Ah, what times we had back then!
Would that this elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.
You left today with five farewells;
I gladly matched embrace with hug.
If I dumped snow way down on Hell
It might have made the Devil shrug.
But you, sweet you, kind you, sad you
Were not inclined to give a smile
When I gave all to tug it through.
I ran in vain five parting miles.
And in my sprint I chased your tears,
Those drops of sorrow, tainted dark,
Condensed of bitter loss and fears
of pining for and yearning stark.
Ah, what times we had back then!
Would that this elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.
I know, my love, that what I write
Is striking something deep inside.
My one request is that you fight
To loose the vines that have you tied.
Resist that rising flood of grief
and turn it back, prevent a spill.
You can win for yourself relief
by calling on your strength of will.
The water rises steadily
But you can watch its frothing arc
and beat it back most readily
whene'er you hear its call and hark.
Ah, what times we had back then!
Would that this elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.
I will not stand aside and watch
You struggle with this liquid foe.
From range I will this arrow notch,
Loosed lethally at your sorrow.
Ah, what times we have ahead!
When this sweet elegiac song
Does sweep us back around that bend,
Our parting once again made strong.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Cement to Dust, Wood to Ashes (Prose, 7/06)
I remember the first time I could feel. They poured the concrete around me, and as it set, I gained awareness for the first time, as though I was emerging from an eternal slumber. I felt invincible; I was one with the solid earth beneath me.
I remember the first time I could stand. The beams of solid oak took on the skeletal impression of my rising bulk, and as wood met sky, I felt energy and stamina that would carry me for centuries to come.
I remember the first time I could think clearly. As the roof began to take shape, my consciousness sharpened, my mind clearing from the fog of youthfulness and immaturity. I suppose my childhood lasted mere weeks, but my life would far exceed those souls whose job it was to construct me.
I remember the first time I could taste. Drywall and paneling now blocked out the wind, save for the gaps intended as windows and, more distinctly, the front door. It was through this rectangular breach that I could taste the air, the wind, the world.
I remember the first time I could see. The glass in the windows was my lens on the world. Through it I watched vehicles and people come and go, much as they watch time-lapse films of houses being erected.
I remember the first time I loved. And I remember the first time I was angered.
It was a hot, muggy summer afternoon, and I had been sleeping fitfully when the crunching of gravel roused me. I watched suspiciously as a new, 1961 Chrysler Imperial pulled to a halt in front of my porch. Near the horizon behind the car, a typical early-evening thunderstorm brewed menacingly, but the man that emerged from the passenger seat seemed not to notice. His hair was black and slicked down to the point of absurdity, but he carried himself with a casual confidence that undoubtedly concealed a scheming shrewdness. He was clearly a salesperson to the core, and I was the item for sale.
The salesman circled the front of the car, tapping the hood lightly as he went, and opened the door to the driver’s seat. The woman who stepped out laughed uncomfortably at the showy performance of etiquette. She was middle-aged with light-brown hair, and had apparently tried to give herself a look of properness and sophistication that simply had not worked. Her hair was already coming out of its tight knot, and somehow the dressy clothes she wore managed to look casual and unimposing.
The woman was led to the steps of my porch, where the two stopped. Her eyes swept the front façade, and then settled upon the freshly planted flowers. The salesman was talking.
“…and as I mentioned, ma’am, it’s brand new, with the latest in design techniques. The property includes about twenty acres on this hill, and as you can see, the designers tried to give the house a bit of a timeless feel—that porch wraps around three sides—but with a modern family in mind. It has central air conditioning and heating, as well as a separate phone line into the office. And the kitchen is built for today’s stay-at-home mother. Come see…”
The woman, who had bent down to smell a scarlet rose, said, “It’s just me and the kids…I don’t get to stay at home much.”
She walked through the door held open by the man, and into my foyer. Her eyes followed the graceful swing of the grand stairs as they curved away to the shadowy landing a dozen feet above. Mouthing the word “wow,” she turned her head to the salesman and asked, “How big is this house? It seems smaller from out there.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? It’s about four thousand square feet—”
“Gosh!”
“—But I assure you, it will feel well-inhabited and manageable once you all move in. It has five bedrooms, so your kids won’t have to share space, and the master bedroom and bath are spectacular. Have a look; if you’ll follow me, Mrs. Hyman.”
They ascended the stairs, the salesman looking confident, almost smug; Mrs. Hyman looking around in wonder. When they reached the landing, they turned left towards the master bedroom. However, just as the man stepped into the last room on the hall, Mrs. Hyman let out a gasp. She stared fixedly out of the window at the end of the hall, which looked out over my backyard. The gardens, the trees, the pool made out of dark grey granite, the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, she took them all in. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the stunning panorama.
“I’ll take it!” she exclaimed, still not turning from the window. The salesman started and then grinned broadly. Mrs. Hyman continued, still entranced, “How much is it?”
“Well, for you I believe I could drive the price down to a reasonable offer. It was set at eighty thousand, but I might get the developer to part with it for ten percent less, say, seveny-two.”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” Mrs. Hyman repeated in a soft, breathy voice.
The salesman hesitated, then asked with the first sign of genuine care, “Ma’am, are you sure you can afford this?”
“What? Oh, yes, certainly. You see, I recently lost—someone. The inheritance was, um, quite large.”
“Wonderful then, I’ll drive you back to the office, get you some of the necessary paperwork, and then we should be able to close the deal in a matter of days.”
The slick-haired man led Mrs. Hyman back down the hall, but not before she took one last glance out of the window. Their footsteps on the gravel of the drive were the last that graced my hilltop for nearly a month.
The sound of a car winding its way along the gravel drive broke the rural serenity again, bringing with it a full vehicle and the release of a longing that I had only mildly registered before. Only with Mrs. Hyman’s return was I made fully aware that I had missed the presence of a person who genuinely cared for me. Everyone else involved in the construction or marketing of “this lovely, new, spacious house” had been acting purely for potential profit. However, one special person had not thought of the money involved, but had been captured by me and had been drawn to me regardless of the cost.
Mrs. Hyman looked disheveled as three children scrambled out of the car, yelling and tussling, but she smiled as she gazed at me in rapture. For the first time in my short life, I felt helpless and powerless, for I could do little more than be myself and hope that the spell remained.
The tan side of the moving van glared at me later that afternoon, but the lone man who arrived with it only helped a couple of times with the heavier items that were too much for Mrs. Hyman alone. The kids tried to assist on occasion, but what they could manage barely made up for their ability to get underfoot. I have to admit that the household items delivered on the moving van looked woefully insufficient in my cavernous rooms, but I, like the Hymans, was not overly concerned, for all of us were happy and content.
The little Hyman children took no time to make themselves at home, and their happiness, coupled with the obvious satisfaction of their mother, warmed me to my foundation. Mrs. Hyman often displayed her love of flowers, and wasted no time in placing an abundance of color in the large back yard and in window flowerpots. She would care for them with tenderness, coaxing the blooms to drink deeply of golden rays of sun. She had little time when she was not called upon to work, and the gardens that she wrought provided a crucial release for her. I watched how she cared for me and her flowers, and felt the bond between us strengthen day by day.
