Black Widow: 'and two is a crowd and gold rim is an answer' - pyorn

oh, black widow,

you bring your venom home,

hungry for a taste of love,

you long to be alone,

and who can blame such strength and pride,

if not to blame their own -?

they chide you on in jealousy,

to weave a weblike throne

where is the king? who is this queen

who eats the whole world wide?

it is the red-black widow,

our freedom, death, and bride.

be gone, dear friends, run far away,

run far away and hide,

for lust and loneliness, this night,

will sleep here side-by-side.

Steel Bridge: 'don't wanna be the one that you don't recognize' - nhalstead

we crossed the Willamette on Steel,

as the sun tore through the black truss,

and the waters below, they beckoned us

to jump, like fools on some adventure,

perhaps to the plight of carpe diem,

or, as likely, to some muddy grave,

I know not the difference of the two,

though the rusty river, swallowing

whatever time would traffic in its wake,

yearned and ached to bring its spoils

about its banks and to give back, though

with no thanks, something pretty (ugly)

to the industrial City of Roses.

The Ginkgo Life: 'on the outside of Memphis all the buildings look big' - jritter

oh ginkgo,

don't let your heart go again,

stay green this fall

when all that change begins,

when winter brings

the ways of death

to strip you of your skin,

my tree of butterflies,

with cocoons of broken sin,

know the ways

that Jack Frost lies

on night's before his win,

soak up the warmth you can,

you must, or he will do you in,

oh, my ginkgo

whatever happens in the end,

come green or yellow,

leafless storm,

you'll always be my friend.

The Past: 'talking it out, the last hour, I'm through trying now' - elliott

that place where past meets present

is sometimes a bitter contest,

in which the rules,

usually governed by choice,

are held in bondage,

and the past,

the returning champion

now faces a new foe,

an underdog of hope,

that tomorrow's choice is

somehow independent of

yesterday's,

and if this is a terrible lie,

I should prefer to believe it

for my sake and for yours.

Cause-and-Effect: 'happiness is a warm gun (bang, bang, shoot, shoot)' -beatles

I skipped a stone atop the placid lake,

that it might break the lasting calm,

or in that rippled wake,

tell the resting dirt below, above,

there lies mistake, and I would watch

and grin and watch, an anxious wait,

and wonder all the while as I debate:

am I the stone, the dirt, or am I lake?

Nature Calls: 'there is love left in my life, I will see, but you still hurt me' - fitz

O America,

there's a chorus to your land,

the chirping bird and water flow

into harmonic bands;

the black bear preys on honey,

and the corn snake understands

the trickery of the fruit you take

within your sinful hands;

O God, America,

survival of the weak,

your waterfalls and river streams

were taken from the meek,

your wanton needs

and wealthy ways

have stripped the gentle creek

of all that's good and holy,

and you've altered her physique

from the bed she lay in peace

near the mountain peak,

who are you, America?

who are you to speak?

who are you to steal the voice

and silence nature's shriek?

O America,

may you think

may you think

may you think.

Cutlery: 'lost our chance to love one another, we'll love again, just not each other' - fitz

I've had enough of your

chutzpah,

where the pot and the kettle prepare

to paint the silverware black,

so sure in your attack

and even convinced that

some benevolence from above

anointed you in fate,

and yet, so much

hate

is masked by love,

and as for me, I've had enough of

every little thing you do -

hypocrites, like me,

yet unable to see

beyond your own skin,

though the hearts of so many,

you looked deep within

painting them like the

silverware

black by their sin,

and I know no prayer,

no prayer could save

from the shame of the cross

that brings life to the grave.

Gravity: 'I am listening to hear where you are' - nmh

love

some strange cross between

coincidence and fate,

that place where the moon

teases you

not because it is -

it isn't -

but because you told it to,

it did.

Lady Luna: 'bones sinking like stones all that we fall for' - cplay

the moon is gone again,

away from current view,

it's slipped behind

some cirrus cloud,

away from me and you

there was no silver lining

in the streaks that hid its shine,

no hope below could lift us up

to where the cloud would climb,

yet all the while in hopeful gaze,

we knew with little doubt

that time would pass

and wind would come

to move the clouds about.

Abu Ghraib: 'what are you doin to me?' - pete yorn

let us decorate Abu Ghraib with words,

lay out the old welcome mat

for a quaint little tea party,

and all the dolls and one stuffed animal

are here to fill these halls like guests

we dress or undress them in silliness,

so do what you're told -

work hard, play harder, and kill

only with kindness,

for responsibility runs up the ladder

til it's lost in some lie or

forgotten, despite our lovely scrapbook

of a midsummer day

when we offered you some tea

poured over your head

and clapped our hands in joyous success

thankful God would bless the American way.

Rainier: 'call the surgeon, mend the pieces' - fitz

Rainier

so far away, yet

seems you're here

within arm's reach,

your snowcapped peak

will gently bleach

the clouds that hide you,

but on brighter days,

you're like a harvest moon

teasing us to think

you're closer than you are,

your color depending

on the paint

the sun will choose

to brush about your scars,

oh Rainier,

please come here,

and kiss us one last time.

Map: 'I am of the universe and you know what it's worth' - john

the way a map lies,

as though the earth were ever enough,

and the existential stare

across the green-blue painted paper,

there, where 'x' marks a spot, and

this thin, leaflike page cannot fathom

depths of the oceans or the mountains high,

and the pale blue of this ink knows little

of what I think is the color of the sea,

the way she turns that sick blue-black

in the wake of a school of fish,

ten thousand strong and learned,

they are,

they are not,

are not welcome on a page without stories,

a page without people,

so easy to see a world to conquer,

when the world is lines, names,

and nothing but a pale brown color

veiling the land where hearts do actually tear

and love there, no different from our own,

but whatever makes it easier for you

to do what you've come to do, as

after all, it's just a map.

Rendezvous: 'goodnight moon, goodnight air, goodnight captain in the captain's chair' - glen

my imagination is on a rendezvous

with love,

a train track above the clouds,

where no rain is creeping about,

save the atmospheric mist,

and in the vast blue expanse,

the sun cannot escape its chance

to whisper to us this:

nothing more than scattered light,

and what you call both day and night

is nothing more than love divine,

a truth spread on bread with wine,

a bliss delight beyond sunlight,

beyond the sea, beyond our time,

and in the way of this train flight,

may a locomotive line ignite,

a smoking trail of peaceful cloud

settles between earth and shroud

of sky of sun of fleeting ones

whose years have passed

like old reruns,

the seasons I have seen that last

weren't etched by science or even cast

by books or brains or useless things -

the trains that ran these lines on strings

suspended in the awful air

were all about some love somewhere,

and you, my fickle foes without

imaginary friends and doubt,

look for more than you can know,

more than only textbooks show,

and rendezvous with love devout.

Venus: 'it's the music that we choose' - gorillaz

worlds between reality,

she sees the distance with her eyes closed,

clothed deep in thought and

hopeful of some bliss -

in this, the grand empty hall,

ornate with riches not acquainted to

that inner glow,

though filled with people she may know,

she stands alone,

the stroke of Botticelli's brush,

the Venus etched in stone,

wondering what this time may tell,

she moves about on ocean shell

in search of keys to world's uknown

a solid meme and no more mocked,

her beauty free and heart unlocked,

I know one way I'd wish her well:

that life is not a thing achieved;

but is the path of joy received.

Fortune Cookie: 'one way or another, I just wish I had known' - cc

you ate the whole box of fortune cookies,

hoping one would tell the truth

of a life without surprise

and the dull nothingness ahead,

but they all just said things would get better

soon,

Sunday morning tells another story,

the hope of resurrection stuffed in some

dank, dead tomb, as though God's love

had been left between the sweet, crumbly walls,

so I wonder, were we really made to like love

or to fester in ourselves,

another cookie ripped to shreds

and the shells tossed aside, it read:

"May happiness for you reside

with every step you take in stride."

Steps: 'dominos falling in a chain reaction'

steps,

an ascent toward bliss,

this uncertainty of me

and dark surroundings

are given hope where light

touches

the edges of these steps

rounded by their wear,

a careful tread of feet

along the stone there

places

love

in our midst and up,

the room above awaits,

the meal prepared, and

the only thing between us,

steps.

Time Wasted: 'summer comes marching with heavy boots on' - patty

this hour is about the second hand you stare at silently from across the room,

no sound from its tock, though the tick of the air conditioner arises in sync,

and all other sounds and sights, the distant T.V., your insides readjusting,

the ugly glow of a lamp that should retreat into darkness soon - you hope - 

yes, just another hour among millions now gone and those ahead awaiting you,

your moment, your picture, discarded to some folder in your mind forgotten,

refusing the past only that you might relive it foolishly, no checks for yourself

but too many for others, mirrors you hand out and demand those blemishes hid,

while to you, all mirrors, mere windows to see a world wrong of everyone else.

this is the hour, the second hand still ticking, your time still unfolding for now,

so stop staring at that clock; there's only so little time before your bell tolls,

another hour slipping by, and you've wasted another chance to find your good

under all that stupid, under all that anger, under all that thick skin.

Ginkgo Again: 'you kick the sand, you get the upper hand' - cake

come back to me, Ginkgo,

your budding leaves, 

a tale of resurrection

from past ages forgotten

what you cannot forget,

forgiveness required 

you'd let go of memory's 

sharp petals from those

tiny green veins, you fed

the synapse new hope

when you shaped yourself

a crinkled pyramid,

a Maiden's hair,

free from the rape

of weather ungodly,

and the life you live

has seen too much living

to ever know 

the pain of death.

Tillamook: 'buy a gun and start a war' - coldplay

from Tillamook but far away,

the lighthouse cast a shadow

in water's trough with light enough,

the world was full of ebb and flow,

the little lamp could be no match

for the gazing of the settling sun

or the dazzling dance she gave us all

along the coast of Oregon

whose beach knew well the winds of time,

the sailor's lie of peace,

where was I within this tale,

a footprint to increase

and creep along the impressed sand,

each dent, a puddle I would make,

but wave from wave would settle in

to shift the sand within its wake,

as back I'd glance and wonder where

I'd been and where I'd go,

the ocean wide had washed my past

to give the journey clearer pass

to where I do not know. 

Protestant: 'I am not to be martyred' - guster

they threw a shroud over your eyes,

and the world went back to where it was,

assured you would sleep through our sin,

a world with no beginning, a world without end,

but something happened,

some mismatch of light with dark,

what you now call forgiveness was then

a brief remark, a rock rolled away,

disbelief surrounding,

and fears first sounding til faith followed through,

what would you have us do in this mess,

this test of time, this ultimate displeasure

so misunderstood, it's become our measure

of who we are and where we go 

and set us apart from those we think we know

forgiveness - sacrificed - to a world gone mad

in favor of "faith," the claim to a fad,

where believing is all that makes us united,

but in action we are so goddamn divided,

a reflection of those whose reform was sought,

nails to the doors or to men who'd been caught

speaking their minds, living a way we dislike,

so terribly alike are we, so terribly alike.

Safe Flight: 'heaven knows, heaven knows' - jforeman

"This is your Captain speaking - we have now reached an altitude of 10,000 feet, so you may turn on any electronic devices other than cell phones or other radio-equipped devices.  We are expecting a pleasant flight today on our way out west, chasing the sun.  Please remain in your seat unless the seatbelt sign is turned off, and we would like to remind you this is a non-smoking flight."

The rolling green hills of the Middle Tennessee valley were quickly changing colors and shapes, and on this cloudless day, it seemed odd that we were created to live on the ground.  There's something about the sky that's always made me feel as though I belonged there.  Of course, there is one tiny catch - I hate flying.  I hate the way I have trouble popping my ears if I have bad sinuses; I hate the constant buzz the plane makes, its occasional bumps and thuds, or the always scary, "Flight attendants, call the cockpit," which in my mind always plays out in some sort of fantasy about the pilot's preparation for our upcoming crash landing.  10,000, 20,000, 30,000 feet we climb, and just out the window there's this beautiful world of freedom, but I always feel as though I'm stuck inside some giant flying bus with crying babies, sick, smelly passengers, and the occasional talkative passenger who just won't shut up.  

On this particular occasion, I had been feeling incredibly tense from the moment I had stepped into the airport - "Ding dong.  This is a public safety announcement.  For your safety and the safety of all passengers, please do not leave your luggage unattended," or if you've been to the Nashville International Airport lately, you may have become accustomed to the more oddly friendly, "This is Garth Brooks.  Welcome to Nashville, Music City!"  Sorry Garth, but all these public safety announcements haven't made me less tense about flying.  I don't really know why I get like that.  I just do.  

So, after standing in line, removing my hoodie, my belt, my shoes, sending my bags through the little x-ray machine and pretending to smile while getting patted down for the guns and bombs I might be carrying in this terror level orange society, I made my way to Gate A-17, which despite the fact that it wasn't the last number of the A-gates, somehow still managed to be one mile from the security check and at the very end of the terminal.  If you've never flown before, don't let me scare you away.  There are perks.  Peanuts and pretzels actually somehow taste a thousand times better from 30,000 feet up.  I actually don't eat those things on earth unless I'm just stuffing my face for no reason, but up there, it's delicacy.  

I had plans to fly to Seattle, and the ticket I had purchased said "Nashville to Seattle (direct flight)," which was why I found myself rather confused staring at the board at Gate A-17 which said, "Nashville to San Diego to Oakland to Seattle."  Hmm.  An indirect flight.  The good news about this was that I love San Diego, and a chance to fly into my favorite city, even if I wasn't going to get out of the plane, was incredibly exciting, and who wouldn't want to say they flew up the coast of California?  Still, this was going to be a long flight.  

