A Friday Afternoon (through emily-colored glasses)
Affronted by
the queer "Achoo"
of a pigeon
suffering from the flu,
I galumphed,
mud squelching in my shoe
from a puddle
unwisely ambled through.
The day was warm;
the sky was blue.
I passed a girl
I thought I knew
gone lemon-faced;
the world seemed rude
to her; but listen:you'll hear
that nimbus "moo,"
and the rain is milk
and honey.

dusty desert sun
bakes beaded lizards blinking back
at my confuddled gaze
regarding pale peachy skin,

once praised as pretty,
as utterly unsuited
-ugly-
in their arid acres

but in my own so human way
defying adaptation
I shall make a home here
among the reptiles

fooled by my facade
they will soon see
I wear my scales and spines hidden
in my inner desert

The desert is for survivors

how is it that the earth has not drowned in tears?

cry, beloved
the world rewards those sharp toothed men
power is a game for them.
justice lies; all can be bought,
souls slave to greed, that higher god
who freezes pity sharp as ice
the innocent will pay the price.
the children cry, but are not heard
in a world that slaughters mockingbirds.

curling smoke
and the dusk surrenders
to the embrace of night
a candle's light
masquerades as my sun
vigilant against the darkness
but with wavering flickers of uncertainty
it adds its own grayness
to the quiet black hours
tallow wraiths that weave
their stolid way about my head
stinging my eyes with their barbed
intangibility
insensitivity
to the passing of the hours
waiting for the dove soft dawn
to bring peace to an
embattled soul

bad dreams
those deep liquid eyes held trust
but unflinchingly they clubbed the sealions
strung their pieces from the walls, streaming
and made torches from their oil
so that young girls would stray from the path
and be swallowed by the murky swamp

and the ocean was red
and the sky wept to see
but the moon dragged the seas still
dispassionately watching with her milky
gorgon eye, does she see the past, present, future?
Does it matter? Does she care?

Sailor, do not leave,
these ominous portents must surely call you back
in her arms she can hide you from
the treacherous moon
and slaved seas
but though she could weave a net to catch the wind
she cannot shield you from the storms she calls to the horizon
but all is lost in losing you

hmmm...Apparently my ability to concentrate in class has gotten no better despite a month off and the fact that so far I have been to only one class. Eh...oh well.

untitled
The acrid smell of pine
knifes through the thin air
sharpening the bite of the cold
in the heights of that green wood.

There is a knobbly knowledgeable
aged quality to the boughs,
the bark of all these tall
proud princes of
the mountain

Feathered spines filter daylight
casting shadows like
the delicate fans
of oriental ladies

On the soft bed of the forest
that grows back to the earth. Renewal
and night descends, more starlight
than darkness

In the isolated kingdom of conifers
stars peer down through tangled branches
like sparkling eyes
of fanciful creatures

The rising sun
a beacon shines triumphant
woods glow rosy
dew drips off needles like tears

I am currently reading The Poisonwood Bible, and have mixed feelings on it. The author, Barbara Kingsolver, structures her style around characterization, but that is honestly not her strength. I am fascinated by her diction, however. She has a very playful manner with words. All in all, I am enjoying it immensely.

descent of the belljar
Spiders scuttle scabbily
scratching through the walls
reaching towards the pale coward
trapped in the terror of her mind
heart beats harder, faster, louder
to drown out these unliving
but live they will and the footsteps
of demons approach unfazed
by frantic drumming
as that spiraling hellish cacophony
grows indeterminably yet never
drowns out

a graveled gray voice beckoning,
horrible in its tangibility,
disembodied lips whispering whiskerly
in her fragile ear
that there is no escape save
the crimson one

and she longs to scream
but they rip out her throat
and feed it to her
though already she chokes on
her madness, the world is smoky
with it, and in the haze they press closer...

but she finds some last bitter strength
in the memory of sun, holds to it
a faint beacon of hope
and the glass lifts, the world straightens,
the spiders draw back.
But they still peer at her hungrily
from darkness, and always, it hovers over
ready to descend.

in the candle
wax drips, drowning
its own feeble light,
powerless to keep back
the yawning mouth
of night so dark and deep,
casting pitiful dying wraiths
against the wall.
flickers of light,

stubborn as life,
grow more frenzied in
the struggle
as they lose the fight
against the shadows.
with a last resigned glow of gray
and whisp of smoke
the flame is gone.