While tendrils of sadness and remorse would occasionally creep into the expressions on Mrs. Hyman’s face, I could generally effect some change in the room that would lighten her mood. I might open the curtains just a bit wider to let in more sunshine, or perhaps I would goad a jay from its perch and watch it swoop in front of her chair on the porch. The temporary effect was good, but I could not change the root of the problem. She brought unhappiness and unease with her, and as she never discussed the details with her children, I could not know the source of her anguish. I was fixed on a foundation of solid cement, and it was beyond my power to protect her in her life away from our peaceful hill.
Despite my shortcomings, I was truly happy; I loved Mrs. Hyman and her kids.
The night was pitch-black. Nothing moved, nothing was lit; the skies were entirely shrouded by a thick layer of clouds. Nothing dared to hope, for ill news was as clearly in the air as the sickly sweet smell of flowers past bloom. The now-familiar sound of the Chrysler’s tires on the gravel drive once again resounded from the nearby woods. The Hymans had been my life-bestowing companions for over a year, and I had grown comfortable with the peculiarities of the family members, just as they had learned of my whimsical radio reception, my already-dripping sink faucet, and my uneven air conditioning.
But on this night, my senses of impending evil and rushing doom imposed themselves upon the cheerful feelings, smothering them as the clouds did the moonlight. The car pulled into the lot, stopped, and sat there for an unusual length of time before the dim headlights vanished. Mrs. Hyman emerged from the car, clearly wiping tears from her eyes. I checked quickly on the kids; yes, they were all safely asleep, as was the baby sitter. The shuddering woman walked numbly into the foyer, forgetting to shut the door, which I quietly did for her as she climbed the curving staircase. She blindly found the door to the master bedroom, and threw herself immediately onto the bed, weeping silently. I felt the water heater cease to function and the pipes go cold as the happiness in my core evaporated. I used what little force remained in my will to refill a glass of water by Mrs. Hyman’s bed, then slipped into slumber as she had done.
Early in the morning, the baby sitter awoke, shivering from the cold that emanated from my wooden bones. Concerned, she climbed the stairs quickly to check on the three children. When she found them perfectly safe, she glanced into the master bedroom. Seeing Mrs. Hyman asleep but on top of the covers and in her work clothes, she gently shook her shoulder, rousing her.
“Mrs. Hyman,” she said in a soft voice. “Are you okay? Should I take the kids with me to my place for the day?” Occasionally, the kids would visit with the sitter in her home closer to town, and I was not surprised to see Mrs. Hyman’s nod of ascent. My concern deepened, not because of distrust of the younger woman, but because Mrs. Hyman seemed quite careless and apathetic. The sitter led the drowsy children to her car in the drive with promises of a special breakfast at her house, and as the taillights disappeared around the bend, I drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
The crashing of several hands upon my front door jolted me awake, and I was surprised at first that I had not heard the crunching of the gravel. Presently, surprise was swept away by a wave of concern for my owner. She was still asleep, although she had apparently downed the glass of water and properly pulled the covers over herself after the sitter had left the room.
My windows glared down at the two men in business suits that continued to rudely slam their fists against the oak. I cracked open a window and the breeze gently woke Ms. Hyman, whose eyes snapped open at the crashing from the floor below. She hurriedly scrambled from bed and bolted out of her room and down my stairs, still fully dressed, but looking distinctly rumpled and mousy.
When she saw who was at the door, she promptly sank to the wood of the foyer floor. The warmth of her trembling body against my cold wood served as a plea for help. The suit-clad men, seeing Mrs. Hyman approach through the small window in the door, only to disappear again, opened the unlocked door. One of the men, with a nearly bald head, but sporting a pompous-looking moustache, squatted beside Mrs. Hyman and gently tried to bring her back to her feet. She simply stared at him with horror and grief clearly etched in her face.
It took several long minutes for the two men to calm the panicked woman and get her seated at the dining room table. Only when they had accomplished this did they dispose of their air of polite concern and bring out the briefcase. My ducts tightened as I watched the balding businessman put on a grim but resolved face, turn back to the table, and push a crisp sheet of paper in front of Mrs. Hyman. She didn’t move; she simply stared.
“Mrs. Hyman? Mrs. Hyman, I believe that last night you were made aware of the situation. We must be direct with you. You bought this house with money that was not technically yours. We discovered recently that the will that was initially found and used was not the most recent version. The late Mr. John T. Hyman apparently had revised his will shortly before he passed. In this new will, ma’am, he gave almost all of his wealth to the Planish family, who are now suing to get back the remaining money as well as this property.”
Ms. Hyman gave a small sob, but said nothing. Anger rose in me with uncontrollable force. I felt joint after joint in my water pipes strain as the pressure rose, and the liquid began to boil in the heater.
“I’m afraid that we have to evict you, as you now have no legal right to remain in this house and no money to pay the mortgage. The Planishes will go to court to get the property, of course, but they will not lose the suit.” Baldy paused, and lifted his arms, then adjusted his collar. “Is it getting warmer in here? Go open a window,” he said to the other man.
As the younger man approached the nearest window, I clamped down on it with all my might. “It’s stuck, Fred. Won’t budge an inch.” I could feel the heat increasing in the room. Rage and fear were pushing the heating system to full power. “Let’s go outside Fred! I don’t think I like this house much.”
Mrs. Hyman, who, like the men, had begun to sweat and who looked faint, led the way to the door. She threw herself outside, ignoring the storm door that slammed in the faces of Fred and his companion. Fred grasped the handle and pushed…but nothing happened. In my anger, I would not permit the men to leave my domain. They relentlessly pursued the unfortunate; it was their job, their livelihood, their lives. Fred threw himself against the door, which began to buckle under the force of the painful impact. He backed up to crash into the glass and meshed metal again, but I would have no more of it. As he stepped back, I slammed the heavy oak door with a thud, shattering the small window in it, and locking it with an obvious click.
The air inside me was reaching levels hotter than my heater was designed to achieve; the mercury rose in response to my uncontrolled ire and misery. Wallpaper nearest the heat vents began to shrink and crack, and paint and wood finish melted and fled towards the floor. In the basement, pipes burdened by scalding water burst from pressure and heat, dousing everything in blistering liquid. The two men trapped on the first floor covered their faces with their hands as they scrambled to find an exit. The backs of their hands and necks began to blister from the intense heat. Their sweat-drenched clothes were their only vain defense.
Old cloth and remnants of paint and varnish in the attic were blasted by super-heated air. They ignited, and the fire grew and hastily consumed nearby storage boxes, scorching possessions and melting memories. The timbers in the roof soon burst into orange, yellow and blue flames. At the same time, the hot searing water in the basement shorted out the electrical wiring, setting a corner of the room ablaze, and a tank of emergency gas was soon engulfed by the growing flames. A violent explosion rocked me to my core, but my antagonism had hit its peak, and I no longer cared for my own existence. It only mattered to me that the foes of my beloved Hymans should be punished. As flames engulfed the entire ceiling above the exploded tank, the roof began to crash in upon the men cowering in the foyer.