My seat number put me in the very last group to load, and standing there in silence, I looked around nervously, ready to get this next seven hours over with.  Turning around, I noticed two things.  The first was that I was at the very end of the line, meaning I was going to be stuck with a bad seat (Southwest Airlines has "pick your own seat" flying).  The second was named Ravyn Miller.  

Actually, I saw a Vanderbilt shirt first and just though, "Oh look, someone that goes to my school," but when I looked up, I saw a warm face, the face of one of the most delightful people I know.  I make more friends with my books than I do with people around Vanderbilt, but Ravyn had been in several classes with me, a few of which had a profound impact on both of us, and seeing her there in the airport was a calming experience for someone who had images of plane crashes in his head.  "What are you doing here?!"  

"I'm going to San Diego to see some of my friends."  

"I love San Diego!  You gotta go to Balboa Park, maybe Seaworld, and the Gaslamp District."

"What about you?"

"I'm on the plane a little longer.  Going all the way to Seattle to see my lady."

The conversation ensued until we entered the packed plane, and it became clear that we wouldn't get to sit together.  Ravyn, from behind, called out to me, "Looks like this is where we part, babe," and I chattered back a quick, "Have a good trip, Ravyn," even though in reality, we were only three or four seats apart.  

Fast forward.  

The quickly changing landscape had now gone from green hills to brown plateaus to rocky inclines with occasional snow-sprinkled ice caps.  Or at least, that was what I imagined, as I tried to peer over some lady's "Sky" Magazine out the tiny window.  As the little skyscrapers of San Diego began appearing in the window, I became so mesmerized by my city that I completely forgot to say goodbye to Ravyn when she got off the plane.  I stayed on and waited for the next group to board.  The tension of taking off and landing and preparing to take off again was unbearable for me.  I had tried to nap, but the same image kept appearing in my mind: the plane splitting in half and the wind and air pressure sucking us all right out into our plummet to the ground.  I actually spent a few minutes trying to decide how best to curl up so as to protect my head and break the fewest bones when I hit the ground.  Or perhaps I should go head first and try to aim for water?  I wasn't sure which gave me the greatest odds of survival, but this kind of thinking couldn't be healthy, so it made more sense to try to sleep it off.

A major theme of the Bible, true through both the Old and New Testaments is summed up in one phrase, "Do not be afraid."  Usually, something follows, like, "for I am the Lord your God," or "for I am with you."  We forget those words constantly.  Too often, fear is a part of our faith, but I suspect fear actually hurts our faith far more than doubt ever could.  

"Ah, excuse me, passengers, is there a Ravyn Miller still on board?"  

"Say wha?!" I thought to myself.  A flight attendant began to explain that Ravyn had left something small and brown on the plane.  A passenger had found it stuck behind the seat - looked like a wallet.  Before I'd considered the odds of my likeliness of survival in the event of a plane crash.  Now I was considering the odds of this seemingly miraculous event.  It had been surprising and delightful to see Ravyn at the airport, even more surprising that she was getting on the same plane as me.  Now, she was off the plane, and I was still on it, and the coincidences seemed to pile on.  To me, it was a miracle alone that I was flying into San Diego and not staying there.  Pulling the stewardess to the side, I tried explaining the situation, "Uhm, I'm a friend of Ravyn's.  I realize, as I tell you this, I have no way of proving that I know even Ravyn.  Perhaps I can call her when we get to Oakland?"  The Flight Attendant looked incredibly pleased and we discussed numerous plans of action.  In Oakland, I failed at getting a hold of Ravyn, and there was some discussion about whether or not we should leave the missing object in San Diego's lost-and-found, which I was determined to stop. 

Finally, I asked what the object was, and the flight attendant showed me.  It was a Bible, and the flight attendant was insistent on showing off how "used" the Bible was, making it not just a book but a personal memoir and journal.  Page after page, Ravyn had taken notes from sermons and made intentional and precise use of this sacred writ.  In the back-and-forth conversing, I had forgotten my apprehension about flying.  I was now on a mission, "a mission from Gad."  She handed me the text, and we agreed that I would give it to Ravyn at the first opportunity I got when I returned to Nashville.  I held the book in my hands, and those words - "Do not fear" pierced me.  I began to calm down.  This ancient, holy document, which had been cared for in a powerful way, had wound up in my protection, and yet, it seemed to be calming and protecting me as much if not more than I was it.  

I glanced out the window and my mind drifted with the clouds below and the mountain tops of St. Helen's and Rainier, as Seattle approached nearer and nearer.  Most people might call what happened coincidence or luck.  I'm not even sure I was ready to jump the gun on calling it a "miracle."  It just seems to me that people who look for hope, find it; people who look for God, find him.   Miracles, I guess, are when we aren't even looking, yet hope and God still find us, even 30,000 feet up in the middle of nowhere.  

Looking down during descent, something odd caught my eye.  

I don't get the science of it, but I've been told that from the air, when you see a rainbow, instead of being half a circle, it's a whole one.  So, as I peered down contemplating life and death and miracles, a multi-colored sphere seemed to linger blissfully on the top of a flock of clouds.  I won't lie, it took me several moments before I realized I was peering down on a rainbow, on God's merciful promise, and suddenly it hit me.  In our lives, we get half the picture and are left wondering what happens to that other half.  We even concoct stories about leprechauns and gold at the end of the spectrum; we believe there's an "end" somewhere, a place where the rainbow just cuts off and dies.  That abrupt end, though, misses the completeness of God entirely.  For with our God, where there is despair, there is hope; where there is hate, there is love; where there is death, life.  Nothing just ends.  We have this purpose, this miraculous harmony to the way we touch one another and the way we interact and commune together.  Whether offering a smile or a hug, whether trying to love what we don't like, whether we're just picking up someone's Bible for them and being touched by it, we are connected to one another and connected to God in every nook-and-cranny of this silly little world of ours.   Whatever you do, have a safe flight.  

Abner: 'something tells me we are gonna be friends' -jack

that warm spot on the ground,
the one where the sunlight floods
the floor from through the blinds,
left little light lines adjacent
the hardwood pine paneling,
and it's your favorite place
to rest your head, or instead,
maybe you just want to shine
and pretend, with precious eyes closed,
to sleep a peace I didn't know you had,
but you know I'm looking on
so glad you're mine,
with my half-crooked smile,
or maybe I'm yours,
and all this while, I had myself fooled.

Lily: 'pretty enough for you' - elliott

when is your blossom, lily,
your bosom for the bee to land
and fill its endless desires
with your fragrance,
for our patience withers
while you still bud,
awaiting the pangs of your birth,
where is your sunshine, lily,
who rains her own wet warmth
upon your neatly closed petals,
because she, we believe, she
could summon your welcome,
a grand parade of dew sent
to march before the moon,
what story will you tell, lily,
as you stretch your wings
to do the bidding of your call,
some of us knew your beauty
when you were but a seed.

Mystique: 'I saw a sign in the sky' - sufjan

mystique,
the only word I know that gives this thing,
between us,
any meaning,
as something trickles into the air,
like snow, but even harder to grasp,
warmth instead of chill,
a shear spirit of us, of oneness,
where I reach arms out grabbing hold
to pull in your soul to me,
the embrace, a story
more than tales of fairies told,
where I find you and find myself,
or perhaps, the better part of me,
the one I wish so many had known
instead of what I'd shown them,
but there's time beyond what clocks can tell,
and that's where our hope rests.

Spring Moment: 'a last amen to a migratory song' -ritter

I cracked the window just slightly and sneaked the tips of my fingers into the open air, inching my gas pedal closer to the floor and letting the spring breeze tease each fingertip. It's funny that the "new year" comes in the dead of winter; for me, the newness of each year never arrived until that very moment, fingers dangling out the window, grabbing the roof of the car - that moment where you knew in the warmth of the wind that spring had finally arrived. Here, soon, the trees would again blossom, beckoning for rain's fall and sun's shine and ready for summer.

It's funny that wind, of all things, could be so different. One minute, one time of year, and it was a cutting sensation, sharply ripping through each blood cell, chapping lip and teeth alike. Another minute, a month or two removed, it was an embrace - neither too tight nor too soft but the perfect cure to loneliness. Perhaps that's what I loved the most about spring; it was the one time of year when mother nature wanted to be my friend, when nature was the only friend I even needed. Her bipolar tendencies were all too easily forgotten on those days. Her ability to embrace me through the slightest reminder of her presence in my fingertips, dangling out the window of my decrepit black Pontiac took me somewhere unexpected, a kind of out-of-body experience. Up-and-away, I could see myself driving down the windy stretch of distant concrete, and suddenly, I felt as though my southern inclination was more than just the direction I was driving, but from far away, looking at the little speck that had become my car in this odd spring day-dream, I was now driving down, falling wistfully toward my destination without the confines of gravity or friction to hold me back.

These, of course, are not the kinds of daydreams other drivers want you to have while you share their road. Yet, secretly or not, they too understand, smiles on their faces as they whizzed by, what today was, for the arrival of spring was not hidden, and though each of them found in it some special connection to its warmth, as though the day were specific to them, the shear joy of spring's arrival spread quickly, infecting every driver or jogger, except when it incited the envy of those couped in the office glancing down on the minions they longed to be.

Soon, the crickets would again chirp, and the rains would replenish the once snow-soggy, brown turf. The seeds who must've held their own form of hibernation in those dead, dark moments would again germinate and spread forth among the wild wonders of the world the way most of us believed they should. There were no words to describe, but watchful eyes knew this to be some pax natura, if only she could last. One tries not to dwell on death in the midst of birth; such days are for cheer and celebration, so much so, not the winds nor the rain could dampen such splendor, for spring was made for jumping in puddles and singing in the drench. Even the night skies grew clearer, the stars brighter, and between them, the abyss of space caused us to seek the horizon's end. There, where firmament met sky in black nothingness, the petty differences of the landscape were lost to a more peaceful union of what, in daylight, belonged elsewhere. Where clashing worlds hugged, onlookers knew this season to be a time of hope and renewal.

As for me, fingers dangling out the window, the wind rushing into my car lightly replacing the need for air conditioning and ending the call for heat, I softly began to whistle, forgetting today's troubles and again believing the old maxim carpe diem was within reach.  

Jerusalem: 'be my mirror, my strength, my shield' - coldplay

center of the world
whose birthpangs never end,
dusty streets and chimes that
know no peace,
save what's left from hope:
you are a city of too many walls,
a rat's maze for cheese
no longer there,
yet still rank with violence.
oh my
gods of this world,
or a god of another,
bring to end
this senseless shame
upon us all
before our tefillah
becomes a scream.

A and Ω: 'think I might do a little dying today' - patty

God saw your tomorrow from a Cross of great sorrow,
a test of all time and of faith that's within,
but you live in the lie that your sin has your skin
all wrapped up and caged, sold for minimum wage -
don't listen to liars far-gone from your age.
sure, buildings are buildings, and people, the same,
they tore you from love and slandered your name,
but knowledge of life or of death cannot keep you,
nor depths nor heights nor Satan beseech you,
for God is nearby, no matter creation,
no matter your skin, no matter temptation.
if you know nothing else, may this swell in your heart,
that God saw your tomorrow from finish to start.

Poetry Plea: 'I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war' - cplay

less caring for words,
their sounds a trumpet song,
their meaning lost in marching wrong,
detached from the soul of their step,
their cadence written to be kept
to some rank, heartfelt bellow,
obsessing with that chap, Longfellow,
toasting to the moon and caring little
for more than tune is noncommittal,
as I won't stop to play my lyre,
in hopes, like David, I could sire
a kingdom in the future tense,
they'll love the sound more than its sense,

for what is poetry than love

of sound in step from cloud above,

though deadened by a school of thought

that picked apart the things we wrought,

we've no time for such petty perusal

of nouns and verbs, they make that refusal,

appealing to the poem's purport,

as if it ever had a sort,

no, I've no time to make my plea,

to draw from bad notes, harmony,

instead, I simply let it be

what it is to me, what it is to me,

and that's why I write all this poetry. 

Nebraska: 'think you better turn your ticket in' - cc

along the empty miles,
a cascading stretch into nothing
where the morning's snow
teases the horizon toward oblivion,
and the glitter drift becomes
a summer beach along a highway,
the weeds or wheat, now sea oats,
and us, the boat about which sails
beyond the summer's sands,
have all but found these near heartlands
too brisk or far-removed
from the whispers of an ancient town,
as that sea breeze still comes around,
like this one, to chill us to the bone
we found our warmth in parting
with that life alone
in favor of a spring to rise,
and, with it, bring a green surprise
to give the earth the cause to spin
while those who walk about it
get a second chance to comprehend.

Cove of the Sea

Mediterranean Girl: 'love love me do' - beatles

Somehow, the sweltering sun managed to chap my lips like the dead of winter, and it probably had something to do with the way the wind kicked up the dust in little tornadic swirls streaming sharply off the great sea, but I found myself wetting my lips every so often, making it worse and wishing just a smidgen of chapstick might magically appear out of nowhere to caress what's supposed to be soft and silk-like making them so again.  

It wasn't the dead of winter, though; it was the middle of summer, and for the first time, I felt more alive than I ever had.  My demeanor had changed drastically, and I carried in me a new prayer, willing that something greater than me might guide my every move, even my every thought.  I dreamt and hoped for the one thing I'd never known, some kind of certainty about something in this very uncertain world, but dreams and hopes aside, I had forgotten how desperately I longed that doubt might cease, and I understood, instead, that the only thing I could currently comprehend was how dearly my lips ached.

