Tonight isn't a poem, nor is it a short story. I think it falls more under the catagory of "Essay." I am labelling it as a poem because that was more the intent than the other two.
From the untouchable shell of my body to the churning, confused gut, an unexpected, brave grasp on the hand starts a strained heart thudding rapidly and powerfully in a full-barrel chest, a hurting soul starts in perplexion - pulls away.
A mind, remembering, longs for that caring, soft hand in mine, knowing full well the pain that always comes in the end - not caring, not looking to the future, only craving the moments with that special other.
A hole in the middle of the body, often experiencing the happiness of being close, always knowing the explosive pain that always makes it a little deeper, a little harder to fill.
A short, sharp breath pulls the adrenaline into the blood, hsapens the pleasure senses in the body to more appreciate a warm hug that fills the mind with intense, white joy at the affection of another.
Dilated eyes drink in the beauty of the face, the curves of the body, knowing, remember intimate touches in times past, always knowing, always wishing that the emptiness, the lonelyness will be banished forever, never to lay its cold, callous fingers on my hurt, broken heart.
Too soon does the first intense love fade into pain and confusion at her withdrawl, not understanding why it's happening, what I did to cause this sudden freezing of her love, not wanting, dreading that void that will come again, doing everything to stop it from coming again.
The cold pressure of the steel tube ont he temple, the weight in the palm, the tenseness of the trigger - a sudden deafenign explosion, a flash of blinding light, a sudden unbearable pain, then nothing - no hurting ever again. Oh, the bliss of etenity - no cold uncaring people to spurn me, only a cool, soothing darkness that never ends.
I don't actually remember what situation I was thinking of when I wrote this, though I can guess. I do remember writing particular passages, which I think is a bit strange.
I am guessing that I was writing about Christy (the commentary on the poem Pride talks about her). The other possibility is Crystal. I remember writing the last paragraph and feeling a kind of release, a chill running up my spine and my face flushing. I guess it was my way of making sure I wouldn't actually do it. Not that I think I would have done so had I not written it - I just can't find any other way to describe that feeling.
The interesting thing about this piece is that even though I wrote it when I was 16(?), it does a fairly accurate description of the four major relationships I have been in during my adult years. As I was typing it in and got to the passage "Too soon does the first intense love fade into pain and confusion at her withdrawl, not understanding why it's happening, what I did to cause this sudden freezing of her love, not wanting, dreading that void that will come again" I felt the same way I have during each of my breakups - a sense of falling and spinning. Interesting that this random piece of witing from 17 years ago would still ring true...
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
NaNoWriMo
Ok, so I am not going to make it. I like where the story is going, but I won't be able to get 50,000 words in by Friday. I plan on finishing it though.
In the meantime I will start putting my poems back up. I have also started journaling my time in the Navy and will be posting those entries as well.
In the meantime I will start putting my poems back up. I have also started journaling my time in the Navy and will be posting those entries as well.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I Love Not You
I love not you for your comely grace,
For your pleasing eye and face,
Nor for any outward part,
NO, nor for your constant heart -
For these may fail, or turn to ill;
So you and I shall sever.
I keep therefore a sure mans eye,
And love you still and know not why -
So have I the same reason still
To love you forever!
I wrote this in response to my girlfriend's question as to why I loved her. I wasn't able to answer with definate reasons so she got upset.
I was trying to say that any specific reason I give at this moment is only true for this moment. When I love I do so whole-heartedly and without reservation. I love the whole person, not just the labeled aspect.
Therefore when asked why I love (you), my answers will be different from day to day or even hour to hour - if I am able to give a reason at all...
For your pleasing eye and face,
Nor for any outward part,
NO, nor for your constant heart -
For these may fail, or turn to ill;
So you and I shall sever.
I keep therefore a sure mans eye,
And love you still and know not why -
So have I the same reason still
To love you forever!
