Varnish

Varnish away the smudges and streaks,

Mend the hinges rusted and weak.

God, make of me something beautiful and clean,

Sins red as scarlet, begin to wean.

Take of your servant though small and frail,

Carve, smooth, and alter without a wail.

Submitting to your will, I fully give,

Everything and anything to with thee live.

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A few minutes of my time

A few minutes of my time

Before I venture off to work.

Where is my happiness today?

I pray, it isn’t far away.

But deep in my heart,

I find access to a smile,

A friendly gesture of hand,

And a kiss of good luck.

Im trying to find satisfaction

With my singular life.

A little job

With little problems

A little family,

I dream to grow.

I choose to find solace today

Around the nay-sayers

And judgement looks.

Today will be

A fanatic day.

Even though

it’s almost over.

the stuffy air

2

The stuffy air        &

blanketed sky

fill my senses with

memories

of chilly autumn wind     &

tattered wool blankets.

The pumpkin season has begun

but the heat still says

it’s summer –

like a friend that won’t leave

or

a haunted remembrance of a past love.

It’s different

here because the leaves

don’t fall.

They stay on the trees away from

rakes and tricker treaters.

The leaves hide in their homes

like an introvert peeping through the blinds

to see the world but never

daring to venture.

The colors never change

which is hard for a person

that needs

change.

Even though this is all a big change

I secretly don’t want anything to change.

I enjoyed the harsh winds on the rolling plains &

the snowy banks of my little town.

Now all I see

are faceless people,

walking through an

untamed life,

scoffing and scorning at anything beautiful.

The city is not for me

with it’s tall buildings and rushed atmosphere.

Take me back to the place I love,

filled with the smell of cow manure and tractor grease.

But I’m stuck in summer until

the end of tomorrow.

RS.

the happiness theory

img-thing
“What’s separating the two?”

        “A line.”

“How do I get rid of it?”

        “You can erase it.”

“I don’t know how.”

         “Sure you do. You made it.”

“I made it? I don’t remember.”

         “That’s normal. It happens over time, sometimes very slowly.”

“But I can get rid of it?”

         “Why not? It doesn’t have to be there.”

“How long will it take?”

         “As quick as you make it.”

“You mean that it’s all that I make it?”

         “It has always been that way. You chose to create the line and you can choose to erase it.”

“Just like that?”

        “Just like that.”

 

 

Just like that.

a question you might ask

What is a human?

 

A creature of the night,

falling deeper and

deeper into a dark pit

 

with each pausing breath?

A figment of God’s

imagination,

a messy bunch of cardboard

at the dump?

 

It is a floating piece

of seaweed,

rising and falling with the tide?

Never reaching land or any space of free will?

 

Does it flash like a lightning bolt

in the hazy, blue sky;

touching the earth with power?

 

Or does it simply sit in a corner

and eat the gears and hands off of clocks?

 

Can it rise up and speak–

Is it confined to a cage like a bird?

Does it sing the song of

redeeming love or

fall through the sky like a

hole-filled parachute?

 

What ever it is,

I’d like to meet one.

 

A real one.

truth as a maybe

surrle2

Maybe we were all wrong,

believing the lies that spill from our mother's mouth,

believing the deceit that fogs our clouded memory,

maybe we were always wrong,

and no one told us that

the sun never sets and always sleeps

while 

the moon remains a projection of our crazed fantasies, 

forever lighting our sky with false hope



Maybe we never came to our own birth,

sitting in the corner of heaven

waiting for the day of deliverance,

but, 

maybe we never came to our own funeral,

death being an inanimate object,

resting on a shelf, collecting dust.



Maybe our daydreams are windows to reality,

that are simply locked in the levels of

inescapable dreams,

And maybe that's what life will always be–

A dream within a dream,

that is never fully realized 

as a figment of conceptual space.




What remains

remains

remains 

unseen in the eyes of the beholder,

Can truth be forced on a believer?

Or does it fall between the sidewalk cracks

because no one cares to pick it up.



Maybe we will always believe what we're told

even though truth is plastered on a billboard,

the creatures of the night splatter paint against the soft spoken words

to hide the way to freedom,

for some strange reason.

And for some strange reason, we don't scrape the lies from our eyes,

even though the truth is evident 

and sublime.


