sometimes i talk to myself,
my mind is racing,
i dont know what to do...
so hard to explain.
depression isn't a stage
or a faze some kids go through
it shatters you...
i saw it all.
she cried silent in her bed,
blood stains covered her favorite jeans,
her every shirt,
long sleeve ofcourse...
she suffered through it all with few people to call friend
and more to call enemy
even more to say where quite dissappointed....
her first name in school,
not started by a bully
or a mean rival,
but by her sister,
and it echoed through her soul,
repeating in her mind... over and over again,
like the ripples of still water
when a pebble is dropped
flash frozen in time
over and over again...
It was the first name they gave her,
millions where created over the years,
some repeating again, just as the first had..
gothic they called her,
emo, fat, ugly....worse things.
but in her mind, things where worse.
everything was repeating,
over and over again,
finally she believed it.
she asked for help, from everyone
tried to explain to parents she wasnt well,
got called a psycho for asking to see a theripist,
not from a teacher,
not from a class mate,
but from her own father, who wouldn't, couldn't,
believe there could possibly be a thing wrong....
finally, crying, she confessed her bloody secret to a teacher.
rather then giving her time,
she is sent back to class crying her eyes out, as if she wherent going through enough...
she is sent to the principals office a few minutes later, after breaking down in class...
the princlipal says she needs help,
sends her and her dad for a risk evaluation,
her dads crying as she shows him her cuts...
they walk into a hospital room,
it smells of chemicals and hand sanitizer,
the lady at the desk gives her a smile.
then she goes into a room with a lady,
her cheeks are sunken in and shes wearing way too much makeup,
the girl is gaging on her perfume,
and she looks really intimidating....
her dark brown hair looks dead and flat
even though its a bit wavy,
and she wears somewhat of a mocking frown.
asks her all these questions,
is mommy beating her?
is daddy raping her?
is she doing drugs?
is anyone beating her?
did anyone molest her?
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
some numbed the pain
some brought it out
tearing through her organs,
she became an addict by the time she was fourteen....
over dose after over dose
some for pleasure
some for pain,
gashes on her legs getting deeper,
this time she didnt tell a soul,
not even those she had come to call friends....
wakeup she screamed in her head over and over again
as she dropped weight like it was nothing....
you cant controll it she argued as things became worse.
at age fourteen she attempted suicide,
she didnt quite succeed.
the medication took away her aappitite....
she liked it
she hated her body
felt out of controll
found a new way to cope
as she shoved tooth brush after toothbrush down her throat
to keep her body from nuitrients...
as she whent weeks and weeks spitting food into napkins and making excuses
I ate at my friends house....
spoken as a whisper
heard like a sentance
echoing in her mind over and over again,
along with that word, all the words,
ugy, anoying, stupid, fake, worthless, nothing...
one bite she would say
rocking back and forth
craving nothing but food
her body racked with hunger pain
one bite and there she was again
over and over and over again
back to a toothbrush
this time she sees blood
she saw her ribs
she saw her bones,
it wasnt good enough,
she almost died, again....
choking on this deep dissappointment in herself,
gaging on everything they where pushing down her throat,
their words, and their insults, their criticism.... their drugs
all shoved down her throat like candy
and just as she was was trained to do she swallowed despite the bad taste
or the hurt
or the fact that at the rate she was going she would be dead soon...
and you know why?
because daddy yelled
and couldnt accept what was happening
not because he wanted to hurt her
but because it hurt him,
and she let him believe,
because she could take the hurt if it meant he didnt have too.
because mommy didnt want to sit in her room all day
practically having us raise ourselves,
she didnt mean to take anger, or frustration or hurt out on her daughter
she suffered everyday in her solitary confinement,
and from a young age she accepted her bedroom was the cage
her mother had created for herself.
because sister didnt want to effect her the way she did
she was just frustrated
fed up with the way things where
scared, she needed someone to take her cruelty
and to help heal her pain...
because people in school
who where so cruel
had to have learned from somewhere
and she wasnt going to play into their games,
and they knew she was an easy target
because she would never attack someone so weak
and she accepted her suffering was a sacrafice
to help all these people....
to help her dad,
every person who was beaten abused or hurt
and felt so weak at home they wanted to feel strong in the one safe place they had.
because depite the fact she had died inside,
and almost passed away on the out,
it was a saccrafice she was willing to make
so that no one else would have to feel that kind of pain,
and they all inflicted it and broke her down'untill there was nothing left but a shell
of somthing that could have been
and never had the chance
because she would take it and wouldnt strike back,
because sometimes "just taking it"
isnt so much about the weakness not to do anything
but about the strangth not to hurt others the way they hurt you...
