You know how it works. This is the way it goes, you and me and the rest of the world. Can you hear it underneath the silence? There, the beating of my heart between measured breaths, can you feel it pounding against my chest as it tried to break free? Do you know that sound? That sound in my soul, my heart strings plucked, crying out like a violin, delicate in the darkness.
There is nothing left of me you do not have. There is nothing left of me you do not know. We are in harmony, in dischord, in resolution.
[Written randomly a few days ago and forgotten. Found in a notepad file named "resolution" saved on my desktop.]
Friday, August 14, 2009
Aug 12/13 - The Perseids Meteor Shower
Tonight I watched the stars. I drove out to the country, away from the street lights and the glow of the city. The road was dark, a sleeping house across from where we pulled off to the side. All was quiet but for the whispers of my companions and the chirp, chirp, chirping of the crickets by my head as I laid back on a blanket and looked upward.
Overhead a thousand stars lit the sky, spread out across that great velvet tapestry like pinpricks.
Sometimes I think, if only those pinpricks were a little larger, let a little more light through. If only there was more for me to see, to take in. Other times I am so overwhelmed by what is laid out for me to see, it's like a pressure against my head, my heart. There is so much there, too much for me to ever know in a lifetime, in a hundred lifetimes. And so much more; what I cannot see is just as dear as the stars glinting above me in the sky, burning bright and clear and some dead, dying already as they shine for me.
[Half scribbled down the night of, after watching the Perseids Meteor Shower. Added to/finished a few days later.]
Overhead a thousand stars lit the sky, spread out across that great velvet tapestry like pinpricks.
Sometimes I think, if only those pinpricks were a little larger, let a little more light through. If only there was more for me to see, to take in. Other times I am so overwhelmed by what is laid out for me to see, it's like a pressure against my head, my heart. There is so much there, too much for me to ever know in a lifetime, in a hundred lifetimes. And so much more; what I cannot see is just as dear as the stars glinting above me in the sky, burning bright and clear and some dead, dying already as they shine for me.
[Half scribbled down the night of, after watching the Perseids Meteor Shower. Added to/finished a few days later.]
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Poetry: administer dose once daily and when needed.
July 12/09
A new idea:
to write a haiku daily,
keep the ink flowing.
July 13/09
Summer underground
Cool, quiet, and withdrawn while
outside the sun shines.
A new idea:
to write a haiku daily,
keep the ink flowing.
July 13/09
Summer underground
Cool, quiet, and withdrawn while
outside the sun shines.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
faded
The photo is faded, wrinkled and starting to curl at the corners. Years ago the colours would have been bright, as vibrant as the people it displayed. Now they’ve become strained, less than they were. The people in the old snapshot would be so old now, old and wrinkled and maybe a bit faded like their photo. But in that photo the two gave off such life. If they were faded now, once they had been alive. So alive, in that moment somehow captured candidly. They sit in the bough of a boat, he with his arm around her. She is laughing, eyes glinting with some secret. He is smiling a secret smile, warm and affectionate.
The picture was found slipped between the pages of an old paperback novel about the sea, as if used for a bookmark. It was almost carelessly stuck in place for years and years until someone found it at a book shop somewhere. The passage marked by the photo read,
Sometimes the waves are violent, thrashing with all the passion of the ocean against this simple wooden hull. I wonder how we have survived the storms time and again against the fierce gales, the frigid waters sloshing over the sides, saltwater in our eyes and in our mouths. But the terror of the sea storms, thunder rolling and walls of water closing in on each side... this is nothing compared to the way the sea rocks the boat gently in a lull. Clear skies, cotton clouds, great blue ocean stretched out before us for miles. The breeze whispers to us during the day, caressing our faces still red from salt and rain. At night the waves hush a lullaby to us, calm and steady against the battered hull. None who find the sea forget her. And every time I reach a shore and hear the waves, the call of the gull, my own heart beats a little faster. I feel it running through my very skin, and I long to return. I know this. I know you. I am yours, always.
The words are underlined in pencil, faded like the photo. But the words remain the same. The colours are no longer as vibrant as they once were, but the moment remains the same, eternal on the bough of a boat somewhere. (I know this. I know you. I am yours, always.)
(June 28th 2009. Prompt: faded.)
The picture was found slipped between the pages of an old paperback novel about the sea, as if used for a bookmark. It was almost carelessly stuck in place for years and years until someone found it at a book shop somewhere. The passage marked by the photo read,
Sometimes the waves are violent, thrashing with all the passion of the ocean against this simple wooden hull. I wonder how we have survived the storms time and again against the fierce gales, the frigid waters sloshing over the sides, saltwater in our eyes and in our mouths. But the terror of the sea storms, thunder rolling and walls of water closing in on each side... this is nothing compared to the way the sea rocks the boat gently in a lull. Clear skies, cotton clouds, great blue ocean stretched out before us for miles. The breeze whispers to us during the day, caressing our faces still red from salt and rain. At night the waves hush a lullaby to us, calm and steady against the battered hull. None who find the sea forget her. And every time I reach a shore and hear the waves, the call of the gull, my own heart beats a little faster. I feel it running through my very skin, and I long to return. I know this. I know you. I am yours, always.
The words are underlined in pencil, faded like the photo. But the words remain the same. The colours are no longer as vibrant as they once were, but the moment remains the same, eternal on the bough of a boat somewhere. (I know this. I know you. I am yours, always.)
(June 28th 2009. Prompt: faded.)
reflection
It’s... different, the way the light catches on the glass. The mirror was broken years ago, but it still sits in its frame, cracked and shattered, lines running from the break like spider silk. The face that looks back is not the same as the one that looks in. The face is broken in pieces, a mouth here, a cheek there. Two eyes staring back from five different shards, glinting in the light. It’s uncanny. It’s the same face, but it’s not the same person.
You can almost imagine the glass is water and the cracks ripples, spreading from the impact. The farther from the centre you get, the more spread out the breaks are. There are less shards that fit in the hand and more open spaces, pieces of mirror that could make their own mirrors.
On the other side of the glass is a different world. So similar. So different.
A solid image has been broken into thousands of pieces. There’s no way to fit them together again. Just grab the broom and sweep up the mess. Don’t mind the eyes staring back at you, almost catching your gaze, but just out of sight. Don’t pay attention to the fingers clawing at the glass, scrabbling for a way out. The mouth is open in a scream, silently crying your name, a plea for help over and over again. It’s okay. It’s only a reflection.
(June 24th 2009. Prompt: reflection.)
You can almost imagine the glass is water and the cracks ripples, spreading from the impact. The farther from the centre you get, the more spread out the breaks are. There are less shards that fit in the hand and more open spaces, pieces of mirror that could make their own mirrors.
On the other side of the glass is a different world. So similar. So different.
A solid image has been broken into thousands of pieces. There’s no way to fit them together again. Just grab the broom and sweep up the mess. Don’t mind the eyes staring back at you, almost catching your gaze, but just out of sight. Don’t pay attention to the fingers clawing at the glass, scrabbling for a way out. The mouth is open in a scream, silently crying your name, a plea for help over and over again. It’s okay. It’s only a reflection.
(June 24th 2009. Prompt: reflection.)
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