Balance

Standard

We dance 
Silently

Each step painting 
A mirror 

Two parts of a whole 
Each a hole in the other 

We are a universe 

Being born 
and dying 
And being reborn

Our story is never told
But rather felt 

Our dance is never seen
But felt deep inside 

In silence we dance 
Yin and yang

Advertisements

My Fault

Aside

Maybe, maybe it was.

My too big fingers twisting and turning

trying to fix what was not yet broken

and in the process breaking

Shattering the tiny but important pieces

and in my ignorance continuing thinking

that I was getting results

the oil glistening and painting everything

shiny and beautiful and perfect

when in reality it was lubrication for failure

even in the end as I grasped and shoved

pieces here and there trying to make it whole

I realized that it was me that opened the hole

and now it is broken

Broken, and maybe it’s all my fault

for trying to fix something that wasn’t broken

Chapter One-The Nightmare

Standard

 

The room was filled with balloons and the floor was carpeted with bubble wrap. The balloons looked like normal balloons but seemed to bob strangely in the air, as if filled with something. A small child is huddled in the corner of the room, fearfully facing the only exit to the room; a large red door. The door begins slowly begins to open, creaking loudly in the process but  no one but the small boy seems to notice. The door then shuts and the balloons and dancing guests part as an invisible force makes it’s way towards the young boy, the bubble wrap crackling with each step. The small boy whimpers and his lips can be seen mouthing “Stay strong my boy, Stay strong my boy”.

His lips quiver as he keeps muttering the mantra under his breath, eyes fastened fearfully on the advancing force. Then clenching his fist, he resolutely faces the creature as if determined to face whatever challenge comes his way. Suddenly the balloons start exploding violently, spewing puffs of color into the room. POP! POP! POP! Each pop shattering the silence like a shotgun blast. The colored fog that billows from the balloons eats up the air in the room and transforms it into a mystical shadow land, the chairs, tables and people acquiring almost ethereal qualities as they are consumed by the fog.

In the fog that is created, a silhouette can be seen. A blank area where the fog can con penetrate, and it is advancing on the young child who is now standing, fist clenched and face scrunched in concentration. The crowd, oblivious to the action bursts into song “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear Kevin…” The happy joyous song striking a sour chord, each burst of merriment underscoring the young child’s advancing death. The irony of a celebration of life on the eve of his death seemed to register on the young child’s mind. He glances fearfully at the incoming  menace and then with a shout charges into the mist hoping to get lost in the crowd and make his escape through the door. He moves faster than he has ever moved before, running as if he has gained wings, but before he can even reach the edge of the crowd the shadow is upon him. He can feel the cold clammy hands gripping his neck and drawing him back as if by sheer force of will. He struggles, his legs pistoning and arms flailing but it’s as if the very air is against him and he is drawn back inexorably to his doom.

His flailing starts to slow and his body begins to grow limp. There seems to be no escape. Then from the resounding silence that had come after the balloon explosion and songs, a voice booms out, filling the room with sound.

“Boy! The whistle, blow the whistle boy! Remember what your father said, when facing death, blow the whistle!!”

The boy, moving as if through thick jello reaches for his chest where the whistle hangs. His hand rests on his heart for a moment and he can feel his heart trying to rips it’s way out of his chest. Grabbing the whistle and struggling to bring it to his lips even as the invisible hand crushes is throat, he blows with all the air left in him. The whistle’s piercing scream fills the air and the room is consumed by it. Time stops and the room is silent it the midst of the sound, each person frozen as they were. Then the aura of death, darkness and confusion is shattered and so is the room and everything else in it.

Still screaming, the echo of the whistle still ringing in his head, Kevin lurches upright, hitting his head on the top bunk. Panicked he looks around, eyes darting from place to place, thoughts running rampart in his head like stampeding buffalo. Where am I? What’s going on? Who…?

The realization hits him as he look around and sees the walls of his room and the scrunched up sheets laying in disarray and his bed that looked as if it was the victim of an aggravated assault. Sweat drips from his face and he rolls over and wipes it on his pillow in disgust and whispers “Why does this keep happening?”

Gone

Standard

I was born in iniquity, and raised on lies

I consumed deception by the gallons and immersed myself

How shattered must I be

that I can no longer tell reality from lies

or conjured fantasies from happened mundanity

 So shattered that even the hidden pain I veil

in words and poems and downcast glances

is but a shadow of the mirror of the true pain 

of the true falsehood that allows me to conjure up memories

that never were and paint them brighter and realer 

Words that allow me to slip on a mask and become 

more than average but in the process lose that average

but yet even as I stumble search and seek

hoping to grasp some morsel of wisdom through introspection

even then when I am alone and my heart is laid bare

even then when I am entwined and my heart is stripped

Even then,

the truth dribbles out in increments 

flooded out by the gallons of deceit that spews

endlessly and relentlessly from my mouth

from my carriage from my very existance

Each small drop of truth a unique snowflake soon consumed 

by the sandstorm of life and I am left blind

scrabbling for truth and trading for pennies

searching for the secret place I stashed them

but even as I watch the place I placed them is gone

leaving behind naught but dust and doubt 

Each step a lie is drawn on the sand in footprints

with waves of reality following erasing the marks left 

but yet somehow I am always a step a head 

Searching for a place, a person, a thing

something so much more than me that I can release myself

and be torn apart and rebuilt from the core out

each memory construction reduction reduced 

and re construed to match what truly lies within me. 