I could feel nothing but a burning desire for revenge.
I could no longer stand…I fell to my knees as wood popped and snapped.
I could think only of my love, torn apart by the greed of those who scorned love.
I could taste nothing but ashes and dust, fire and dry air.
I could barely see. The flames and heat melted the glass of my eyes.
As the roof continued to collapse, my faltering gaze fell upon the soot-covered men in ruined suits, beings who crouched in terror not far from the smashed side window through which they had made their escape. Under my gaze, the flowers beside them burst into flames.
I could barely remember my love. I was blinded, numbed, tortured by hate. I was only conscious of loss as the ashes of the flowers were pounded into the soil by the rain that fell from the gloomy fall sky.
The rain has come and gone, rinsing, cooling, and refreshing the earth. Ashes and dust are scattered by the wind. Rivulets have formed, cutting paths through my charred remains. I cling now to consciousness, and time passes in leaps and bounds. In the print of my abandoned, burnt, and broken skeleton, life and hope have found a way to prevail. Wild, beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers have again sprouted up in their gardens, and have ventured into my remains. Under the gaze of the majestic Blue Ridge, I am at last finding peace and solace. The earth envelops me in a warm, living embrace, just as I once did for those who cared for me.
I now feel the earth beneath me, a part of me. I now stand tall in spirit and memories. I now taste clean rain and fresh fragrance on the air. I now see the world in a distorted, broken, but exhilarating new way, through the fragments of shattered and melted windows.
I now love without the taint of hatred. And a lone rose bush now grows in the ash-strewn earth next to the silent gravel drive.
I remember the first time I could stand. The beams of solid oak took on the skeletal impression of my rising bulk, and as wood met sky, I felt energy and stamina that would carry me for centuries to come.
I remember the first time I could think clearly. As the roof began to take shape, my consciousness sharpened, my mind clearing from the fog of youthfulness and immaturity. I suppose my childhood lasted mere weeks, but my life would far exceed those souls whose job it was to construct me.
I remember the first time I could taste. Drywall and paneling now blocked out the wind, save for the gaps intended as windows and, more distinctly, the front door. It was through this rectangular breach that I could taste the air, the wind, the world.
I remember the first time I could see. The glass in the windows was my lens on the world. Through it I watched vehicles and people come and go, much as they watch time-lapse films of houses being erected.
I remember the first time I loved. And I remember the first time I was angered.
It was a hot, muggy summer afternoon, and I had been sleeping fitfully when the crunching of gravel roused me. I watched suspiciously as a new, 1961 Chrysler Imperial pulled to a halt in front of my porch. Near the horizon behind the car, a typical early-evening thunderstorm brewed menacingly, but the man that emerged from the passenger seat seemed not to notice. His hair was black and slicked down to the point of absurdity, but he carried himself with a casual confidence that undoubtedly concealed a scheming shrewdness. He was clearly a salesperson to the core, and I was the item for sale.
The salesman circled the front of the car, tapping the hood lightly as he went, and opened the door to the driver’s seat. The woman who stepped out laughed uncomfortably at the showy performance of etiquette. She was middle-aged with light-brown hair, and had apparently tried to give herself a look of properness and sophistication that simply had not worked. Her hair was already coming out of its tight knot, and somehow the dressy clothes she wore managed to look casual and unimposing.
The woman was led to the steps of my porch, where the two stopped. Her eyes swept the front façade, and then settled upon the freshly planted flowers. The salesman was talking.
“…and as I mentioned, ma’am, it’s brand new, with the latest in design techniques. The property includes about twenty acres on this hill, and as you can see, the designers tried to give the house a bit of a timeless feel—that porch wraps around three sides—but with a modern family in mind. It has central air conditioning and heating, as well as a separate phone line into the office. And the kitchen is built for today’s stay-at-home mother. Come see…”
The woman, who had bent down to smell a scarlet rose, said, “It’s just me and the kids…I don’t get to stay at home much.”
She walked through the door held open by the man, and into my foyer. Her eyes followed the graceful swing of the grand stairs as they curved away to the shadowy landing a dozen feet above. Mouthing the word “wow,” she turned her head to the salesman and asked, “How big is this house? It seems smaller from out there.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? It’s about four thousand square feet—”
“Gosh!”
“—But I assure you, it will feel well-inhabited and manageable once you all move in. It has five bedrooms, so your kids won’t have to share space, and the master bedroom and bath are spectacular. Have a look; if you’ll follow me, Mrs. Hyman.”
They ascended the stairs, the salesman looking confident, almost smug; Mrs. Hyman looking around in wonder. When they reached the landing, they turned left towards the master bedroom. However, just as the man stepped into the last room on the hall, Mrs. Hyman let out a gasp. She stared fixedly out of the window at the end of the hall, which looked out over my backyard. The gardens, the trees, the pool made out of dark grey granite, the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, she took them all in. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the stunning panorama.
“I’ll take it!” she exclaimed, still not turning from the window. The salesman started and then grinned broadly. Mrs. Hyman continued, still entranced, “How much is it?”
“Well, for you I believe I could drive the price down to a reasonable offer. It was set at eighty thousand, but I might get the developer to part with it for ten percent less, say, seveny-two.”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” Mrs. Hyman repeated in a soft, breathy voice.
The salesman hesitated, then asked with the first sign of genuine care, “Ma’am, are you sure you can afford this?”
“What? Oh, yes, certainly. You see, I recently lost—someone. The inheritance was, um, quite large.”
“Wonderful then, I’ll drive you back to the office, get you some of the necessary paperwork, and then we should be able to close the deal in a matter of days.”
The slick-haired man led Mrs. Hyman back down the hall, but not before she took one last glance out of the window. Their footsteps on the gravel of the drive were the last that graced my hilltop for nearly a month.
The sound of a car winding its way along the gravel drive broke the rural serenity again, bringing with it a full vehicle and the release of a longing that I had only mildly registered before. Only with Mrs. Hyman’s return was I made fully aware that I had missed the presence of a person who genuinely cared for me. Everyone else involved in the construction or marketing of “this lovely, new, spacious house” had been acting purely for potential profit. However, one special person had not thought of the money involved, but had been captured by me and had been drawn to me regardless of the cost.
Mrs. Hyman looked disheveled as three children scrambled out of the car, yelling and tussling, but she smiled as she gazed at me in rapture. For the first time in my short life, I felt helpless and powerless, for I could do little more than be myself and hope that the spell remained.
The tan side of the moving van glared at me later that afternoon, but the lone man who arrived with it only helped a couple of times with the heavier items that were too much for Mrs. Hyman alone. The kids tried to assist on occasion, but what they could manage barely made up for their ability to get underfoot. I have to admit that the household items delivered on the moving van looked woefully insufficient in my cavernous rooms, but I, like the Hymans, was not overly concerned, for all of us were happy and content.