"I miss you" There are no three words in the English language more inadequate. I am burning in frustration to express what these three bland banal base boring simply do not convey. "I miss you" does not convey the wrenching pain, the lonesome silences, the unsatisfied hunger, the eternity of sufferings that each day seems to bring. "I miss you" does not contain the raging fire, the hurricane, the pouring rain of emotion behind its paltry three syllables. "I miss you" does not carry the plaintive note of the sad tune that birthed the phrase. "I miss you" does not describe how it feels to awaken cold and alone. "I miss you" does not tell you that I thought of you a thousand times today, or that I long to taste your lips, to see you smile, to hear your voice. But I miss you. And I hope you understand.

starlight shimmers in the sky
dimmed by memories
of shining eyes
of one who held me close
dancing in a fountain
of moonlight...
a moonless night tonight
and the lonesome wind voices
how i hunger
for your warmth

Spent most of my day in Starbucks, chatting with old friends. Very pleasant. Elizabeth is back from Brazil, and it was so so very good to see her. She was my first friend when I moved here, and shares with me a romantic, idealist view on life, a tendency toward sarcasm, and a love of language (though hers exceeds her native tongue). She's really closer to a sister than a friend, and I am so glad to have seen her so unexpectedly. I only wish we had more time together before I had to go back to school. :(

Random recollection...There was a little creek where, growing up, we would dip our toes under its tiny falls despite our parents' constant admonishments not to. They were fearful of fertilizers on small feet, but we, young and invincible, cared not at all for their concern, always convinced that their rules were invented merely to spoil our fun, because they had forgotten how to have fun of their own. There was a quiet place where the water pooled, and each spring, as if by magic, thousands and thousands of tadpoles would appear. Every year I would gather a dozen or so in my plastic aquarium and watch, fascinated, the graceful metamorphosis, fussing to be sure they had enough food and the proper proportions of air and water. Every year I would release a dozen or so tiny frogs back into the creek. Every year save one. A neighbor girl, feeling somehow slighted by this private pageant, unable to understand my wonderment, tipped over the tadpoles onto the pavement in the hot Oklahoma sun. How I cried when I saw, and resolutely grieved those delicate lives so easily destroyed, victims of a child's ire.

The irony gods strike again! After a three day silence, my mad inspiration decided to wake me at 2:30 am. I scrambled about for a pen, considered tearing a page out of the hotel bible, but found a convenient target receipt that saved my soul, so to speak. I haven't looked over this since I penned it, and it may be garbage, but I felt so compelled to write it that I feel it deserves better than existing only on the back of a target receipt.

Yesterday home
In that dust bowl land
Where the earth is red as sunset
And the cobalt blue sky has no end,
Where ponderous pendulous oil wells
Peck deeply into ground, for all the world
Like a flock of rusty birds

Scattered across the field,
Roses bloom from sandstone,
Offering no scent but flowering
Serenely for centuries,
Catching Cherokee tears.

There was a place in the heart
Of that heartland, hidden,
Where I was want to wander.
A joyful giggling trickle of creek
Ran through rare trees in spring,
Leaving a dry cavern to explore
In arid months many.

Honeysuckle presented sweet blossoms
For me, and a willow stood sentinel
And listened to my sorrows
When I hid within her graceful arms.
There was a tree frost green whose name I never knew-

Small, solitary, and lovely as any druid,
Leaves as delicate as a baby's laugh,
With a scent so pure and light!
A perfume of the moon, the stars-
Does it grow still under the sun of that never-ending sky
Or live now only in my mind?

