Crunchy leaves under sneakered shoes.
A soft breeze through quiet hair.
Rumbling of machines off in the distance.
Tall pines overheard.
Camera in hand.
Passing tree after tree after tree.
Dodging branches and green leaves.
Just for a quiet
place
to
think.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Lost
The sounds gone, disappeared from the air.
The breeze no longer carries them,
Softly, gracefully across the horizon.
Happy, sad, confused.
They were the voices of many.
Of a generation that wanted to spread the word,
That wanted to prove themselves.
But as the sounds disappear and the breeze floats away,
All that is left is...
nothingness.
The breeze no longer carries them,
Softly, gracefully across the horizon.
Happy, sad, confused.
They were the voices of many.
Of a generation that wanted to spread the word,
That wanted to prove themselves.
But as the sounds disappear and the breeze floats away,
All that is left is...
nothingness.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sleep
Laying down to sleep,
Curled up in a comfy bed,
Thinking, pondering about the day's events and those to come.
Closing the eyes,
Gently drifting off,
Mind still active, always thinking, always pondering.
Darkness surrounds,
Nothingness devours,
Everything is blank and void of color.
Images flood the mind,
Filling every corner,
Until only the most realistic emotion stills the mind.
Is it a dream or,
Is it real?
People come and go,
Words are said,
Emotion blankets the mind.
Til one later wakens,
Eyes reopen,
Color fills the senses,
Smells of breakfast enter the nose,
It is morning.
Curled up in a comfy bed,
Thinking, pondering about the day's events and those to come.
Closing the eyes,
Gently drifting off,
Mind still active, always thinking, always pondering.
Darkness surrounds,
Nothingness devours,
Everything is blank and void of color.
Images flood the mind,
Filling every corner,
Until only the most realistic emotion stills the mind.
Is it a dream or,
Is it real?
People come and go,
Words are said,
Emotion blankets the mind.
Til one later wakens,
Eyes reopen,
Color fills the senses,
Smells of breakfast enter the nose,
It is morning.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Amber- Eavan Boland
It never mattered that there was once a vast grieving:
trees on their hillsides, in their groves, weeping—
a plastic gold dropping
through seasons and centuries to the ground—
until now.
On this fine September afternoon from which you are absent
I am holding, as if my hand could store it,
an ornament of amber
you once gave me.
Reason says this:
The dead cannot see the living.
The living will never see the dead again.
The clear air we need to find each other in is
gone forever, yet
this resin once
collected seeds, leaves and even small feathers as it fell
and fell
which now in a sunny atmosphere seem as alive as
they ever were
as though the past could be present and memory itself
a Baltic honey—
a chafing at the edges of the seen, a showing off of just how much
can be kept safe
inside a flawed translucence.
trees on their hillsides, in their groves, weeping—
a plastic gold dropping
through seasons and centuries to the ground—
until now.
On this fine September afternoon from which you are absent
I am holding, as if my hand could store it,
an ornament of amber
you once gave me.
Reason says this:
The dead cannot see the living.
The living will never see the dead again.
The clear air we need to find each other in is
gone forever, yet
this resin once
collected seeds, leaves and even small feathers as it fell
and fell
which now in a sunny atmosphere seem as alive as
they ever were
as though the past could be present and memory itself
a Baltic honey—
a chafing at the edges of the seen, a showing off of just how much
can be kept safe
inside a flawed translucence.
Quarantine- Eavan Boland
In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.
She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.
She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
Anorexic- Eavan Boland
Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I 'm burning it.
Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers
till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.
I vomited
her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.
I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.
Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe
a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide
once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.
Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,
I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.
Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy
past pain,
keeping his heart
such company
as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall
into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and breasts
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.
My body is a witch.
I 'm burning it.
Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers
till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.
I vomited
her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.
I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.
Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe
a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide
once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.
Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,
I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.
Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy
past pain,
keeping his heart
such company
as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall
into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and breasts
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.
Image
Short, small, simple.
Messy hair, fly aways.
Eyes full of emotion, pale like porcelain.
Soft lips, silver shining jewelry.
Graceful feet, tiny hands.
Determined, strong minded, intelligent.
Energetic, hyper, fun.
Creative, flighty, willing.
Caring, loving, kind.
Stubborn, friendly, outgoing.
Will never change for anyone.
Messy hair, fly aways.
Eyes full of emotion, pale like porcelain.
Soft lips, silver shining jewelry.
Graceful feet, tiny hands.
Determined, strong minded, intelligent.
Energetic, hyper, fun.
Creative, flighty, willing.
Caring, loving, kind.
Stubborn, friendly, outgoing.
Will never change for anyone.
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