The little Hyman children took no time to make themselves at home, and their happiness, coupled with the obvious satisfaction of their mother, warmed me to my foundation. Mrs. Hyman often displayed her love of flowers, and wasted no time in placing an abundance of color in the large back yard and in window flowerpots. She would care for them with tenderness, coaxing the blooms to drink deeply of golden rays of sun. She had little time when she was not called upon to work, and the gardens that she wrought provided a crucial release for her. I watched how she cared for me and her flowers, and felt the bond between us strengthen day by day.
While tendrils of sadness and remorse would occasionally creep into the expressions on Mrs. Hyman’s face, I could generally effect some change in the room that would lighten her mood. I might open the curtains just a bit wider to let in more sunshine, or perhaps I would goad a jay from its perch and watch it swoop in front of her chair on the porch. The temporary effect was good, but I could not change the root of the problem. She brought unhappiness and unease with her, and as she never discussed the details with her children, I could not know the source of her anguish. I was fixed on a foundation of solid cement, and it was beyond my power to protect her in her life away from our peaceful hill.
Despite my shortcomings, I was truly happy; I loved Mrs. Hyman and her kids.
The night was pitch-black. Nothing moved, nothing was lit; the skies were entirely shrouded by a thick layer of clouds. Nothing dared to hope, for ill news was as clearly in the air as the sickly sweet smell of flowers past bloom. The now-familiar sound of the Chrysler’s tires on the gravel drive once again resounded from the nearby woods. The Hymans had been my life-bestowing companions for over a year, and I had grown comfortable with the peculiarities of the family members, just as they had learned of my whimsical radio reception, my already-dripping sink faucet, and my uneven air conditioning.
But on this night, my senses of impending evil and rushing doom imposed themselves upon the cheerful feelings, smothering them as the clouds did the moonlight. The car pulled into the lot, stopped, and sat there for an unusual length of time before the dim headlights vanished. Mrs. Hyman emerged from the car, clearly wiping tears from her eyes. I checked quickly on the kids; yes, they were all safely asleep, as was the baby sitter. The shuddering woman walked numbly into the foyer, forgetting to shut the door, which I quietly did for her as she climbed the curving staircase. She blindly found the door to the master bedroom, and threw herself immediately onto the bed, weeping silently. I felt the water heater cease to function and the pipes go cold as the happiness in my core evaporated. I used what little force remained in my will to refill a glass of water by Mrs. Hyman’s bed, then slipped into slumber as she had done.
Early in the morning, the baby sitter awoke, shivering from the cold that emanated from my wooden bones. Concerned, she climbed the stairs quickly to check on the three children. When she found them perfectly safe, she glanced into the master bedroom. Seeing Mrs. Hyman asleep but on top of the covers and in her work clothes, she gently shook her shoulder, rousing her.
“Mrs. Hyman,” she said in a soft voice. “Are you okay? Should I take the kids with me to my place for the day?” Occasionally, the kids would visit with the sitter in her home closer to town, and I was not surprised to see Mrs. Hyman’s nod of ascent. My concern deepened, not because of distrust of the younger woman, but because Mrs. Hyman seemed quite careless and apathetic. The sitter led the drowsy children to her car in the drive with promises of a special breakfast at her house, and as the taillights disappeared around the bend, I drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
The crashing of several hands upon my front door jolted me awake, and I was surprised at first that I had not heard the crunching of the gravel. Presently, surprise was swept away by a wave of concern for my owner. She was still asleep, although she had apparently downed the glass of water and properly pulled the covers over herself after the sitter had left the room.
My windows glared down at the two men in business suits that continued to rudely slam their fists against the oak. I cracked open a window and the breeze gently woke Ms. Hyman, whose eyes snapped open at the crashing from the floor below. She hurriedly scrambled from bed and bolted out of her room and down my stairs, still fully dressed, but looking distinctly rumpled and mousy.
When she saw who was at the door, she promptly sank to the wood of the foyer floor. The warmth of her trembling body against my cold wood served as a plea for help. The suit-clad men, seeing Mrs. Hyman approach through the small window in the door, only to disappear again, opened the unlocked door. One of the men, with a nearly bald head, but sporting a pompous-looking moustache, squatted beside Mrs. Hyman and gently tried to bring her back to her feet. She simply stared at him with horror and grief clearly etched in her face.
It took several long minutes for the two men to calm the panicked woman and get her seated at the dining room table. Only when they had accomplished this did they dispose of their air of polite concern and bring out the briefcase. My ducts tightened as I watched the balding businessman put on a grim but resolved face, turn back to the table, and push a crisp sheet of paper in front of Mrs. Hyman. She didn’t move; she simply stared.
“Mrs. Hyman? Mrs. Hyman, I believe that last night you were made aware of the situation. We must be direct with you. You bought this house with money that was not technically yours. We discovered recently that the will that was initially found and used was not the most recent version. The late Mr. John T. Hyman apparently had revised his will shortly before he passed. In this new will, ma’am, he gave almost all of his wealth to the Planish family, who are now suing to get back the remaining money as well as this property.”
Ms. Hyman gave a small sob, but said nothing. Anger rose in me with uncontrollable force. I felt joint after joint in my water pipes strain as the pressure rose, and the liquid began to boil in the heater.
“I’m afraid that we have to evict you, as you now have no legal right to remain in this house and no money to pay the mortgage. The Planishes will go to court to get the property, of course, but they will not lose the suit.” Baldy paused, and lifted his arms, then adjusted his collar. “Is it getting warmer in here? Go open a window,” he said to the other man.
As the younger man approached the nearest window, I clamped down on it with all my might. “It’s stuck, Fred. Won’t budge an inch.” I could feel the heat increasing in the room. Rage and fear were pushing the heating system to full power. “Let’s go outside Fred! I don’t think I like this house much.”
Mrs. Hyman, who, like the men, had begun to sweat and who looked faint, led the way to the door. She threw herself outside, ignoring the storm door that slammed in the faces of Fred and his companion. Fred grasped the handle and pushed…but nothing happened. In my anger, I would not permit the men to leave my domain. They relentlessly pursued the unfortunate; it was their job, their livelihood, their lives. Fred threw himself against the door, which began to buckle under the force of the painful impact. He backed up to crash into the glass and meshed metal again, but I would have no more of it. As he stepped back, I slammed the heavy oak door with a thud, shattering the small window in it, and locking it with an obvious click.
The air inside me was reaching levels hotter than my heater was designed to achieve; the mercury rose in response to my uncontrolled ire and misery. Wallpaper nearest the heat vents began to shrink and crack, and paint and wood finish melted and fled towards the floor. In the basement, pipes burdened by scalding water burst from pressure and heat, dousing everything in blistering liquid. The two men trapped on the first floor covered their faces with their hands as they scrambled to find an exit. The backs of their hands and necks began to blister from the intense heat. Their sweat-drenched clothes were their only vain defense.