Fallen, perhaps, to a whim of weather,
For clearly I recall how that smiling day
Could change suddenly cross,
Sweeping wind unhindered, roaring
Wrathfully, spitefully stealing roofs
From cowering buildings.

Rain fell rarely, but clouds black and ominous
Built great anvils in the sky.
White hot arrows like the anger of God
Strike the ground, throwing all into the eerie relief
of light brighter far than the day-
How I used to fear, and wonder.

I turned my back on your dead clay earth,
Blade sharp grasses and scrub oaks, your
Dun colored winters, oppressive hot summers,
But my dreaming eye makes circles still,
Lazy and hawk-like, in your cobalt sky.
Land without fences, I never knew,
Till now, that I loved you.

I wrote this one a while ago, but recalled it suddenly for who knows what reason.

The tears well up;
They will not start-
I hold them in
To drown my heart.

It was a bitter 10 degrees out today, but I don't mind the cold one bit because the sun made its first appearance in over a week. Instantly the landscape was transformed; the frost sparkled brightly, even the long dead grasses took on a golden sheen. The trees remained sullenly black and barren, but the sky bloomed for joy, blue as a cornflower, with bouquets of rose and periwinkle clouds. I felt more alive than I have since coming back home to winter, and remembered, with the bleakness lifted, how wonderful it is to have a never ending horizon. The world seems big enough for all my ambitions...I dont think I will ever quite be used to mountains ;)

this is far far from finished, but i needed to see it typed.
Ad ma Soror
Two birds built a nest of briars,
Hid thorns with down and laid their eggs-
Three.
Baptized in blood
From the mother's tattered breast.
The first hatched a songbird
Praising even berry bright blood in
Sweet songs of wonder.
She dreamed of flight and beauty.
The second hatched a serpent,
Sinewy and sinister, beast of woe
His fangs found that songbird,
Piercing wing. He who never hoped to fly
Ensured that she would fall, sacrificed
To those heinous coils masquerading
Among feathers.

The third hatched among such thorns
she looks skyward, stretching wings.
Fly away, little bird!
Flee brambles and fangs and falls-
Do not glance back at this fallen thebes
That was your prison; do not pay for their crimes
But find freedom.
Fly!

I laughed at the moon,
light as a cloud,
while we built our castles in the sky.
You would have me believe
that i'll never die...
perhaps i cant
while i'm with you.


hmm...i cant recall the name of the fairy tale that inspired this...about the two sisters, the nice one receives the blessing of her words turning to jewels, the other the curse that her words turn to reptiles...

my heart envies the stars their glimpse of you.
jealous thing, it hoards each word that passes your lips,
like a secret treasure, deep inside the soul.
knowing intuitively that these precious gems
falling from a faery blessing into begging hands
may be all it has left, someday, when you have flown to your princess,
and left it to toads and serpents.

Untitled
Snow is falling,
Thick fat flakes in frosty air,
Muffling despair in downy white.

Perfect crystals
Expire in graceful decay
On the window, leaving tear drops.

Sylvia
Rooks chatter in my sleep,
Stately creatures, sleek of wing in
austere black like the night's leavings.
Did you dream? With your poet's mind
And your poet's signs pointing to truth
But hidden in plumes noirs
of the churlish rook.
But look-your darkness has chased them all away...
You dream no more.

Doubts, like thorns, are pricking at my heart. May they be pruned back before they draw blood.

Abra Kadabra
Dreams are smoke and mirror futures,
Clever conjurings of the magician mind.
Hope's slight of hand
Is faster far than reality's eye.

Is such magic a lie?
Bringing such sweet joy in its mystery
But disappointment laced in betrayal
When it fails.

How are we
So happily, repeatedly, deceived?
Ah, but the magician
never reveals his secrets.

Untitled
Bare twisted boughs
Like the arms of lost souls
Pleading against the indifferent grey sky.

Dante would place me among you
For my audacity in answering the blade's
Beckoning grin.

But its sharp sheen smiles sweetly,
Promising enveloping embrace of night
And deep dreamless sleep.

Surely no winter wind awaits
To bite at my bark
Driving tears of young amber from my heart?