Still, pain or none, the sights were beyond gorgeous, and it wasn't just a matter of watching her silhouette against the Mediterranean sky, though most of my gaze seemed to be centered on her rather than the endless horizon, equally as beautiful, cascading in some indescribable emerald rippling toward Elysian Fields.  It was simply the way the world was at that moment - a picture etched to my memory lovingly, and that moment was my day, my month, my whole life before me.  Sky, sea, and her stoic figure complemented one another, and I wasn't sure if my obsession with wetting my lips was to ease their pain in the windchapped sun or if I merely longed to kiss her.

One problem, though, was that we'd only just met.  Sure, there was plenty of chemistry, perhaps, with a light smile, occasional giggles, arms brushing against one another as we'd strolled along the beach just the day before.  Yet it seems that no matter how strongly hormones bubble about the air before you, doubt and fear somehow manage to work much more powerfully at first.  But I was unwilling to succumb to the pangs of doubt or fear, the very things I'd longed to escape, and now, glancing at her curvaceous silhouette and just beyond it where the sun danced in bright beacons of light along the water's crests, there was a reason to be a tad more bold than usual.  

She turned and smiled, both of us so very amazed that we stood here at this sight, "That's the Mediterranean Sea," she noted in her whistful voice, wanting to never forget this world before her, and the hopes of soaking in this moment were accentuated with a suggestion that we might also make our way toward the sea shelves below.

We stood a couple hundred yards above the beach, ready to make our descent, and surrounded by ancient buildings which had crumbled from generations of destruction or neglect.  The sandstone ashlars had been dirtied to the color of the dirt but shone a golden tan.  For nearly four thousand years, people not that much different from us had stood on this hunk of rock staring out at the sea and asking the same questions we pondered about life.  For nearly four thousand years, people had fallen in love and died, leaving behind remnants of their existence.  We, too, had touched and were touched by this place in the windy sand, and eventually, we'd leave behind a different kind of mark - one of curiosity and vigilance - that would, in only a solstice or two, probably be removed with the earth but whose story would carry into eternity like the many that most likely preceded it. 

The world is full of stories, past and present, interwoven and, though slightly different, are always to be told again and again, their wisdom immortal, their truths unchanging, and even when their details are forgotten, their impact never dies.   So, one might guess some Roman, too, stood here a few thousand years before, glancing out at the inviting sea he dare not enter; whether he really did or not is of inconsequence.  But the possibility that he could have stood here enlivened this place with ghosts of the past and their stories.  We couldn't help but catch some enchanted spirit lingering about this place, where sacred lulls of past lives still dwelled, thrusting us forward toward our fate, and in slow and careful strides, we pushed beyond the age-old pottery jutting from the cliff's edge and made our way to the rocky shore below. 

The beach spanned into the sea in the form of rocky shoals stretching a few hundred yards beyond the actual shoreline, allowing one to stand in three feet of water considerably far from the shore, but despite its beauty, all was not peaceful.  The tug of the undertow made it difficult to walk upright without help, marking the perfect opportunity for an excuse to reach out and grasp her hand.  The wet rock forced us to walk slowly, and from time to time, I'd pretend to slip in hopes that she might move closer to hold me up.  The tug and playful tease flirted somewhere between danger and romance.  

There was, of course, the possibility of falling into large, cavernouse holes in the rocky ground below, each opening to a deeper part of the sea, where her greatest fear, jellyfish, waded about awaiting an opportunity to paralyze their prey.  When I saw one flittering like a butterfly disguised by its blue, jelly shell, I quietly moved her away from it, making no mention of it in hopes that she wouldn't notice, and once, when one glided by my leg, I did the best I could to bite my lip and hide the pain.  

We watched a fisherman in the distance cast his rod and reel for several minutes with no bite in response and slowly made our way to a small cove that might have once been some house, now covered in urchins and plankton, slowly eroding the thousand year old dwelling.  The water seeped in through an old window of sorts, or perhaps it was once a door, and with the walls serving as a kind of barrier between the great waves and the beach, our little cove became a kind of  hot spring, churning and spinning an endless romance of water and love.   Giving up an old attempt to keep our top half dry, we kneeled, still fully clothed, into the churning waters of our cove and moved closer to one another, quiet but still holding hands, though the need to had long subsided.  

Holding each other close in the warm waters, I smiled and teased, mocking her earlier statement, "This is the Mediterranean Sea."  We kissed.  We kissed again.   I had forgotten the sting of chapped lips, though I teased her that her kisses were salty, as the sea occasionally splashed us.  

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," she spoke, wondering and worrying.

"It's a little late for that," I smiled back.  We kissed again.  

"It's just... I had my heart broken; I don't know if I can bare to have that happen again."  She was right.  I knew it, and I hated it; both of us had known such pain, and things were so much simpler staring into the Mediterranean Sea wondering about possibilities rather than trying to live them.  But risks had brought us to this cove, and as it swirled us around in circles, nothing about it seemed wrong.  For the first time in my life, a prayer was answered, though not in the way I expected it would be, as is usually the case.  For someone who had known only doubt and uncertainty forever, something certain overtook me each time our lips met.  

I broke the silence with a softer kiss than before, one that said I was willing to do what was best for us, "I don't want either of us to not live life just because it hurts."  I held her close.  I didn't know what the future would hold; I didn't even care.  For now, which was all that mattered, the sweltering sun was setting to paint the sky a hopeful orange, and our hands clasped together, resolute, assured we'd find a way to live our own story, one that would not be forgotten.

Bill: 'when college days are past, as long as life shall last' - wcgc

a monument to humility,

he'd lean back against the chalkboard,

always to dirty his cordoruy blazer

unknowingly,

and with a deep interest,

he'd posit a one-word response,

beckoning more out of us,

students - no - friends,

a casual chat in the classroom -

no - the living room, as it were,

our scarlet house,

where he could have locked his mind

in towers too tall for our reach,

but no, he lived communion

unlike any ever seen,

and sat with us,

seemingly as perplexed,

yet so much the wiser,

that curious smile to never be forgotten,

and the way his nose seemed lost

somewhere in his glasses,

a face of warmth and welcome,

I, too, would like to reflect,

if ever I could.  

Ginkgo Tree: 'with his push cart, he calls down the day' - decemberists

Tree of Butterflies,

  Arise! from your cocoons

soon your wings will flitter down

and wither like balloons,

though some say Winter nears

this year, their Fall's your

wakened life, a Spring of color

changes here, a peace among

the strife.  

Midas: 'give a man a home' - bharper

must be that Midas touch,

somewhere between true beauty

and the impossibility of love,

just what we lost perceptions of

a sick perfection guiding us

toward something better, never best,

admiring gifts that we possessed,

we froze them there in time

an artifact that gave no more,

its purpose now resigned,

a spectacle and nothing less,

save what it was to us, a test

we failed to pass for success' sake,

the irony we saw too late

but learned our lessons well:

that true perfection knows mistake

in love, all flaws excel.

Civil War: 'just down below me, is the old sea' - patty

have you heard the sound that snow makes

when it falls?

some say only silence hears

the way the white flakes stall,

some slow departure from the heavens,

as they surrender all,

the wind has overtaken now,

the Winter from the Fall,

and all-along the picket-fence,

the white dividing-wall,

the enemy is caught between

the snow and cannonball,

these are the times, my friend, my friend,

of soldier's cry and call,

when white flakes in a blue-grey world

would color all we saw,

would paint the peace of hopeful times

when men could change like Saul.

Vampires: 'Jesus went to live with the poor' - pattyg

they know how 

to change the subject

from themselves

and only see

you in the mirror,

the flesh of 

your neck exposed

every body's blood

runs transposed,

the change from warm

to cold,

a murder of one 

is bold, 

but this crime is yours,

a knife you never held,

and the mirror image

not of you 

tells your story well.  

Friend: 'crosses along the boulevard' - jose g.

you gave up alive,

but the hour hand moves,

slow as she goes,

you still have to choose

that blood-bathing past

with the wounds that won't heal,

all that will last, all you conceal,

it's not for the future,

that's left up to you,

but the patience that kills us,

some call it virtue,

so don't cover yourself

in that shroud just quite yet,

don't go writing your eulogy

in hopes we'll forget

all the love that you gave us

in your songs and your grace,

you can't believe in yourself,

so believe our embrace,

and the waters that drown you

when you think you can swim,

have baptised and found you

a home in your skin.

Gas: 'now what can be done for you?' - paul

the gas is gone,
the gas is gone,
the people ran it dry
it's gone to where
the clouds are thick
it's gone somewhere to die.
the world will stop,
the world will stop,
apocalyptic dream
it stops in search
of highway thirst
it stops for gasoline.
this dirty mess,
this dirty mess,
of bloodied mud and fears
the richer men
get richer than
they have in many years.
so, bless you, son,
so, bless you, son,
anointed in the oil
this holy land
has pierced your hand
your blood seeps into soil.

Dying Hope, Still Hope: 'God give me style and give me grace' - coldplay

the Truth lies

in Perception's eyes

where hate reigns again,

dear friends,

is that all that's left of us,

that some would think

they better reflect

those things 

they try to disinfect,

so they say,

'Rome wasn't built in a day,'

but in a day it burned,

and those that set the fire

remained unconcerned,

while they climbed 

the Palace heights,

as Truth 

was cloaked in sin,

and all that Love unites

would somehow speak Amen.

Statue: 'mary, you're covered in roses' - pattyg

Mother Mary,

where's your sheep?

the time is near,

the flock's asleep,

the years you wasted

looking on,

some are found,

but most are gone,

your bronze has rust

in acid rain,

like Christ, you're beat

a crimson stain,

and once again,

the Church has failed

too daft to know

that God prevailed.

Salt Sea: 'you're heart's a muscle and that's all' - clem

I am the Mare Mortuum,
silent and still,
so worn by the deep
with unwanted wisdom,
while the winds of past lives
blew just above
my unmoved waters,
the only waves churned
were those of Charon's wake
who floated easily
to-and-fro my salty sea,
and yet, despite the silent dead,
I know the sounds of peace
better than most seas could sing.

Balloon: 'when I was through, I filled up my shoe' - dylan

"Now, don't let it go," but there was no use in Daddy's mandate, and he knew it as he had spoken the words. Reaching down, he tied the blue rippled string of the red balloon to my wrist, took my hand in his, and on we marched. Seven years old was the perfect age to appreciate the big world full of its mystery. Laws of density would eventually dull down the bouncing red ball clashing with the cloudy blue-gray sky above. For now, it was just fascinating enough to never let it out of sight. It followed me like a dog on a leash, more loyal than some but could've been a puppy the way it bounced about with excitement. A yank from my wrist brought it almost to my face or head, but before I could feel it there, it had returned to its rightful place in the sky, where it belonged. No, Dad, I would not let it go. And not just because it had been tied securely to my wrist. It held magic within it, the ability to fly, and I was certain some Tinkerbell had come along and sprinkled fairy dust or something about its rubbery surface.

Dad opened the door of our car and let go of my hand. Stepping in, I pulled the balloon down with me. I was quiet, curious. My mind fixated on the fascinating balloon, even though my eyes shifted between it and the window-world passing slowly by as we schlepped away from the nearby Farmer's Market. There had been a range of colors to choose from. Greens and purples, an orange and a yellow, and though it seemed an odd place to purchase balloons with your homegrown tomatoes and peas, my insistence that something exciting existed among the dull world of fruits and veggies had pulled Daddy in (or, perhaps, he'd been lulled by the possibility that I would simply grow quiet on receiving this mysterious orb floating against gravity above me).

He won. Though the way I held the balloon in my hands may have replaced my annoying begging from before, as the shiny red balloon squeaked as I squeezed. It must've felt constrained in the car. It belonged in the air, free from strings, free from seven year old boys, free from cars with doors and windows. I knew it. I knew where it wanted to go - as far as it could go - and yet, I loved that here it was, in between my fingers squeaking and shining. It was my possession, and still tied around my wrist by Dad's choice, I was its possession, as well. Inseparable. We pulled into the driveway. With the car door open, the balloon bounced carefully out, as if sucked by the wind, eager to escape.

"You gonna let it go?" Daddy asked.

I looked at him confused, my large eyes seeking understanding in his fatherly pupils. I spoke, but my voice squeaked like the balloon, "You said not to?"

"It's your choice," he said grinning, "You keep it, that's well and good, but it'll fizzle out and just lay on the ground soon."

I looked at the balloon and back at Daddy. He saw my dilemma, walked over and knelt down before me, untying the blue rippled string from my wrist, giving me more freedom to decide. He smiled, "It's okay. Don't you want to see it soar?"

I looked up at the sky. The blue-gray clouds from earlier had mostly parted, though the sun was setting, and everything seemed to be turning the color of my balloon, beckoning as if large gates had just opened in the heavens. My fingers clinched against the blue rippled string, and I pulled the balloon down, letting it tap me on the nose. For a moment, I glanced at the sky and at Daddy through the red transparent latex and for half a second felt as though I was the balloon. I looked at my father whose grin had turned to brooding, "Can I see your knife, Dad?"

He took out his knife, opened the blade and handed it to me. I cut off a piece of the blue rippled string and let the balloon slip away with ease. Placing the string into my pocket, Daddy and I looked up toward the sky as we watched the red balloon grow smaller and smaller. At times, it would linger. Other times, it seemed to disappear and reappear in the sunbeams of the quickly setting sun. I looked on. I kept hoping Tinkerbell had given enough of that fairy dust that it would fly forever. I kept hoping that I would remember it when the sun turned the sky that beautiful balloon-red. I kept wondering where it would go and who might find it. I looked to Dad who seemed to know all along everything that would happen and how it would all be okay, even when we could only see a tiny speck that once was my little red balloon.

