“For I Am an Engine . . . ”

” . . . And I’m rolling on.” Is the opening line to the Neutral Milk Hotel song titled Engine and it’s quite good. 

Anyways, rolling on. (See what I did there?)

It’s been a while since my last blog and I’m sorry to whoever actually reads my blogs for not being as consistent as I once was (writer’s block folks, it gets us all) but I’m sure it wasn’t too much of a loss for you worms and gals. If you were somehow disappointed in my commitment to this blog or my ability to be consistent, I truly am sorry and hope that the poem I wrote (shocking right?) this time is much to your satisfaction.

The poem is titled the Slip. It’s about this moment between two people who were walking hand in hand in the rain and one of them slipped out of the other person’s hand and he/she fell in a puddle of rain. Sounds lame right? That’s because it is. 

I’ll explain a bit more later if I feel like it. (I apologize if the poem is a bit long for you. Not really though.)

 

The Slip

I felt you slip

And into a puddle of rain

You fell

In my hands

You placed hope

And life

And all its eternal blessings,

But still your fingers broke

From my grip

And you were left

Shivering

Cold

And dirty

I remember staring,

Staring into your warm green eyes,

Betrayed

And broken

I remember the questions your eyes did ask,

And the unbearable answers I could never tell you

And then a second would pass

And then another,

And then another,

Still looking,

Still questioning,

But what could I do?

Words tried to form from my tongue to my lips

To pass into the atmosphere of sound

Those fractured seconds lingered

Like the ghosts of my past,

And your past

Till eternity became not only a grand concept

Of unfathomable formulas

Too vast to comprehend

But was in fact

Without question,

My reality

And your reality

Lost in an ocean of thought

And space

We roamed the backyards of our deepest desires

And our most treacherous wounds,

We sought treasures

And passions,

And the heart of all we could ever be,

We became phantoms,

Shadows of our own selves

In the hopes to find something more,

Something real

Then in an instant

That moment suffered its most sweet departure

Becoming but another ghost in our forsaken youth

And then there you were once again

Gazing,

Questioning,

Hoping

For sanity I fought each fleeting second

To save you from your own drowning,

To save you from your own inescapable memories

Memories of pain,

Of holding on till your fingers bled

And you had to let go

(What else could you do?),

Of breaking,

Of barely breathing,

Of your own self inflicted iniquities,

Of crying,

Of disappointment,

Of regret,

Of longing,

Of suffering,

Of monsters

And demons

And other evils that be,

Of unspoken words,

Of missed opportunities,

Of heartache,

Of abandonment,

My God you beautiful soul

How can you not hear the words of endearment

That echo through the very foundation

Of your beautiful existence?

How do you not notice the gardens,

The rivers,

And the fields

You’d experience as a child

When all was but a glorious fragrance?

How does the sweet nectar of honey,

The savoring texture of fresh bread,

The bright glow of summer’s first apple,

Not move you to poetry?

How can you no longer feel the beauty of life

As it passes through your fingers

Like a thousand blades of grass,

Like the ever-changing winds,

Like the fingers of your heart’s content?

How much longer must you be in darkness?

But still you gaze,

And still I yearned

To tell you the answers of which you so desperately sought

Answers of life,

Of existence,

And of what lies beyond the wonder of the skies

But from my mouth there was only silence

And your soul’s dismay

The only sounds that coul be heard

Were the millions

And millions of drops of rain,

The sad song of the dripping sparrow,

The leaves dancing to that song of sorrow,

And the wind as it passed us by over

And over again

But with my eyes I begged you to dig deeper

Into those melancholy choruses

Of life longing for itself,

I needed you to hear

The true heart of that blessed choir

Drops of heaven falling,

Songs of refreshment,

The joys of life

And movement

And the whispers of the greater Being

All around life permeates

With beauty,

With radiance,

With love

But with words

What could I have said to make you believe?

Not with ambitious speeches of fine eloquence

And grandeur language

Could I have convinced you of this truth

This truth

That I so desperately

Wish for you to place your hopes

And your failures

Oh most beautiful soul

All I could do in that moment

Was reach out my hand

And pray you believe in me

As you once did

 

So that’s it, that’s the slip. I don’t feel like having to make you read any longer so I won’t explain what this poem is, or why this poem is, or who this poem is, or even when this poem is. It’s a moment like every other moment, like this one and that one and all the others that are sure to follow. It’s insignificant and hard to measure but it happened and it found you beautiful and that’s all that matters. And before I end this blog remember someone somewhere loves you.

P.S. A link to the song I referred to earlier if you were interested.

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A Pessimistic View On the Subject Of Gardening

I’ll give an explanation later . . .