Old cloth and remnants of paint and varnish in the attic were blasted by super-heated air. They ignited, and the fire grew and hastily consumed nearby storage boxes, scorching possessions and melting memories. The timbers in the roof soon burst into orange, yellow and blue flames. At the same time, the hot searing water in the basement shorted out the electrical wiring, setting a corner of the room ablaze, and a tank of emergency gas was soon engulfed by the growing flames. A violent explosion rocked me to my core, but my antagonism had hit its peak, and I no longer cared for my own existence. It only mattered to me that the foes of my beloved Hymans should be punished. As flames engulfed the entire ceiling above the exploded tank, the roof began to crash in upon the men cowering in the foyer.
I could feel nothing but a burning desire for revenge.
I could no longer stand…I fell to my knees as wood popped and snapped.
I could think only of my love, torn apart by the greed of those who scorned love.
I could taste nothing but ashes and dust, fire and dry air.
I could barely see. The flames and heat melted the glass of my eyes.
As the roof continued to collapse, my faltering gaze fell upon the soot-covered men in ruined suits, beings who crouched in terror not far from the smashed side window through which they had made their escape. Under my gaze, the flowers beside them burst into flames.
I could barely remember my love. I was blinded, numbed, tortured by hate. I was only conscious of loss as the ashes of the flowers were pounded into the soil by the rain that fell from the gloomy fall sky.
The rain has come and gone, rinsing, cooling, and refreshing the earth. Ashes and dust are scattered by the wind. Rivulets have formed, cutting paths through my charred remains. I cling now to consciousness, and time passes in leaps and bounds. In the print of my abandoned, burnt, and broken skeleton, life and hope have found a way to prevail. Wild, beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers have again sprouted up in their gardens, and have ventured into my remains. Under the gaze of the majestic Blue Ridge, I am at last finding peace and solace. The earth envelops me in a warm, living embrace, just as I once did for those who cared for me.
I now feel the earth beneath me, a part of me. I now stand tall in spirit and memories. I now taste clean rain and fresh fragrance on the air. I now see the world in a distorted, broken, but exhilarating new way, through the fragments of shattered and melted windows.
I now love without the taint of hatred. And a lone rose bush now grows in the ash-strewn earth next to the silent gravel drive.
To a Swallow that Must Return (3/07)
This poem requires some background. This is the only poem that I've posted that was written for a school assignment, but I'm rather fond of it. The premise is that the Romantic poet Byron wrote this to my great-great-great-great-grandmother, and it was just discovered in some old papers. Byron spent much of his time in Italy, as did many poets of that era, even though he was British.
To a Swallow that Must Return
The wind turned cooler as the clock
Wound towards its wintry end.
The sea’s warm air by Naples’ dock
Did battle with that wind.
You came without a warning sound,
A silent flap of wings.
And gazed with eyes both sharp and round,
Too foreign yet to sing.
I reached my hand to lend that aid,
One new arriving needs,
You gladly seized the proffered strand,
And pulled yourself towards me.
For two months now, my constant friend,
My heart has been with yours,
But know I now, your wings will rend
that love on distant shores.
The cold that grips that isle of yours,
The Thames a sheet of ice,
Must surely melt and in those hours,
Your heart it will entice.
So with the coming of the Spring,
The swallow turns its back
Upon the most beloved thing,
To trace again that track.
To a Swallow that Must Return
The wind turned cooler as the clock
Wound towards its wintry end.
The sea’s warm air by Naples’ dock
Did battle with that wind.
You came without a warning sound,
A silent flap of wings.
And gazed with eyes both sharp and round,
Too foreign yet to sing.
I reached my hand to lend that aid,
One new arriving needs,
You gladly seized the proffered strand,
And pulled yourself towards me.
For two months now, my constant friend,
My heart has been with yours,
But know I now, your wings will rend
that love on distant shores.
The cold that grips that isle of yours,
The Thames a sheet of ice,
Must surely melt and in those hours,
Your heart it will entice.
So with the coming of the Spring,
The swallow turns its back
Upon the most beloved thing,
To trace again that track.
Pseudo-Epic, Chapter 1 (6/06)
For many weeks and many months
I’d worn my boots to naught but runts.
My legs and back drew pain.
The night approached, to stress my wants,
Since long ago began my hunts
To garner fame and gain.
As drizzling rain soaked to my all,
A shred of hope fought ire and gall,
My heart grew stronger yet.
The battlements and hulking wall
Of castle grand and towers tall,
Its windows glist’ning wet.
Great oak and iron gates loomed tough.
I hobbled nigh, ‘twas close enough
To sound aloud the portal.
Ere long came keeper, gaunt and rough.
Agape went gates, with creaks a-muff,
Revealing halls immortal.
The torch he held cast pitch and light
On walls cloaked thick in looming night.
Our footsteps echoed on.
He said no word, showed not a fright,
But swept along, ignored my plight.
I followed as a pawn.
At last a glow ‘round yonder bend!
My guide stopped short, alone to send
This cold and weary soul.
I came upon doors firm to defend
What must the history books append,
Or change them in the whole.
The crowded room that towered vast,
Could swallow galleon, hull and mast,
With room again to spare.
My eyes, barraged by great a blast,
Of light from millions candles cast,
Beheld magnificent fare.
The feast for kings, for lords, for God,
On wooden tables long and broad
Revived my appetite.
But front, and high, the king sat, shod
In boots of war, with staff and rod,
Did awe and fear invite.
His cuirass strong, his greaves like stone,
His crest on shield like fire shone.
This armored lord of war.
His sword lay propped against his throne.
An army was this man alone,
A king of myth and lore.
A guard approached to learn my need,
Distinguish must from want and greed.
I made my business plain.
Ere asking lord the guard agreed
To offer food and chair and mead,
Which slowly soothed my pain.
With guests all supped and filled to brim,
The king arose, spoke o’er the din.
A silence fell like night.
“I prithee all liked meal and gin,
With no ado we shall begin
To act out tales of might.”
And now the lord’s attire made
Some sense as epic tales were played
In spaces cleared for acts.
All heroes were by him displayed,
Of fights and battles, quests and raids.
He was, at end, intact.
For hours ‘pon hours the tales were spun,
Of knights and dragons, kings and sons.
They held my focus rapt.
A comedy was shown for fun
Of heroes who could naught but run,
Pursued by wolves that yapped.
At last, with epic stories told,
A task was set for fame and gold.
My interest soon was piqued.
“My men have shared a story bold,
Of riches in a dragon’s hold,
Not open to the meek.
“The morrow holds the time to leave,
But those left here are not bereaved,
The gold will be hard-earned
Of great a trek is this the eve,
Of those who join, I do believe,
Far fewer shall return.”
The scrape of chairs and stomp of feet,
The general din did not entreat,
A mood of concentration.
I stayed steadfast and in my seat
My stomach full of bread and meat,
Mind gorged on thought of action.
