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.

Thunder in the Valley

Thought I'd switch it up again and write a little differently; so here it is: a sonnet, about nature!

*Picture by stoven2005 on DeviantArt* "There is little in the way of success when a driving force comes tunneling through." I'm not actually sure whether this is my own quote or another's, but I believe it says a lot about the successful person. Some people say talent, nepotism, monetary wellness, and pure luck are factors in one's own success. However, I believe there is a tangible touch of ignorance to these statements. One can not call success into an individual with no drive in them. Their tin-can airways have been closed off, because they refuse to believe that they have any chance of making it anywhere on their own. I believe in a strong sense of community, but what it all boils down to is this: only you are in control of your destiny, your successes. I wish there were some other way to state it, but an apple that jumps from the tree instead of waiting till it is ripe will fall much further down the path of progress. I suppose I may seem a bit static anymore, talking about success having not quite achieved it myself. However, the clouds that my head are stuck in hold no rain; only lightning. And as soon as a storm begins to brew in them, I strike. There is also the concern of making it on one's own. Self-sufficiency. Well, folks, there's a "self" in there for a reason. Unfortunately, in the U.S.A., we have a lacking sense of community. An individual is expected to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and walk across water to get a career, social community, family, and even education. We judge. I'm not talking court-room Judy, I'm talking about everyday occurrences. If an individual hasn't gone out and made connections, reached out for opportunities, then they are a stinking vegetable in a patch of freshly ripe ones. My question of the day is this: do you believe you have success? If not, what are you doing to change it? P.S. I believe that no matter what anyone says, if you are truly happy, do not change. The only one who's going to care what happens to you every minute of the day is you, and God.

The Scorch of First World Problems

*Photo by -thesilverfox- on DeviantArt* The rush of hot water through the pipes in this old house violates my eardrums with a smooth thrill of reverberating fascination at the fact that I have so much. A warm bed, good food, family that loves me, a safe house, and clean water to drink. My typical morning consists of a simple twist of the tap to flow me a river; I cannot even imagine what it would be like to trudge twelve miles through crackling heat, dipping a rotting wood bucket into a deep well, hoping to get enough water for the only meal me and my family must share. Doesn't it seem sometimes, that one takes things for granted? It's quite easy to not worry about hunger when food is so accessible: grocery stores; pantries in one's home; blankets slung over a sofa that poor workers in China slaved over. Fascination mixes with a slight disgust at the way society works when I look through the telescope of a third-party observer. Were I not sunk into the soft cushion I've bought for myself, I may be begging on the streets (or actually, what would be more like me would be scrawling every last observation into a battered, pulpy notebook, scrounging for inspiration). Situations in the first world dynamic may seem harsh, inconvenient, and disconcerting at times. But one must always remember: the grass is browner on the other side of the fence. One in our society lives a cushy life, even if one does have to work to gain the money to access this: some jobs require very little physical effort, however. I am not one to say I am any better; simply observant of the fact. Now, my question of the day is this: gaze upon your life and smile at all the wonderful things you've been given, because someday, if they were all pulled out from under you like a rug from a sultan, wouldn't you miss them so?

The Weight of the World on Your Shoulders

Several tears have been shed today, in the wake of many words having thrown themselves at souls in sharp slices. Problems, pain, and anger are easy to be pitted on others. Of course the blame should be put on others! But, when is it really someone else's fault? In a sword fight, the one with the sharpest sword and quickest tongue is usually the one rogue hiding away from all others, insecure at being handed the one metal weapon shorn closest to the hilt. But if one never cuts away the fat to get to the good meat, there will always be that soggy mass on the side of the tender goodness that waits just inside. In my own novel that I wrote in a month (and am currently in progress with revision), I found quite the interesting moral: all the characters in it are very corrupt people with issues in their lives that, for most people, would be a knife wound to the side every day. And for these characters, it is just that. But what I hope to convey through my story, at the very end, one must look past all the dirty world they're a part of; the characters occupy themselves with mere distractions for their real problems. They're all just people looking for redemption from their mistakes and all that they've been through. But the ultimate action all these characters (and people in the real world) must take is that of taking charge of their own lives. Everything that's happened to a person wraps them in their own sorrow, but what one does with their sorrow to turn it into good is the ultimate sacrifice for happiness. The only person that can make your life "better" is you. So many people occupy themselves with distractions; mere prohibitions of difficult situations to try and suffocate their troubles. But asphyxiation never quite occurs; the problems always resurface somehow the next day, pulling themselves out of oxygen deprivation. My question of the day would be: what issue do you need to reflect upon and solve, as it is up to you, ultimately, to solve it?

The titter of a bird just outside my sunken basement window; the creak of floorboards above my restless head as the light creeps in sullenly; the quiet music of a breathing human so close I can practically hear their eyelids flutter in REM sleep; these are all things that are so very inspiring to me. It may be difficult to impress upon the less observant eye that a few notes from a blue-breasted creature with wings could be inspiring, but the fact that there is life inside such a tiny living being is absolutely fascinating to me. Even the looping cries of a child crying out for attention inspires me: possibly only to grab a pair of earplugs, but it is nevertheless inspiring. I suppose there are some very obvious reasons I am a writer; I hole myself up in my house all day, getting inspired by the littlest of things. A downy flake pressing on the toe of my boot as I trudge up the wooden stairs can inspire me to write about individuality and the concerns of a society so conforming, we've forgotten our snowflake-selves. The golden orb of soft light hanging illuminating my glassy eyes darting to and fro from every corner of the room can inspire me to write about human existence, and our impending doom for independence from this planet, which has a mere few billion years of life left. From science fiction to romance and all the spaces in between, I find inspiration at the very edge of every cliff, at the very tip of my tongue with every word, at every junction in my life. I believe that anyone can be inspired, inspiring, and that we all should tap into our inner inspiration. I am not recruiting a band of loyal writers to go marching through the streets pointing out every single feather floating down from the great blue quilt in the sky, exclaiming, "Wow! Amazing! The sun's out, just like it was yesterday!" I am simply stating that my question of the day would be: what inspires you, and what actions will you take to inspire others? Pay it forward; you'll reap an even more glorious harvest. *Picture by fruityfruitfly on DeviantArt*

Indepen-dance

*Painting by Ranonus from Deviantart* What is the true meaning of independence? Humans, especially Americans nowadays, seem to be quite dependent on several things; grocery stores, the male dynamic, makeup, and technology. Humans who claim to be self-sufficient are just scratching their name into the dirt for the aliens to find them. No wonder they want to take over our planet: we'd be nothing without the highly advanced society we've built ourselves into! Now, I don't mean to take this into a rant-style form of writing, but there is a time when one must realize just how many things they take for granted in a single period of twenty four hours. Say your shower stopped running water, and wouldn't be fixed for an entire week; would you find a clean spring to wash yourself in, forget showering altogether, or wash yourself in the sink instead? See, these "lunatic examples," if you will, are out of this world for we humans...well, those of us with first-world problems, anyway. But if one were to stop and think just what we would do without the social niceties of our comfortable homes and families, and put aside the problems we deem necessary, we would see that the sheer notion of survival is packed up into a two by four inch plastic computer-chip filled device; a sad thought to be devoured. My question of the day would be: what would you be without this era's technology, housing, money, etc.?

