Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

Too much, too fast.
Breathless at a stoplight.
change
fast
must
go
I HAVE NO TIME
everything/everything/today/tomorrow
Always with the rushing, barely feeling, barely knowing where I am.

Now there's nothing.

It's a break, slow and stale.
What do I do?
There are four or five things maybe but none feel right and I can't bring myself to move.
I try one thing,
then another.
No drive,
meaning,
purpose,
feeling.
Not even my eyes can focus on anything.
Skipping, blinking, nothing.
Slow.

Give me back the whirlwind, or give me gravelike nothing.
Nothing is right.
I need power to feel and peace to fight or I am already dead.
Please.
I'm trusting You.
Please.

I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.

It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.

It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.

It's not the shadows themselves that are alive.
The darkened places are where you hide the thoughts you dare not face.

What did you expect?

Magazines, newspapers, letters strewn across
every table.
Flowerpots, paperweights, nick-knacks atop
every remaining empty surface.
"Tacky" was the word that first came to mind.
Ledges, counters, and all but one chair are drowned in the mess.
The last chair is the womans.  She used to keep a few other chairs vacant in case of company, but
as she continued to grow slower she couldn't make the effort

and an extra chair was never needed anyway.

Because a thing may seem cliche won't mean it isn't right.
Warm sunbeams, drumbeat thunder, and the clash of dark and light.
Or just because it's overused, don't say it can't be true.
Old words and phrases well describe my burning love for you.

A shuddered sigh, then some hope inhaled.
A wince of distrust, yet a heart unveiled.
A cautious smile leaves a little too late.
And a hopeful look rises to the bait.
A tensed up brow begins to relax,
For peace and joy have been too long taxed.
Sorrow still lurks in the back of the mind,
But reluctantly it is left behind.
A cautious faith is restored anew
And I open myself
back up
to you.

There's a reason why I'm doing this
Somewhere, somehow
I set off with a passion and a purpose
That seems so long ago.
I decided it was worth it, not to wither into a selfish nothing
To surge on, keep on grappling
but I've almost had enough
and I'm
just
so
tired
.
When will I find the spark again?
I have some faith that
an ember of the passion I lost
still exists
somewhere between my lungs and beneath my ribs
Can my faith be ever enough?
May I find out.

There's
a
rhythm inside me that I want  craft fire to
But I never can keep up with the ticking clock

There's

a
wall that obstructs my view I want to see higher yet
What if I climb until I find out I don't like what's at the top?

One day I'll step out of line and ignore the warden who drags me back
I'll climb the tree next to the wall and dance along the top
But for now each day pulls me in a struggle unyielding
It would be a dance if my mind could process all that keeps proceeding

If I could pause it for a beat perhaps I could find my feet
But the game gets faster while I just get more confused.

I suppose I'll get used to it.  Will it always be this way?
and does it feel the same somehow to everybody else?
I want to dance perfectly
impeccably,
beautifully
in a way that's new and full of life and my own very soul

but head down I keep dozing to miss out on the pain and I shut my eyes
Squint over the wall's holes.

I don't mean to only express myself
Let's turn our gaze outward to something else
Because really, we're nothing
reflections and vapors
our lives seem so long to us then as time tapers
down to the end
it's
getting faster again
and it's time that, my friend
in this time that you spend
looking out for yourself realize your wealth and your life and your thoughts they are
just
so
small.
I'm nothing at all but a freckle of dust
but looking around there are millions of us
there's a picture out there taking shape so we must
have courage and dare to strip off all our lust for
our own affirmation
our self-presentation
must find a foundation in something much bigger than us.
As you cry to be heard pause and listen to hear
for when long you have listened the Light will draw near
and you'll find all the words that you cannot deserve
so please gather the nerve discontent to preserve
And climb outside and point out to the stars over hills
and from you the joy and the knowledge will spill
For expression is best when it's not just for you
My confession is this, let it always be true.

Sometimes a voice in your head will tell you that you are a disappointment.  Look that thing in the eye and say, "You're a disappointment!"

Then realize that you are still shouting negative things at yourself in the mirror.  Second thought, don't.  Please don't take advice like this from me.

