Nothing Can Grow Beneath the Snow

Into view, into collision,
the universe
holds its breath.
Out of phase, out of present;
past and future:
we see our deaths.

Worlds buckle, beneath the weight
the snow now melts to foster change.

Led astray by the compacts that we'd made (oh, letters from heaven reach only graves.)
Tredding softly to keep our feet dry (tears of the fallen drop to the sky.)

Changing: our reflections.
Taking: the verbal claws.
Tracing: our differences.
Facing: our very flaws.

Blossoming; yung minds are changed (but only after the strong turn the page.)
Trust in the young souls is no longer feigned (letters from the past- the future is saved.)

Do we dare, do we dare,
to disturb
the universe?
Do we dare, (do we?)
to disturb the universe?

Low Visibility

Worlds, barely visible
upon lains of snow, drifting;
frozen and mastered, by temperature,
conducive of the cold; winded.

Knew the view would be askew
but this tower, toppling, is unexpected.
The response to power so
unchallenged and relentless.

(Contrast)

Breathless!

Air from our lungs
was taken without cause;
for some: there is no such thing
as taking away.

(Chalk) Writings on the Wall

So many miles beaten into the ground
by old leather soles that stand as stone.
So many choices left so far behind;
brought along as new voices to pass the time.

He cannot choose this, and it picks up again.
Right where it left off, soon to change options.

He revelates his task before him,
he elevates the very goal.
He eleviates the burden of failure,
he lightens the pressure; unfolds.

Busted and beaten, the struggle ensues.
He begins again.

Sideways Eights and Spiralled Straights

red eyes are yellow, and blue eyes are violet
open your shallow, newly formed eyelids.
distress is meager, and arkess is your world;
young and so eager: your mind as it unfurls.

petals of flwers, a rainbow in blossom.
it has an attraction; takes your eyes just to cross them.
returns to your memory, to your pas recollectioin:
an amazing wealth of empathy towards any colorful impression.

color and greyscale have been at war
for rights of your vision, your memory;
a newborn to this world so frighening-barely, yu balance te exten of your pain.
it's no longer your struggle
to be tough enough not be toppled.

open you deepened sockets, your eyelids:
you've grown, dear child- do not deny it.
to deny the startling spiral of color that compromise and compirse the orb that you stand on is to deny what makes you human: acceptane of beauty; and th ignorace of the amazing.
so embrace the wheels of color.
red, blue and green: make up what you see.
accept the impossible; embrace the unbelievable.

sideways eights and spiralling straights:
it goes on and goes on; get down to the indivisible.

sideways eights and spiralling straights:
it goes on and on; get down to the very minimal
units of  measure that cannot be measured.

distinction of light and absence thereof, and everything between.
deny the serousness of things grey and serene.

open your colors, your powers;
use them to paint a new world.
open your colors, with honor;
paint the flower petals as they unfurl.

Arming the Bomb

Wakeful, but martyred by silence. Decisions
made to leave behind this
atrophy, restrained the urge
to open up the mouth, to let the throughts out.

Cheated out of the goal that set
precedent, before all of the bowed heads.
To emulate the concern of the masses
is to conversate; to set aside our masks and
try.

Sweat rolls down
the palms: like rain
on the window.

Papers shuffled, feet scuffled,
used to the useless minds: dishovelled.
Pray for pensiveness, pray for the truth again.
Pray for weapons if you pray to be home again.

Um, I Think We're Gonna Need some Windex.

Give in
to show the
wisdom beneath the...
words we scream, the words we breathe;
no conscience is conscious enough to part the seas.

The answers, the questions:
all fall prey to
exuses, we alter
realities that we
barely even know.

Piles of glass
of houses once smashed
by stones...
that we threw first.

The styles of pasts
that we have let pass.
Let us sweep up...
our broken homes.

In This Here and Now: Part 2 (10/19/09)

This is the too be continued of my first blog post, I think... haven't really done a whole lot of deep thinking lately. Now I'm gettng back in the habit of doing it a little more regularly.

Drinking some warm tea, waiting for yet another class to begin on this somewhat pleasant Monday. The sun is out, and that affects people's moods directly; and, as a result, most people appear to be in a good mood. I am one of those.

Life is just way too good right now to be anything but content. A beautiful women that I care about and who cares about me, a steady income (although that income is meager...) and great friends. A band in the works. Great music to listen to during all walks of life. Hilarity in all aspects of the word. And that elusive creature that is happiness...which is really just being more comfortable and accepting of the sources of depression that are in everybody's lives. I heard this in a movie...or maybe it was a book I read it in... the whole idea that "being more comfortable/accepting of your depressors," is what happiness actually translates as.

I saw/heard (I really wish I could remember better...) this and instantly agreed with it. And since then I haven't felt down at all about life, other than being brokeskies; which happens.

