Sit and Watch and Know

Well, since my absence has been so long, I might as well share this one too. I'm not 100% certain that it's done, but here you go anyway, you swirling vortex of cyberspace.


Sit and watch the cornfields grow.
See their hands reach out for life,
Watch the earth give birth to green.

Lie and watch the clouds above,
Feel the sunshine warm your face.
Fill your lungs with breezes cool,
That skip through fields
And swing through trees.

Feel the earth spin tip-toe
'Round the sun.
Watch as morning blue gives way to n ight.
Catch the first star's flick'ring light,
Free to shine now
Sun's bright beams are tucked away
Beneath horizon's ever changing line.

Watch the changeless constellations form,
their glittering glow from ages past
Still calls to  mind eternity.

Sit and watch the world around you breathe.
Feel the heartbeat of the seasons,
The rhythm of the day-to-day.

Stand, and feel your heart beat strong.
Stand, and know how good it is
To be alive.

Dreaming

So I realize that it's terribly overdue, but since this is mostly for my benefit rather than yours (at least I tell myself that most of the time), I'm not overly worried. But that is unimportant. What is important is that I now post my poem and have done with this nonsense.


Eyelids fall, ensaring mind
In tangled, coiling tempests,
Sometimes leading on to deeper dark
Than lightless night,
Sometimes speaking words
We're scared to say ourselves,
Or filled with madness,
Silly, pointless motion.
But light or dark or in between,
Day's bright spears will
Break Sleep's shroud of dreams,
Awaking mind to daily duty's call,
Where mind finds solace or regret
From where it's been,
If Memory's nets do capture dreams.

Trying to Remember

I realize that this post is horribly late, but I've been horribly busy. And on top of everything, I was working on another poem, which will not appear here, and which I hope my mother will enjoy. Anyway, I still haven't had time to finish the poem I've been wanting to post on here, so here's something older (though still new to the blog). Enjoy!


Before me my memory's doorway stands closed,
Sealed like the heart of the sun from my sight.
This door has not chinks in its armor,  no knot
Into which I might peer so to see what I've seen,
Revisit the lands I've forgot.
And surely beyond it my first heartbeat lies,
The first time I looked into mother's sweet eyes,
Or first felt the safety of father's strong arms.
And maybe, beyond it lays something more precious,
A thing that gives strength and strikes fear
For it shakes the foundation of each thing that is.
Yes, somewhere beyond this door's obstinate stance
Is the voice of my Maker.
Breathing His breath - a bright spark from His heart -
Into this vessel of clay.
Yet memory's fickle, and some of its secrets
It jealously guards, lest our faltering faith
Should be rendered impotent.

How You Are Everything

By the way, I feel like I should apologize about not writing sooner, though at this point in time this apology is directed mainly at myself. Be that as it may, I had a case of Writer's Block, and seemed to be unable to write anything of worth. Then these two poems happened, and so we'll see where I go from here.


The ocean pretends to have
Given your eyes its own shade,
But Neptune can't show
Their sweet smile.
My coffee, meanwhile,
Attempts a rude farce
Of your hair.
But nothing shares quite the same lustre.
A girl there walks somewhat like you,
One flicks her hair quite like you do,
One sneezes like you.
And there, the audacity!
A sweater like yours
Is shown off by another,
The green one you wore on that night
At the beach.
We made castles by moonlight,
Raced waves by the moonlight,
Kissed once by the moonlight.
You see now, that
Everything's you when you're gone.
I see you in all
While yet nothing is you.
For nothing is you except you.

Love

Everyone writes about love. They sing about it, dance about it, search for it. It's a fascinating subject, after all. It's something that gives the entire human race some common ground, 'cause come on! Who hasn't loved someone? So here is my own consideration of everyone's favorite muse, though I doubt that it will be the last.




Love is a being so strange
That it's hard to conceive
By this earth-soiled mind in my head.
How can one whose mere breath
I should worship
Long to make me adjacent her heart?
Disregarding all norms
My heart beats a sweet hymn
Responding to hers,
A battle-charge leading me
Into her arms.
Yet on my swift darkening way
My strength might be lost;
I might halt;
I might die.
But Love makes a bond
That refutes Death's embrace,
Calls me back from the dead,
Back to Love.
For Love makes a Phoenix of me,
And the ashes of Death will prove fertile. 

A Constellation of Words

Sad as it may sound, I have composed a poem inspired by my own blog title. Lame, I know, but it turned out surprisingly well, if I do say so myself (and I do).


My mind is a dimly lit cavern,
My thoughts stumble 'round in the dark.
My eyes upward look to the ceiling
And see through the cracks
Constellations of words that aren't words.
They flicker and glow in the vault
As they gaze at my stumbling thoughts,
Beings beyond mind's or voice's weak grasp,
Glistening, glowing and gleaming.

Then, like a net-bearing child pursuing
A butterfly mild, enchanting,
I reach for the stars
With my words.
And yet they persist their celestial dance,
Refuse to be sullied
By my poor mortal hands.
I call this one "Love," that one "Honor,"
This "Beauty," that "Justice."
They're many, yet one,
Inexplicably so.
Always they slip through my net.
For how can my words, simple words,
Contain wholly such wonders?
Why, after all, should mere words
Be so strong?
For all words are products of men
Who are broken,
 And so they are broken as well.

Thus often I sit,
Watch them flicker and fly
'Cross the taciturn sky,
Unchanging, eternal,
Perpetual puzzles
Enchanting my world-weary eyes.

Looking for Rest

I don't really know where my poems come from sometimes. Of course, there are times when I'm looking around, see something beautiful and say to myself, "Hey, I want to write about that," or something along those strikingly unique lines. In this case, however, I think I was just tired, but had little desire to sleep, and so I put pen to paper and started wondering about sleep itself...


Sleep is a comfort.
She comes like a feather
That falls from the sky.
She's a mother
Embracing her surrogate children,
Soft striving to shield them from pain,
Or at least dull the bite
Of the real.

But like a mad nursemaid,
She smothers with care,
Gives poison in medicine's stead.
For dreams are not always escapes,
But sometimes prove dungeons
Till thrice blessed daylight
Or morning's routine
Breaks her chains.

Yet is this new dark
Any better?

But then I lean over,
Hand out
And I feel the thump-thump of love's heart,
See her stir
Feel the touch of her smile on my soul.
It's then that I know that I love and am loved,
And that waking or sleeping,
Love holds me always.