Copyright © cassie hellberg
Blooming before us, like dandelions sprouting in the spring.
Rising above and beyond, invisible during the day,
Guardians at night.
Dangling up high as if it were puppets.
So close, mountains could give a kiss away.
The Stars dance and wiggle, as if putting on a play.
Clouds form a dark, grey, thunderstorm,
Clapping and roaring vividly, like an applause.
The wind glides along in appraise.
The moon shivers and squirms, it smiles upon the stars.
A shooting star evolves,
Leaving a trail of the dreams that sparkle in the dust.
Feeling pure joy, the
Moon erupts into a wall of tears.
Water breaks the bond of the dreams attached to the star,
It slowly sinks down into the homes, in the rooms,
Into the minds, of the beholder.
It has now lost its dreams.
The sun is rising, and the star at once must become invisible,
It now must start over and watch from above like a hawk.
It now must watch the lives of everyday people,
And become one with the beholder.
It now must take dreams and guard them with its life.
It now must take on its duty as a Dream-Catcher.
Copyright © Angel classified
When I was only five
Heard mommy always's say
Angel keep being naughty and you won't make it to
Entry for Adam Hapworth's
Captcha Acrostic Contest
Copyright © Katherine Stella
1984 Has Gone.
Nineteen eighty four has gone
But still it's not too late.
George Orwell got the date all wrong
But he recognized our fate.
His words are being acted out
You can see it everywhere.
George Orwell was a prophet man
His truth's at you they stare.
And so we sit, the TV on
As we stare into it's rays.
And the adverts roar so loud and clear
and with our minds they play.
"You must have this, you can't do that
They tell you how to live
And all they think you need to know
Though they haven't much to give.
And everyone be taught to think
Just like the one, the other.
As little bricks they each be formed
But the truth's kept undercover.
And not too many want the truth
Or even think at all.
So me, I turn that TV off
It drives me up the wall.
Copyright © Peter Duggan
As your mind collects the memories of yesterday
Epiphanies tie into knotty strings of realization
That very moment. . .
You merely exist
Back then. . .those smiles
Those. . .distant laughs
Some you remember by name
Gone now maybe
Like the exhalation of the wind
Others dispersed in the world of arbitrary happening
Like leaves from falling, man-made trees
There is no doubt that they have
Activate the bomb
Ignite the fuse
And you’re on next year’s history book
But drained of all remaining good
That smile you gave
The warm embrace so long ago
Salt-coated with piles of rubbish
Over last remaining mental spurts of comfort
Evil, evil, evil, evil, EVIL. . .
Always absorbed and remembered
. . .though never forgiven. . .
All good and gracious sentiments
Packed up in a box set nonchalantly in Downstair’s storage
. . .that chair with the broken leg in the corner of the room
That mangled cobweb holding a dangling, lifeless spider
A drowned sailor’s hat drifting through the current of the ocean
The single tear from a soldier’s vigilant, memory-stricken eye
The frustrating thoughts of a mute
The unchanged. . .HATED deformations
Forgotten you. . .
One soul brings to light weary, unthought-of happenings
Wedged deep into what she can only imagine
With not even a hint of understanding
. . .of the pain. . . .of the bewildering distortions
Of the ugly. . .
One soul merely vomits sickly verse after verse
As humanity embraces its downfall
The poet hangs onto her unjustifiable, forgotten. . .
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal
I do not know?
Quantum leap, material mind,
learning curve steep, perceptive mankind,
this earth inherited to keep, in the depth eyes shined,
the karmic benefits we reap, after money too long pined,
in the shadows they did creep, by our light left blind,
hearts awaken from their sleep, each ventricle gold lined,
More awake each enlightened peep, open hearts, contemplative minds; you'll be amazed at
what you find.
Been crawling, now it’s time to walk, too long the masses talking the talk.....
Copyright © Lance Lawlor
Easy comes beauty in youth’s natural spring,
But with age its mellow dimensions grow.
Like to a bud, a full bloom, age will bring.
With grace its beauty does ebb and glow,
Its liberty allows its new functions to show.