Beauty (Revisited)

Standard

There is an infinite beauty in living

Breathing and listening

To the rhythm of the earth

 

Artists merely tap into this haunting melody

And make vacuous shadows of the real

Beat that echoes

 

And heats the blood of men and women

And sounds through the dreams of kings

The symphony

 

Of a sunset, the staccato beat of the heart

As the body warms from a kiss

The music that roars

 

Soundlessly through the universe

The scale the world revolves in

With moans

 

Of the seasons, typhoons and dust bowls

Of the worlds pain and joy

The rumbles

 

Of a stampeding group of elephants

Charging the nearby store for bargain prices

And the percussion

 

Of the incessant tapping in class as the teachers

Drone on endlessly, the rhythm monotonous and

Overbearingly slow

 

Like the heartbeat of a great whale as it groans

Its sad song to the world, the sound vibrating through

The ocean wide, sonorous

 

The cry of a parent that outlived their child

Wild and aching, a piercing pain, sharper than the

Shriek of

 

Of pain as a tooth is uprooted and tossed

 

In it all.

There is beauty.

 

Memory (revisited)

Standard

What is a memory but a moment immortalized

In the moonlit mind of a midnight dreamer?
A gem of golden gladness gloriously displayed
or a moment of madness mirshed with misery
standing tall, torturous in one’s mind

Solid and immutable as a diamond by stress formed

Is a memory a gem to be held, polished, and admired?

Or a deadly shard with which to cut oneself
is it so concrete and rooted?
Or rather a bubble of iridescence capturing a fleeting moment

Of sun and reflecting a million rainbows?

Each glance back casting the brilliance of experience

Upon the fragile moment and seeing the subtle nuance

Of the bubble sounds dancing in the breeze of time
a memory moment so fragile and mutable

That the experience of seeing it changes it

And the rainbows dance to a different tune.

So fragile that we grasp it or we try,

Our desire to know invisible hands reaching

For that moment until they have it

Then …“POP”… it is gone forever
A burst of air gone

The moment, the kiss, the words gone
as a bubble bursts and leaves behind air

So the lost moment leaves an aching emptiness

Is memory a river, rapidly running rampart,

It’s riotous rage ripping the bank of the past

And rising to the present
the inundation seeping through everything

And overwhelming now and sweeping everything to the past
Maybe a mountain, an obstacle obstructing openness

And overshadowing opportunities opening up
maybe a memory is a mystery madly made magnificent

 

Or maybe a mirror

A Lonely Boy

Standard

“Great party last night!” boomed Jace from the front of the room as he nonchalantly threw his letterman jacket over his shoulder. “This is gonna be the greatest senior year ever!”

                The words continued to flow from the mouths of my classmates, rising and ebbing like a sea of sound. “Plans for dinner…” “Duuude…” “..And then she…”

                Bits of conversations would drift into my ears as they walked by. Waves lapping on the shore of an island but always receding. That’s how the words, the conversations were. I would always hear, listen from the distance, catch little scraps but never did I have full intercourse. No teasing foreplay of snide comments or sports trivia. No interesting exploration of positions and ideas. No satisfactory conclusion of a debate well fought. Just scraps.

                “It’s ok, you don’t need them anyway.” I muttered to myself as I ground the pencil lead into the deep groove on the corner of my desk. “You’re perfectly fine without them. Who cares what they think?”

                I glanced up quickly, hoping maybe someone had heard my dark muttering and noticed. Nothing. The class droned on as if nothing had happened. In the beginning at least I got some weird looks. But now nothing. The taste of blood exploded into my mouth before the pain did. Damn it! I had bitten my cheeks from gnashing my teeth. I couldn’t stand him!      

                There he stood like some power drunk wizard king enjoying his concubines. Three! He was having not one but three conversations simultaneously! With three different people. And here I am, the only pleasure I get is this inner dialogue. This pathetic beating around the bush and following the same old thought patterns day in and day out.

                “Fine, if that’s how it’s gonna be then fine. I am sick of it all. You better listen cause I am about to tell you how you are all gonna die.” I mutter whispered my defiance to the ocean. The only response was a girlish laugh from one of Jace’s concubines at one of his witty jokes.