Cold wet toes hug the sandpaper edge
of the Tall Diving Board, a most terrible ledge
But the plastic and rusted beams buckle and creak
Along with your knees-- they are feeling quite weak.

Everything's swaying, the pool and the sky
Your hands both are shaking and you wonder why
You thought you could jump.  It all seems so silly
You thought you were brave, but up here, you know really

You're just like they said you would be.

You lift you foot trying to face off this dread
right over the edge of the board, but instead
of stepping off, you move backwards.  And then
your other foot follows it downwards again.

Inching back, and hanging your head from the shame,
your feet grip the grooves on the steps just the same

as the last time you thought you were brave.

Then you freeze, and you frown.  All the kids gathered on the ground
could not stop you with mocking from coming back down

But your mom, shouting out from the shade of the sides
speaks to you louder than fear or than pride
"You can do it, I know!"  and you manage a frown
and a stubborn resolve not to walk to the ground

but to swim!  And you struggle back up to the top
the gritty board scraping, the phrase "belly flop!"
taunting you from the children below; and your brow
is furrowed, your teeth clench--the moment is now!

A sniffle, slight stumble, the bending of knees,
You know you can show them--don't belly flop, please!
and you push, one last time-- any time you could stop
at the edge once again, at the diving board top

But you don't!



And it's over.  
A splash is your prize
your ears ring, your nose stings,

But you jumped off the diving board.

And now you can do it again.

The cold bites my nose
And the frost chills my lungs
And the wind is stinging my face.

But outside in this moment I'd rather be here than in any more comfortable place.

I bought myself a kite to fly
I ran through sunny fields
And tried to urge it to the sky
But it skipped at my heels

I leaped and danced for childish years
It never left the ground
I noticed through my childish tears
What's left of it was brown

It was torn in the mud, so it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragedy of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was stronger, though.
It caught a mighty gale
my heart flew with it in the yellow
Rainbow sky it sailed

I smiled.  My kite, it seemed to me,
Would always stay as mine
But the sting slipped and I lost my grip
I lost it to the sky

It joined with bubbles and balloons, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

I planned that on a weekend soon  
I’d make it to the field.
The colors all would show again
Just once my schedule cleared

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.

I catch glimpses and pieces of a story I need to be a part of
A word or an image will hit
a particular spot in my heart
and strangely resound
Ideas skip through my head that suddenly click.
I come alive
I bolt upright
"Yes!"
but then it is gone.  Upon closer examination,
nothing was there.
I don't even know what brought me to this train of thought in the first place.
A second ago it felt very important.

I shake myself off and try to fall back asleep.

I'm rummaging through my messy-closet mind for the choice bits of delectable emotional pain
The agony that come from being the complex and bitter soul I am

But I'm not finding any

I'm actually fairly happy.
Moderately cheerful.
Not floating on clouds, or manic, or bursting with energy.

Just... pretty good.  Quite alright.

This isn't good for poetry.

Or self pity.

What do I do now?

why must time progress??
i need to take a rest
each falt'ring sentence brings
me closer to my death

Some people claim that special intuition
to know another person's thoughts and mind.
I do not.

I did not read her like a book, so I read her like a poem.
Her words did not arrange a neat picture of who she was.
So I listened.
I felt
and I paused
straining to hear every moment.
Envisioning.
I reflected, then I listened some more.

I saw patterns repeated,
the strain
and the wince
and I tested hire they felt on my own face

After learning a bit of backstory I flipped back through
what she had said and let the context take effect.

I saw stanzas, couplets, and rhythm

I did not analyze,
I felt,
Hearing her song-story.

I might be wrong.  I might have projected too much of myself, or glanced over a detail.

I can not recite her story or show you her heart,
but I listened to her poem and that is all that I can do.

Humans are so stupid.
Arrogant, disgusting, small-minded, selfish, pathetic mortals.



I think I might be one.





That would explain a lot.

Snowflakes hum inside my head,
bumping to and fro.
Stinging sky meets soggy ground and nothing seems to stick.

Each flake is different, so I'm told--
each unknowable and cold, they vanish when you try to grasp them--
fleeting, fragile wisps.

