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.

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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?

 

 

 

Another Love Poem?

Do I dare introduce another love poem into the world on this glorious Valentine’s Day? Well… being an aspiring poet, I must.

I wrote this poem to my boyfriend, now husband, a few years back. It means a lot to me sentimentally. I know that my little love poem won’t matter in the grand scheme of the internet, but everyone has a voice. And everyone should share that voice. Everyone thinks, talks, loves, laughs, cries, and dreams differently. So each person should be given a chance to speak. Even if it’s just a moment of recogition.

Since this was original written to someone, it will seem like I am talking to someone directly, go figure. I usually don’t write my poetry this way, but I wanted to share this poem since it’s dear to me. Sometimes I enjoy using rhyming couplets – frees the mind a bit.

To a lover,

Upon grace, upon light

you have granted me a sight.

A new life, a deepened dimension of mind

as sorrows and cries become blind.

In my cascade of mountainous emotions

peace rolls like sea glass washed beneath the oceans.

 

A fire is kept illuminating within my soul

flames scorching, embers warming the coal.

You are the heat to my being,

the essence to my freeing.

Capturing my entity, I am now faithfully yours,

for the living of existence

to the falling on eternity’s shores.

 

Empty hearts were once the tales

but rapturing to a stop, we closed our searching sails.

Magnificent to behold, bewitching in the sight,

you sent my heart’s longing in flight.

One glimpse saved my lost vitality,

an endurance for life began again on this road through mortality.

 

Oh darling if you could but see

the delicate sensibility you bring to me.

If I had to live without you in these years

the heavenly stars glimmer dull compared to the shine in my tears.

You are worth more to me than all the queens rubies,

more than Cinderella’s sparkling glass booties.

 

Someday we’ll live by the sea,

simple sweet yearnings I hope to be.

Let’s dream together of the brightest imaginable future,

God will be there to strengthen, encourage, nurture.

And our prayers to Him with praise His everlasting name

for the opportunity He granted you and I the same.

The blessing of meeting you will silence every complaint, worry, trial,

you’ll be walking right along every tittle, step, and mile.

And with this I solemnly vow

I’ll carry you half the way long –

as much as my strength will allow.

 

Today is the beginning of a new memory with you

Our passionate love strictly in view.

“I love you” is a simple phrase

to describe the phenomenal affection locked in my daze.

But these small words are quite simply true,

The person I will always love, adore, cherish

is you.

 

 

 

 

Love is the thing with thorns

For my poetry class, we were assigned to consciously imitate a famous poem and it took me quite a bit of digging to find the right one for me. I love Emily Dickinson’s poem “Hope is the thing with feathers” and I wanted to try and imitate and make it my own. It was an interesting exercise to do and I highly encourage trying something like this for yourself.

Original:

“Hope is the thing with feathers” by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

 

And the sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

 

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

 

My rendition:

“Love is the thing with thorns” by Rebekah Shepherd

Love is the thing with thorns

That pierces the inner soul,

And scratches the skin without remorse,

And never stops at all,

 

And the sharpest in the garden is picked;

And sore become the fingertips

That are poked, prodded, and left to bleed

That throb from the immensity of rips.

 

I’ve felt it in the happiest times,

And in the years of bliss;

Yet, never, had a thorn,

Been a forgotten miss.

Tracy

She burns like a flaming fire,

dancing and singing to the crackle of her own heat,

consuming her surroundings.

Her blazing personality

captures the hearts of many.

She radiates brilliance –

light shoots from the top of her head down to her toes,

bursting like the golden sun.

She is the essence of warmth.

Humans gather around her for wisdom and love

They worship every beat of her heart –

if she’s alive, the world is safe.

She brings others life,

her tender voice beckons salvation,

the touch of her hand brings solitude.

Oh! how lost the world would be!

Without the presence of such an individual.

The mystery remains, however,

she believes herself to be lost,

her modest nature is a plea for help,

a summon for something greater.

Her head swims with the stars and

her heart dwells with angels.

She believes herself to be searching still…

sailing away on the ocean of uncertainty .

The desire to always be better

is not a failing fancy,

but if she only knew…

Oh, if she only understood,

that she’s beautiful.

She’s inspiring.

Every movement of her soul

is electrifying.

She’s a masterpiece of true radiance,

her spirit is a safe haven

for the troubled ones.

But she wouldn’t know,

she wouldn’t know any of this.

Clocks of January

Silence pours over my eardrums

Talk to me? No — not tonight

For I am in a curious state of being

I’m feeling my blood rush through me

It’s swirling and dancing in my veins

Life is pumping from my fingertips

I pause a breath

Wait…two, now more

Hold my breath to hear the clocks

Feel time slip away

Each tick a moment faded

Into what?

Darkness.

Where does time go when passed?

I check my empty closet

Behind my bathroom door

Venture to the woods and pray

Not here a voice calls

Search somewhere else today.

In the meadows

Up the ally

“No.” said the drunken man

“You missed it, kid. Keep runnin’ ‘til you’re dead.”

Death.

Ah, I found it yes

Not to earn back

But my earnings here lie

Clocks are not the enemy

But what the seconds mean

Do you see?

Chasing, running, flying by

Catch it — no

Let it go

And fly with it

One secret to an old wives’ tale

Do not throw away clocks

Do not hoard them in a drawer

Do not watch it turn

Do not try to turn yourself

Lay it there

Touch it not

Do not look at all

Just feel the moments giving life

And give back something more