03 September 2016

Fern's Lament

I visited the barn again today.
Nothing has changed much.
Same old smells of manure and hay
Same old empty wooden doorway
With a new web strung in the corner.
I found the old trough, where my
Terrific, radiant, humble friend
Used to eat my leftover
Breakfast. But new snouts plow
Through the middlings now.
Nobody wants to chat with me
I forgot the gander's name.
"Will you please play with me?
Does anyone want to play?"
They stare back at me.
I keep on telling myself
That they understand
That they will ask
"How's the family?"
The cow goes moo.
The horse goes neigh.
The pig goes oink.
No answer.
Where was I
When the morning stars
Sang together?
When I grew up
I remembered the animals
But they
Did
Not
Remember
Me.


***


I wrote this originally as a "concrete poem", but I was reluctant in posting the original because I didn't want anyone to break their necks trying to read the thing. You can try, if you want, but I'm not responsible for anything that happens to you.






28 August 2016

Happenstanza


I don't know when it happened
But it happened
Long ago
I can't recall the moment
But I swear I used to know

I don't know how it happened
But it won't happen
Again
I know that you were there
But I didn't know it then

I don't know if it happened
But if it happened
It was quick
And you disappeared with it
Just like a magic trick

I don't know why it happened
But I wish it happened
More
But I'd probably forget it
Just like I did before

And if it ever happens
To happen across you
Please tell me just what happened

[whisper]

Because it happened to me too.




12 August 2016

[Untitled]


I will love love love
Until I descend into dreaming
The heart is a voluntary muscle
And as long as I say the word
It will keep on beating
Love love love
Don't stop, or the body will grow cold
Love love love
And we never will grow old



24 June 2016

Please Forgive Me

The title of this song is not an apology for not posting in so long, because I'm not actually sorry for that. Much.

Also, although I put a lot of heart into this song, I should warn you that there is a little explicit language in it. I suppose it justifies the title ;)





V.1

I’m sorry, my brother
I treated you so wrong
I turned around and beat you down
When the bigger fish was gone

Oh, I tried, inside
But I never could be good
You would have forgiven me
If you had understood

(Pre-chorus 1)
That I’m a toxic neurotic
Perverted and psychotic
Defensive, offensive
And immensely despotic

And I don’t wanna say it
But I know it’s true
Won’t stop running
Though none pursue
And I keep on learning more
Of what I wish I never knew

(Chorus)
So please forgive me for what I’ve done
I am weak in more ways than one
And the more that I try the more I realize
I can’t stop now that I have begun


V.2

I’m sorry, my father
I tried to run away
Hid in bushes from the cops
And lied to you for days

And I was so scared
To tell you the whole truth
But when I opened up my mouth
I knew you always knew

(Pre-chorus 2)
That I’m a toxic neurotic
Perverted and psychotic
Defensive, offensive
And immensely despotic

Thought it was easy
Till I tried to change
I blow out the fire
But it feeds the flames
You can travel all around the world
But your soul remains the same

(Chorus)
So please forgive me for what I’ve done
I am weak in more ways than one
And the more that I try the more I realize
I can’t stop now that I have begun (x2)


V.3

I’m sorry, my Jesus
For all the pain I reap
On my brothers and sisters
And the One who made me

Now You have washed my hands
And I will wash Your feet

(Pre-chorus 3)
And I don’t wanna say it
But I know it’s true
Won’t stop running
Till I run to You
I may be full of shit but I’ll admit
I knew that too

(Chorus 2)
So please forgive me for what I’ve done
I am weak in more ways than one
And more that I try the more I realize
That You ended what I had begun




-The Minstrel Boy


06 June 2016

Jesus Laughed

Later that day, Jesus was dining with His disciples in the house of Peter.

Jesus, who was weary from the day’s teachings, was eating quietly at the end of the table and saying nothing.

The disciples were talking amongst themselves, arguing over which one of them had the biggest hands.

Matthew was saying, “Because I was a tax collector before our Lord commanded me to follow Him, I was required to hold many coins in my palms, therefore my hands are the biggest.”

Peter, the son of Jonah, said: “It is not so. For before our Lord took me away, I was a fisherman, and the brethren know that only I had hands big enough to hoist up the nets.”

Luke was also saying, “You both are wrong! For behold, I am a doctor, and would not be able to care and nurture my patients if it not were for the great size of my hands.”

While the disciples were arguing, Peter’s dog came among them at the end of the table where Jesus was.

Jesus, seeing that no one was paying attention, took the last loaf of bread from the table and fed it to him.

Jesus then addressed the disciples, saying, “Peter, pass the bread.”