Mature beauty is and will be admired always,
Youth’s beauty and its esteem goes to and fro,
But ageless deeper beauty has endless days.
Mature beauty has a melody to sing,
And this it releases so that you will know,
The elegance and blessing of its echo’s ring.
The evidence of a mind is part of its show,
For it opens tastefully with a view to bestow.
Ageless beauty never lacks for praise.
The beauty of life’s spring may lose its glow,
But ageless deeper beauty has endless days.
In poetry and melody its praises we bring,
For mature beauty’s many dimensions we know.
With fervid dignity I see it take to wing,
Giving the young buds an inspiring show.
May you long guide youth as they grow,
Leading them in elegance the celestial ways.
So youth will know how easy beauty may go,
But ageless deeper beauty has endless days.
Now young buds aspire to full blooms grow,
And become worthy of nature’s timeless praise.
Allow your charm in majesty and grace to glow,
And may your ageless beauty have endless days.
Copyright © Albert Price
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt
Who's that staring through my window walls, with eyes as old as time
the clock has not yet moved and the wind outside has died
no breath for me to find nor the strength to check the time
unless the minute hand is lying theirs a chance i may have died
I wish this all a dream but the eyes i see dont lie, they have told me with their watching that all men do really cry
yet in vain is all my wishing but perhaps this is delusion of a sedimentary man with his mind ripe for losing
Come at me then red devil, I shout within my mind yet the tension I had hoped for was delayed and rather dry
no ravishingly velvet flame encircled this such room, nor were the furniture and ottoman thrown like an old shoe
marvelous the time in which a demon throwns your home and his only one intent is to stare right through your soul
to that i bid goodnight to you, to do as you wish, regardless of the manner I am nothing more then fish. to be shot out of a barrel for a fellow such as this
If you do deem it fit that I wake another morning all i ask is that the clocks all please return to working order
Copyright © chriss todd
I use to say I hear you
Now I say "What you say?
I use to say What's going on?
Now I say I Remember
I use to hear you LOUD and CLEAR
Now I can barley hear you at all
I use to say tha'ts what WE use to say
Now I ask the question is that what we use to SAY?
Copyright © Cathy Holmes
A poem wrote by me, based on Person who is a deserving icon but still struggling hard with his career life and addressed as disturbed creature.
DISTURBED CREATURE--> Am I ?? BY Mrs.Madhavi Suyog Pagare
Am I so insane, Am I so mad,
Dramatic mood of mine is so die hard.
Destroyed my peace, Shattering my dreams,
People call me as disturbed creature.
As like mounting the pain, attenuating the drain!!
Digesting my feelings lying inside me,
Strangely nobody cared, call me sick.
Teasing me lavishly and my heart is pricked,
Hurted me like hell when addressed me as stupid.
As like showering rain, missing on the lane!!
Time lapse in journey of life,
Can hamper anybody on its path.
When I see innate reflex of mine,
I always use to brightly shine.
Though possessing every job attributes of mine,
I never thought the authorities will ditch and hamper my career line.
Falsely acting bloody swine, making my image as fade as wine.
As like affecting harmonious divine, my soul was, as is transparently pristine!!
Destroying me and testing my patience, Never wanna give up.
Transformed deviations, wanna rightly screw up.
I wanna raise up, I wanna shake up.
I wanna wake up, Tranquilize my mind.
Unzip the professional life compressed by the culprits.
Wanna explore myself, driving the motivated heights of journey.
Lastly waiting for the optimistic opportunity.
Cuffing the suspect ,I wanna rejoice by my pattern of life!!
with Suyog Pagare
Copyright © Madhavi Sarjare pagare
I am drifting into memories.
Wasting away like a million photographs fading in the sun-
Yet with ceaseless renewal,
Staining the depths of my eyes with images
In the minds shutter ever fluttering to infinity,
Stringing together this conscious stream I play in-
My stupendous God made of dust and space
Tightrope walking existence!
And to think we too are made of mostly nothing-
Chance so scarcely gracing our atoms with a single touch
In a place so lonely when counted,
Yet so abounding when felt!
So dance with the Dust God
Poised miles above the earth-
Prance on your stilts,
And peek into the great valleys beneath his skin.
Because any moment we could disappear
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt
I do not know?
Ever since I have stepped into modernization, I have been pinched with values of the ancestors,
I cannot believe that the inside does not reflect the outside anymore,
When one says he or she has changed and become open minded,
Is it only to make one feel temporarily pleased or is just to enjoy hurting a person,
Why has age become a factor or an excuse to start a new problem?
Every time a heart skips a beat, the warm sensation takes place, a friendly chat takes place,
Numbers begin to swirl around. The intellectual chat, attraction of like minds,
Or even the rebellious differences stand in a corner against numbers.
Time flies and so does one progress with various experiences.
Does it matter if you are too old or young to be with someone?
Who gets to judge about numbers?
Nothing occurs very young but takes place during adulthood with mature thinking.
How should one deal when age becomes a problem to a new relationship?
More or less, does anyone have the right to judge if one is not married at a certain age.
With observation, reading various articles, numbers have created a nuisance in the mind of shallow thinkers in many societies.
When all the feelings are right, then why do numbers go wrong?
Doesn’t sensibility, love, responsibility or even security count or is it overshadowed with age.
Still one may try to let go and filter some thoughts, but how does one filter attraction and passion.
Years have passed by and still the jackpot of excuses concerning numbers have polluted various communities. A spark of hope is still there when faith and true love will attain blessings from the higher self and well-wishers always.
Copyright © Bhavna khemlani
P atrick is a special kind of man
A lways there to help folk if he can
P erfect is the way his children see him
A nd now they have to watch his lights go dim.
Copyright © Peter Duggan
Robot Monologue 27
Hello! Is anybody there? No?
According to the papers found today
And rusting rubble everywhere
Time apparently had passed
The world abruptly ended
People and machines like me did not survive
The past is now what passed forever
Apparently I've been off line awhile
In my storage box a mile underground
For months, most likely years
It’s just not clear when I came back to life
I can’t remember or it does not compute
Obliteration is not something to forget
I’m sure there is no cure or fix
There’s nothing left to do but walk in solitude
When the earth comes back to life again
A billion years from now
With man, machines and other oddities
To blow themselves to pieces
I’ll do it all again
Walk the world alone until it ends
Or go down with them like I’m supposed to
Like I was built to
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.
Copyright © Anthony O. Mitchell Jr.
I met myself today, not that many years away.
A most arresting sight; it filled me full of fright:
My mind in disarray, all my senses, gone astray.
Every hour come what may, planning meals for the day.
Checking locks. Are they tight? Checking clocks. Are they right?
I watched myself today. not so many years away.
Only driving in the day. After dark I lose my way.
Hardly hearing, blurry sight, nothing seems to taste quite right.
All my senses gone astray, and my mind’s ... in disarray.
Searching for each word to say. Can’t remember yesterday.
Bathroom visits through the night, cursing til I find the light.
I heard myself today not that many years away.
Talk about childhood days, no matter what you had to say.
Both my knees rusted tight, can’t get up with out a fight.
Bent and frail, drawn and gray, everything’s in disarray.
Do I need this P.O.A. Deeds and wills seem OK
What about a funeral site? Who will give my last rite?
I asked myself today: “just how many years away?”
While visiting my Dad this past Father’s Day.
Copyright © Bob Bergman
"When I Grow Up"
When I was five, I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I told them I wanted to be a princess.
When I was eight, I wanted to be a waitress.
When I was twelve: a teacher.
When I was sixteen: a doctor.
Now when asked what I want to be in the near future,
I know exactly how to respond.
I want to be happy.
Copyright © Serena Mott
When I was young, I noticed
Many adults stopped aging at 39.
Had something to do with Jack Benny
And trying to hold back time.
Then I noticed something else.
They often spoke of retiring at 65,
And many of them seemed to hope
They might still be alive.
The difference came to 26,
A number I knew very well.
The number of letters in the alphabet
We use to print and write and spell.
Then it occurred to me,
For folks holding youth so dear,
Just add a letter to 39
Each and every year.
39A would be 40,
39Z would be 65.
After that, start letters over again
Or just be glad you’re still alive.
So, you see, it’s easy
To forever be 39.
You may fool yourself & others,
But you can’t fool Father Time.
Copyright © Robert Candler
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
Copyright © Suyash Saxena
The soul shatters upon death. Sentience fractures into a million variables that swirl chaotically into piercing eyes that melt into the color sadness, spinning into galaxies that shrink to the size of ants and you twirl in a blender of being for eternities until finally, at long last, something sticks. Perhaps it may be as simple as a strand of hair, nonetheless all possibility spins around it, flashing contradictions of rainbow transparencies, empty solids and polka dotted space, continuing until a second hair joins the first, clutching to the nothingness and refusing to move. Soon thousands of hairs arrive and synchronize above a scalp unto a face, torso, limbs… materializing ever faster… and at once you are born. And just as the memory of your trial and error experiments and prior life evaporate, you embrace the arms of a stranger, gazing into her eyes, hung between this world and the next… sobbing in a fit of omniscience, in awe of your hard earned shape.
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt
Show me who you are and i shall paint out broken columns on the valleys of her back as if such figure is un-common
i have found no beauty bending as the vines that are her hair and the frailty of man upon her back is what she bares
bleed her body for the harvest let them feast upon her soul for the nurishment of mother is leaps beyond so bold
she is like the flower growing in the deepest of dark forests,amongst the ivy and hemlock but her skin is much too porous
to concern herself with games that tantalize the men, as they marry on crusade it is her children that she tends
sheath your swords with her ambition and tip your arrows with her will, craft your armour from her strength and in the battle you will kill
come now children from the pasture and lay each upon her side, suckle gently at your mother although theirs pain she does not hide
though the water leaks from rooftops her leaves are thick and block the rain, as the water level rises cling to her branches with no shame
she is the stone upon the beach, once a mountain pound and breached
yet still her disposition clear to love her children that are near
inspired by Roots Frida Kahlo, 1907-1954
Copyright © chriss todd
I am not made a full blown beauty..
Nor I live a life of purity; charity & piety..
All I like to do is to live with identity..
Not of being a witty but a life of humility..
I tried to be a more social person..
Cracking out the shell I have put up..
Breaking from my own weakness..
Doing best in my found strengths..
I have craved to reach out to people..
Widening my horizon, increasing my knowledge and awareness..
Learning to acknowledge fellow human beings..
Regardless of who they are and where they from..
They said: "I must not do this as it is dangerous.."
but I stand to what I know: "Inside all human beings is the reflection of God.."
I give due and equal chance..
As my God have freely given me opportunities too..
We people are living in same earth..
Different are we because of status, faith or race..
Let not this be the reason for us to be divided..
Rather we must come in unison conquering divisions..
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo
Temple wall takes age
Breath accommodates spring steps
Enter marsh old bug
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
A tree trunk spider was listening to a conversation between
An elderly Sparrow and a Housefly and got annoyed with how they talked.
So he dropped down in a single strand of silk and said,
“Hey you guys, birds are supposed to eat flies,
Not talk to them like a member of the family!”
“That’s a myth, a legend, a fairytale” said the fly to the spider.
“No it’s not, its Mother Nature’s way,” said the spider to the Housefly.
Unexpectedly the spider moved his legs like lightning strikes
And used his fangs and ate the fly for lunch.
Then the elderly sparrow flew toward the clouds to hide
And the spider went up his single strand of silk to take a nap.
That’s when I woke up from a long winter’s nap
And began to wonder about this Mother Nature lady
Who invented the rules for who could talk to whom, and who could eat who
No matter the time of day or time of night.
Copyright © Howard Dion
My express wish is to walk around the earth twice
I see myself only as a cloud
The real sense of direction is spiritual
My essence is only spared by my humility
This is the dogma of life
I ask you, Do you understand the complicated nature of express reaction ?
I for one feel the need to only go to where I am loved
Am I loved by the masses?
This is my plight
I am an external vision
The respect I command is extraordinary
This may be my only chance
I try to drive
Oh well so goes life
The failure of it is immense, it makes me feel inadequate
Is this what they mean by age versus companion?
I am what I perceive
Copyright © Christopher Remele
today I think that I’ll take a nice long walk
to where the sidewalk ends
and look to see and imagine what adventures
may await me
when I grow up and become a man and move away
to where I don’t know
but today I will have to stop where the sidewalk ends
wondering what is out there in the world to see
I can only imagine what adventures await me
will I go on to school or maybe a college some where far away
perhaps the military is what I will do
and see the world beyond where the sidewalk ends
or is marriage in my future and then become a dad
will I marry a girl as beautiful as Janet Light that would be nice
or will a single life be my choice not to be married at all
and live my life alone and travel from sea to shining sea
but today I’ll just stand and stare out there from
where the sidewalk ends and then I’ll walk back home
I think I can hear my mother calling me
perhaps tomorrow I will return here to where the sidewalk ends
and wonder again what is out there waiting me
Dennis H. Davis
Poetry contest "Three Gems"
date written Sept.10, 2010
Copyright © Dennis Davis
Coming from the misty lake Lough Leane
Came a beautiful maiden of the name of Niamh
Upon a mare, for she is not from the world of man
A seraphic princess from Anwnn
Upon the shores she claimed around his kin
"I have came for Oisin son of Finn"
"Maiden you come to me so alluringly
I am he, if we marry for all eternity!"
And so he rode upon her horse to the secrets of Anwnn
For he and she, they'd be happy for all eternity
Come with me to Anwnn
I am she, your queen Niamh
I have come for you Oisin, son of Finn
Don't leave me or you'll see
The age of man
The age of man
The age of man
Copyright © Wyatt Loethen
When I was a youth the earth was our friend, as it was our means of escape. We would run and chase each other across great distances, far away from the confines of home and its stifling traditions; we would imagine that we were flying a few feet above the ground following the contours of hills and valleys, crossing streams in a single bound or leaping to treetops. Elsewhere we would dig elaborate tunnels in the earth. We dug in the red clay until our hands were blistered. Sweat and soil mixed in our hands and on our arms and chests; filling the pores of our skin. We could taste and spit the iron colored dust. When our day was done we would recline in the shade until our bodies dried with caked red earth. We would then cover our labors with scrap wood, dirt and scrub bushes to blend with the surroundings. The tunnels were constructed in obscure forested locations to further their concealment. It was necessary to dig around tree roots and large boulders which became integrated into the tunnel structure and provided openings for multiple entries and exits. As such the tunnel passages were never straight, but root-like, turning and twisting following a path of least resistance. The passages were no wider or taller than what we could crawl through, and branching off the passages were multiple chambers where four or five of us could tightly gather in privacy, illuminated by candle light. The tunnel interiors were cool in the summer and also protected us from harsh winter winds. Here we would plot against nearby enemy tunnels. This is where we initiated and observed our own secret rituals and myths; meeting times, passwords, schemes, fears and desires. While excavating, we had discover buried bones and imagined they were our ancient heroes that the old ones talked about. We placed the bones at the entrance of our underground fortress to warn trespassers and identify allegiance to our fallen hero, whomsoever it was. Our heroes could have been anyone that we accidentally dug up.
We learned at some later age that we had dug our trenches into an unmarked cemetery that was taken over by the forest many eons ago. Later, the tunnels were where we first became acquainted with sex, alcohol and drugs; fortunately for most of us, such acquaintances didn’t last too long. This is how we came to intimately know the land and ourselves. We were digging to find; shaping and making with our hands a place to call our own. Here is where our innocence began and ended as so many generations before. We are so connected to the land; always underfoot our lives roll over it, we dig into it and it’s where we finally return to rest to feed the soil; we are inseparable, as a fish to water.
Copyright © dennis jones
His fingers left blood on the strings
but, come time to walk away he hadn’t really learned anything.
Course and dried brushes sit atop the rubbish,
His mind held a perfection too delicate for his clumsy hands to create.
He opened his mouth to sing like a jay but, instead of notes it was rust that fell out. Part of the wear and tear of early adulthood.
But then, this same boy picked up a pen and found some paper. The pen in his hand felt as natural his own bones and he began to write.
He wrote every tear
He scribed every star
He built towers from mountains with every line
High enough that the angel’s just might hear them.
He made pages for chapters of his life that could make those seraphim weep sapphire tears.
He could write the wind blowing across the nape of your neck in Autumn
And make you feel the chill on your skin.
He could articulate the sad beauty of a lover’s quarrel that ends in tears
If they cry, it makes it all more real.
He documents the history of a war inside himself that will never end.
The loss and the gain,
But not those of monetary nature.
When life begins to scream around him
All he must do to silence it is to put it in a stanza.
The boy’s tongue can pave the way for good intentions, and we all know those can fall South. He finds strength. And with this Strength a power.
Finally the boy knew his gift. But how is he meant to use it and who will truly listen to the personal strands of his soul he ties together with punctuation?
And now that he has tasted the pleasure of his power, will that be enough?
Copyright © Alexander Schwartz