I wrote this in response to my girlfriend's question as to why I loved her. I wasn't able to answer with definate reasons so she got upset.
I was trying to say that any specific reason I give at this moment is only true for this moment. When I love I do so whole-heartedly and without reservation. I love the whole person, not just the labeled aspect.
Therefore when asked why I love (you), my answers will be different from day to day or even hour to hour - if I am able to give a reason at all...
Friday, October 12, 2007
Mind Breaker
The night was dark, lightly misted,
Moist droplets ran across my lips.
Light, cloying fingersran along down my hips.
Etheral darkness surrounded, my senses lifted.
Shapes flitted by, there, here,
Gone when I looked, it was nothing I could see.
It caught my eye, in the distance - there, could it be?
Closer it, or I, came. My breath caught with fear.
Tall, dark hair, black cape.
Cruel nose, red eyes, pale face.
He drifted near, guarded by empty space.
Arms lifted, cape opened, I watched with fear as he changed shape.
Cruel fangs, leather wings, same eyes
Stared into my sould, beat at my face.
Sharp fangs at my neck, tearing and cruel as a spiked mace.
"No, leave me!" I strained to scream line one who dies.
Gone, all gone. Was it really there?
I shuddered cold in the heat.
There - soft fur, like a cat at my feet.
Oh, I long to look. Do I dare?
No chance, for then a hoarish face sprange to sight.
Fetid breat, black eyes, wet nose
The mind recoils from the truth - Death, if he chose.
Saliva drips from an open mouth - resolve builds...how can I fight?
Hairy, clawed hands surround my throat.
Please, oh, please God, let me breath!
The horrid vision fades, the night begins to seethe.
My hands clutch, grab at the coarse fur coat.
Ah, sweet air! Deep breath-Opened eyes.
A shear moan of terror crawls out my mouth.
Monstrosities surround, close from east, north, west, and south.
My brain fills with mind-shattering cries.
Hands, paws, claws, teeth tear away my skin
Hot blood from my veins drive beasts mad.
Cold pain enters a body in tatters clad.
An inistant buzz fills hte sky,
Distant sleet leaves my fody fresh.
Then I see it, the mist that clings to human flesh.
There's no escape from this final nightmare - from my soul comes a silent cry.
Hmm, what was I thinking when I wrote this? I honestly can't remember. When I started typing it I thought it was a different one. As I transcribed it, it did make me think of something, whether it was the impetus for this writing I am not sure.
I could have sworn I dropped the rhyme style by now....
When I was about six years old, I had the same recurring nightmare. It wasn't your normal nightmare because even then, I knew it was just a dream. In the dream I was terrified, but I never woke scared. Here it is:
I am in a house at the end of a dead end street. It doesn't resemble the house I lived in, but I knew it was mine. There is no one else inside, there is one lamp on in the living room. I walk into the living room and see darkness through the windows. I am looking form the rest of my family - it is strange that no one is around at this time of the evening.
I look out the window, and drop to the floor, panicked. There are people moving around outside, coming out of houses open to the night, searching. Except they aren't people, they are vampires. I know they are vampires because they are all in classic vampire dress.
There are a few of them coming toward my house. What do I do? On my hands and knees I look around and crawl behind a chair on the other side of the room.
Just as I get hidden, the front door opens and in walks a number of vampires. I chance a peek around the back and see that they are my brothers and sisters. They begin searching the house for me.
When they get almost to where I am hiding, I jump up and sprint through the open door and run outside.After a while, I run out of breath and start walking, looking for someone to help. I can't find anyone, the only people I see are vampires, and they have all noticed me. I stop walking and look around at all of them looking at me, knowing I was the last person in the world.
Then I wake up.
I don't know how long I dreamed that same dream, nor when I stopped, but I still remember it vividly.
Moist droplets ran across my lips.
Light, cloying fingersran along down my hips.
Etheral darkness surrounded, my senses lifted.
