets’ chirp is calling.
The sun that once rose is falling
deeper into me. I feel the heat
and I reel with the swelling,
the worn-out beat of my heart.
Sleep tight. The wind is westward bound.
The sun gives way to the constant sound
of whistles played low. It moves below
and will prove unfound,
while the darkness flows. We’ll be apart.
Sweet dreams. The silence knows no fear.
The sun is deaf; it cannot hear
my gentle rest. My thoughts tell best
the stories I hold dear,
the evening quest of making morning art.
-------
Yeah, this is the one I wrote just last night. I'm not quite sure what I was thinking. I just liked the first line that popped into my head, and then the second, and then I went from there.
This is a lot of poetry at once, huh? And all with the setting of the night. I'm just weird that way, I guess. Far too many night poems. Hope you enjoy it. =)
The Night Goes On
The night goes on and it won’t stop.
The restlessness and the drag on my mind,
like the cars gliding in the darkness,
seem to lack a clear destination
I’m being sucked in like a yawn,
a gaping hole, a chaos in my mind.
A nod of the head beckons the darkness,
but sometimes I fear tomorrow.
Sleep is not an easy destination
nor does it take the weight off my mind
from that which lurks in the darkness,
the night running at tomorrow.
I wouldn’t nod the head or yawn
if the body could escape the mind,
but it rests in peace, covered in darkness.
I wish, sometimes, the cars would never stop.
-------
A poem about the contradictory feelings of wanting to stay up, yet wanting to sleep.
-------
Like Steam
Look at this. Sadness rising like steam
and then dripping down the window
of my eyes. Whether I’m about to dream,
upset and tired, or ready to follow
the corridors of a child’s mess,
I sense warmth coming from below,
the tender ashes of forgetfulness.
Memory gives way to a calm within
that I cannot hold down or keep
because like flames they are thin
and fading. The past still lurks in the deep
and will grow again. Thus it begins.
But this time I will watch the sadness
and with one hand extend a gentle caress.
-------
A poem about dealing with sadness. Don't worry, I wasn't sad at the time. I think it was my sleepiness that watered my eyes slightly.
-------
The Sidelines
I get tired of sleeping where you can always find me
silent on the sidelines trying to be free,
where the shadows grow, beginning to be real
where what I dream is what I cannot see.
It’s like a dance; I stand at the wall and drum
the rhythm at my fingers, telling me to come,
telling me to love myself enough that I might dream
that stories can happen to anyone, to me.
Or beneath a snowstorm, beside a stream
the night is covered with the darkest gleam
and I wonder what it means to heal,
to be warm inside and say what I mean.
-------
I was thinking about the feeling of being symbolically on the sidelines. The nervousness of not knowing what to do, and therefore doing nothing.
-------
The Journey
Goodnight. The crickets’ chirp is calling.
The sun that once rose is falling
deeper into me. I feel the heat
and I reel with the swelling,
the worn-out beat of my heart.
Sleep tight. The wind is westward bound.
The sun gives way to the constant sound
of whistles played low. It moves below
and will prove unfound,
while the darkness flows. We’ll be apart.
Sweet dreams. The silence knows no fear.
The sun is deaf; it cannot hear
my gentle rest. My thoughts tell best
the stories I hold dear,
the evening quest of making morning art.
-------
Yeah, this is the one I wrote just last night. I'm not quite sure what I was thinking. I just liked the first line that popped into my head, and then the second, and then I went from there.
This is a lot of poetry at once, huh? And all with the setting of the night. I'm just weird that way, I guess. Far too many night poems. Hope you enjoy it. =)
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