"Let's get inside. It's getting cold out," he warned, still thinking of what was best, "Maybe we'll go to the fair this weekend. It's in town, you know."

"I'm fine with the Farmer's Market, Dad."

He laughed and the smile returned. I clutched the blue string in my pocket, held Daddy's hand, and went inside unprepared for tomorrow but ready to follow wherever Dad might lead.

Ginkgo: 'got no one to blame but I don't give up' - patty

that old tree
with leaves like
butterflies
out my windowsill,
branches like fingers
and arms,
reaching out -
the embrace of nature's past -
something to stare at
on long summer days
with the future
to think about,
but soon her colors
will change,
a yellow richer
than a Van Gogh,
and most likely,
we'll know
as those branches hide
her bark
in sweet disarray,
the embarrassment of
oncoming fall would,
like all the others,
only last a season.

Night-Light: 'staring down the stars jealous of the moon' - ncreek

I just couldn't sleep without that old Mickey Mouse night-light whose glow like embers were some yellow in the corner of my room, a comforting campfire with the old scout troop. The little blue cap and red gown from Fantasia brought magic to the room, the lamplight that carved the path for tooth fairies or perhaps for the Sandman. I was twelve or so when the only reason I stopped using it was because the bulb burnt out, and I was too lazy to do much about it. Those first nights without it were new. I wasn't afraid of the dark, but I was afraid of the change. So it is with life.

I never watched much Mickey Mouse growing up. I knew of him mostly by reputation. I liked the Ninja Turtles better, but their night-light just wasn't as bright as Mickey's. When I finally got used to the dark, I realized that those scary shadows I had been afraid of didn't exist anymore in the pitch black of my night-lightless world. It was that little smudge of light that really brought them to life, which seemed kind of ironic in retrospect.

Seems like Mickey, himself, would've gotten tired of always being that beacon of light, always shining for me. But he just kept on shining. He'd even shine through the daylight when I forgot to turn him off. Night after night, he was consistent, and there was comfort in knowing he would be there, like the regular hum of the house, the flow of the air conditioner or the heat. Without such simple things, the nights were longer and more confusing. Somehow, the past carves its way toward expectations for the future, and anything, even anything good, that might divert from the little carved path, is always seemingly shunned.

For months, Mickey sat there, still plugged into the wall, no light to offer the pitch black of night. Be it from laziness or shear fear of change, passing him in the morning before school was a reminder that he needed to be stuffed into the closet along with the teddy bears and puppets who had preceded him. Their days had been numbered, but Mickey had continuously given back when needed and been a light in dark places even when the bulb behind him was black and would've rattled if it shook.

I don't actually know what happened to the little bugger. I don't have any memories of his disappearance. I think I just stopped noticing his presence. I didn't need it anymore. After all, I suppose we only need light when we're in the dark. There's just no need to look for the sun on a cloudless day.

Unfortunately, though, the days still get cloudly sometimes, and the sun does go down on occasion. I don't know where that little piece of red and blue plastic is anymore, but I do still think of Mickey often. I see him in the smiles and hugs that come my way from time-to-time, and sometimes, I see him in a kind word I might have spoken myself. Night-lights are everywhere. Just take a look around; take a look within.

Hey Diddle Diddle: 'could've been a sailor, could've been a cook' - ndrake

the man in the moon, awake in his cradle
had lost all his friends, save the dish and the ladle,
while the little ole' pup was a-struttin' to-and-fro,
and the cat with the fiddle played a tune for the show.
though, the man in the moon who had diddled back-and-forth,
had his eye on a cow who could jump south to north,
and he said to himself, to himself said he,
"I'm so very tired of keeping watch o'er the sea,
while that cow over there tries to jump o'er me,

and the dish and the ladle, always sippin on their tea,

always seeming too busy for my looney company."

so the man in the moon, turning back to his cradle,

sent the sun in his place to meet the dish and the ladle,

as the cat with the fiddle found the pup with a lyre,

and the two sang duets to the heart of God's desire,

til the man in the moon had returned to the sky,

and he churned at the tides so the water didn't dry,

as the people everywhere came to walk along the sand,

where the man in the moon left his mark along the land,

and on a night just as right, just as right as it could be,

that man up in the moon would dance his light upon the sea.

Fathers and Futures: 'thank you for leading me home' - rocky

Those gulls are just going to stay there and let me walk right through them. Are they going to fly? No, no, there they go. They don’t sound like gulls. They sound more like children screeching. Marm, Marm! I can make that sound. I wonder if the sand beneath their feet is as cushy as it is under mine. I’m hungry. Go on, little guy, out over the water. Go on. Wow, that’s beautiful. I don’t think you can find that shade of color, that blue-green out there, anywhere else.

--

I looked back, still cascading in the depths of my thoughts, my very own, incoherent, ticking mind. Behind me, a mist rose up off Lake Michigan, chapping my lips and hitting me briskly. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, and I loved it, soaking in every moment. I had grown up taking holiday on the white, sandy beaches of the Floridian panhandle, always coming away with sunburns and enjoying the saltwater afternoons with jellyfish and plenty of algae.

This was much different. The very backwardness of a wind-chilled beach spoke something poetic to me, and it was there in the moment that I was hit with the painstaking realization I had longed to understand.

You only love what’s poetic to you, don’t you? You capture it in words sometimes, but that’s meaningless. A book, meaningless. A poem, meaningless. All attempts to recapture the heart, meaningless. But the heart itself is rich with something unspeakable. Once it passes, it passes. No sense in holding on. This – something to those little sponge-like craters in the sand, a soft reminder of a recent sprinkle – this is something to love; this is poetry - at its finest. It wasn't just the beauty of the world but the brokenness, too. I loved it all, but I only loved what I found poetic.
I looked back again and in the distance, a brown figure walked quietly along the beach, like the sand was moving in well-formed motions. Its stride was quiet, one careful step after another.

So eager, so eager to get away, to step into the unknown and embrace uncertainty with cautious hope. A career path, a job, and dream after dream carving directions that left the world behind. I wanted something different, some new change, but I didn’t know what it was exactly. I had practically broken out in a sprint to get away and in doing so, I trudged ahead of the very ones that had pushed me forward with love. I pushed back, too, but out of selfishness instead, leaving only my footprints behind for that very distant figure to hope they were mine.

I carved the path unsure of the future. The distant figure, equally, stepped forward with an uncertainty as great as mine. There were plenty of footprints to follow.

--

Just follow the ones that seem to lead nowhere, that seem off the beaten path. Can he keep up? What am I doing? There’s the risk of being stranded; there's the risk of stranding others. But then, there’s always some kind of risk, I guess. I just… gotta keep walking, placing one foot in front of the other.

--
It was a normal pace for me. The distant figure kept a pace much slower and not by choice. Time had weathered the bones that trudged with a kind of peace about them. A few fences were in the way, a “no-trespassing” sign here, a “dune habitat” sign there. The sand gathered weeds about it along the small dunes I crossed, eager to reach the pier. Not everyone would be so willing to follow. Not everyone would walk to the end of the earth for you, no matter where you were going.

--

I bet from the end of the pier, you can get a great view of the city. Is that the Sears Tower? You can barely see the top of it over that fence. Where did Dad go? I guess he’s still walking this way. The water sounds louder. I’m hungry. Is that a concrete ledge? Just beyond that fence, let’s see. Just beyond….

--

Slowly and surely the cityscape appeared over a large concrete slab guarding the beach from the powerful might of Lake Michigan. The water was choppy in the Canadian wind, splashing over the concrete from time-to-time. Nearly every building of the city was crystal clear, the earlier mist lifting just enough for a picture-perfect view. Navy Pier stretched out onto the water, a kind of arm reaching out onto the Great Lake. The towers were unmistakable and climbed high into the afternoon sky, the first a visible break to the blue backdrop before a series of other buildings stretched on into the distance. There’s something about staring at a large cityscape that makes you feel as though it belongs to you and no one else.

The pier was ahead but I stopped and turned, noting that I had left the figure behind. The future was within reach but forgetting the past was unacceptable. So much was owed to it. In one direction, the city stared at me blankly, and the brown grains of sand blowing about behind me seemed almost daunting. I knew he was there, that solemn figure walking his slow walk but resolute to come along, or at least, watching from a distance with great pride. I sat down on a concrete slab and watched the clouds roll in slowly near the city. In the city so windy, they moved quickly, tearing into the blue.

--

He better be here soon. I want him to see this. This isn't something you get to see everyday.

--

Staring at the cityscape, I felt the quiet presence standing behind me. There was nothing looming to it. If anything, it was comforting. So long, it seems, we run forward from our fathers, eager to be on our own, and yet, I couldn't have been more pleased by the quiet presence that served as a reminder of something I would always have. No words were needed, but a few were spoken nevertheless.

"The clouds rolled in."

“I see that... Son?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“The sky is still blue above the clouds.”

“I know, Dad.”

“…doesn’t matter where you’re standing or who you’re standing with, there’s still blue sky up there.”

“I know, Dad.”

"Then look for it. Don't stop looking for it."

He sat beside me on the concrete slab, watching the water slap the beach behind us and stretch all the way to the city in front of us. When it was time to go, I took on a quiet stride I hadn't taken before and walked alongside him with reverence.

Little Giant Dreams: 'streetlight, the old-fashioned kind' - rocky

dreams are
unfortunate things,
not because of failures
but for success,
within it
lies
self-righteousness,
when I did not wish to stand
on the shoulders of giants;
I wanted to be one instead,
if only dreams were
dead,

giants do not take careful steps
but have what's theirs
and more
while Jack climbed down
the old beanstalk,
when the rest of us
took the hard fall,
oh, to be Jack,
and claim the white-bread life
with a simple walk,
such big choices
will be my fault

and Frost wrote about such things,
two roads,
a yellow wood,
whatnot,
but I left the fork behind
and carved out my own
little,
troubled spot
with dreams that kept me stable,
night terrors too aware
hopes that kept me able
were about these woods somewhere

and so
these dreams,
such unfortunate things
have told a lie
when all about me,
there's a love much greater
when dreams are free,
and that's the truth
somehow unknown,
that love is giving up the dream alone
to help someone through a nightmare.

Water Song: 'you never get what you want, do you, baby?' - patty

oh, that living water's flowing over me
yes, it's flowing to be free,
and all that's stained the land and sea
and all that's stained the land and sea
will hang with Christ up on that tree

well, those flood waters fell from high above
so the song says, "No waters can quench love,
but neither can the floods drown it."

there's no peace to that river, the one stained in our sin:
though even a river stained red
can be washed clean again,

they could not drink from that crimson ford,
immersed in that river, where we're fully restored,
there's the peace only Christ could fully afford.

oh, that living water's flowing over me
yes, it's flowing to be free,
and all that's stained the land and sea
and all that's stained the land and sea
will hang with Christ up on that tree

and a storm is arising against the cold air
and the waters that churn do greatly declare
of a faith in the boat and the God who sleeps there

while the one who came first was made last by his choice,
the dirt washed from our feet gives us cause to rejoice,
so we shout praise and song with the sound of our voice

so, these are the things of a God who makes new,
as a drink from his love would replenish like dew,
let us wade through the waters we, together, pass through.

oh, that living water's flowing over me
yes, it's flowing to be free,
and all that's stained the land and sea
and all that's stained the land and sea
will hang with Christ up on that tree
will hang with Christ up on that tree
will hang with Christ up on that tree

NYC Shoes: 'this is heaven but it hurts like hell' - mtawlks

those new york new shoes
that kept both his feet dry,
kept him from street blues,
and climbed up to knee-high,
were down in the subway,
were down where it's at
just below Bowery,
as we tried to forget
the place where we came from,
the suburbs of God
in time we will succumb
to face our façade
with feet that had carried
us forward from steel
the loves that we buried
were never so real,
and there's another man wondering
with courage and pride
so far away pondering
the world's great divide,
so strap on those new shoes
step into the streets,
the Man of the Good News
brings love that defeats.

Nashville Seven: 'was your sweet kiss just a dream?' - clem

the rain fell on Gotham,
splattering like blood
against the concrete
and the mud,
and while city-lights blurred
in my mirror,
the raindrops preferred it
much clearer,
but they fell anyway,
an unstoppable storm
who came to perform
his dazzling light-show,
a music we all know,
has left the stage in pieces
miles and miles apart,
there's sick beauty in God's art,
and Gotham, as dark as she is,
will live to see the sunrise again.

Beat: 'say goodbye to these old buildings' - patty

oh, the beating, the beating,
the constant repeating,
the sound in our head,
that was always defeating
a one-a-bop, two-da-bum,
three to tap to,
this beating's competing
to crucify you.

oh, the cheating, the cheating,
the careful misleading,
placed sin on a cross
instead of conceding
a one-a-bop, two-da-bum,
three to tap to,
the nails were succeeding
to make us anew.

oh, the bleeding, the bleeding,
continually pleading,
brought before God
in this mighty proceeding,
a one-a-bop, two-da-bum,
three to tap to,
the gavel's acceding
to save me and you.

Seasoned Hope: 'everybody had a kite' - patty

Radio, off. Heat, on. Defroster, on. Long, endless road ahead, check. No room for holiday cheer, check. No more room in the inn, check.

---

The frigid night air had seeped just enough through my windshield to chap at my skin teasingly, but the heat that was beginning to pour from the ventilation system of my 1997 Pontiac Grand Am would not be enough to warm a heart that seemed to have frozen earlier that year. The season was for miracles, but I had lost faith in those some time in October, and December's hopes had fallen with the snow that quickly melted against the black concrete my car now swished across hurriedly. I was driving toward home, the place of memories and family, the place I could not have cared less to be. In the midst of such lingering numbness, the last thing I sought was holiday cheer.

