April Poetry Month:

Sing of first rain

Of blue sky's flowers

The song we carry

Full like fire's light.

A very spontaneous poem I created today with the magnetic poetry display in Children's at the library. :)

The Eye of the Storm

I've always heard that the eye of a storm is absolutely silent and calm, and this notion has permeated through much of life's events. It's quite the novel thought that, if one were to stand before a swirling, mad storm, the searing siren of its warning making ears bleed and fingers tremble, that they would be focused on the eye. That they would stare through that angry gray-blackness and wonder, how is silence encased in such chaos? But I believe that this metaphor is one of life. Our bodies and the world around us scream, thrash, spin crazily around our heads relentlessly, and we have but a moment's notice before tragedy strikes, no matter how "little" the tragedy. But our minds, our souls; they stay silent within us, the calm facade in the middle of the storm, holding onto our sanity (or lack thereof) to carry us through the whirlwind, and help us touch down onto steady ground. 

The human mind is an amazing organ, not only with its endorphin and serotonin chemicals, but also with its elasticity: the ability to bounce back when life knocks us down. The human brain is also invisible to others, though they (most likely) understand that it is there (or at least for the most part, it is there). But if we are storms, our minds are the calm. Now, it may be arguable that the mind is not calm, that because it is constantly going, we are chaos through and through. What is calm but controlled chaos? Our brains have chosen to sip the stormy elixir slowly, allowing it to permeate our being and charge our body; chaos is needed to create strength. 

So, my question for the day is this: how will you drink in chaos to fill your body with calm?

Take My Rain Away

Cool folds of diaphanous liquid 

fold in on themselves, 

embracing one after the other;

cool blue

bodies of movement. 

Blonde buttery rays of 

splitting sunshine 

pierce through 

thin, bright blue pudding, 

creasing a thin knife blade into the slush. 

Masquerade-bejeweled 

wisps disguise a cotton 

sky, 

quickly squeezing into

rich charcoal smudges of dull 

precipitation, 

spreading across the atmosphere, 

spitting down onto the ground 

in 

large globs of flushing 

moisture.

Tears of humidity hang

upon the air; 

cookie cutter slices; 

diamond-hard, 

natural sorrow.

Sky cries  

screeches apart;

ground sips 

on the draught

as stinging rods

of power trace

zipper-thick 

patterns.

*Photo by ~nrasic on deviantArt*

Pedal to the Graduation Medal

In the spirit of all those graduated students, I thought it would be appropriate to conjure up a metaphor for the journey of a child out of high school into becoming an adult.
When I was around six or seven years old, my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. Now, this metal steed had reverse-pedal brakes and pink "handlebar tape," but it was my first ride nonetheless. I was quite wobbly just starting out, never understanding the balance enough to keep me steady, but I was able to keep myself upright and ride until I was promised some ice cream. (You see, bicycles are pre-programmed to find ice cream; it's built into every ride.)
As I got older, I began moving up in size and quality of bike until I came to ride my little Trek triathlon bike. She's a speedy little stallion, and I wouldn't trade my bike for anything. (My Trek is a road bike.)
I also began mountain biking, reveling in the hearty crunch of rocks beneath the thick tires and absolutely peeing myself when faced with the descents.
Anecdotes aside, there is a way with bicycles that fits with life. You see, up until we as humans are eighteen, our parents teach us how to ride. Now, some kids may only have one wheel (a single parent), or a couple components missing (health issues or familial issues). But up through graduation, we all figure out how to ride the bicycle called life.
Labels in high school are an unfortunately big part of growing up among stereotypes, and these labels are like the brand and physical appearance of our bicycles. What adolescents fail to recognize is the quality of each bike's handling and speed; its "personality" on the road. Bicycles also tip and require a sense of balance to remain upright, hence, with so much seesaw-drama in high school, many students are dinged and scratched, pock-marked and beaten down.
But one only has to get back on the bike, no matter how rough the roads ahead (or the skies above) are. Now, as graduation nears, and the caps (or I suppose helmets would be more appropriate here) are tossed into the air, parents shed tears because they realize their little "Honey bears" and "Cutie pies" are about to take off on their own; no training wheels or Daddy required.
With the final push from their parents (typically in the form of a graduation party or lump sum of money), the child is set free on the open road, tottering around with two feet splayed out to the side, eager for their journey to begin.
However, especially in this day and age, not all of us actually leave home. Some of us ditch our bicycles, opt for the squashy basement-dwelling couch and Modern Warfare 3, and never see the light of day again.
But no matter where you go on your bicycle's journey, always remember one thing: if you have a craving for a a chocolate-dipped strawberry waffle bowl with whipped cream, your bike knows exactly where to go.