The Garden

 There in the midst of beauty sought

The voices of faceless strangers and weary creatures

Bend and mold and stagger with helplessness

Drowned in charity and loved in regret

Oh the blinding! Oh my drunkenness!

Comfort the desolate serenade the despaired

And leave me with my own devices

These selfish desires that leave me wounded

Abandoned from the sweet kiss of time

Oh season of autumn how you bleed into winter

How your children sing with the freezing waters

There is no peace there is no sense of anything

Only the howling of sirens and cursed ambition

For the silent sing songs to only dream

And their hearts riddled with passion

Their minds rot with hope to see the sun

Their faith left dying in the twilight

For they swear there is beauty in a garden

They swear there is hope beyond the horizon

But monsters bear monsters and there is only burning

The memories forgotten become violent storms

The waters take the shape of isolation

And where is home when the silence is drowned?

Where is heaven in the darkest of skies?

And where is freedom in the confines of chains?

For I know the sorrows of old

Her gloom the unwanted shadow

The bastard child of light and decay

And before me lies the beauty of desperate want

Dying helplessly in the gardens they grew

. . . actually I don’t feel like giving an explanation but believe me it’s not meant to be “pessimistic” in anyway and should be more liberating than anything. Paradoxical I know with the image of “beauty dying”, but “beauty” in this poem should be read as more of an antithesis to joy or love as opposed to a product. That’s all I’m going to say but I hope that helped and remember someone somewhere loves you.

The Ballerina Who Dreamt She Was A Pilot

FYI: The title has absolutely no relevance to this post.

So it’s been a month . . .

This poem’s called Oh Beautiful Beautiful

 

Oh Beautiful Beautiful

Motionless and waiting 

Dare I cry the name of love’s lost melodies?

For once I held them in my aching palms

And loved them

They were precious to me 

And they cried back to me

Harmonious and insufferable

Fixtures of an erroneous race

Lost are the days 

And the moments

Swallowed by the darkened rooms

Where we rest our little heads

And ghouls now bellow their lost art

I am a tapeworm

I am an architect of dreams

Of nightmarish cinema

Fingers rotten and memories overturned

Oh beautiful beautiful

Paint the skies 

My wretched song

My shadowy fortress

And the lines pour in and out

Spilling over the metaphysical

Imprinted and betrayed

These walls where my body hangs in pieces

But the melodies

Drown 

Reduce 

Spoil

And call my name 

Oh pity me God in heaven

Am I not your son?

Oh tragic love

Love agonizing and spit out

These words

These demons 

My salvation

Forget me oh wondrous melodies

Let me love the sick hands of time

Of manufactured emotions of tenderness and regret

Let me get lost in it’s embrace of fabricated freedom

Where my love was drowned in a river of sorrow

Oh and how she beckoned

But how I sauntered

Oh beautiful beautiful

Know how I loved you

And how I sang your sweet songs

 

Story: Make one up for yourself you’ll like your version better than mine.

Morale of the story: Singing is better than not not singing.

The Dancer (A Poem About a Dancer)

Yesterday I wrote a poem and I wasn’t pleased by it. This is not that poem. This was written on a starry night in Texas as I sat on a log, and thought about dancing.

I got the image of a girl dancing ballet on a stage and this was me translating that image into words, or poetry what have you. 

The Dancer

 She moves

So intricate so fragile

With everything

And nothing

The gentle overture

A sweeping discord of love

Lost and broken

Of truth and sacrifice

Her heart bends

With grace and ruined to despair

Oh to keep the soul

To keep the soul

And molded by such pretty lights

By such pretty sounds

Lost in it all

In every direction

The line holds

And beauty’s face harmonious

Disastrous

And everything

Oh strings of heaven’s joy

Be my pain

Be my brokenness

So that I may know

That I may feel

And lose myself once again

Like waves upon the shore

A flower in a garden

A song in the wind

Move me

Break me

And I will stare forever

In the eyes of beauty

As beauty moves

And spills like the sun

Across the fields

And her portrait unveiled

In the form of creation

Oh how I love

Oh how I burn

To live

To feel

To love

To die

And should I die

My heart would pass

Complete yet empty

Whole yet broken

Ever changed

Ever transformed

By these moments

That stain the ethers

With such pretty colors

Like dawn on the ocean

My ocean

Of eternal blue

Of eternal love

And I have heard such beautiful music

And I have felt such glorious pleasures

But never have I seen beauty

Beauty so intricate so fragile

To the tune of angelic voices

And melancholy

Gazing into the very heart of heaven

The very heart that inspires the most hopeless of souls

And how hopeless am I?

And the line

And the overture

And the discord

And everything

And nothing

We are broken

Weathered glass

As she moves

As beauty moves

P.S. Iron Man 3 sucked.