The possibly profound blog of the procrastinating prospect author, T.S. Graveline

The Narrow Ledge

2012-04-20T08:45:00.004-07:00

I haven't read this poem in years and well, it's not as clean as I'd like it to be, but it's still strong in how it affects me. The story behind this is that I basically had this image in my mind while in youth group a while back and it's always stuck with me. I hope you enjoy it and find it encouraging.

The Narrow Ledge

A man walks

But not where others are

Yet, where everyone is in its place

Here is another realm

In fact, I think the man is myself

On a Narrow Ledge

A Ledge no columns hold

There is only forward as well

Nothing is behind me
Oh, there is a couple!

No shouts will turn

Now the left sphere of vision is blue and calm

While the right,

Molten reds and yellows

Where dragon-like flames

Fly and threaten to pull me down

I know, it is an illusion

Meant to cause me to stumble

But evermore,

To take my soul

While the right is busy,

The blue left is encouraging

I cannot help

But want to jump
Oh, wait, a couple just did

Yet, the dragon swept them away

To the right,

Oh the screams of desperation

I step,

Guess there is no other way

Of joining the deep blue

Yet, the sounds there

Are beyond musical

I myself want to reach

Out to the blue on my own
But the dragons
Oh well, must go forward
After some time

I reach another phase

It seems

That both the blue and red side

Are reacting to each other

Great winds become visible

To the eye

Tornadoes roam an all sides

The Ledge stays still

I can feel the wind

But I know it won’t take me

If I don’t look at it

I look down the ledge

Again, not much to see

Though there is a star

I would say it’s white,

But each twinkle denies

That statement

Then a person stops down

Further along the narrow

I cautiously move on

Closer and closer I come

He turns and faces me

Horrifically he talks

With many mouths, only two eyes

But the mouths talk in unison

And with different voices

Some I recognize as my own

I begin to despair

I can’t go around,

It is too narrow

Falling to my knees

I begin to truly weep

After some time I stop

The demon gone

With no composure

I run and streams

Of tears flow in my wake

It must have been days

When I tripped and fell

I got up and another

Was staring at me

Only this had many faces

It could have been a man

Or demon, but much greater was he

For he took my hand

And contact unveiled my

Eyes to see his faces as one

He did not say much

Just that,

“You have been forgiven much”

I wept and embraced him

I sobbingly kissed his hands

He led me forward

And I saw the star

Again, it followed the man

We came to a door

He motioned me to go

I was scared, but knew

All would be well

I stepped through

As I opened

Lights of all colors

And songs of all forms

Bathed me with

A never-ending joy

I cried again, but

Happy tears fell

I ran with my

Welcoming song

And met all the others

So many people, even

Magical creatures I only

Saw in dreams

Bowed their welcome

Then I saw him again

He was sitting on a great throne

With the mightiest of angels

Beast and humans alike

And I began to worship

Never again did I care

About my own time

Worship became eternal

And joy became worship

©T.S. Graveline

Colonoscopy--Wrote this a few years ago

2012-04-12T14:06:00.000-07:00

Colonoscopy

“Take three deep breaths.”

And let the hour long coma

Take place. This is the single,

Most amazing feeling in life.

I can completely escape reality.

Don’t have to think about school,

Work, family, lack of a love life,

But for just one hour I don’t have to think.

Thinking is the worst thing I can do.

No senses are at work in this state.

Complete imagination takes over.

It’s as if I’ve found another reality,

Another dimension within my mind.

I only wish I could travel the gurney

Of midnight delight, and ride it to Ink and Write.

Who knows, perhaps this is the same sphere

The opium addict writers of the past found.

This is where I want to be.

Yet, I would rather not

Have to go through the process of surgery to find

Home. I awake and the nurse tells me, “You must

Pass gas or there may be damage.” I have license to

Fart all I want to. Another great side-effect.

The Writing Block- Part 2

2012-03-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

This is a continuous segment about Writer's Block.

Today's note is about the nature of some writers, like myself, who struggle to figure out how to make a break through.

Here is what I propose writers do. Write something! Anything! Even if it's not relevant to your book. The more you're writing the more engaged your brain is and thus, the more likely you'll break through to the other side of that pesky brick wall. It doesn't matter how you get there. Who cares if you climb it, break it, use a police tank as a battering ram, just find a way to get to the green pastures you've been dying to frolic in.

Keep at it folks and remember, just because you passed one wall, doesn't mean more won't come up again. So keep keepin' on like the Brady Bunch.

A poem for one of my favorite romances

2012-03-26T09:18:00.002-07:00

The Shepherdess

It was so innocent. It was pure excitement.

He kissed me and here He stays a month.

I will never forget that touch. His eyes,

His arms, his breath, and his smell. Him.

I see him as I pass by, I love how he looks

At me. Oh the determination. I hide behind

My sheep, waiting, and wishing I knew his heart.

I knew it was going to happen, I couldn’t stop it

From hurting. He was furious. His eyes were dejected.

He dared not look at me. I saw his sorrow, but
He came through for me. Why must the customs

Barge our Love? Yet a week has passed and here

We are. I can taste his sweat, his lips, and his hands.

The joy of love, there was so much sorrow to

Overcome, but I can’t help but be lost in our promise.

His Eyes

I saw Her, and a passion so innate came over me.

I knew not myself, but I knew my other half.

Work was worth every split second of a glimpse.

Just to gaze upon Her moving so gracefully amongst

Her herd. She is no typical woman, She is the

Shepherdess I wish to watch over my children. I

Don’t even remember much more than a second.

My heart was torn from me when I woke after.

Leah was next to me, not Rachel. I cried out,

For I had defaced my love for Her. Her father

Forced me into another seven, to make fourteen

Years. Rachel was worth the wait, She may not

Know it, but there was no one else for me. I

Would have Her. She is my bride, my true bride.

A little news and a poem

2012-03-18T21:43:00.000-07:00

News first: I have a friend who is going to take over editing duties on the first book. Hopefully, this means the book gets completed sooner and in your hands. It really should be a fun experience and will help me grow in my own writing I'm sure. It always helps to get other perspectives on what is or isn't working. So be excited about that.

Here is an older poem I thought I'd share that I enjoyed writing:

“Du arme Sau”

A roaring pain

Half of my mid-section is gone

All I can feel is pain

The senses have never been,

Alert like this

Next sensation comes

With warmth and sputters

I can feel it rising

All the way to my throat

Clogging my airways

Lungs gasp for air

Only to soak in the thick red

I gargle blood as if it was water

A cool hand jerks me back down

I don’t remember sitting up

The voice said something

I struggle, but my ears are ringing

So loud, my body crashes

With every second

My eyes flutter to a gray color

I see his dirty coat

No longer white

All is gray

I see her again

Her words icy and blue

“Alles wird gut,” said she

I didn’t believe her, those eyes

Then the most sensational cool came

I woke in the dark

Feeling almost weightless, yet still

Then like a slap

Everything was white

The barbaric thing took me

And caged me

Then she came again

The familiar gray

She held something so painful

I tried to get away

But my stubby fat got in the way

The cool steel punctured me

There was no cooing

She only barked,

“du arme Sau”

And I wailed with pain

Again

Second time she said that

The Polyphonic Thief

2012-03-12T10:48:00.003-07:00

The Polyphonic Thief

I loved trains, with

Their bravado-like march

But when close, there was

No chugga-chugga, just overwhelming bass

Last time I enjoyed this,

I was two years old. I

Was on my 3-wheeling Harley,

With all the sidewalk I could ask for,

And listening to “Highway to Hell.”

On my way home from the railroad,

I met Lincoln. A white boat, and this old lady,

I never saw her face, just gray hair and a steering wheel.

I bowed before them. They unceremoniously lurched atop me,

Andre the Giant had on white-metallic spandex that day, black rubber gloves,

Chrome teeth, maybe braces, and gray chest hair. Never did see his face. I knew

It was him though. We wrestled, till his hair was breaking out of the spandex, ripping, distorting reality. I think I was scared. Or is it scarred?

Darkness took me.

My head came out with the stitchings of a baseball,

Adorned with a body carrying a black rubber sash

Given for heroism, stupidity, or just pure grace.

The Polyphonic Thief robbed me.

From that moment on, I never knew true sound.

A poem that links some of my deafness to other areas of my childhood

2012-02-29T19:54:00.000-08:00

Say Yellow

Yeawoah. No. Say yellow.

Yeawoah. No, yellow!

That’s what I said…

Nevermind.

My yellow magic blanket;

was in fact magic, my

comforter, always kept cool

or warm, it was what I

requested, protected, projected,

my screen of life, the tangible

wall, the wall that oppresses

till ’89, must fall. It fell.

it was torn, thread by thread,

lost its magic hold over

me, freedom came, yet,

what is with the change?

The unraveling left me naked,

alone in the dark, no longer

cool or warm. Molten

frost became me.

Can one hear yellow?

Do colors make sound?

Sound is too mechanized,

there are no purities, nothing

tempered or refined. Only

time has helped the aids, the

yellow ear-molds show age.

Now I need true yellow, geld,

which is gelb. The former

now comes green, whereas

gelb is still gelb, albeit

I can’t hear the difference

auf Deutsch.

The Writing Block - part 1

2012-02-28T16:54:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd start a new segment on areas where I get writer's block or some other struggle within my own stories.

Today, my struggle is with starting a new section of a chapter, but that's not the problem. It's the fact that I want it to be based on this newer character in the series that needs to be fleshed out more. Frankly, all that's really known is that she has a fire in her and that she's also kind-hearted. We don't know her flaws, but I don't want to give her stereotypical flaws. She needs a uniqueness to her.

I think I may have just figured it out. It's not something groundbreaking, but it works. It's a case of identity crisis, but it won't be usual considering the story's framework.

Wow, I just learned something. Writing about the problem in an avenue like this helps solve writer's block. I suppose that's lesson one folks!

About my book

2012-02-28T08:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, I realize that many people do not know much about my book. It is a fantasy ridden story in a World War 1 setting. There are Angels, demons (though I call them something else), and elves, oh my! The main characters are basically descendants of angels who are here on earth and they are known as Paladins. There are very few, and our young hero's, who's names I shall withhold for now, will be interacting with on a quest that hasn't really been given to them, but more like thrust upon them through a series of tragic events.

There is a good amount of magic that is quite interesting and fans of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, Rick Riordan's novels, and many other fantastical Young Adult series will truly enjoy the books I'm writing. At least, I really hope you do. I've truly enjoyed writing this over the past 7 or 8 years or so. Much of that time was spent on college work, but the story never left my mind. I am always receiving inspiration for the story arc and hope that I can someday present the 1st book to you in published form. Hopefully, that is sooner than you and I realize.

An older, but fun little poem I wrote when I first started writing poetry and funnily enough, it still applies today

2012-02-28T07:39:00.000-08:00

Google Syndrome

Extra! Extra!

Again, for the love of god,

Google is in the news

Its market value, ungodly high

Government peeved by their refusals

So of course, it’s more popular

The clicks and views continue

Makes you wonder if the founder,

Is a bit like Faustus;

Having sold his soul to the devil

Why else would everyone say,

“Google is the best”

I feel this, but can’t decide why

The educational industry, the media,

Everyone thinks this too. Why?

Maybe we just have to wait like Faustus,

For their 24^th anniversary

Maybe then, they will fall

And then we’ll all

Scream, Yahoo!

A poem I wrote years ago that was in response to Elie Wiesel's Night.

2012-02-27T15:33:00.001-08:00

People who know me know how much I love to read and I love finding cool books in stores. I happened to be vacationing in Boston and went to a really cool college bookstore right next to Harvard University and found a great edition of Night. I started reading it that day and I couldn't stop. I just kept reading as I was sucked in by the gripping details and I was fully absorbed by the time Elie and his father were running in the snow all night long. So here is the response:

My Night

My tears never end

I’ve been running for so long

The guard’s curse commands to run

Run we do, but not as people

We have become savages

Only wanting to survive

We have stopped praying our prayers

Animals -- that is what we are

My only thought is of food

I can no longer think of a God

I see my brothers and my father

We run together in a pack, like wolves

All of us are thin and dried

Our feet no longer feel

They are burned, and this is the Sahara

Or better yet, our hell

We no longer need our eyes

Instinct took over long ago

Do as you are told, and you may survive

I forget what we are surviving

I vaguely remember a church

A people who loved all

Love, what is that?

Now hate, I know that, but love...

I forget

Hunger -- that is what’s left

Only thing is, sand provides little

All I have are my tears to drink

We are ordered to stop

There is a shift change of guards

Their vehicles glide over and hover

Their suits of red look so endearing

I know they have air conditioning

We have the earth, and her winds

Yet here, they pick up the sand

Then we shed, and bleed, becoming fades

That reminds me of spirits

Ah, I remember a God

One I used to worship

And here I weep, hoping for his love.

A recent poem written after my daughter was born.

2012-02-26T17:33:00.001-08:00

Many a times I walked

Many a times I walked.

And I walked alone seeking

What the world had to offer.

I walked in my wanderlust

To great cities, regions, and

Religions.

Then I stopped walking.

And I stopped seeking as

I had found what I sought.

I stayed in wonderment

To know awe, friendship, and

Love.

Then we walked

And we walked together

Finding what we wanted.

We walked hand in hand

Through tears, jubilation, and

Joy.

Now we walk

And we walk together

Having found what we sought.

We walk hand in hand

With our little girl, our family,

Our happy lives.

A Poem written in 2007

2012-02-25T21:22:00.001-08:00

Louise Odier

For Jen

Traveling as the youngest really sucks,

And is lonely. Especially when I’m headed

To plant nurseries. I hate those places. Yet,

This time is different. I’ve never been here.

There is a sense of antiquity in the air. These

Roses feel like they are out of Hawthorne’s

Salem. The lush green and the cloudy sky

Has given this place an ancient smell. As

A child I’m thinking this is odd, interesting.

Maybe this place will be different. So I

Sniff around, knowing my nose must be

Greater than all others as one of my senses

Is mostly lost. I figure the others must all

Be greater to make up for that loss. I

Smelled her then. I looked and found her

Name was Louise Odier. She is truly old.

Yet, she is so beautiful. I am enamored.

This rose, this Louise, Miss Odier, she

Has seen so much, she communicates

To me by speaking with her scent. I

Cannot help but drink in her story.

Apparently she is from the East coast.

She is a rare kind, and people will clip

Her stems, so she grows more thorns,

I felt them, and yet she perseveres

All the more. She grows faster, becomes

More pungent. Wildness is in her, she

Is a rambler rose. She befriended me

And took me under her soft petals

When I needed it most of all. And now,

I see her today years later. It’s fall

And she is wilting. I know though,

That she will revive, not only herself in

The spring, but me as well. I will smell

Her again, and remember when she saved

Me from loneliness and comforted me

With her lovely story that I did not hear.

I wrote this poem years before I met the love of my life and it was after I did, that I knew this poem was about her. I had known when I had written it that it was for my future wife. I got lucky with her. Maybe this poem helped.

Trends in Young Adult novels

2012-02-24T22:11:00.001-08:00

In the past decade or so we have seen quite the trends make their way into the Young Adult market of publishing. Fantasy has always been popular since The Hobbit. Children's fantasy has been popular since long before that with the tales from the Grimm Brothers, Hans Christian Anderson, Aesop's Fables, etc.

What I have noticed is (and this isn't really groundbreaking news) that publishers are on the lookout for the next big trend to market. Harry Potter was huge. We had wizards both good and bad and the magic was deliciously enticing for young and old. The next wave I admit is not my favorite. The vampire trend is oversaturated and filling up bookshelves and e-book stores.

What is exciting, is I think I might have stumbled on a new wave of my own. I do not say this to be self-indulgent or cocky, but I really think it is excited. It is magic, but with a different kind that has been used rarely. I have researched the character types for this story and they go back ages ago, but even then, they are rarely used. There is a very popular computer game that has this type of character in it, and these people have created their own lore. I went and tried to take this group to a new level.

Can you guess who these people are?

If you do know and are a friend of mine, please keep it to yourself. We don't want to unveil this too soon.

Happy weekend everyone

~T.S. Graveline

Chapter 2 of book 2 is about halfway done.

2012-02-21T17:05:00.000-08:00

The 2nd chapter is a two-parter. It's about the main characters meeting up with someone who is quite obsessed with fine shoes. Custom shoes are the best.

A response to a song...

2012-02-19T23:58:00.001-08:00

I wrote this in response to a song that really affected me. I think I know why, but it's a song that I heard in the movie 50/50. So here is my response to it or a redoing of it so that it reflects my heart.

I keep facing the other way

Running in my own race

Seeking in all the wrong places

Running in my own race

Seeking in all the wrong places

I keep facing the other way

You’re always by my side

Even though I don’t see you

You’re always by my side

~tsgraveline