When October had overtaken the best of me, it was as if my life had halted in that moment. Sure enough, the Christmas lights had popped up from house to house, and festive wreaths decorated the doors, but for me, they could have been pumpkins. The colder weather seemed so very odd to someone who had lost themselves on the brink of Summer and Fall's collide. All signs pointed to Winter and Christmas, Spring and Easter, but I still faced Fall and Summer, trudging backwards into fond memories. Despite the happiness that surrounds the greatest of memories, I kept telling myself how nice it would be if I could simply forget them or toss them to the side, but ignoring the truth is not letting go.

That tree, that awful tree, had come from nowhere, it seemed, and in a flash, I had lost her, as the tree had buried itself into the side of her car.

I had lost her, and I had lost myself that brisk, October morning. It would take a miracle to find myself again, but I didn't believe in those.

The road ahead was as quiet as the inside of my car. I just wanted to drive and get this over with. I sometimes wondered why it couldn't have been me instead. I was on the road so much more than her, after all. Of course, trading places would've meant she would be making this God-awful drive home, numb to the bone like me. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. The recently laid salt kicked up in the wake of my wheels, and I was now far enough from the city that an occasional star was visible when it peaked from behind the long gray cloud that daunted most of the sky.

She had lingered a few days, just enough to give us the false hopes we needed, so we could come crashing back down when the doctors explained it really was over. Was it not enough for God to take a life that he must tease us too? Miracles had gone the way of fairy-tales, and yet, that hadn't stopped us from praying so fervently. Not this one, we pleaded. I'll do anything, I had bargained.

A distant flashing light on the road brought to mind a distant star of another time, and for a moment, I thought of myself as some shepherd, lonely in an empty field, learning of that familiar, miraculous birth those few thousand years ago. So much for that, though. This Christmas was more about death than birth. Still, I prayed. I don't know why I prayed. It just made sense to me. My prayer was no thanksgiving or praise; it was no laundry-list request. I had since come to accept the fact that my requests had all been denied. It was just an open-ended question, of which I expected God's silence in return. "Why?" - perhaps the most powerful prayer I or anyone could muster. I was not even positive what I was asking or how it could ever be answered. I simply knew that something didn't add up, and I knew, glancing blankly at that blinking light that grew larger as I grew closer, that something out there had to make more sense than merely losing myself in October.

But the silence didn't mean that God had disappeared. Even God shuts up to listen. I had forgotten that all too easily.

The flashing lights began to take more form now, and I realized they were emergency blinkers on a car. My belly tensed up. Was this really happening again? Was I going to relive this all over? The road was empty for miles and miles, save me and this blinking anomaly. The dark world had been fitting in the quiet of my car, and this lone, blinking set of wheels was creeping with anxiety.

"Are you okay," I yelled from my window as I turned off my car. No answer.

The car had swerved off the road and situated itself in a ditch, the back end jutting into the air making its lights visible. Whoever had crashed in this manner had survived, it seemed, at least long enough to turn on their emergency lights. The blinking flashes were painful to eyes that were so used to the pitch black of unending, empty roads. I stepped out of my Grand Am cautiously, "Hello?"

As I approached closer, I noticed the door open and the car empty. A note lay on the empty, leather seat, and I leaned in to read it. It had been written hurriedly in blue ink, yet each word had been so carefully chosen, an unexpected poem:

"This is for you," it started, "keep this and cherish it along with all that is precious."

"like the last autumn leaf
waiting for the final chill,
when all was silent and
sombre and still,
she fell to the ground
to join with the leaves,
while the love left behind
was a love that relieves,
and this path ahead of us,
so bumpy and beat
was worth the endurance
it took to complete."

I read the poem again. And again. It was for me. Whoever had abandoned the car probably had written this with such different intentions, and yet, it spoke to me in a way I was assured it could speak to no one else. The expected thing was to call the police to inform them of the abandoned car, and once they arrived, I knew my job was done. I stuffed the poem into my pocket and returned to my car. Once there, I sat momentarily soaking in all that had happened. The scene was so familiar to October's grim memory, and yet, despite the confusion that came with an empty vehicle, there was now a new memory etching its way through my mind - the first in months.

I would never be cured of October's scars, and yet, a miracle rested in this moment and with the very fact that healing was possible in the strangest of places. Though the scars remained, their bleeding was done, despite the fact that I had been prepared to bleed until I sat on empty. I thought again of miracles. With death so final to anyone alive, it seemed odd that the miracle I had wanted was for her to survive. There was a miracle in the peace she had gained. So, too, there was a miracle in the peace I had gained since losing her. Miracles, strangely enough, were surrounding us, and yet, we had somehow managed to blind ourselves to them. Each breath, a miracle; each smile, a miracle. The gathering and prayers of friends, the laughter in a tense moment, even the tense moment itself - all that was precious to the living and the dying, we had lost sight of in the business of our days.

I thought again of those shepherds, in their lonely, quiet fields. How scared they must've been in the face of miraculous things! Back on the road, the car was warming up quickly, but this time, it all seemed warmer. I turned on the radio (but not too loudly), ending the silence that had perched itself on my life these past few months. As I neared another city, traffic finally picked up, and with it, the hustle-and-bustle that brought life again to my deadened state. The red and white lights of passing cars became for me my Christmas lights, and suddenly, I realized I was in the midst of December. Home was awaiting an even warmer welcome, and though October still lingered with great hurt, it was suddenly okay to hurt.

That, too, I knew to be a miracle.

Lilies: 'honey you are the sea' - coldplay

cold,
the lilies were too cold,
as summer's goodbye chapped their petals clean
and grayer skies were here foreseen,
though nothing could quite kill the scent
of sweet long days in love we spent,
of frolic in a warmer clime,
not heaven, hell, nor all of time,
nor blissful summer's quick descent

for
they were only
cold

and closer looks could see them shiver so
they spoke,
as clouds brought fears
of withered snow,
and woke
in hopes that mourning's light
might show
a coming spring,
a sooner thing,
a life to be remembered,
as a King:
the lilies, cold, could soon be warmed
and children, bold, could be transformed.

Crescent: 'I can't remember anything but how to forget' - callison

crescent moon that lurks around,
all too soon and without sound,
hear, dear children, hear the night,
fear the fading of starlight,
as clouds would billow from the breeze
and blow the moon a song to please
from distant waves on waters high,
the crescent moon that bled them dry
has left us on a desert bed
and kept us froze' in constant dread
of siren's song in high-pitched tune,
as some old drunk who toasts the moon
would wade about, his liquor spilt
and justify his constant guilt,
while harvest moons had disappeared,
and all was worse than we had feared,
the crimson red had stained us clean
and left the moon a white unseen,
so dear, dear children, hear this truth:
the moon is rising in your youth.
it pulls and tugs its constant flow
much the same as sea-waves go,
no matter how I seem to plea
it's left us living, dying free.

Human: 'sleep don't weep' - damien rice

I never was able to deal with being human. That was where most of my mistakes let themselves creep in; I'd had myself tricked that I was more, like I had something figured out and could clue in everybody else. Then, when it all came crashing back to me, my humanness, I hated everything about it. That dirty flesh and blood, that God-breathed mud, mistake-after-mistake was who I was.

Until I could forget it again, step back into my invincible self and prepare for yet another fall, each time from higher up. They say the higher you climb, the harder you fall, but dug into the mud (right where we all began), they never talk about what it means to get back up. We're so obsessed with the climb and the fall; we should be obsessed with getting up.

She left me on a Saturday night. No moon out, and even if there had been, the clouds kept the stars at bay too. The whole thing is a blur, really, and I'm not sure if it's a blur because I just never was good at remembering anything, or if it's a blur because it's too painful to remember.

I remember quiet, though. The beauty of silence can turn against you like a joke that suddenly revealed painful truths with no one laughing anymore. No phones ringing (no longer any expectations for them to), and a candle burned blissfully, maybe for her, maybe for me. Either way, I waited for it to burn out and dissipate into nirvana. At least, that's how it was as the days passed. The first week was the greatest blur.

So many regrets ride on the shoulders of the past, but they're never alone. Letting go would be easy if those horrible decisions, those insurmountable mistakes weren't juxtaposed with memories of the loudest laughter, the comfort of her shivering arms reaching out to grab hold of wishes received, or the rhythm of our heartbeats matching up as one pulse, as we buried our faces in that big blanket I kept for just those kinds of moments. No matter how good I'd gotten at forgetting, those little things to most people were somehow etched into the clearest memories I had.

We buried her on a Monday. Just one more reason to hate Mondays. In my imagination, it was raining; the crowd was sombre, expressionless; the quiet pervaded every single person there like absence and loneliness.

But that was my imagination.

It was actually sunny. Voices of family, friends, the lot, spread throughout the little green field, and no scene could have been so full of celebration. What was full of light to so many remained so very dark to me. It's probably because they remembered her; I was too busy remembering me. I wanted to kiss her there in that cemetery one last time. I wanted to hold on to anything I could to keep her above the ground. I wanted to walk up to the preacher-man and demand to know who the hell this God was that thought this was okay. What about those things I didn't get to say? What about those things I'd said I shouldn't have? So many mistakes; she'd held on through so many mistakes.

I gave up my dreams. I said goodbye on a Wednesday. I gave up my dreams and started looking for something else, perhaps something better. I wasn't really sure. The granite stone was hard to talk to, so when I knelt there, I placed my back against the stone and pulled out an old picture, one of the first we'd taken together. I started telling her all the things I'd wanted to say. I poured myself out in a way I'd never done before and dug my hands into the fresh grass, still muddy from the burial. I asked her why, and this time, the silence wasn't absence. It was ears, eagerly listening. They were hers.

I was human again, more human than ever, but I didn't hate it this time. This time, something about it seemed like it was finally what it was supposed to be. My tears mixed with the dirt. Somewhere, face down in the mud, at the lowest of the low, a familiar hand reached out and pulled me up with a sweet, familiar voice to say, "Let's go on being human." I sat up and thought a little bit about grace. The regrets and mistakes were washed away in the tears, and forgiveness blew in the wind's answers. I knew the hand and voice may have been my imagination. Although, they may have been an angel. She may have come straight from the dead to pick me back up again and make sure I didn't bury myself there with her. Either way, that dirty flesh and blood, that God-breathed mud, mistake-after-mistake who was who I was... would get back up again, walk about and breathe, relearn to laugh and love, and mostly just be okay with being all those things that made me... me.

Roar: 'well, the truth is, I miss you' - coldplay

why does the ocean roar
its foamy waves alive once more,
its angry beat against the sand,
I walked its stretch of endless land
and looked out to the setting sun,
as lights on seashores came undone
and bounced about the distant waves
till glimmers died in Davy's graves
and darkness found this endless span,
though in the darkness, life began,
and all was right, despite the scene,
and all was God's, despite unclean,
so as the ocean roared once more,
I walked away from that seashore
still covered in the dirty sand,
determined more to understand
a grace so free that stretched so far,
an ocean, great, that cleansed a scar,
that beat the sand in grace above,
that I might share the sea of love.

Figment: 'words are flowing out like endless rain' - beatles

She rested her head against my shoulders, and I pressed my foot against the pedal, slowly accelerating. There was no reason to drive too fast, though. The music was calming, as calming as her touch, and everything was finally as it should be. There were no need for words; her closeness said enough. Still, she drifted off, and in her dreams, she whispered little things. They made no sense whatsoever, but they were happy, tiny sighs, a kind of rejoicing, as though, even in sleep, she felt the love that pervaded us both. It was one of those moments words can never capture. Just out my window, the world was whizzing by, the grass seemed greener than it had ever been, and the sky bluer than before; yet, all that really mattered was the warmth of her skin, the very quiet rhythm of her pulse, and the excitement that filled me as I glanced devotedly at her unmoved hands. They gripped my forearm ever slightly but their delicate hold brought all of her to life for me. The world could keep whizzing by, but it could not speed up every moment I cherished in my content state within the little car that trudged forward. Where we were going wasn't important; it was how we were going to get there that mattered. We were going to get there together, and that was enough.

Except one small problem. I glanced again, brushing my shoulder longingly. She was not there, nor had she been at any point. These were mere figments of an imagination run wild. Or, perhaps, I thought, they were the epitome of hope. Either way, I was still alone.

--

Sun rise. Sun down. Another day passing, and another greets the world again.

As the sun would rise, she laughed. She laughed that ridiculously contagious laugh. We rolled around on the carpet, a kind of teasing wrestle, and I tickled her belly, which tickled her heart. This continued until, in a fit of exhaustion (or, perhaps, a mere desire to just "be one with" the carpet), we collapsed atop one another and fell into the deepest sleep. Morning broke into an applause, recognizing we were where we were meant to be. It seems like a few words were spoken, though I can't quite pin them down. Maybe a mere, "this is nice" to a great sigh of relief from the previous week's work come to an end. My own inability to sleep had burned me for months. Insomnia was my greatest plague, yet the security of her presence voiced loudly, "It's okay. Let it go. You can sleep now." The voice was hers, a lulling siren, urging peace. That real love might urge something so good as quiet rest, I knew in my heart to be true. My head pressed against her stomach, and I was lost in the meditation of her breathing. Such good sleep begs of death, not out of any hopes to end a bad life, but when a good day comes to such a good close, you begin to wonder if anything will ever top it. That is what resting in peace is all about, after all. She knew how to take me there and bring me back to life again, as well.

