Friday, July 29, 2011

Comeback II



I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that you have to act so twisted.
Jealously will eventually tear us all apart I know,
For I am not perfect, and neither are you,
So you shouldn’t act so.
Fake façade, you need a mask.
One with feathers, glitter, and gold,
To hide those imperfections you are so insecure about.
What a fragile thing you are.
It makes me sad.
So breakable,
Someone will break you.
So full of pressure,
You will someday blow apart.

Life is hard,
My “friend.”
This is why I must be hard also.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

"Bird Whisperer"- A Poem


Bird whisperer, bird whisperer,
Oh, can’t you see?
You’re chasing tiredly after
A thing that can’t be.

They flutter softly away
Into the pale blue sky
As you watch them leave,
You wonder why

Why they don’t stay
Stay near the light
Instead they hide away,
In the black haunting night.

Bird whisperer, bird whisperer,
Oh, can’t you see?
Instead of wishing for something,
Just let it be.

photographies aléatoire







Saturday, July 16, 2011

"The Library"- A Poem


I walk by Thoreau,
And give him a little smile,
While he laughs at the self-help book I’m shelving.
“Ha!” he seems to say.
“Why, you can find your “help” in the woods,
Where the fruit of mystery awaits you.”

I give Shakespeare a welcome glance,
As I hold a children’s picture book.
“Yes,” he explains,
“Let their minds become sharp
With the knowledge they discover.
Let their imaginations soar through the depths of life.”

Walt Whitman is contradicting himself
In a dusty corner as the morning light tickles him.
“Your very flesh is a great poem,”
He tells me,
“Marvel in the silent sun
To figure out your poem’s feelings.”

As I turn to leave the quiet sanctuary.
Ray Bradbury calls to me from a distant place,
His voice echoing through the building.
“There are worse crimes then burning books.”
He says,
“One of them is not reading them.”

Friday, July 15, 2011

Poems

 
“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”

~Robert Frost

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Batteries- A Poem



It comes and hits me in the face.
Sometimes, it slowly forms itself into a ball
Right in the center of my chest
A flaming swirl of one emotion just rotating
And rotating and rotating
Until I come back from the visit with my thoughts
Long enough to remind myself
How a battery has a
Negative
and a
Positive side
I repeat in my head like a chant
How they live on the battery together, as one.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Pressure




Monday, July 4, 2011

"Cosmic Love"- Florence + The Machine


A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,
So darkness I became

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

Friday, July 1, 2011

The temperature at which book paper catches fire, and burns...


“Number one: Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me, it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You’d find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch you can get on a sheet of paper, the more ‘literary’ you are. That’s my definition, anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often.  The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad one rape her and leave for the flies.”

-Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury