Finding Elegance

Caught.

2012-02-11T22:02:00.000-05:00

she smiles
to herself . . .

its a quiet,
private smile,
brought on by a memory,
some happy thought,
unconsciously reflected on her face.

savors the thought,
rolling it through her mind
like a fine wine across a discerning palate.

her eyes close,
inhale,
smile,
exhale,
open.

Caught.

Here's To Risk.

2012-02-05T00:45:00.000-05:00

Do I dare? Do I dare hope? Trust?

Can this heart bear
another let
down?

Oh, the possibility, true potential,
True, my mind races with fantasies of the life I hope to build.

Never once was it empty,

but each shadowy figure of the past
seems to have cracked the glass
on the oh-so-pretty picture frame
of MY dreams.

So then,

do I once more pull my heart from the dark shadows I've kept it in,
and thrust it towards the light,
and hope it won't be burnt?

Dreams. Are. Worth. Fighting. For.

Here's to risk.

break from reality, healing quality

2012-01-27T18:21:00.000-05:00

Woke up with a broken heart,
couldn't bear it from the start,
locked it up for the day,
that it may wither,
wither away.

And when the sun comes back again,
the pain won't be so strong, dear friend.

(Took today off from reality, I'll be back to normal functioning tomorrow.)

'Take This Day' by Kyle DeForrest at Occupy Cleveland 10-06-11

2011-11-21T17:02:00.000-05:00

Occupy Cleveland Kyle DeForrest sings the Hit //Welcome to the Revolutio...

2011-11-18T20:03:00.000-05:00

Occupy Cleveland-Kyle DeForrest "99 to 1"- 11-17-11 019.MOV

2011-11-18T20:02:00.000-05:00

Poetry I Love: Emily Dickinson "The Daisy Follows Soft The Sun"

2011-10-09T08:00:00.000-04:00

THE DAISY FOLLOWS SOFT THE SUN

THE daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"
"Because, sir, love is sweet!"

We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee,--
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night's possibility!

Dear Friends

2011-09-25T01:43:00.001-04:00

There is much going on in life, the past few months have been quite busy, and the next few promise to be just as fast-paced and action packed! I hope to keep up with my writing. My not-poetry blog will likely be updated a bit more often, feel free to check it out!

There isn't time.

2011-09-25T01:21:00.000-04:00

There isn't time to fall down now,
no time to just lie still,
no time to ponder quiet truths,
no time to restore ruins.

There isn't time to hope or pray,
no time to just endure,
no time to pity circumstance,
no time to cry despair.

No,
all the time has disappeared,
spent on a leap of faith,
not held in place by hopes and dreams,
but solid confidence.

All the time is taken now,
building this new world,
where quiet moments can exist,
with just a bit of time to spare.

(At least it isn't raining.)

2011-08-28T23:53:00.000-04:00

I know no word,
no word, for this feeling--
a bit lost
a bit sad
a bit hopeful
as if you see the light at the end of the tunnel,
but it's the sky, and you're falling into a well.

And when you land its cold, deep,
but you can swim.

(At least it isn't raining.)

And you realize you can just barely grip the sides,
to pull yourself up, out of the water.

So you begin, hand over hand, pulling your own weight up, towards that light.
And even at night, its brighter above.
And sometimes you slip, caught on algae (and lichens alike) falling back to the cold below.
But slowly, slowly, you pull yourself up,
and once on solid ground you begin to walk
towards the rising sun.

(history)

2011-08-22T10:58:00.002-04:00

papa.
don't run.
don't cry.
don't lose yourself behind your eyes.

History
dredged from the deep
vaults buried long ago
hold memories, time sealed
cracked open and relived (revealed)
as penance for some
sin
you won't forgive (of yourself)

I'm here.

and

I'll stand in the way,
fighting your demons day to day.

Sure, time goes by,
and I'm sure in your eyes
I'm still your child,
dancing barefoot at sunrise,
not scarred by life

still.

I'll carry you, this time.

Poetry I Love: Walt Whitman "O Captain! My Captain!"

2011-08-19T08:00:00.000-04:00

O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

spiteful indeed

2011-08-15T14:23:00.000-04:00

It breaks my heart to watch as you struggle with yourself.

What is it that I’ve done that can possibly make you feel such hatred? You say I am a spiteful creature. How can this be? Is looking to find a place where I feel at home, where I feel loved and safe and accepted a spiteful act?

Is it spiteful, to wake up one morning feeling happy for the first time in years, all because you know you’ve found a place where you can be yourself and NOT have to apologize for it? It’s true: I DON’T know who I am yet.

At twenty one I still feel as misplaced and insecure as I did at thirteen. And I’m tired. I have been battling my own demons, you see. I’ve been fighting with depression for at least five years now.

Obsessive compulsive is, apparently, the ‘label’ for my habit of anxiously replaying every detail of a social reaction in my head, and wondering if somehow something I said was imperfect, offensive or just plain stupid. I’m also dealing with hormone and metabolic imbalances due to a disease only caused by faulty genetics. To this you simply say it’s another case of ‘wandering womb.’

You are certainly no doctor, sir. You offend me, with your refusal to at least acknowledge the pain and worry I’ve had to work through on my own. Your dismissal of this as just the result of a ‘poor mind’ has hurt me.

Does a poor mind excel in academics? Does a poor mind actively work to overcome any mental blockages that have occurred? I’ve been actively working for a year now to fix my poor self image, to become more conscious of my own mental health and to work towards living a healthy, active and intelligent lifestyle.

Is that spiteful? I think not, but who am I to say?

I’m just another one of those lost women, what with my poor mind.

Sure, it hurts.

2011-08-15T14:18:00.000-04:00

Descending into this mind,

Struggling to mend fractured bits of memory,

long buried beneath shame.

Armed only resilience, the battle begins.

Fear pushes, in an attempt to overrun determination,

Doubt pulls, in a tug of war with against quiet conviction.

(These demons got nothin on me. Sure, it hurts.)

Love holds on, still.

Past long buried memories wrought with fear,

despite the evidence laid before tired eyes.

Love holds on, still.

There were good days,

spent laughing in green cathedrals,

sunshine blinding any hindsight.

And now?

My heart breaks, for you.

Poetry I Love: William Blake "A Poison Tree"

2011-08-12T08:00:00.000-04:00

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

Poetry I Love: Shel Siverstien "Where the Sidewalk Ends"

2011-08-06T08:16:00.000-04:00

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Poetry I Love: Emily Dickinson "I've got an arrow here"

2011-07-30T13:16:00.002-04:00

I've got an arrow here

I've got an arrow here;
Loving the hand that sent it,
I the dart revere.

Fell, they will say, in “skirmish”!
Vanquished, my soul will know,
By but a simple arrow
Sped by an archer’s bow.

Kyle DeForrest Does a Radio Show

2011-07-22T13:34:00.000-04:00

Last night, listen to it here. It was awesome.

Find him on facebook here.

(research)

2011-07-22T13:11:00.002-04:00

Breath escapes,
lungs struggle to pull it back,
and I work to calm my mind.
(Working against a deadline)
Sweat drips, slow,
flesh quivers under stress
and I press on one more time.
(Remember my own aim? This mission is all mine)
Duty calls me
Love supports
my mission simple, pure
These secrets for the taking,
if only we look with an unbiased eye
the patterns of an insect's wing,
its motions, place, and time.
These hint at what the future holds,
what places may become,
how resilient is this planet,
the place that we call home.

Stealing Time

2011-06-26T18:12:00.000-04:00

I am a time bandit,
snatching moments where I can,
forcing minutes into hours,
creating some semblance of calm amid chaos.

You'll see me, peripherally
as time passes on a lazy afternoon.
While you're reading, lounging
in the garden's sunshine.

I'm snatching your time,
for my own timeline,
that I might patch a few more hours
into my all too brief days.

::work in progress::

happy birthday to me!

2011-06-09T10:51:00.000-04:00

:) birthday love

Poetry I Love: Robert Burns: To A Mouse "On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough"

2011-06-06T13:36:00.002-04:00

Robert Burns: "To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough"

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,

Has broken nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell-

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men

Gang aft agley,

An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

What May Come

2011-06-05T13:31:00.000-04:00

in a world that changes between breaths?
Where a future (so uncertain)
Suddenly is here, now -- and
all we can do is wonder what
trials, gifts, heartbreaks, and joys
are yet to arrive

Uncertainty clouds plans
while determination
and sheer will to survive
carry us through the next *moment*

With hopes that our predictions are
at least accurate,
and we can be warned of the coming storm.

Instinct: Gabrielle

2011-06-04T18:44:00.002-04:00

Gabrielle

Gabrielle shouted, from underneath the most bizarre contraption Ryker had seen her create yet. “Its called the Summoner! Guess what it does!!”

“Um. . .summons?” Ryker laughed at his mud streaked sister, as she climbed through the contraption, until she reached the top. She looked down, grinned at him, grabbed a rope and jumped-- swinging down towards him and landing, neatly on her feet a mere foot in front of him.

Ryker never flinched. Disappointed, Gabrielle wiped her muddy hands on her pants, “So. What’d you bring me for lunch?” Flashing her best “feed me” grin, she laughed, and gave her brother a hug—while reaching around to pull an apple from his pack.”

“Hey! That was dessert!” Ryker laughed at his sister, and followed her down a path to the front of her home, a tower of gadgets and contraptions that reached up above the canopy.

“The Summoner. It summons. I can use it to send messages to Simon. You know how he wanders . . . He gets this--

She handed him something tiny, on a leather cord, it was shaped like a beetle, shining metallic green, Ryker placed it around his neck. Ryker thought of his four year old nephew, Simon had an affinity for discovering the tiniest critters. He would rescue them from the strangest places—although Ryker suspected the forest was placing them for Simon to find—and would carry them with him for a few days, before finding a suitable home.

“All I have to do is open mine”, she held a metallic blue beetle in her hand, which was otherwise identical to the green one, and opened its wings, “and rub its belly, and. . ..”

The green beetle opened its wings, turned around a few times in his hand, flew directly into his chest three times, and then turned and flew towards Gabrielle, pulling him forwards a bit.

Ryker was astonished. “This is BRILLIANT!” He walked around her in a circle, watching the gadget adjust its path as he moved. “How’s it work?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Gabrielle laughed, then continued: “The tower sends a signal that links the two bugs, he can summon me, I can summon him, and we will always be able to find each other.”

Ryker’s face darkened now, he had serious business to discuss.

“Elisesofia is awake.”

conquest earth

2011-06-04T13:30:00.002-04:00

I am

a wilderness warrior

Face mud streaked

Sweat falls to mark

the path

I choose.

Every niche is

new

territory

claimed for a kingdom

all my own

Every track, sound, motion

speaks of history - -

what was here__

and gives a glimpse of

what may come.