I've spun no story strong enough
to stake my ship upon.
My tears dry up before they're spilled for little lasts for long.

Blankets white I find here not--
that, nor green-clad earth--
only harried solitude inside these biting mists.

Perhaps my blust'ring mind is not
leading me to tread my sought-for courses; I fear I've forgot them
yearning for the drifts.

But elsewhere 'neath the firmament, there are other skies.
There are other thoughts in other hearts apart from mine.

From over where the snow falls
and beneath the bedrock's roots
flames unflinching flicker still through height and depth and width.

An itchy spider lives in me,
right underneath my second skin.

She's waited, tense, expectantly for something dangerous
to finally draw towards her its claws and scratch straight down her spine.

Her fangs have naught to bite upon, so I must feed her well enough
on nerves, dry skin, and fingernails and songs about a violent sea.

If she dies, I might turn to stone;
an itchy spider lives in me.

Pacing
Floating
Detached
Bouncing off of walls
Turning cartwheels and then passing through the wall
Nothing to grasp but the anchor I ignore

Distracted wanderings
Bringing me nothing.
Why don't I land,
Why can't I stop?

I beg that her innocent eyes do not conceal the same pain that lurks within my own.
She is life and she is beauty
Joy
Love
Please let me believe only that.
Please,
She shows from her heart kindness, pure.
Happy hope.

That is what they say about me.
That I know only hope and joy.
That innocence is my clothing
But they do not see the pain in my infected heart
And I did not see it in her.

Oh, do not let it be.

She truly is kindness and hope and...

So am I.
The light is real, only tired
And hurt.
It shines through the cracks in our hearts, all divided.
It shines through dullness and sin

But as I halfway expose my shame, I see her do the same.
In throwaway lines wry admissions.
A casual mention dulls the pain
I see her do the same.

I wish we could be pure
All the way honest, even in our blackness
And let our pain and goodness show alike in truth, rather than letting the infection spread.

Please don't conform to the mass of us hurting and hiding it.
Bleed in your open way
Outside
And let the stain be washed away
And stand wide awake and clean
With innocent eyes

Having the sudden urge to hug someone, but restraining yourself because you don't know hour they would react.

be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean  ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /

clean

so very clean



thank you.

sky of deepest blue
ethereal starlight dim
wind is soft and cold

A crackle of a shell
being torn
cast aside

The flutter of a wing
new and fresh
limp and weak

A squeal from the child
watching close
eyes are wide

The  waiting and the rest
little wings
strength to seek

The wings are now stretched out
orange and black
beating slow

A flutter and a cry
take the air
sailing strong

It lands and then takes off
up again
high and low

It's lilting towards the clouds
out of sight
flies along

Fare thee well, young butterfly.

"Praise be,"
I whisper with unclean lips
The blood and tears held barely back
"Oh, save,"
I plead, with nothing but dust to give

Sea of rubber, storm of rock
Ponder endless, mudslide thoughts
Never,
      never,
           never        
stops
    Until I
cannot see

Batter, torment, carry, pour
Solid things are shifting shores
    Until
I cannot hear

Sighs are monsters, out from under
Mud is made of every mutter
Thunder fades into more thunder
    Avalanche demands

All of what you thought was peace
deserts to deserts underseas
the grains of sand
climb past  your knees

    and now i cannot think

I used to hide from walls of rock
  or shrink into a corner;
    
    at least
cement
    is solid set

Right now I am
thinking in poetry

line breaks

word shapes

stack sounds in strange ways

Is this how it is meant to look?

Maybe it would look better
feel nicer
sound clearer
if i put in fewer spaces.

Do I want all punctuation?
Properly formatted sentences
can be difficult
to rhymatize.

Is rhymatize a word?
I think so.
Red squiggles underline.
Wait...
Google says no.
I still say yes.

Now I digress.
But does that work?
Should the flow of ideas be neatly outlined, or come freely as my thoughts?  Perhaps I should spill the words out all as one in unbroken strings of color and thought the way they feel in my head unsaid
occasional rhymes and occasional beats and breaks keep changing

is this poetry?

Do
random line breaks
really take
prose
and
make it poetic
or
do
I
need to do actual
work
and find a form and stick with it?