Things to remember:
Stay positive.
Stay on task.
This all means something later on...right?
Keep an open mind.
Yearn for peace.

Crash After Crash

The road to hell is
paved with conscious
decisions held up
to the motives;
and with each step
made towards the fate:
they lie to fill spaces
because the truth
is not worth the time.

Pull aside
the curtains
and watch the
shadows fall...down.
They'll find
for certain
that the wise
are no longer...around.

Bridges have burned,
time has reset:
the past is in ink,
and it is permanent.
Bridges have sunk
into the river, and flown
downstream into the sea,
where they are lost,
among other things.

Choose your words wisely,
and keep an eye out
for the langoliers of memory, dear:
they tend to cut right out...
parts of lives that have seen the sun,
the memories you go back to, but
when they come, the day then fades
while the shadows crawl across the pavement,
and the grass, so tall and lean, like
upright, miniature trees that we walk on;
oblivious as any fish
to the existence of man, walking upon the ship deck.

The tide is strong, the waves are fierce,
the ship is in transit, and the crew is in fear:
the storm has swept in, and the cargo aboard
does not float, and will not make it to shore
lest the prevailing winds die down in some fright;
lest the rain is kept inside the clouds on this night:
memories, all memories, down in the hull,
barely recognizable after this translantic haul.

Wheel by wheel, hour by hour, the memories return,
to the beginning, but soured;
like lemons left out beneath the blazing sun
for far too long,
for the shade bid farewell,
and from the skin of the lemon it was shunned.

Now know the surface, and know the past,
use your fingers to grasp and to trace the laughs;
trace the tears, and trace the strain;
there is no such thing as progress in less there is pain.
Now hold strong, hold fast, hold steady,
the ship is pulling into the dock already,
but the speed is too fast, the waves were too strong,
the motor was too small to take all of that water on.
The wooden planks crash, but the jetty stands firm
and does not lose mass, because, like us, it doesn't learn:

crash after crash, bitter but still stone,
it stands fast, and it stands alone.

Once precious cargo, without a glance,
cast into the shadows, barring any chance
it had to regain the hold
it was once capable of having upon the soul.

Crash after crash and as strong as stone:
we stand fast, but we are not alone.

Redemption Song.

With each leaden step, with each cage of steel:
we hold our hearts in our chests, we receive bitter meals.
But, even with the anger swelling, and the past forthcoming right:
we must not allow the red to overcome our thinking or our sight,
see- for every fabled love song thought not to be true:
there is a core to every myth, one as false as the sky is blue.
And for every valued second, for every memory loved,
there is a virtue in the conviction that God lives up above;
and the stars are simply painted on the dark sky-canvas, black;
as if the devil made something beautiful while God had turned His back.
Like chips of ice made especially to meet our eyes,
or the flames Prometheus shared with us, but dyed a brilliant white.

Now, see, there are truthes and there are stories,
and which is which is for one to decide,
but if there's any indication of both existing within the same core:
it's how people hearing such things should react when a character dies.
The reaction is not always the same,
some will cry, but some will only blame.
Would you protest, or only deny the deep-seeded feelings?
I for one would question: why must anyone die for innocence?

There are allegories and morality stories and movies and books made by the minute
that point to God being an actual, truthful, omniscient sort of being;
but if this were true, tell me: where is his voice?

What happened to the bush that was burning?
What happened to the shepherd who was herding?
What happened to enforcing what was etched in stone?
I've strayed in my beliefs and judgments; and I have changed as I have grown.
I've grown for the better.
I still believe in the unimaginable, the limitless, the infinite, and invincible potential; in our opportunity.
I cannot be the only one that sees beyond politics, religion, and race;
this life should be about cooperating, not making the small things a giant fucking debate.
Let's show them what we think, let's celebrate our differences:
if it's not enough, we won't give up; we'll keep on with this.
Our train, our engine, our drive- so true;
what was once innocent and hopeful, what used to stand for red, white, and blue.

Now open your arms, and open your eyes,
set down your weapons, and put differences aside;
reach out and take the hands of the world:
of each man, woman, and child;
every little boy and girl.
Be sure that they are safe and sound,
that their hearts have yet to rest.
Because the most beautiful things on this planet
will come from inside their chests...
and our own.

We sing our songs-
of redemption, of forgiveness, of sorrow and of pain;
we forgive our words, we find the sun despite all the storm clouds and rain;
we have yet to falter, our generation, so proud to stand tall and so true.
We are the lovers, the fighters,
the soul of this nation:
beaten black and blue.

This is our song,
our redemption song;
we sing it loud and we sing it proud:
please, oh please, put your weapons down!
This is our praise,
our forgiving praise;
we sing it loud and we sing it together:
please, oh please, hope lives forever.
This is our hope.
This is our everlasting hope:
we wear it now, and we wear it proud;
please, dear God, please:
don't let it falter now!