But, I woke up. I woke up with empty arms, my head against my pillow, and the carpet leaving ugly marks against my skin. I looked around, only to remember this, too, was mere figment, mere imagination.

--

The business of a day ahead didn't stop me. I turned around, and she was there with me. I turned again, and she was gone. She haunted me in such a loving way, as though she were some spirit urging me forward in every cumbersome task, in every impatient moment. The world was wrong without her, my invisible friend, and at the same time, my moments without her begged of when she'd return. A mere figment of my imagination was, in tandem, my answered prayer.

Funny how that works. I don't ask to understand it, mostly because I just don't need to know. I have what I need. I have her by my side by every moment. Her reality, a figment, though it may be, was necessary to my own reality, and I loved it; I absorbed it. Some distant day, I'd awake again, and she'd be there; I'd turn, and she'd be there; I'd laugh, and she'd laugh back. Some distant day. My faith continuously revived her presence in my life, despite her dwelling within the distant depths of my mind. Those depths made us inseparable, and I took her places, as she took me where I thought I couldn't go. In the meantime, where we were going wasn't important; it was how we were going to get there that mattered. We were going to get there together, and that was enough.

Wildfire: 'if you have a father or if you haven't one' - suf

your cries are heard,
San Diego,
your cries are heard,
as each flame rips its way into your heart,
though we may be these miles apart,
your cries are heard,
your cries are heard,
here lies a word,
San Diego,
here lies a word,
though nothing much more than prayers of hope,
may they teach you all to cope
from pain and loss and bridges burnt,
here lies a word,
San Diego.

October Lost: 'it's the end of the world' - rem

makes children laugh
and father's cry -
those dreams that bid
to us goodbye,
of magic diamonds,
green and long,
this is a story
of some sad song,
stretching back
to where hopes hit,
with one grand slam,
the crowd that sits
would move from seat
to standing roar,
but not for now,
that was before,
no, not here on this
field of dreams,
those heaven-sent
were lost, it seems,
though a sea breeze
came pouring in
and with it brought
the very end,
though really,
that's where dreams begin,
where all seems gone
and cursed in sin,
we are redeemed
without, within.

From San Diego with Love: 'California, here we come' - pp

water and windows,
reflected wishes
of dreams,
as the long pier stretched
into infinity.
this is the city,
the dinging of trollies,
a distant boat coming home
to that old, familiar street -
Broadway and Mission Bay,
and setting suns of cliffs nearby,
and I,
I saw them with my naked eye,
as in the grass I lay:
this is my city
in stone, so pretty,
for here I've come,
and I would pray
that God be with you,
oh, sweet city,
God be with you
throughout this holy, fiery day.

Musings of a Western Flight: 'went down down down' - jcash

those clouds wouldn't part,
and the little droplets of sky settled on a window-pane,
ready for the long trek west -
always leaving paths behind,
like some water forgotten
until up,
up above,
dark skies darker,
where the water wouldn't settle still,
where light might stream through memories
of a world much bleaker than before,
and down below,
as all grew quiet more,
an occasional hole that teased the ground,
as sunlight passed from lost to found,
surpassing those whom shadows knew:
bring on descent!
bring on descent!
there are brighter days afoot
for all of you!

Quiet: 'all you need is love' - beatles

this is quiet -
some
peace,
a mist against a blacktop empty,
too early to fear the rush of traffic,
and too late
to let regrets' rain bring
some pitter-patter on some window
somewhere near and in between
this is
quiet,
all is still,
and I am king
of something, nothing,
of everything,
an artisan of love and faith
are what I wish to sing:
with you, my palette,
a proud and lovely thing,
though color-filled and loud,
each brush stroke calms the scene.
I am quiet,
a rhythm you know well within
a harmony of hues and hope,
a painting without sin.

Deep: 'a morning yearning, a morning yearning' - ben

sleep, like there ain't no tomorrow gonna rise
weep, till the sun was a-shinin' in your eyes
keep, all the light you collected from the skies
leap, a faith of love and hope within you lies.

11 September: 'at last, America, land that I love' - sufjan

two towers tall
began to fall,
the whole world looking on,
while some revered,
as others cheered
in hopes of freedom gone.
could God be here
or even near?
with hatred, he'd withdrawn,
or though it felt
each time we knelt,
as empty as the dawn:

Still

there is another hopeful hour
where smoke shall soon descend,
where sun will shine on us, divine,
as hearts begin to mend.

it is not easy
to recall
those things we put aside
Lest we forget - Lest we forget!
our power to decide -
our hopes and dreams,
our happy things,
may no one from us take,
the spirit of America
will always be awake!

Hands and Feet: 'collapse into me tired with joy' - spatrol

No matter where we are... we always start out broken, one half of something completely missing, searching for the right choice.

---

Her head seemed to bury itself into her hands, and somewhere along with the exhaustion, confusion, and disappointment that tore at her chest, you could've sworn you were staring at the crinkled up body of a dying old woman. Like someone we'd never met, she sat on those old, marble steps, stoic and resolved toward nothingness. A statue. Yet, even some statues at least appear to have some level of life about them. Not she. Still, strangely enough, her silence brought her back to life at moments (or, at least, what you might call silence in between the heavy breathing and the infrequently, choked-up sighs that seemed to pour more from her heart than her voice). She did not speak out loud, "Dear God," and her deepest, quietest thoughts probably didn't exactly invoke the divine either. At the same time, everything about her was prayerful - her position there on the steps and against the wall, the hope in every tear she would have preferred at the time to call "hopeless," right down to the way she buried her face into her palms. Seems like sometimes, when we can't bear to look at the world, our head just falls deeper and deeper into our hands, and when our head keeps falling, we never stop to think about the fact that it's our hands that hold us up, keeping us from falling even further.

I guess decisions will do that to you. The way they lumber over us. Funny how God would give the gift of choice, and choice would be the very thing we suffer over the most. So simple at times, so complex at others, and is that not life at its fullest all the time? This restaurant or that restaurant? Maybe no restaurant at all. Holding on to the possibilities of success or holding on to the possibilities of failure? Letting go of everything you want versus letting go of everything you need? Which college? Which future? No future. What friends? Any friends? To keep the baby or not? To say yes. To say no. To say maybe. To let whatever happens happen. To give up. To keep going. More, more, more - they never stop. They fill every moment of every day, and they only get harder and harder as the time passes. They make us hate and love life at the same time. That's growing up, and accepting that truth is as much a choice as all the little choices it took to get us to the point of realizing that.

One wrong choice, and we could all be sitting there on that marble slab, our own, stoic statue.

...or maybe not. Maybe, sometimes, we make the right choice, and we end up there on that marble slab anyway. Sometimes, there's a good reason to be reminded how precious this little life really is. She sat there and slowly, removing her hands, glanced up to the noise of footsteps but saw only a wet blur approaching instead, the tears in her eyes still slowly passing from her chin to splash against the marble. A good or bad decision; it would remain unclear for now.

---

Enough. I'd had enough, and I wasn't going to stop walking. Maybe if I kept walking long enough, I could walk right off the face of this planet, I thought to myself. After all, I'd had myself convinced for far too long that I didn't belong here anyway. Why else would I want so badly to be an astronaut as a kid? Funny what a dream can tell you about yourself. At least the moon is supposed to be lonely. There's comfort in what makes sense, even if it still hurts.

My legs were tired, and maybe that was one of the reasons I couldn't stop walking. I wanted them to tire out, maybe even give up completely. Or so I thought.

If that was not enough, I must've been stumbling back and forth, because I could not manage to keep my eyes open. They fluttered and shut like wings, and the way I swayed as I walked, you could've convinced me I was flying, too. When closed, small, dark spots floated in front of my eyes. I'd focus on them and then come to for a moment, still walking, determined to go nowhere and everywhere simultaneously.

Like so many, I was convinced in the hopelessness of the world, convinced of my own hopelessness; yet, that didn't stop me from my search. Always walking, always searching, and that's where hope lies - in the uncertain search. It's not so deep really. It's another one of those things we seem naturally prone to do. There's something out there that belongs to us, or, rather, we belong to it. Maybe the feelings are mutual. Either way, we go on that search, consciously or unconsciously. For some of us, it's a search with eyes closed, head-in-hands. For us others, it's the constant motion of our legs continuing to put one another forward in hopes that they might take us somewhere new, somewhere better, somewhere revealing.

But my legs did the last thing I really wanted them to do (even if I told myself otherwise, it was in the moment it happened that I knew what I wanted out of those legs). They gave out. I'd walked as far as I could, and unfortunately, that sometimes happens. We just give up... and not by choice. My knees locked, and my hands thrust forward preparing for my fall, guarding me against the pain of the inevitable concrete.

Still, maybe sometimes, our legs give way for a reason, and we fall right into where we should be.

---

A blur, more daunting than before, perhaps also a little clearer than before, collapsed into something soft, certainly much softer than the inevitable concrete that never came. Choices, made and unmade, met face-to-face, hand-in-hand, with the continuous search for some degree of truth, for some degree of love. Without realizing it, maybe without needing to, a choice was made, and a search came to an end.

"Sorry," she spoke.

"It's okay," I responded, and it was - more okay than it had ever been, more fulfilling than it had ever been. A choice was made, and a search came to an end. Still, we couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, a choice had been made long before we knew about it. Either way, something broken, fixed; something missing, found; something searched out, right, and those first few words spoken set in motion a lifetime of searching and choices, none of which would ever be made alone.

Belle: 'oh man, what a plan, suicide' - elliott

southern belle,
you're a little swell
I follow you all the way home.
well, you got that southern pride,
so be my deep south guide,
all the way,
oh the way you roam,
southern belle,
crossing into hell,
atop Acheron's foam,
how to keep up with you now,
how to keep you
from bein' alone,
the only question
you'd have me
suffer on my own,
southern belle,
your beauty can't rebel,
no, not even in this dark place,
guess it's got something to do
with how you shared your grace,
it's your light to embrace,
southern belle,
take me where you dwell,
I'll show you how we've grown.

Dogwood: 'take my bottle, my bible, my mess' - amos

invisible flower,
invincible love,
something to this
fell from far above,
as nothing much sweeter
have I ever known
as a flower whose petals
gave grace to atone,
four that were hidden,
faithful and free,
what I could believe
was what I couldn't see.

Fans: 'slow pain I feel will not let me be' - alexi

all my fans are dead
or hiding in their head
but I'll keep writing,
and pass them by instead,
go on believing,
only teasing myself:
I'm good now.
I'm good
and done
with what I came to do,
came with thoughts so pure,
so true,
and thought I got ahead,
thought I got ahead of you,
so when you fled
from the page
to the big screen debut,
I didn't know, didn't know
what to do,
but I keep writing,
writing my way through and through
always thinking,
always thinking of you too.

Commune: 'the sound of Jacob Marley's chain' - aimee

kisses so delicate,
fruits so sweet,
roses in time:
thorns
thorns
thorns

blood so innocent,
sinners retreat,
heaven through wine:
adorns
adorns
adorns

mana so meaningful,
hearts will replete,
the man born divine:
transforms
transforms
transforms.

Falling: 'I should just kick my heels together and go home' - rosie

and falling hard is what I'd do
if falling hard, I'd fall near you,
to break apart or break in two,
you'd make me one and mend with glue
this heart of mine, may it pursue
the things I always sweetly knew,
you caught my eye, on me, you grew,
if worlds in which my life withdrew,
your warm embrace would bring me to,
your lovely smile, and I'd renew
from falling hard, a life so true,
I'd go on living through and through,
always whole and full of you.

Nashville Six: 'I still love you after all' - wfitz

quiet lights about the city,
twilight till she goes to sleep,
one-by-one, they dim in pity,
as all good people count their sheep.

stars might mingle with the metal,
the towers lost within the sky,
nighttime Nashville starts to settle,
but as for me, I question why.

the pacing of the sun and moon,
a gentle breeze to sweep away,
I've gone too far or come too soon,
I've lead too many hearts astray.

yet, moons shall set in morning's rise,
as light would bounce from windows high
while love is fit for hopeful eyes,
I wake to hope for You and I.

Fade: 'no hell below us, above us only sky' - john

fade into static,
where the rest of them went
with grace all around you
seem heaven sent,
but I know a secret,
one I may keep,
between you and I,
between lack of sleep,
forgiveness
you're not giving,
despite what you think,
we share pride in our living,
like blood in this ink,
so go on forgetting,
where apathy reigns,
replace love with hatred
that flows from your veins,
and no one will notice
what you and I know,
you'll pretend to be perfect,
as perfect as snow,
but if time should amend this,
if all ends okay,
should the specks in our eyes
send the planks on their way,
we'll have peeked at the stars
and all their goodwill,
that God would be good
and all might be still.

Enough: 'really wanna go with you, m'Lord' - gh

your whisper, like
sheets of silk, might grace us,
or heavily embrace us,
yet simple as the lightest kiss -
if all we know of love is this,
we know enough.

Zacheus: 'I can never get close enough' - ryan adams

Bits and pieces of bark tore from the tree as Zach clobbered his ten-year old feet and fingers deeper into the branch. He was hugging it now but more out of fear than love. They had told him he could see the whole world from up in that tree. Truth was, you could only really see the backyard, but to Zach, that was enough of the world that mattered. To his left, the shiny blue swing set and slide looked much more comfortable than they had before – mostly because they were on the ground and he was not. As his feet began slipping, the urge to yell for ‘Mom’ overcame him.

“Sweety! How did you get up there?” her voice took hold of Zach long enough for him to relax, and he relaxed long enough to slip a little on the bark, tensing right back up and clinging even harder to the tree than before. The climb up had been difficult, and Zach had even enjoyed his first few seconds peering around at his father’s well-trimmed, green grass and into the neighbor’s well-groomed garden. It was the glance straight down - the realization of just how far he had gone - that sent shivers through his spine.