Shapes flitted by, there, here,
Gone when I looked, it was nothing I could see.
It caught my eye, in the distance - there, could it be?
Closer it, or I, came. My breath caught with fear.
Tall, dark hair, black cape.
Cruel nose, red eyes, pale face.
He drifted near, guarded by empty space.
Arms lifted, cape opened, I watched with fear as he changed shape.
Cruel fangs, leather wings, same eyes
Stared into my sould, beat at my face.
Sharp fangs at my neck, tearing and cruel as a spiked mace.
"No, leave me!" I strained to scream line one who dies.
Gone, all gone. Was it really there?
I shuddered cold in the heat.
There - soft fur, like a cat at my feet.
Oh, I long to look. Do I dare?
No chance, for then a hoarish face sprange to sight.
Fetid breat, black eyes, wet nose
The mind recoils from the truth - Death, if he chose.
Saliva drips from an open mouth - resolve builds...how can I fight?
Hairy, clawed hands surround my throat.
Please, oh, please God, let me breath!
The horrid vision fades, the night begins to seethe.
My hands clutch, grab at the coarse fur coat.
Ah, sweet air! Deep breath-Opened eyes.
A shear moan of terror crawls out my mouth.
Monstrosities surround, close from east, north, west, and south.
My brain fills with mind-shattering cries.
Hands, paws, claws, teeth tear away my skin
Hot blood from my veins drive beasts mad.
Cold pain enters a body in tatters clad.
An inistant buzz fills hte sky,
Distant sleet leaves my fody fresh.
Then I see it, the mist that clings to human flesh.
There's no escape from this final nightmare - from my soul comes a silent cry.
Hmm, what was I thinking when I wrote this? I honestly can't remember. When I started typing it I thought it was a different one. As I transcribed it, it did make me think of something, whether it was the impetus for this writing I am not sure.
I could have sworn I dropped the rhyme style by now....
When I was about six years old, I had the same recurring nightmare. It wasn't your normal nightmare because even then, I knew it was just a dream. In the dream I was terrified, but I never woke scared. Here it is:
I am in a house at the end of a dead end street. It doesn't resemble the house I lived in, but I knew it was mine. There is no one else inside, there is one lamp on in the living room. I walk into the living room and see darkness through the windows. I am looking form the rest of my family - it is strange that no one is around at this time of the evening.
I look out the window, and drop to the floor, panicked. There are people moving around outside, coming out of houses open to the night, searching. Except they aren't people, they are vampires. I know they are vampires because they are all in classic vampire dress.
There are a few of them coming toward my house. What do I do? On my hands and knees I look around and crawl behind a chair on the other side of the room.
Just as I get hidden, the front door opens and in walks a number of vampires. I chance a peek around the back and see that they are my brothers and sisters. They begin searching the house for me.
When they get almost to where I am hiding, I jump up and sprint through the open door and run outside.After a while, I run out of breath and start walking, looking for someone to help. I can't find anyone, the only people I see are vampires, and they have all noticed me. I stop walking and look around at all of them looking at me, knowing I was the last person in the world.
Then I wake up.
I don't know how long I dreamed that same dream, nor when I stopped, but I still remember it vividly.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Pride
Thinking, hurting, crying, burning
Inside.
Too strong, proud to show my emotions, churning.
Pride
The love killer; together no more, fears.
Pain,
Alone in my sorrow-tears
Stain
The pillow in the night.
Why?
Liquid eyes blur the sight.
Cry
For my lost love.
Lost
The freedom of the soaring dove.
Cost
Of the loss of affection.
Madness
At the sight of her, perfection.
Sadness
At missing the toss of her hair.
Silken
Strands flying in the wind, so fair.
Hidden
The thinking, hurting, crying, burning
Inside.
Strong, proud now to show emotions, churning.
Pride.
It wasn't long after writing this that I abandonded the rhyme style of poetry - it started to seem (and still does) very forced. Some of the lines in this you can tell where I was straining to find rhymes.