Gone Away Is the Old Sadness

I don't seem to have gotten many comments on my most recent pieces, so I am going to assume that I've lost interest in my blog. Nevertheless, I will still write, for those who wish to read it. I haven't written in a full year and a month, and am jumping back into it full force. Recently, I joined Twitter, and 140 characters seems a scoff in the face of a prolific writer to me. However, it is nice for quotes. Nevertheless, here is my newest blog: In this day and age, it's easy to say "loss" is an everyday thing. Socks, stuffed animals; even children go missing, and it is all too easy to say that there is nothing we can do about it. Now, while the loss of a child can never be revoked or argued against, as it is a heinous act of that of the perpetrator, some good can always be spoken about loss. When we lose something, even if we cannot see it until far later, we gain something far greater than we ever would have without the great loss. In my personal example, just a month ago, I broke up with my boyfriend. I won't mention his name, but as it only lasted a month, it couldn't have been such a strong relationship. Now, I would have never wanted to go through the loss of someone (even if they hadn't treated me quite right), if I hadn't gained something afterwards. And, in fact, I did. In my trying times, I struck up quite the friendship with my cousin, Danny. My heart never poured out to the boyfriend, but the liquid I lost biting my thumbs about him has been replenished because of this friendship. My question of the day would be: what have you lost, and are you willing to endure, to be blessed even further afterwards?

Worte, Parole, Mots, Verba

Dictionaries, spellbooks, novels, newspapers, advertisements; words are everywhere. Many individuals struggle with expressing themselves, as it is difficult deciding on which words to let loose from their lips. I am one such person; words simply do not come to me as quickly or transitionally as most people. Sometimes (and more often than not) I use hand gestures to attempt to communicate my point and to please the reciever of my "hand dialogue." However, I find it quite ironic, because, despite being shy and quiet, I am a singer, and have been in my school (and church choir when I was little) since pre-school. I suppose the beauty of words set to music to add a vocal element to the piece makes me light up with the greatest of awe. I also write, often and sometimes not enough; my best topic of choice, to converse about or actually perform.
However, sometimes I wonder if, maybe I were to become more outgoing and "entertaining," according to modern human standards of people who put their two cents into a conversation, I might finally be able to fit in and make aquaintances better, as I have difficulty with that immensely. But, I suppose you can't have your cake and eat it too, so I suppose I'll have the wonderful flowery language only in my writing and leave the short, simplicity of my Neanderthal speech to my spoken word. *Picture by 'SSilence on deviantArt*
~Life may not be a utopia, but look around you, it sure is beautiful sometimes.~

Life, Ink.

A shape, a symbol, a message, a memory, a loved one. Tattoos all have various meaning, some more so than others. I suppose there are certain people who find tattoos vulgar, against nature or against their religion, or even ugly, but there are also quite a few others that find an inked, permanent work to be full of meaning, a visual expression of art and rembrance. Usually they are significant of a loved one, loved pet, or a special event in the wearer's life, but often they are for fun, an 18th birthday occasion. My brother is one such recipient, as his tattoos are more for cosmetic appeal, rather than a deeper meaning, and I believe this may be because he got them on a whim, eager to "look cooler." He has a couple skulls and markings on his biceps and right forearm, but regrets his just-eighteen-and-ready-to-get-inked mentality, and now says he wants to get them covered with grander, more elaborate tattoos. So I suppose critics of tattoos might say that to have something permanently etched into your skin (as a choice) may not always be beneficial to the "human canvas" we sometimes think we are. Often, a person might decide they no longer enjoy the tattoo, or it was a stupid decision, or they get drunk and get an "I heart Mom" tattoo, in a most inappropriate place, or even find that as they get older, the tattoo they found awesome a few years ago now isn't suited for the workplace, or something to that effect.
But yet the thing that intrigues so many to the art of tattooing is the beauty of having a story illustrated on one's body; a beautiful, picturesque view of their life, a dragon taking off into the sky, a mermaid splashing in a lagoon, brightly colored flowers surrounding a cross, always honoring.

I Proudly Present...