His feet had frozen fast, as though each leg were a new branch jutting out awkwardly from the tree, although they were quickly tiring. His palms, sweating, collected the bark that chipped away into tiny shards, and as his face hugged against the bark, the dust of the tree settled there. The smell of oak clashed with the fear that reeked from Zach’s pores. Not nearly as far up as he thought he was, large droplets of water were gathering in his eyes, and as the first began trickling down his face, it left a clean streak from eyelid to chin. With that, the tears came rushing, and the sound of mother’s voice again restored slight calm, “Sweety, I’m right here,” she reached her hands into the air, just able to place one hand against the small of his back, “I’ve got you; just let go.”

“I don’t wanna,” Zach protested – the tears returning. There was no good reason not to listen. Still, in his mind, there was always the possibility that she wouldn’t catch his fall, or that he might slip. It’s a funny thing, how the possibilities of “bad” sometimes make the “good” impossible to see. Zach’s mother stepped closer, placing her other hand at his side, “Zachary,” she paused, “I’ve got you. Come down from that tree.”

All at once, he let go, and just as he had feared, he fell. The rush of air brushed by his face, and for less than a second, the fear rushed through his body one last time until he slapped against something unexpectedly comfortable, “You see,” his mother smiled that nurturing smile his way, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Kissing his forehead and setting him down, Zach ran to the swing set and began to play as though he’d never climbed into that tree to begin with. Still, every so often, he would glance back at that old Oak and remember how a frightening experience had ended well; it would not be the last time he would have to let go.

Apples: 'everybody needs a little forgiveness' - pg

cold apples
dangle from the trees
in the bittersweet rain,
as each drop
with freezing fingers
seeps from skin to core -
heavier now
and holding down
the limbs
who hold them up,
cold and fresher,
cold and fresher
than before.

Amboy: 'prayed for the moon to give him light' - nc

The sun blistered the asphalt, and glancing down the road, it appeared as though the black rock might be boiling. The yellow-dotted lines atop the rock waved to-and-fro and disappeared into the horizon where the cacti blended in with some distant hill that wished it were more mountain than cinder cone jutting from the dirt. It would have to learn to accept that it was no mountain. The empty road missed the sweet sound of engine roar, as the wind teased it with the possibility that some purring car might be approaching from the distance. Yet, it was only a tease. The road, like the mountain, would have to accept that it would no longer caress the hustle-and-bustle of man or machine. Once upon a time, the soft rubber of wheel-after-wheel had pressed against this route, and the towns that had flourished settled into an uncomfortable silence. More than likely, such noises from the "past" were those that drifted on the winds from Interstate 40, the newly-paved stretch of road that had recently send Route 66 into lonely despair, declaring this desert land a land of ghosts, of memories slowly fading.

One lone service station - Roy's Cafe and Gas - began serving no one, it seemed. Yet, it remained an empty oasis, waiting in hopes that it was not a mirage. Like a sanctuary with emptying pews, Roy's never faltered to serve the dying congregation of the Eastern Mojave, despite the constant questions that arose. Who will come? Who will drink the waters of a spring destined to be dry? Who will preach to stale air and empty pews when even God stops listening?

...or so it seemed, that bleak summer of 1977, when the last service worker handed in his two-week notice and drove off toward the Interstate, toward a future, carrying the wind with him. That August night lay quiet, the air as dry as the desert dirt, and the next morning, Roy's Cafe and Gas began collecting dust and rusting away, while tumbleweeds were all that graced the roads.

With silence and with sadness, years would pass.

Years would pass, yet while the rest of the world dimmed the night sky till not a star could be seen with naked eyes, old rusted, dusty Roy's became a diamond in the ruff, where stars, like diamonds upon thousands, glittered from above, and those who rediscovered the old route, be it by luck or blessing, met a treasure from the past face-to-face, and it was there that I met her - not at night but in the glaring of the sun-shone day. In the most unlikely place, it seems, I saw those dazzling eyes - the treasure, hers (and one I longed to share).

I couldn't quite pin down what it was about her on first glance that sent chills through my spine on this one hundred two degree afternoon. It is amazing, though, what curiosity can do to a man. Perhaps it was, ironically, what she did to my confidence. Her sweet glance and upright smile was enough to make me question my own existence, as though some power of hers overtook me, and I felt the presence of immortals, or - at least - remained convinced that she must be some part of this mirage town. Too perfect, too lovely, though real or not, I decided to believe out of hope in possibilities, and with my treasure map in hand, I approached my lone companion.

"What brings you to Amboy?" The first words out of my mouth - not too eloquent and still confused, as to whether or not this, indeed, was the lone, black dot titled "Amboy" on the map I carried.

She just smiled that smile that made something deep within me ache and cringe, "I could ask you the same thing, cowboy."

"Cowboy," I thought to myself - a fitting epithet for anyone traveling in these parts of the Mojave. The hood of her maroon Chevy was up, and the truck was rusted enough that I questioned whether or not it belonged to her or if it was merely part of this town and its past, too. Still, she (and the truck) seemed real enough, and I wasn't yet thirsty enough to be delusional and hallucinating. Dirt covered her buttocks and the right leg of a pair of straight-leg jeans, suggesting she'd been crawling in the dirt, perhaps at work on her truck. Her hair was wavy, and the wind bounced it around, about her face, leaving me with only short glances into her eyes. To me, this seemed to be a good thing; I already felt lost enough, that to glance too long into those pearls of eyes, I might have never found my way home. The wind fit her perfectly, and I felt as though she had carried it and all of life with it back into this town in ways it had never known even in its forgotten days of "hustle-and-bustle."

"You look lost," she spoke again, and I felt she read me like the sorry prose I was.

I hesitated in my response, "I...got off the Interstate... 'bout fifteen miles back hoping to find a gas exit. I really need to fill my tank." She had no idea how fulfilling I believed she could be, though. I had been empty for much longer than "ten miles back," but it wasn't my Ford Taurus that really needed filling.

"Well, unless you can make it to Twentynine Palms, which is about forty miles up the road, you may be out of luck, or..." she paused, "I have plenty of gas. We might can siphon some of mine, if that'll help you."

"No thanks, I think I'll be okay...."

We stared at one another intently and with silence, as though we both awaited the other to speak first, scared of what might be said next and both hopeful that a few, certain words might lead us in a similar direction. It's a funny thing how it is with love - always found in places unexpected. This old town, or what was left of it in Roy's Cafe and Gas, drew us close, as if we were the only two people remaining on the earth, and both of us seemed to fancy that scenario, despite how ridiculous of a dream it might have been. Overlooking her knowledge of this area and those tight jeans I'd come to admire in our short time in Amboy, she was very clearly hiding how lost she also was in this dusty tumbleweed world, and she was much better at hiding it than I. Still, lost we were - I couldn't help thinking we were only lost without each other. There was a solution here.

Instead of speaking, I broke our intent stare by opening my map and staring at it as intently as I had stared at her. "Well," she said with a tinge of disappointment about her, "I should go." She shut her hood, and climbed into her truck, and I felt more lost than before.

She turned the key. Fffd. Fffd. Fffd. Fffd.

It wouldn't crank. There was hope yet.

She turned it again. Fffd. Fffd.

Still nothing, and a third try. Fate was on my side.

Yet, it seemed to tease me, as the truck started. Fffd. Fffd. Grrmmm, and almost immediately, she began to drive. Moving toward me at first with her window down, she peaked out, and with her mouth open, she began to slow down. Then, her lips closed, she smiled resolutely, and pressed the gas, speeding away. I watched her driving off and unable to watch her disappear into the blistering, boiling asphalt, I looked down at my map, sat against the dirty ground (my back against my Taurus), unsure of where to go, and full of regret.

Route 66. Amboy. Twentynine Palms. LA...or New York. Mexico...or Canada. Confidence...or insecurity. Lost...or found. Love...or a ghost town in the middle of nowhere California. The brown and blue of my map swirled together, and I felt sick to my stomach. What if her car hadn't started? What if I had just spoken? What if my silly, normal map really had lead to some treasure? The wind picked up, and my "treasure" map, which was missing the "X" that supposedly marked the spot, slapped me in the face, toying with me. "The wind should have left me when she did," I thought. Still, the map shaded me from the beaming sun, while the wind flapped it against my face, as it blew and teased me with noises from the Interstate - one of those cars, maybe hers. I understood a thing or two about life, and now I was the mirage, a part of Roy's Cafe and Gas. From disappointment, I settled into anger - with myself and with this dirty little no man's land. Frustrated, I tore the map of the great state of California away from my face.

And there she stood.

"The way you stare at that map, you'd think you were looking for a treasure," she teased.

"I think I found what I was looking for," I spoke without hesitation and joyous that she had returned as unexpectedly as having been here to begin with. I stood up and stepped closer to her smiling, and reaching out, I brushed my hand briefly across her wrist. She smiled and looked away, toward the sky.

"There's Venus," she pointed to the Evening Star, as our afternoon had been closing in for some time, "you know, they say the stars out here are like diamonds?"

I smiled, looked deeply into her captivating eyes, and finally spoke with more certainty than ever about where I...where we were headed, taking her hand in mind - this stranger who completed me so unexpectedly - "I've got nowhere to go but here."

Death: 'dear God, don't let me fall apart' - jars

oh Death, sweet Darkness,
the many uncertainties
of your so certain nature -
those who long for life to end,
like those who long that it begin,
or fear where you may send them
still know so little of you,
yet place hopes on what you bring
and search a path of angels' wings,
the deep and holy questioning
beg to ask what good you are,
oh Death, my death, did evil send
you from afar or from within,
to take our souls back to the stars,
and how is Life with you, without,
these are the things I think about,
my own, my death, how I have been,
prepared I am, clung to the route,
toward tunnel's light, we will begin.

Fade: 'watch the sun sink like a stone' - patty

it's been a while
been a while
since you passed on,
since the last time
I kissed your face
some how I forgot you
forgot your sweet embrace,
and the fading, the fading
of those years,
we washed you,
washed you goodbye
in our tears,
and it's so hard,
so hard to let go,
though it's with family
with family that we grow,
when it's been a while,
a while since you left us,
though we live on,
on as we know we must,
we will carry you,
carry you where we are
no matter where to,
no matter how far.

Teddy: 'if not for You my sky would fall' - george

incredibly lonely teddy bear
with plush brown shiny,
shaggy hair, like mine
ready to be cut.
divine on that lonely pew
teddy knew not what to do,
but sat alone to hold on tight
to unread Bibles
in the stained glass night,
while the hours and hours
tick-tocked away, and
church bells only lead astray,
an incredibly lonely teddy bear
took a silent pause to pray.

Mirrors: 'you open my eyes to the beauty' - cberries

they caught you
starin' through that looking glass,
like there's something good to be,
though nothing quite like you and me -
ya wouldn't think a mirror helped us see
that there's something to reflection,
something freeing to accept rejection,
while the glass began its breakin',
and all we saw was imperfection,
your other side came peering through,
someone whom we barely knew,
came to teach us ways of light and truth,
and after all, they caught us through the years,
glancing in those age-old mirrors,
the ways in which we face our fears,
in which we hope our grace appears.

Little Giants: 'when desperate static beats the silence up' - bf

giant men
with little eyes
tell little giant,
hopeless lies
of bigger worlds
and bigger wins,
of big or little
feckless sins
with silly dreams,
they'd sing and shout,
it seems they'd have
to live without
their little past
or giant now
to follow them
around somehow -
in all this freezing
hot, hot mess,
they'd puff their
little giant chests
and stand again
on sands so thin,
they are the little
giant men.

Stromness: 'come with me, we can take a long way home' - norah

I.
I'm leaving Stromness behind,
her tiny granite streets in mind,
her ugly piers, a tugboat nears,
as falling clouds make nice veneers,
the Atlantic roars unkind.

II.
Found this town tucked in a hill
of green and gray, the country still,
of angered pub, the fish-filled grub,
when North Seas pounded as a club,
to let her be left us ill.

III.
I'll soon gaze on Stromness town,
Aye, till then, the Old Man will frown,
Aye, the mists rise, a poet's prize,
like the romance of love's disguise,
when all Orkney is renowned.

Nashville Five: 'hey mrs. potter won't you talk to me' - cc

oh Nashville,
Athena's wrath teases you,
like some game with mortal lives
is all it is to goddesses,
no matter how tall your glory stands
in steel and glass,
I, too, cast lots with lies,
while winds still blow down from Olympus
and chill us straight to the bone,
do not let this heart harden you alone,
sweet empress,
let it rest,
let it rest,
while all us soldiers
go on hoping for the best.

Words: 'every moment must make way for one that's new' - clem

They say words are not enough, but I can tell you a thing or two about words. Words don't change lives; love does. Sometimes, words just throw a little love out there that had been lingering all along, and other times, words are just words, lost without the anchoring motions that give them meaning. How they can pour out of my mouth, so beautiful, so dead, as though the sentence spoken came through like some intense silence that said so much more than I wished it wasn't saying. Yet, each morning, I might pray God to lay those words upon my chest and have them flow throughout my body, to my hands and feet, and each morning, as often as the sun might rise again, I, too, would greet a new day, another chance for failure, another for success to hope with all my might that I become love and live it. All day in the light, I spent searching for the moon. Where's my lasso? Where's the crescent? "She'll come around soon," they say with uncertainty, but I'll wait and stare at her glowing ripples on the waves of water, happy with the least I can take for keeps. All those things good I knew so little but wanted so hard, and the cold hovering over me might begin to melt into something real. I love you. No. I love you! No. It just won't come out right. Yet, there on the floor and barely able to muster out any words at all, groveling in the dirt-trodden planks of this little home, something would come flowing out of me. It wasn't words...sounded more like...like a high-pitched cough, an unfinished plea, hopeful but free, but everyone knew what it was, and everyone knew how much it hurt. Love does. All those things I've come to set right, I could never do without the cross and crescent moon watching after us. Words. They're nothing. They just blab on and on, like me, but God, if you'll just watch, you'll see. My words will become stone.