*Photo by wasted-photos on deviantArt*

Wheat in His Field

Today in church I was struggling to find meaning in the sermon that our pastor was giving about "becoming undone". However, during the final worship song, I was washed with a golden wave of inspiration. In the balcony above the majority of the people, the metallic lights kissing the heads of all the people made them look like stalks of wheat. They simply swayed with the warm breath of the Son, and raised their golden heads towards the Light. This metaphor even extends to what wheat becomes when it is crushed and made new; bread. Jesus's body is bread, and when we are reaped, we become his body. A stalk of wheat needs only to believe in the Son, and he (or she) will be reaped and recreated into the body of bread. Even when wheat is cut down, it is still able to become bread. When wheat is bent or broken, it is able to become whole again through the Son. I believe this is an amazing metaphor for the followers of God, and I was inspired so much I felt compelled to raise my beaming face to the Son and smile upon the page with His inspirational words.

*Photo by MonkeyMan1988 on DeviantArt*

Rose-Petal Embers

Her fingers thread through the thistle’s mist

as her eyes graze his jawline, pulling up into a grimace.

The thistle whispers as she flutters her fingertips across the spiky blooms.

For Rose, petals have retired; all that is left is the dead center of a

passionate popping fire; fizzling like a broken firecracker.

Her embers are strewn amongst the aching stems along their path; crackling heat.

His impatient numb toes leave prints of her death to repeat, repeat, repeat.

She strides beside him now, a specter in an earthly memory

while birds titter one last breathless tweet.

Crows kick off from branches high above as the cornflower sky

opens its maw and swallows the retreating black beings.

The thistle pierces through her permeable skin as his body melts away softly, falling

into ash at her side.

*Photo by "bogdanici" on DeviantArt*

A crippling band of pain creeps beneath the doorjamb and seeps into my torso, infiltrating my every receptor. I crumple forward, attempting to alleviate the pain, only to feel folded in on myself. A bit of jostling running steps on a fuzzy storage cube's lid gets my mind off the pain for a short while, but then quickly the excruciating devil is back, and both its horns have stabbed into my gut, wrenching the thorny exacerbation to my back. The day after, I am completely back to normal. But, sure enough, with a minuscule amount of food, the monster has crept into my bed again and is gorging on my sanity. This is the attack of gallstones, and an inflamed gallbladder.
Just recently, I had emergency gallbladder surgery. It was quite the experience, having never been through surgery and being quite shell-shocked the entire time. Blurred was that day after the initial statement that I would have to have the organ removed. But, just as a hint to other victims, eating with only a liver can be painful; in a different way, but still painful. I've learned to eat a little healthier, watching my fat intake and keeping up protein and fiber so as to keep my health in check. I can't say I saw the light or really remember any revelation of any sort, but I do know that losing an organ to bad habits killed those old habits quicker than a sharpshooter in a Wild Western movie.
I suppose, in Americans's busy lives, with easily accessible healthcare, surviving every day isn't hard for the average middle to upper class citizen. But with a wake up call such as I had, sometimes, it seems, one must stop and smell the roses we ingest; else we may just be swallowing thorns.