‘Twas to my shock to look around,
And catch the king’s glance, which in frown
Beheld a spark of interest.
He rose, approached, and fast sat down,
To quiz me on my foreign gown,
As these first probes attest:
“Good man, whence hail thee through this storm,
To wind up here, to eat and warm?
It’s surely not nearby;
Those haunted eyes that smudge your charm
To many men would send alarm.
Your travels are awry?”
“Right you are m’lord,” said I,
And deigned to mark the how and why,
I found myself then there.
“The challenge offered caught my eye.
Perhaps I’ll ride and give a try,
To take the dragon’s ware.”
“Indeed you may, but warned you’ve been,
A harder task you’ve never seen,
‘Twill likely be your last.
But if your mind is set and keen,
You’ve my consent, though not the queen’s,
To prove you’re strong and fast.”
This interview complete and done,
He marched through doors to join with fun
Society without.
Ere time allowed for me to run
Behind my valiant lord new-won,
I heard an uproar shout.
“Hail to the Queen, her most-high might,
Hail she whose foes do quail with fright,
For she is near at hand!
Hail to the Queen, who day and night,
Protects us from all wrong or slight!
Hail Queen of all the land!”
With cat-like speed aroused by awe,
I honored she who shaped the law
By leaping to my feet.
Her skin like snow, her hair like straw;
One look, my frozen heart did thaw,
Ere I had chance to think.
I bowed my head in fierce tribute,
Then seeing neighbors follow suit,
I bent my torso low.
The Queen’s soft step, ‘gainst thumping boot
Of men in royal garb, was mute,
Poised high but without show.
“In preparation of our trek
On which we choose to prone our necks,
Her Highness stoops to speak.”
The spokesman stood aloft, erect,
To bring that regal call and beck
Which did our notice pique.
“Good men, brave knights, and loyal squires,
You’ve glimpsed in part your hearts’ desires,
And we’ll to this pursue.
You need your rest, but don’t retire
With minds-eyes burning white with fire.
This counsel I give you.
“Be wary of the greed that stalks,
The mound of jewels and snake which talks,
For they will see you dead.
The last are first when danger walks
Nearby to gobble him who balks
At leaving cache fast stead.
“Take up this quest, but mind you keep
A thought towards good, lest you should weep
from fire on Earth, then low.
For scaly beast that will not sleep
Is one with him who from the deep
All sins of ours doest know.
“The last remark that I’ve to give
Reflects my hope that all shall live
By showing well what’s right:
Be moral, kind, and substantive
To aid those men who’re cohortive;
Forsake not those in plight.”
Her speech complete, the message cast,
Her Highness rose and, first to last,
Acquainted with the crowd.
I was the end, so time had passed
And hall was nearly clear, when fast
The Queen neared, strong and proud.
I bowed again to certify
For her my humble stance and shy,
For here pure power ran.
If men corrupt when strength doth lie
Within an easy grasp, then I
Stared surely not at man.
Her two tall guards were not so full
Of grace as she, but built like bulls,
Would batter most to pulp.
She glanced around and saw the hall
Devoid of men, the candles dull.
Her look, it forced my gulp.
I’d worn my boots to naught but runts.
My legs and back drew pain.
The night approached, to stress my wants,
Since long ago began my hunts
To garner fame and gain.
As drizzling rain soaked to my all,
A shred of hope fought ire and gall,
My heart grew stronger yet.
The battlements and hulking wall
Of castle grand and towers tall,
Its windows glist’ning wet.
Great oak and iron gates loomed tough.
I hobbled nigh, ‘twas close enough
To sound aloud the portal.
Ere long came keeper, gaunt and rough.
Agape went gates, with creaks a-muff,
Revealing halls immortal.
The torch he held cast pitch and light
On walls cloaked thick in looming night.
Our footsteps echoed on.
He said no word, showed not a fright,
But swept along, ignored my plight.
I followed as a pawn.
At last a glow ‘round yonder bend!
My guide stopped short, alone to send
This cold and weary soul.
I came upon doors firm to defend
What must the history books append,
Or change them in the whole.
The crowded room that towered vast,
Could swallow galleon, hull and mast,
With room again to spare.
My eyes, barraged by great a blast,
Of light from millions candles cast,
Beheld magnificent fare.
The feast for kings, for lords, for God,
On wooden tables long and broad
Revived my appetite.
But front, and high, the king sat, shod
In boots of war, with staff and rod,
Did awe and fear invite.
His cuirass strong, his greaves like stone,
His crest on shield like fire shone.
This armored lord of war.
His sword lay propped against his throne.
An army was this man alone,
A king of myth and lore.
A guard approached to learn my need,
Distinguish must from want and greed.
I made my business plain.
Ere asking lord the guard agreed
To offer food and chair and mead,
Which slowly soothed my pain.
With guests all supped and filled to brim,
The king arose, spoke o’er the din.
A silence fell like night.
“I prithee all liked meal and gin,
With no ado we shall begin
To act out tales of might.”
And now the lord’s attire made
Some sense as epic tales were played
In spaces cleared for acts.
All heroes were by him displayed,
Of fights and battles, quests and raids.
He was, at end, intact.
For hours ‘pon hours the tales were spun,
Of knights and dragons, kings and sons.
They held my focus rapt.
A comedy was shown for fun
Of heroes who could naught but run,
Pursued by wolves that yapped.
At last, with epic stories told,
A task was set for fame and gold.
My interest soon was piqued.
“My men have shared a story bold,
Of riches in a dragon’s hold,
Not open to the meek.
“The morrow holds the time to leave,
But those left here are not bereaved,
The gold will be hard-earned
Of great a trek is this the eve,
Of those who join, I do believe,
Far fewer shall return.”
The scrape of chairs and stomp of feet,
The general din did not entreat,
A mood of concentration.
I stayed steadfast and in my seat
My stomach full of bread and meat,
Mind gorged on thought of action.
‘Twas to my shock to look around,
And catch the king’s glance, which in frown
Beheld a spark of interest.
He rose, approached, and fast sat down,
To quiz me on my foreign gown,
As these first probes attest:
“Good man, whence hail thee through this storm,
To wind up here, to eat and warm?
It’s surely not nearby;
Those haunted eyes that smudge your charm
To many men would send alarm.
Your travels are awry?”
“Right you are m’lord,” said I,
And deigned to mark the how and why,
I found myself then there.
“The challenge offered caught my eye.
Perhaps I’ll ride and give a try,
To take the dragon’s ware.”
“Indeed you may, but warned you’ve been,
A harder task you’ve never seen,
‘Twill likely be your last.
But if your mind is set and keen,
You’ve my consent, though not the queen’s,
To prove you’re strong and fast.”
This interview complete and done,
He marched through doors to join with fun
Society without.
Ere time allowed for me to run
Behind my valiant lord new-won,
I heard an uproar shout.
“Hail to the Queen, her most-high might,
Hail she whose foes do quail with fright,
For she is near at hand!