No one human has everything, but yet not even the poorest 3rd world child has nothing. Each member of the human race is born with a gift, a unique opportunity to bestow upon the world in our own manner. But where is that gift? Is it placed in our hearts, to uncover when we have found our true selves? Is it in our minds, just waiting to be plucked out amongst all the thoughts and ideas, when the time has come for it to be revealed? And once found, how do we use that gift of ours? These and many more are questions that are often swirling around in the great expanse called the human mind. That gift is not in one certain place, a human's gift is themself, and while the certain romantic may believe that it is placed in our hearts once we have cleared out all the uncertainty and found who we truly are, the only true way one can find their gift is to look at the life lessons they have encountered, and the possible future events that can show them their destiny. Truly, the only answer to finding one's gift is life. We live, we love, we laugh and learn. To find one's gift, one must simply go out in the world and be yourself, but learn from the mistakes one cannot have found their gift without. So the final question might very well be once the gift is found, how do you use it? Quite often when you've found an answer, using the answer comes easily, and finding the answer to this question comes in the same way as the earlier question: simply laugh often, live happily, and love generously.

Just Put One Foot in Front of Your Brother

Have you ever strived to be "better" than your sibling? Tried to achieve greater heights than them, accumulate more positive feedback? We've all seen this at least to some extent in our lives, even if it didn't happen to us directly. "Joey was such an excellent athlete, so we expect our Christopher to be just as wonderful as he was." Sound familiar? Siblings, it seems, constantly try to be one rung higher than the other on the ladder of social status, whether among family or their peers. If the older sibling was the favorite, the younger one wants nothing more than to follow in their sibling's footsteps and be the favorite as well. Hand-me-downs, reputations, and expectations are passed from generation to generation within a family. But when does this hierarchy become a cloning of the same type of person, over and over? How does a child find themself when they try to achieve perfection of another persona altogether? The simple statement could be that they don't, and end up losing themselves in the whole process. They struggle with what their own dreams and goals are, because they simply can't identify the difference between their own and a sibling's. Yet, when have you ever seen two siblings exactly alike? Even twins have very different personalities and styles, once they become of the age when matching jumpsuits and sweaters become more Goodwill than "good taste." To put it into more tangible form, as two snowflakes drift down from the heavens, they seem uniform at first, but at a second glance, they are completely different, with their own crystalized patterns of beauty. So, no matter what we humans might set upon our kin to strive for, the only way to achieve a balance is to find interests and self-sufficiency without having to feed off a sibling like a leech to a rather porous wound.

The Absence

This is a new idea for a story I got one night while laying in bed, and is a small excerpt from the introduction chapter.
Blackbirds chatter and commute across an inky black sky, but there's no storm blowing in today, it's the sky's natural color. A pure white hand reaches out to pick an apple from a tree, but the apple is not green, not red, not even yellow, it is a deep gray. Where has all the color gone? The question is not where all the color has gone, it is rather when the color will come.
Pigmentum Medicus, a rapidly expanding number of people, starting out in a small town called Coloures have banded together to bring this color into their world of black, white and gray. But this isn't the first day of their existence, immidiately wishing to put the color back in; they have lived this way for thousands of years, awaiting the day when color would simply pop into existence.
That, however, did not happen at all. In the tunnels of their small, humble outcropping of buildings, a small bit of government for color formed, calling themselves the Pigmentum Medicus, "The Color Healers." There was no holy calling, no spiritual wonder asking for their contribution to the world, it was simply a cry for something new, and the people decided, together, that they were the ones to put color into this world.

Day 1825:Tortue

This is an example of minimalist fiction I tried-not sure if it's all that great, but no one could figure out what it meant, so I suppose that's a plus-side, what with the mystery of minimalist fiction.
A green haze splits the sky-a barrier between good and evil. A rope-bound mouth rents the air, startling the balance. Intakes of breath turn shallow and water seeps in; counting sheep never worked as well as this.
Light again; the monsters under the cliffs have gone to bed. Red rivers flow through great white mountains, tumbling over the cliffs into the golden sahara. Rope still binds-no, that's just pain-but the water rises ever higher. The barrier is diminished, yet the earth remains tilted in space.
Sun-risings reveal truth, but no upturned lips today-a turtle never survives long without its shell.
"Lay down, get up, go quickly;" words spoken from above; on Day 1825, never to see his shell again.