I wrote this sitting in a very comfortable maroon spinning rocking chair in my high school best friends' house right after finding out my girlfriend had spent the last year sleeping with whoever caught her fancy - except me...
As I was typing this in I was thinking about how much of a fool I must have been to talk about the loss of her love, affection, etc when it is obvious to the present me that the past me never had any of those things from her.
Hindsight.
About two years after this, after she moved back to Georgia and returned to Idaho, I started courting her again. She seemed to have changed alot and answered all of my questions (I am assuming) honestly about her cheating. Somewhere along those lines I got involved with my first ex-wife and forgot all about her until running into her in the mall several months later. She was quite excited to see me - until I told her I was getting married. She got this strange closed look, spun on her heels, and walked away. I found out about a week later she moved back (again) to Georgia, and found out a year after that that she was married within a month or two.
I haven't heard from her since that day at the mall in 1993.
Years later, my second ex-wife and I were visiting family in Idaho when I found out that the night before she and I started dating, my high school best friend (and my second ex-wife's brother) had slept with her. Now, this hurt a lot. A lot more than it should have. Not so much that he slept with my girlfriend, because she wasn't at the time, but that he didn't say anything. He knew her intimately the entire time we were dating, and said nothing. That is what hurt the most.
Inside.
Too strong, proud to show my emotions, churning.
Pride
The love killer; together no more, fears.
Pain,
Alone in my sorrow-tears
Stain
The pillow in the night.
Why?
Liquid eyes blur the sight.
Cry
For my lost love.
Lost
The freedom of the soaring dove.
Cost
Of the loss of affection.
Madness
At the sight of her, perfection.
Sadness
At missing the toss of her hair.
Silken
Strands flying in the wind, so fair.
Hidden
The thinking, hurting, crying, burning
Inside.
Strong, proud now to show emotions, churning.
Pride.
It wasn't long after writing this that I abandonded the rhyme style of poetry - it started to seem (and still does) very forced. Some of the lines in this you can tell where I was straining to find rhymes.
I wrote this sitting in a very comfortable maroon spinning rocking chair in my high school best friends' house right after finding out my girlfriend had spent the last year sleeping with whoever caught her fancy - except me...
As I was typing this in I was thinking about how much of a fool I must have been to talk about the loss of her love, affection, etc when it is obvious to the present me that the past me never had any of those things from her.
Hindsight.
About two years after this, after she moved back to Georgia and returned to Idaho, I started courting her again. She seemed to have changed alot and answered all of my questions (I am assuming) honestly about her cheating. Somewhere along those lines I got involved with my first ex-wife and forgot all about her until running into her in the mall several months later. She was quite excited to see me - until I told her I was getting married. She got this strange closed look, spun on her heels, and walked away. I found out about a week later she moved back (again) to Georgia, and found out a year after that that she was married within a month or two.
I haven't heard from her since that day at the mall in 1993.
Years later, my second ex-wife and I were visiting family in Idaho when I found out that the night before she and I started dating, my high school best friend (and my second ex-wife's brother) had slept with her. Now, this hurt a lot. A lot more than it should have. Not so much that he slept with my girlfriend, because she wasn't at the time, but that he didn't say anything. He knew her intimately the entire time we were dating, and said nothing. That is what hurt the most.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The dusty past
Between the military, relationships, breakups, getting out of the military, more relationships, and more breakups I have moved more times than I can count. The last time I tried I came up with 11 in two years (this was between 2001 and 2003).
Through all these changes I have moved my things, culled my things, kept or tossed my things so much that there is nothing that I can point to and say that had stayed with me the entire time - with one exception.
I have managed to keep a folder of poems and short stories that I wrote over my freshman and sophmore years in high school. This one purple folder has stayed with me, alone, for the last 16 years. It is getting faded and tattered, the handwritten and typed (no computer printed pages) pages yellowing with age.