Hail to the Queen, who day and night,
Protects us from all wrong or slight!
Hail Queen of all the land!”
With cat-like speed aroused by awe,
I honored she who shaped the law
By leaping to my feet.
Her skin like snow, her hair like straw;
One look, my frozen heart did thaw,
Ere I had chance to think.
I bowed my head in fierce tribute,
Then seeing neighbors follow suit,
I bent my torso low.
The Queen’s soft step, ‘gainst thumping boot
Of men in royal garb, was mute,
Poised high but without show.
“In preparation of our trek
On which we choose to prone our necks,
Her Highness stoops to speak.”
The spokesman stood aloft, erect,
To bring that regal call and beck
Which did our notice pique.
“Good men, brave knights, and loyal squires,
You’ve glimpsed in part your hearts’ desires,
And we’ll to this pursue.
You need your rest, but don’t retire
With minds-eyes burning white with fire.
This counsel I give you.
“Be wary of the greed that stalks,
The mound of jewels and snake which talks,
For they will see you dead.
The last are first when danger walks
Nearby to gobble him who balks
At leaving cache fast stead.
“Take up this quest, but mind you keep
A thought towards good, lest you should weep
from fire on Earth, then low.
For scaly beast that will not sleep
Is one with him who from the deep
All sins of ours doest know.
“The last remark that I’ve to give
Reflects my hope that all shall live
By showing well what’s right:
Be moral, kind, and substantive
To aid those men who’re cohortive;
Forsake not those in plight.”
Her speech complete, the message cast,
Her Highness rose and, first to last,
Acquainted with the crowd.
I was the end, so time had passed
And hall was nearly clear, when fast
The Queen neared, strong and proud.
I bowed again to certify
For her my humble stance and shy,
For here pure power ran.
If men corrupt when strength doth lie
Within an easy grasp, then I
Stared surely not at man.
Her two tall guards were not so full
Of grace as she, but built like bulls,
Would batter most to pulp.
She glanced around and saw the hall
Devoid of men, the candles dull.
Her look, it forced my gulp.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Modernism, Chips and Salsa (12/06)
This once-small nation shrugged away the years
Of blood and smoke and bitter anthems sung,
And faced a world with new-found might, sans fears.
We dreamed of aiding all good folks far-flung.
The power of the world was ours to wield.
And sure we were that Heaven placed its trust,
In our strong will, our might, our ores, our fields.
We’d keep our strength and shrug off blow and gust.
But years of strife in rice and sticky mire,
Took chips out of our armor green and black.
Our gleeful neighbors salsa danced through dire
And grim assaults against our deals and pacts.
We’ve come to see that we lack such great pow’r
To fight the world’s wails and tears in show’rs.
Of blood and smoke and bitter anthems sung,
And faced a world with new-found might, sans fears.
We dreamed of aiding all good folks far-flung.
The power of the world was ours to wield.
And sure we were that Heaven placed its trust,
In our strong will, our might, our ores, our fields.
We’d keep our strength and shrug off blow and gust.
But years of strife in rice and sticky mire,
Took chips out of our armor green and black.
Our gleeful neighbors salsa danced through dire
And grim assaults against our deals and pacts.
We’ve come to see that we lack such great pow’r
To fight the world’s wails and tears in show’rs.
Orion Soars (1/07)
Orion soars in ready stance to fight
The march of Time’s vast hordes that will not cease.
His knife on glimm’ring belt is swift and light,
His bow held high and poised to win us peace.
He sets so tall, not live but not deceased,
And raises club and blade to free our hands
From fetters set by Time, whose dread, obese,
And rav’nous gut consumes our days on lands.
With pow’rs that strive to match Time’s tough demands,
Orion brawls for us in stellar shows.
But should the massive force that Time commands
Prevail against that star who for us rows,
We must not pause or grieve, for we remain,
and stronger only for Time’s rope and chain.
The march of Time’s vast hordes that will not cease.
His knife on glimm’ring belt is swift and light,
His bow held high and poised to win us peace.
He sets so tall, not live but not deceased,
And raises club and blade to free our hands
From fetters set by Time, whose dread, obese,
And rav’nous gut consumes our days on lands.
With pow’rs that strive to match Time’s tough demands,
Orion brawls for us in stellar shows.
But should the massive force that Time commands
Prevail against that star who for us rows,
We must not pause or grieve, for we remain,
and stronger only for Time’s rope and chain.
Plaster and Clay (2/06)
It lies, alone, with naught around,
On boxes yellowed with age.
Its plaster jaws agape in a frown,
Its eyes both sharp with rage.
A neck extends, supports a head,
The clay dried out and cracked.
Its silent bulk a dull, dark red.
The broken tail lies slack.
The fearsome beast of children’s tales
Brought to its knees at last
No more a threat than hardened bones
Of those from eons past.
If clay and plaster mouth could tell
The glory of its kind
We’d get a glimpse, for just a spell,
Beyond a fossil find.
A world of jungles and sprawling land.
A world of danger rife.
A world with giants alive and grand.
A world packed full of life.
So listen sharp to hear a roar
Escape the withered throat
From well before the birds could soar
Or history we wrote.
Its hide bears scars of battles fought
And ages under sun.
Perhaps it’s only recently wrought
But it bridges time’s long run.
On boxes yellowed with age.
Its plaster jaws agape in a frown,
Its eyes both sharp with rage.
A neck extends, supports a head,
The clay dried out and cracked.
Its silent bulk a dull, dark red.
The broken tail lies slack.
The fearsome beast of children’s tales
Brought to its knees at last
No more a threat than hardened bones
Of those from eons past.
If clay and plaster mouth could tell
The glory of its kind
We’d get a glimpse, for just a spell,
Beyond a fossil find.
A world of jungles and sprawling land.
A world of danger rife.
A world with giants alive and grand.
A world packed full of life.
So listen sharp to hear a roar
Escape the withered throat
From well before the birds could soar
Or history we wrote.
Its hide bears scars of battles fought
And ages under sun.
Perhaps it’s only recently wrought
But it bridges time’s long run.
It makes me sick (10/06)
There’s a ringing in my ears.
Or maybe it’s just the stereo,
Belting out its filth.
Oh, can’t get enough of you so I think we should all get high and drunk and then I can drive you back to my place and you know what happens then and there’s nothing anyone can do about it –oh, they’ll try to catch me livin’ dirty, like the flee-ridden scum that I am but who cares, cuz I have more money than God (who isn’t real anyway) and you just gotta live for today, and feel good feel good feel good.
There’s a ringing in my eyes.
Or maybe it’s just that show,
Spewing forth our culture.
Hey let’s be Friends (if you know what I mean), or if you won’t be you have 24 hours to let me know so I can just get Lost, maybe make u my Idol but first u need a serious Makeover because anyone can tell you with a Ride as Pimped as mine I cant let the Pap get a shot of me with you and don’t tell me im Blind to Date that what’s-her-name, just cuz of her attitude, because after all whats cussing but just some more flavorful words.