But I shall wait for spring, nonetheless.
Knives may call to my slim wrists,
But I won't answer. Not yet.

The rain is beating
loudly against the window.
my heart misses you.

phew, that last entry was long...it started out as a simple reaction and ended up nearly a critical analysis...I guess that's somewhat illustrative of my personality :)
The weather was most peculiar today. It is unseasonably warm, and quite damp, for last night it rained heavily, coming down in thick twisting sheets. A mist hung in the air like a gauzy curtain all day, and the moisture combined with the mild temperatures could almost have bewitched the senses into believing it was spring where it not for the silence of the birds, the whiteness of the sun, and the faint scent of decay. I went running through my neighborhood in the afternoon, and in the fog, I fancied I could see ghost forests and phantom deer. The naked boughs of trees reached up toward the dreary grey sky like the pleading arms of lost souls. I almost wish for a snowfall to clothe them, but I wish more for the return of life to their branches. Am I the only one who nurses a slight but trembling fear that the spring will not return, that there might be no renewal? I suppose what I wish for most right now is for the voice that I love best to whisper that spring will come again, and to be held in his arms till I doubt no more.

I finished reading East of Eden today. Everyone should read that book.
Less a novel than an epic allegory, John Steinbeck's East of Eden journeys through America, morality, and the human condition. From the very first, the reader is exposed to all the exquisite and agonizing failings of humanity. Adam Trask's lying, boastful father helps cause his unstable wife's suicide, an when his second wife bears him a second, less loved son, the pattern set by the biblical tale of Cain and Abel is woven inextricably into the novel.

This concept of filial conflict continues for Adam in his marriage to Cathy, one of Steinbeck's most intriguing and intricate characters. Cathy is initially portrayed as a monster; she is missing something--be it a conscience, or a soul, or simply the understanding of goodness--and it sets her apart from the rest of humanity, allowing her to do monstrous acts without suffering guilt or regret. She abuses and pollutes all things good and pure that cross her path. Yet one cannot hate her. There is only pity for Cathy, who exposes her own humanity in the end.

Samuel Hamilton is the patriarch of truth in the novel. A prince of philosophy, a compassionate father and friend, and a financial disaster, Sam give something intangible, yet bright, warm, and glowing as a torch to everyone his life touches, the reader included. Lee, the Chinaman who follows in Sam's scholarly footsteps, is above all wise, patient, and loving. Even his weaknesses are strengths as he provides guidance for Adam Trask and his sons Caleb and Aron.

Caleb and Aron, named over a year after their birth, continue the brotherly struggle of East of Eden. Their names become symbolic, not only repeating the Cain and Abel conceit, but in developing the main theme of the novel. Abel is naturally good. He is pure and innocent, and perceives the world in a manner more than slightly his own invention. Caleb is more clever by far than his brother, and is capable of deeper love than his brother, but he is not as well loved, and is drawn toward evil in his life. Yet it is Caleb's biblical namesake who enters the promised land, and it is Caleb's ability to choose his path that can allow him to transcend.

The characters are godly, evil, beautiful, ugly, petty, generous, cruel, kind, scholarly, ignorant, noble, and notorious, but most importantly each is overwhelmingly and touchingly human. Through his characters' ordeals, Steinbeck painstakingly explores the causes of good and evil in the human mind and that age old question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Yet the keystone of the whole novel can be expressed in a single word, Tamshel. It is the Hebrew word for "thou mayest" -- not "thou shalt," nor "thou should"--"thou mayest." And in that one word is all the glory of mankind. Descended from Cain, all humanity contains the seed of evil, but in Tamshel, the choice of the path a man follows is placed in his own hands.

Never have I read a book which speaks so compellingly to the truth of the human spirit. From start to finish, it is shatteringly beautiful. The ending, poignant and bittersweet, filled with hope and terror, was like a jolt to the heart, and startled tears sprang to my eyes and coursed down my cheeks, a watery and soul-felt tribute to the singular perfection of that conclusion. East of Eden is a masterpiece.