Peter and the others looked all around them, but there was no bread to be found.

Peter, in great distress, said to Jesus, “Forgive me, Lord, but the bread is gone!”

Jesus said to them, “Which one among you ate the last loaf?” But none of them knew who it was.

Jesus laughed.

And the disciples were all amazed, saying to each other, “How can this be, that He who performs such signs and wonders should laugh among us like a mortal?”


14 May 2016

Lady Beauty Part III: The Youth and the Maiden

I had once read in a book by George MacDonald the following words: “when a youth and a maiden look too deep into each other’s eyes, a longing seizes and possesses them; but instead of drawing nearer to each other, they wander away, each alone, into solitary places, and die of desire.”  A year ago I would not have known what that meant. But now I do.
Last week, I drove the Girl with the Curly Hair to the airport. She asked me, what time is it now? Ten till twelve. And now? It is still ten till twelve. The airport was always empty at this particular time of day. I said that I wished her the best of luck, and she said thanks, you too. But I didn’t mean it. I knew that time forbade that I stare too long (for time pays no heed to urgency) so I turned away. And that was how it ended.
The poets teach us that when a man and a woman in love gaze at each other, a lovely harmony is stirred, and it draws them, closer and closer together, until the lips caress. But you see it is not always. One must be careful not to gaze too deeply. To look into someone’s eyes is to embark on no small journey. You must wander through forests of memory, cross seas of abandonment, ascend stairways of excellence and desire, and, atop some remote mountain, place your glowing finger on the still glass pool your find there. The film is disturbed with ripples that, in spite of your trespass, sparkle like galaxies with all the intricacy of a fingerprint. At last, you say, I have penetrated life within life. Have you now found the answer?  Is this what it means to know someone?
Alas, I am here to tell you the answer is no. For now I see that I had made the fatal mistake: I had looked too deep. I had, in my careless passion, broken through some forbidden frontier, and instead of falling in love, fell into inconsolable longing. Only after this frontier is crossed does a man realize that he is truly alone, and that not even human love can grant him his deepest desires. One look draws the youth and the maiden together, but a look that travels beyond this, and touches the sacred pool of life within life, turns them away. When our eyes interlocked in the airport that day, it contained a certain quality of desire I could only find in her eyes alone and yet her eyes alone could not fulfill it. And so I turned away, down a vacant road, damned into the deep of profound dissatisfaction. 



18 April 2016

A Garden of Samanthas

On a hill, on the west side of the river, five miles from the nearest town, a ladybug took the liberty to sunning herself on a rock.

At the foot of the hill, in a house that must have grown up there a hundred years ago, the Wilson’s cat sat erect, staring at the pantry, trying to decide if was worth the effort and whether he could finish the job before the Mistress and man-child returned.

On the other side of the hill, where sun was still shining (and some say it still is) the Mistress and the man-child were concluding their evening meal, he his crackers and almonds (which he would not eat without peanut butter) and she her sandwich (which she preferred lightly toasted).

“What are you drawing, dear?” asked the Mistress.

“Issa samantha.”

“Samantha? It looks like a flower.”

“Uh huh. Issa flower.”

“Did you name it Samantha?”

“No, issa samantha,” said the boy impatiently.

“It’s a Samantha?”

“A samantha is a flower,” he explained.

“Oh, I see. I’ve never heard of such a flower before.”

“Uh-huh,” the boy conceded.

The boy often said odd things like this, and the Mistress had come to accept it. His father had tried to teach him about the names of Cows and Horses, but in spite of all his training the boy would never call trees “treesif for some reason he preferred them to be called elephants. When he spoke, his word was law. There was no convincing him out of it.

The drawing did not remotely resemble the yellow and pink rhododendrons in front of him. It was more purple than yellow (whether from artistic choice or the limitations of his color palette she could not decide) with vibrant, fiery appendages shooting out from the roots. She smiled to herself, and considered how dearly she loved him. And yet—when you really looked at the drawing, you couldn’t help but feel that it was somehow right that it should be called a samantha. And when she turned her gaze to the rhododendrons he was supposedly modeling, wasn’t there something very samantha­-like about them? Perhaps the man who had named them “rhododendrons” was the one who had got it wrong. Let it be known, world, that these flowers shall henceforth be called samanthas.

She checked herself. Of course this was nonsense. They were rhododendrons, not samanthas. She must explain this to him later. But not today. Some other time.

The Mistress said, “It’s time to go,” and it was. The boy took her hand and they turned their backs to the sun. But if they had been listening closely, they would have heard the faintest tingling music washing over the hillside. They did not know that the samanthas were singing, rejoicing quietly over the sound of their new name.