There’s a ringing in my mind,
And it’s the alarm clock that never
Wakes me up. So I’m stuck.
I can’t get out of the desert.
I don’t even see the water anymore,
Until I force myself to.
But then it floods in and I can’t breath.
Katrina couldn’t touch this,
The government?
Can’t save us this time. No,
It’s not money or tax breaks,
Or better police, or better schools, or better economy, or better security, or better civil rights, or better roads, or better congressmen, or better food, or better weight-loss, or better healthcare, or better handguns, or better intelligence, or better free government handouts.
Because you know what?
It’s you. And you, and you and you and you and you and you.
And me. And it makes me sick.
To think that I can’t do
ANYTHING by myself.
Or maybe it’s just the stereo,
Belting out its filth.
Oh, can’t get enough of you so I think we should all get high and drunk and then I can drive you back to my place and you know what happens then and there’s nothing anyone can do about it –oh, they’ll try to catch me livin’ dirty, like the flee-ridden scum that I am but who cares, cuz I have more money than God (who isn’t real anyway) and you just gotta live for today, and feel good feel good feel good.
There’s a ringing in my eyes.
Or maybe it’s just that show,
Spewing forth our culture.
Hey let’s be Friends (if you know what I mean), or if you won’t be you have 24 hours to let me know so I can just get Lost, maybe make u my Idol but first u need a serious Makeover because anyone can tell you with a Ride as Pimped as mine I cant let the Pap get a shot of me with you and don’t tell me im Blind to Date that what’s-her-name, just cuz of her attitude, because after all whats cussing but just some more flavorful words.
There’s a ringing in my mind,
And it’s the alarm clock that never
Wakes me up. So I’m stuck.
I can’t get out of the desert.
I don’t even see the water anymore,
Until I force myself to.
But then it floods in and I can’t breath.
Katrina couldn’t touch this,
The government?
Can’t save us this time. No,
It’s not money or tax breaks,
Or better police, or better schools, or better economy, or better security, or better civil rights, or better roads, or better congressmen, or better food, or better weight-loss, or better healthcare, or better handguns, or better intelligence, or better free government handouts.
Because you know what?
It’s you. And you, and you and you and you and you and you.
And me. And it makes me sick.
To think that I can’t do
ANYTHING by myself.
A walk through the woods
A walk through the woods,
Though it lasts just a while,
Can show me the power
Of two lowly smiles.
My world redefined
In the speech of a phrase;
My yearnings and fancies
Fulfilled in a gaze.
I’d stay here forever,
While Earth fell to dust,
If I knew you’d remain here,
Come high gale or gust.
I’d stay by your side
Through night and through day,
Watch leaves fall in autumn
Then sprout new ere May.
So, if you abandoned
Your spot by my head
As we marvel at stars,
Warmed by tea and by bread.
I’d creep back inside
And crawl deep in my bed,
Where at least I could dream
About all that you’ve said.
But hoping and trusting
To faith and this love,
I’ll be here forever,
Like stars up above.
This forest is home
To an alter of mine,
Precious ground where your voice
Is ever enshrined.
Like an angel descended,
Butterflies overcome,
You said to me simply—
I’ll say it again as a kind of renewal. Each time that you read this…
“I think we should go out.”
Me, too.
New life—A fresh, blesséd start.
Calmly and smiling…
Respond in your heart.
Though it lasts just a while,
Can show me the power
Of two lowly smiles.
My world redefined
In the speech of a phrase;
My yearnings and fancies
Fulfilled in a gaze.
I’d stay here forever,
While Earth fell to dust,
If I knew you’d remain here,
Come high gale or gust.
I’d stay by your side
Through night and through day,
Watch leaves fall in autumn
Then sprout new ere May.
So, if you abandoned
Your spot by my head
As we marvel at stars,
Warmed by tea and by bread.
I’d creep back inside
And crawl deep in my bed,
Where at least I could dream
About all that you’ve said.
But hoping and trusting
To faith and this love,
I’ll be here forever,
Like stars up above.
This forest is home
To an alter of mine,
Precious ground where your voice
Is ever enshrined.
Like an angel descended,
Butterflies overcome,
You said to me simply—
I’ll say it again as a kind of renewal. Each time that you read this…
“I think we should go out.”
Me, too.
New life—A fresh, blesséd start.
Calmly and smiling…
Respond in your heart.
Dagger's Twin (3/07)
A flash of anger, white hot rage;
With sultry ire, my ink melts page.
My trust was felled by drunken hands,
Ensnared in Godless battle plans.
I offered her my castle high
Where demon’s drink could only try
In vain to tear the walls away,
Repelled for yet another day.
It seems like only one day past
I strolled these woods and rich green grass.
When peace had power for the day,
This girl clad black in knight’s array
Could travel free from fear of drops
Of Satan’s liquid, ripped from hops.
But now I flee behind my wall
Where I alone watch kingdoms fall.
I had been high and mighty perched
And yet that one confession lurched
My ideal world and stolid stance.
My focus lost, I watched my chance
To stop those closing doors and trust
Dissolve in bottles of liquid lust.
This hollow wail that no one hears
Is gorged and full of silent tears.
By that same light who guides me past
The noose which grabs and holds men fast,
I’m told to love and overlook
The solace that she slew and shook.
So who am I to twist the blade,
She buried in my back today?
For should she reach her arms behind,
I know this dagger’s twin she’d find.
With sultry ire, my ink melts page.
My trust was felled by drunken hands,
Ensnared in Godless battle plans.
I offered her my castle high
Where demon’s drink could only try
In vain to tear the walls away,
Repelled for yet another day.
It seems like only one day past
I strolled these woods and rich green grass.
When peace had power for the day,
This girl clad black in knight’s array
Could travel free from fear of drops
Of Satan’s liquid, ripped from hops.
But now I flee behind my wall
Where I alone watch kingdoms fall.
I had been high and mighty perched
And yet that one confession lurched
My ideal world and stolid stance.
My focus lost, I watched my chance
To stop those closing doors and trust
Dissolve in bottles of liquid lust.
This hollow wail that no one hears
Is gorged and full of silent tears.
By that same light who guides me past
The noose which grabs and holds men fast,
I’m told to love and overlook
The solace that she slew and shook.
So who am I to twist the blade,
She buried in my back today?
For should she reach her arms behind,
I know this dagger’s twin she’d find.
First Post
Well,
It's been quite a while since I had anything like Facebook or a blog, because I simply had no reason. Now, though, I have been compelled to use it to showcase some of my writing, which is beginning to accumulate on pieces of paper scattered all over the place. Most of it's poetry, simply because of length, but I'll try to put some prose on here, as well. Word.
Ihop
It's been quite a while since I had anything like Facebook or a blog, because I simply had no reason. Now, though, I have been compelled to use it to showcase some of my writing, which is beginning to accumulate on pieces of paper scattered all over the place. Most of it's poetry, simply because of length, but I'll try to put some prose on here, as well. Word.
Ihop
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