For now today
I'll lilt and play
around.

Every poem a new experiment, another chance to try something new.

To play with rhythm, feelings, and sounds, to meticulously arrange language into a perfect unbroken form,

Or to simply see where the thoughts take me.
Should my real point be what is said, or how I
am saying it?

Sometimes the saying itself is the point.

I have a sword, a bow, a knife
A vantage point up high
In front, behind, and at each hand
A different foe draws nigh.

If I could know just what to do,
I think I'd hold them back.
But I've no skill or training
And no plan for attack.

Each villain huddles nearer still
And I don't have a clue
On how to load my mighty bow
Or what a blow would do

I shake and gasp, I can't fight back
my untrained arms are weak
The courage and the strength I lack,
So Your help I now seek.

Refresh my mind, give me a goal
And guide my drying bones.
I need a plan, I need a job.
I can't survive alone.

When it flashes, I can't speak, except
   in      fra c tu
r   ed  gas p in
       g
(I should be able to withstand the shocks much better than I do)

The vibrations, the detachment lasts for several minute after
the power has been discharged and
I can't think.

Emergency situations call for
level-headed judgement,
but the jolting of the volts is difficult to disregard.

My heat resets itself somehow each time
even though the rhythm is interrupted
time and over again with every blast my power creates.

I want to pull within myself every time I use it,
embrace the sense of power, the sensation,
without reaching out.

Brain activity,
heart activity, muscle spasmatic ripples,
and I can't see past sporadic sparking up my face.

Victims, villains, friends of mine
and all your detailed instructions,
please survive in spite of me.

They say I'm strongest on the team
in strength, and that is hard to say.
I'll stay with you and fight but my mind
can't live on another day.

The enchanting, unearthly fog
overwhelms the parking lot
and my small romantic heart.
This drab field of concrete becomes
a magical fen
the place where epics and legends unfold.
My feet lift lightly through the damp
and I dance with the shadows
transformed by the mist into something
fantastical.
The street lamps beam fantastic eerie rays
in to my wonderland domain.
Am I a storyteller?
wanderer?
faerie?
I think I am the beloved of a great Lover,
pursued with gossamer dreams
and romanced by sacred light.

A shout.  A cry of triumph and all is silent.
The blast rings back through time and foreword to the end.
The chaos of battle, the order of music.

Beside me are others.  The breath erupts through us and we shout or sing through pipes of brass.

Triumph.

An end, a beginning, and all comes together
Now glad in song, now fierce in battle.

Triumph, alarm, and a final blast
From when I have said enough at last.

I dare me to be happy.
I dare me to be strong.
To not be blown back and forth be every wave along.

I think that I have courage
it might not be enough.
I dare myself to not grow hard while also growing tough.

A tender heart, a gaze that's firm.
Instead of sulking I will learn.

Mature and determined without growing proud,
softly I will pray out loud.

I'm working to be happy,
I'm working to be firm.
I might not be there yet, but trust and pray that I will learn.

I dare not listen to the news.
I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse.

Torrential cries and senseless violence
I look past to hold my silence.

Is this so wrong?
It's not as if
My worrying the world will shift.

I do not know if it is right,
But I will skip the news tonight.

Lightning.  
Brutally shocking, burning, destroying.
A sudden flash, out of nowhere with striking speed and power.  

Then thunder.  
A rumble,
low, distant, and spine-tingling; a hovering fear, a looming threat.  
Or a crackle--
fierce, sharp, wild, unpredictable.  
A jolt.  
A deafening, heat-stopping jolt.  
Not just near you, but inside you.  
Burning in your chest, pulsing through your blood, freezing on your skin, screaming in your mind.

It ends, but it doesn't leave.  It remains, hovering in the air and burned into your soul.  It echoes.  It fades, but it remains.

“A veil!” someone shouted.  I remember the cry.  Agreement surged from gasping elders and wide-eyed youths alike.  The first man to move snatched a scarf from his startled daughter and threw it at me to wrap over your head.  He couldn’t imagine touching you himself.