I have only shared the contents of this folder with 3 other people besides my english teacher over those two years (Mrs. Erickson in Buhl, ID, a major influence in my life-more on her later). I figure if they were important enough to me to hang on to for that long they should be shared.
I am going to start posting them here and attempt to give a brief explanation as to what was going on in my life at the time I wrote it. I make no claims as to the quality of these writings - please remember they were written by a confused and mentally messed up teenager trying to pretend to be normal and well adjusted. They served as therapy - as long as I was writing them I was not doing them. The demons were coming out.
Some are corny, some are sappy, some are dark, some are just plain stupid.
Comments are welcome.
(untitled)
Hot anger boils
away from me
like water thrown
on a white glowing furnace.
The rage glows blue
as if it were a
razor edged blade
heating in a forge.
My flesh grows orange
from the forces of
madness building in
a black glass ball
that threatens to
burst into green flaming
shards if release
is not found.
With poisonous pearl satisfaction
my fury flies
from me in great
yellow lightning bolts
to engulf my adversary
in fires burning grey
with triumph.
Mrs. E had given an assignment to write a "color poem." She gave no explanation as to what she meant, nor any expectation of style (she was wonderful that way). I remember sitting there staring off into space thinking there is no way I could come up with something off of so little instruction (I still do this today, I just realized). I don't know when I started writing or what thoughts prompted it,
I just spent about 7 minutes zoned out there...
but I do remember the landscape of the poem building in my mind line by line until the end, and I know the face of the person being hit by that lightning. Thinking about the why behind it just opens a deep, dark pit in the middle of me.
I thought I had taken care of that. Apparently not. I am not sure I should keep doing this. I am tired as I write and these memories seem to be something of a free association session and I don't like where it is going.
Through all these changes I have moved my things, culled my things, kept or tossed my things so much that there is nothing that I can point to and say that had stayed with me the entire time - with one exception.
I have managed to keep a folder of poems and short stories that I wrote over my freshman and sophmore years in high school. This one purple folder has stayed with me, alone, for the last 16 years. It is getting faded and tattered, the handwritten and typed (no computer printed pages) pages yellowing with age.
I have only shared the contents of this folder with 3 other people besides my english teacher over those two years (Mrs. Erickson in Buhl, ID, a major influence in my life-more on her later). I figure if they were important enough to me to hang on to for that long they should be shared.
I am going to start posting them here and attempt to give a brief explanation as to what was going on in my life at the time I wrote it. I make no claims as to the quality of these writings - please remember they were written by a confused and mentally messed up teenager trying to pretend to be normal and well adjusted. They served as therapy - as long as I was writing them I was not doing them. The demons were coming out.
Some are corny, some are sappy, some are dark, some are just plain stupid.
Comments are welcome.
(untitled)
Hot anger boils
away from me
like water thrown
on a white glowing furnace.
The rage glows blue
as if it were a
razor edged blade
heating in a forge.
My flesh grows orange
from the forces of
madness building in
a black glass ball
that threatens to
burst into green flaming
shards if release
is not found.
With poisonous pearl satisfaction
my fury flies
from me in great
yellow lightning bolts
to engulf my adversary
in fires burning grey
with triumph.
Mrs. E had given an assignment to write a "color poem." She gave no explanation as to what she meant, nor any expectation of style (she was wonderful that way). I remember sitting there staring off into space thinking there is no way I could come up with something off of so little instruction (I still do this today, I just realized). I don't know when I started writing or what thoughts prompted it,
I just spent about 7 minutes zoned out there...
but I do remember the landscape of the poem building in my mind line by line until the end, and I know the face of the person being hit by that lightning. Thinking about the why behind it just opens a deep, dark pit in the middle of me.
I thought I had taken care of that. Apparently not. I am not sure I should keep doing this. I am tired as I write and these memories seem to be something of a free association session and I don't like where it is going.
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