Maybe we will always be lost 

in translation,

swimming for hours to find a Savior of debris,

seeking for the depths of unity and despair

in a world that cares very little 

for common sense.

And maybe we never will.

 

The Flames

I wrote another conscious imitation for class today and I really enjoy how it came out. This time I imitated the wonderful Mary Oliver. She is a fascinating lady with the most curious poetry. She has the style and feel that I desire to have some day–I find inspiration by reading her work and also discover bits and pieces about myself along the way. Give her a read, I know you’ll love it. 

Here is the original and mine is right below.

“The Lamps” by Mary Oliver

Eight o’clock, no later,

You light the lamps,

 

The big one by the large window,

The small one on your desk.

 

They are not to see by–

It is still twilight out over the sand,

 

The scrub oaks and cranberries.

Even the small birds have not settled

 

For sleep yet, out of reach

Of prowling foxes. No,

 

You light the lamps because

You are alone in your small house

 

And the wicks sputtering gold

Are like two visitors with good stories

 

They will tell slowly, in soft voices,

While the air outside turns quietly

 

A grainy and luminous blue.

You wish it would never change–

 

But of course the darkness keeps

Its appointment. Each evening,

 

An inscrutable presence, it has the final word

Outside every door.

 

“The Flames” by Rebekah Shepherd

Seven o’clock, no later,

You light the fire,

 

The stone one in the dining room,

The brick one in your bedroom.

 

They cannot be seen

Past the surrounding wooded forest,

 

The great pines and huckleberries.

Even the fauns have not hidden

 

For sleep yet, out of sight

Of crawling cougars. No,

 

You light the fire because

You are lonely in your small cabin

 

And the flames crackle stories

Like a concourse of party voices

 

Their words hum against the wooded walls,

While the air outside slowly becomes

 

A hazy and translucent silver.

You wish the sun would never leave–

 

But of course the night must obey

Its natural clock. Each evening,

 

An impenetrable attendance, it whispers the last word

Outside every door.

 

A Faceless Lecture Hall

Lecture hall filled by faceless bodies

Gaps between the seats illuminated

by a ghastly light reflecting

grays off of

the bleak brown wallpaper

 

I find it hard to listen –

I sink into the echoes of voices and

the air flow

that sounds like a rushing storm

racing through an empty fireplace

 

Drowning out the voices

the bleakness of winter takes over

It’s distracting and

highly engaging

Like standing in the middle of a white void

gazing into nothing

but hoping for

something

An appearance of a face

staring back

that connects eye to eye

finding the depths of your snow filled nerves

 

In an empty lecture hall

I stand faceless too

Dust

Before I knew it,

it was there

covering the outline of your face behind the glass.

I once polished it every night,

gave it kisses and spoke to it as if you were here.

Told it of my struggles,

my griefs,

the way my heart broke every day I was without you–

It seemed to listen.

It satisfied my longing for a short while.

 

Then it became a mask,

a fake image of you.

Mocking me,

smiling a grin of contentment and peace

while I sit here drowning in despair.

Hitting myself over the head with the never answered question,

What happened to forever?

Or is that covered too

buried beneath glass as

a mock of my daily life,

taunting me with its looks

but unattainable possibility.

 

I knock on the glass,

blow the dust off

trying to rescue anything salvage worthy

in vain attempts.

It’s locked up and gone,

covered in the seconds and minutes of time,

doomed to be a memory forever.

mood

img_0742

patter

….drip plob

blonk

my window is crying tonight

or at least

catching the cloud’s sadness

or at least

watering the ground          &

making the earth wake up.

the rain is my eyes

during

darkness –

or even

light –

there’s no reason not to cry.

 

I enjoy human emotion

more than the blankness of feeling

more emotion

stronger world

 

but what about ugly emotion?

the one that destroys peace

life

prosperity

hope –

is that beautiful too?

or

are only some emotions worthy of a pedestal

.

plob

….drip

hop              lop

earth is showing emotion

and it’s landing on me

rolling of my roof                &

into the grass

never to return.

 

What do I absorb?

….Where do my feelings go…

 

drip

…..dribble

blop                pop

tears of joy

………..hate

………..loneliness

……….pain

my window is cold against the

cloud’s sadness

yet morning will come

in rays of translucent warmth

 

How could my window feel the sun

if it didn’t first feel the rain?