We needed that veil for the shining face of yours.  Radiation, of course, must be contained.  We couldn't have anyone blinded or infected.  The double fold of linen stuck to your forehead at first, your sweat thick like dew the cold morning after a thunderstorm.  Wrinkles whiskered in is fibers as your face strained into expressions few mortals have had cause to make.

That mountain was saturated in every form of electromagnetic radiation and energies unknown. It bludgeons the heart.  Melts the eyes.  The people could not bear the sight of anyone who had come so close to such a power.  I think their hearts needed a good bludgeoning.

The wind streaked your hair for a micro-eternity.  It retained the swept-up form for nearly an hour, though no one could tell once you put on the veil.  Have you touched it to see if it is still cold?

Your fingers—what was on them?  Smoke, or earth?  Melted stone?  Incinerated atmosphere? Pure carbon, black as the abyss and under nearly enough pressure to crystalize into diamonds rarer than hope? When you grabbed my arm with those fingers, I nearly screamed.  You left black marks everywhere.

What does the veil cover now?  It's edges are no longer like the cracks beneath Heaven's doors.  What is it you wish to hide?  Isn’t it time for this mask to be cleft by a seraph's sword?

It is there in the grasp of the hand of a friend.
It is there in the shade of a tree.
And yet I forget it again and again,
So draw me back down to my knees.

It is there in the tear, in the jolt through the heart.
It is there in the storm that is braved.
And still it pursues me through cold and through fire.
It follows me down to the grave.

It never can die though it flickers in me,
And yet I forget it. I fail to see

Now remember the Source, oh! remember, my soul.
The proof in the pain and the calm.
And cling to the signs, all the proof of that Love.
The fire, the wind, and the balm.

Looking at myself I cannot see
The One who sees inside of me.
Stuck in my head I'm not aware
Of everyone
Out there
Who cares.

The uncomfortable triumph that comes from being brave enough to admit that you're scared

driftwood on the surf
the quaking of a feather
my unstable heart

I gazed at her, the warrior woman,
standing on the hill
where crum'bling stones of castles made their home.
Her form against the solemn sky stood noble, tall and fierce;
tenacity bespake her ev'ry stride.

The clouds before her only served
to frame her fairer still;
through richly dark, they parted just enough
to filter drops of sunlight to where she stood like the moon;
an argent gleam shone in her mane and eyes.

I frowned at her from where I hunched,
longed for her iron will,
clawed my lackluster hair and tore my heart.
The flat grey fog above the hole where I shrank in the dust
had only seen me cower, curse, and cry.

As we prepared to march again
I struggled up the hill
in hopes that I could find what grace she knew.
I didn't know she was still there, her back against a rock;
I caught her eye and realized

she had been crying too.

"I like... the idea of people,"
the woman replied, gazing at herself in the lamplit garden pool.
She idly flicked in a pebble.

"Flighty things, aren't they?"
Her reflection dissolved into ripples
as she turned,
swiftly,
and left.

Her manicured leaves and thirsty rainbow faces always deliver
but she envies the daisy in the sidewalk.

Now I take the long way home most nights
a few extra minutes for back roads and quiet
the first turn faces me directly away from home
and in the darkness I cruise straight down a beautiful road to nowhere
off
and
away
and I am a free, flying runaway
for only a minute
before dutifully turning left.
at that intersection
my eyes always linger straight ahead, on my road to nowhere and anywhere
I could stay on this path and not look back
leaving everything
to be alone

But already I have involuntarily pulled into the turn lane.
My blinker is on, and so there is no way out of it.
I will go back home like I should.  
What
was I thinking?
My home is nice.  My life is good.  
There
is nothing
to run away from.
but maybe...
is there something is worth running to?

I have a particular fondness for snort-laughs.
They are among the most graceless, horrid, undignified, embarrassing, beautiful truths in the world.

You didn't want to admit that the pun was amusing and give them the satisfaction.

You didn't want to break the societal norm decreeing silence and sobriety.

You tried to hide your innate childishness so condemned.

You needed to keep up whatever stoic, unfazed "cool" facade someone once suggested you wear.

You clenched your jaw against the giggle, but the spurt of it could not be contained and was released as a jovial exhale.
Graceless.
Horrid.
Undignified.
Embarrassing.
Beautiful.