MTOP: 'a place where no one knows of your redneck past' - ben

Fruitions of Mountain T.O.P.:

come and worship,
praise, praise
lift your hands and
raise, raise
the grace
and all the love that falls,
answer all his distant calls
with hands and feet
to show and share,
lift up every
lasting prayer,
so come and worship
sing, sing
lift your hands and
bring, bring
the peace no one can
live without,
the faith that makes us
stand and shout,
while time together
passes fast,
we'll go in hope
that God's love lasts.

-----

sweet heaven above
love
it's all-sufficing
sacrificing
it ain't easy to do,
but it's true,
my God, my God
it's you who
died for all my sin
you who
put this pain to end
you who
on the cross collects
my hate,
my fate
with arms outstretched
with arms outstretched
you who
brought me to this place
you who
brought unending grace
lead them, lead them
here or there
freedom, freedom
from this care, so
here we are, God
here we are,
our lives and love,
we give
go far!

Pinocchio: 'not going to stop till you wise up' - a.mann

I walked my sins around the block and ran into Pinocchio, and we had ourselves a little chat about all those things Geppetto messed up. He said he wanted to be a real boy, and his nose grew a little, and I wished I could be wood, but if I were, my nose would've grown a little too. Seems like everyone would be fine if ole' Jiminy Cricket would just give a little whistle one last time before our conscience came calling on us. Good God, if only it'd called a little earlier. If only we'd listened when it did. This is no street corner block, Pinocchio; it's the bottom of the belly of that ugly beast, and not even Jonah could sneeze his way out of this one. If you get one more wish upon a star or bump into that beautiful blue fairy, wish a wish for me too, boy. We both know what we want. Until then, be glad Geppetto didn't make you out of clay. You'd be crumbling in this water if he had.

Satiate: 'oh my God, he left us now for dead' - sufjan

I wanna eat with you, fancy dinners, enlightened dining halls. I know there's some logic to what you've said. And every mountain you've placed before me, I haven't climbed well. I haven't used the bones that lay there inside me, I've had a scrawny body. And I've been quite out of shape. And I refused the water holes that seemed to appear there right before me. I said they were mirages. But I wasn't in a desert. And had it all been a mirage? It was all just okay because the rest of them were crying. While the rest of them were dying, it was okay if I laid down with them. I'm not far from the bottom, and when I reach the top, you'll see it in my eyes that I've barely scraped by. And my knees are black already, so who knows if they'll even be there when I get to you. How could I bow with knees like these? But before we sit down to dinner, I'll find a way to wash up.

-----------

Oh, child, come dirty, come clean. This dinner isn't the fanciest thing you've ever seen, but there's love all around the old wooden table, carved out of grace, and it was you that I embraced, while you were stumblin' 'round the garden lookin' for a cliff to climb. You said 'no' to water, so I gave you blood, and good God, there'll come a flood to quench your thirst, oh child. So, listen now, with ears to hear, the music whispering through your ear, the waters pouring of my love - the tears you cried were from above, and all that came that got you down, your face felt buried deep in the ground. From there I made you, dust and dirt, knees to kneel, to pray and work, and all the while, they laughed and died and those who wanted suicide to come back to me, homeward bound - all those lost were finally found, like sheep who shun the shepherd's shout in hopes to maybe live without the pain and grub that ruined your knees, that made you think it's hard to please, but oh dear child, you've won the race, cause long ago, I took your place with arms outstretched and nails that pierced. No knees were needed. I've heard your fears, so when you come to eat this meal, I know, my child, just how you feel, and whether you come clean or not, just come hungry for a lot of love and faith and healing grace. I'll be here within this place, like all the while, I've always been; if you forget, just look within.

- co-written with Rachel Ross

Moon: 'punch in the stomach makes sons into daughters' - es

let's kill the moon
or shoot it down,
and take a ride
far from this town.
we,
we won't be,
we won't be chasing
after it's tail.
we locked its light
up in the jail,
who could really ever tell,
when all its life,
its ups-and-downs,
its friendly smiles,
and f*ing frowns,
it bore the veil
of one who'd tried,
whose failures only satisfied
the sun who'd always
teased the moon,
his black eyes always
shown too soon,
before the dark
of nighttimes' dread,
before good children
had gone to bed
to dream sweet dreams
of better days
they'd somehow, maybe
passed that phase
from waning hopes
of bullies free
to gibbous men
who let us be,
though sunrise came to
drown them out,
so with a tiny
dying shout,
they shot the moon
and killed it dead,
as all its white was
turning red,
when once-good children
were no more,
the moonlit light
danced from the shore,
and bid adieu
til nighttimes' end
til God might give it
life again.

Roses: 'you're driftwood floating on the water' - travis

oh, the roses, the roses,
their thorns, they oppose us,
protect them, protect them,
re-resurrect them,
the roses, the roses,
sweet scents on our noses,
the redder their blood
whose stains could compose us,
the roses, the roses
the taller they grow is
the more they expose us,
green stems on green stems,
like a crown that condemns
all the roses, the roses,
no love that proposes
could hang from a cross,
like the one we hope knows us.

Wishing: 'woke up today to everything gray' - guster

Every once in a while, I catch myself staring up at the sky and wishing on a star, and it seems like they really do twinkle a little brighter every time I glance up. Still, it's hard to see stars in the big city, and mostly, if anything up there is twinkling, it turns out to just be a plane rushing in for a night landing. You want to see stars; you've got to get out of the city.

...just far enough out of the city, and you can see the Milky Way stretching across the sky like fairy dust, but I'm not sure which one of those leads to Neverland. In the story Momma would read, she said it was "the second star to the left and on till morning," but I don't think they ever said which second star or whose left they were talking about.

Sometimes, when I'm struggling to see the stars, cause the city just glares at me so much, I close my eyes instead and wish some handsome boy would come along, whisk me off my wishful-thinking toes, point up and say, "That's the Milky Way, and over there, that's Orion's Belt. ...let's see, there's the Big Dipper right there (it's also called Ursa Major), and all of it's God's."

I would smile and look over to notice that he's staring at me instead of the night sky he'd been talking about. I'd look at him kind of funny, and I wish he would say, "Yeah, it's beautiful, isn't it? But it's not as beautiful as the girl I'm looking at right now," and we could make wishes together right then and there.

...but, that's wishful thinking, and, of course, wishes aren't for everybody, I guess. This one time, I wished somebody would come along and make Grandpa get better, but that didn't happen. Dad said the cancer got to him before the miracles could. It made me kind of sad, but I didn't stop wishing. Even when they lowered him into the ground on that rainy Monday morning, I was wishing he was feeling better wherever he was. I think that wish probably came true, cause later that night, there was a star twinkling in the sky more than most, and Momma said it was Grandpa.

Then, I made that wish that God would bring peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Momma wishes that one with me every Christmas, but there sure are a lot of wars, and recently, some angry boy shot up a bunch of people in Virginia. Momma says if God can't make wishes come true, neither can stars. But Momma keeps wishing, and so do I, and you can't tell me that I can't make this silly little place a little more peaceful if I just try. We wouldn't have to wish for better things if we'd just love to begin with. Maybe I can start there.

Dad wishes he would win the lottery so he wouldn't have to go to work, and we wouldn't be struggling to have food on our plates, or something like that, and my little brother, Jared, wishes he was an astronaut, or, at least, I think he does, judging by the way he counts down to launch his toy rocket ship every time I turn around.

...I guess...I guess most wishing don't come true. Grandpa died and the wars are still happening; Dad won't win the lottery, and we'll probably still have to struggle some for food.

I don't know why I keep on wishing, though. It just seems right, and I guess it's all I've got. I guess it might not all come true tomorrow, and some may call me a dreamer, but when I meet that boy who'll wish with me too, that'll make two of us wishing, and I guess if we go on wishing together, maybe we can make something good happen in this silly world. I mean, who can stop a couple of dreamers from dreaming, right? And me? I'm just wishing to love, and while that's hard, it's not impossible. I'll prove the whole world wrong if I have to. Trying is a good thing, and failing isn't all that bad…but not wishing or just giving up - that's a tragedy. Cause with every wish, it's as if the world gains a little more love, a little more hope. I'll start from there, and one day, you'll know why and believe me.

Radiance: "three hours from london" - nick drake

radiant
I am
and
given
myself
over
to this
warmth,
like sun -
shine sweet
on her
long-neck,
whose
slender-dark
arms
could reach
and tap
the moon
she brings
to me
night
by
night
I wait
in
softening
twilight,
the sight
of all
that I have
known,
oh,
sweet,
cherished
love,
ev'ry word
be
broken,
as I
force
out
what
you
are
to me:
radiant.

Nashville Four: 'to every little hour that you sleep tight' - sp

lonely little city
with your one
tower too tall,
how'd you manage that?
God didn't forget about
Babel, but he forgot about
You,
or maybe not.
I mean,
we think we got
these tricky translations
all down pit-pat, but
listen to that
sound
of all the jabberwocky,
like some back-and-forth
noise
that makes plenty of sense
until you learn to listen
closely.
oh, lonely little city,
and the heat of summer
coming to beat down on your
back:
what will you do,
what will you do
when you realize there's no grace
left for you?

Touch: 'caught you smilin' at me, that's the way it should be' - led zepp

She touched me softly with her gazing eyes and then quickly averted like she'd been staring in some other direction all along. This was a game, and I was more willing to play than she realized. If, for just a fraction of a second, she could have mustered up the ability to believe that I could ever be interested, she might have noticed what was so obvious to everyone else in the room - that my eyes were glued to her every move, mesmerized and taken, even absorbed into her very being. By the way she held that glass with some nonchalant finesse or the sweet laughter pouring from that widening smile that bordered on the line between giggle and comforting chuckle, I knew something about her she might not; something I had to share with her and with the world; something flowing out of me, ready to burst. I could feel the blood that ran through my veins from every little vessel surrounding my retina straight to the churning muscles of my chest. Did she know her own beauty? How could she not? She had to have been told at some point, and if not, it'd be quite the tragedy. There was no way, I convinced myself, that I was to be the first person to gaze upon her unable to move I was so awestruck. Maybe she'd been lied to over and over by those who feared she might realize her own greatness, or maybe she was just that humble to begin with. Time to test the waters. I inched closer.

Then, in a fit of total embarrassment and an ever-growing fear of rejection, I immediately turned around and walked away awkwardly, leaving the room and making way for the outside balcony. Fresh air. Fresh air to think this through. Don't go ruin things just yet, I thought. Had anyone seen me pull that three-sixty and change my mind? The night air was welcoming with a perfect breeze, and somehow, it caressed me the way I wished she would. I couldn't touch her, though. I'd known her for a while, but I'd known myself for far longer. I was asking for gold, and my touch, no different than Midas', might freeze her up cold. She deserved better. Poor child, she deserved that which not even the gods themselves could amass the power to give. And little old me, I liked my simple life. I'd been, probably for far too long, cooped up in that rotting apartment - my things strewn across the floor - my castle, my dude's paradise. I didn't want anyone messing with that simple little life and going and making it all backwards from what I understand about the world. ...or God, I did. That challenge...that horrible, beautiful, irrational challenge was exactly what I wanted. Most of us call it love. Still, so many risks.

"It's beautiful isn't it," and her voice sounded from absolutely nowhere. I must've been fabricating this somewhere in my quick-paced and confused mind. No way had she followed me out here.

"What?" I turned, and yes, she stood before me. Her voice captivated me, as if her looks and the way she carried herself hadn't been enough to chain me to the ground.

"The city, silly...you've been staring at it." It was true. I had been. She didn't know, though, that I stared blankly. She was the city, bright-lights and towering 'scrapers and all its peace in the moonlit night.

"Oh, yeah..." my voice trailed, and I was lost somewhere between her presence and my thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted. I just needed some fresh air," she turned to leave.

"Don't screw this up," I thought, "this is your chance." Chances, risks, opportunity's knocking, and the doors that so-often slam behind. No one deserves anyone sometimes, and all of us deserve each other most of the time. I didn't know much about life. Too much of it, I felt, I'd screwed up here and there, but her presence alone was enough to balance it all out for me. I didn't know much about any world outside my own, but I knew I'd let her into it or leave it all behind to go wherever she might ask me to follow. Mostly, I didn't know beans about love, but there among that breeze that slowly lured us together, the city glowing (though not nearly the aura I saw surrounding her), and the star-filled sky I'd only dreamt we'd glanced at together, I knew something was right within my soul, and I would go to the ends of the earth just to say the next thing that flowed through my pumping veins:

"Stop," and she did, turning with a slight grin, "God, I don't know anything about you, but something about that has to change. You wanna get out of here?"

At first, she averted her eyes again, embarrassed by her inability to hide that lovely grin. Her smile grew larger, though, and, stepping toward me, she spoke softly not with voice but with a simple, "Mmhmm," and with glistening lips closed tightly and her hands finding their way to mine, we took a risk together.

Dante's Ramblings: 'I hope you find it in me' - wfitz.

Ah, the sweet taste of Lethe. Curled up in the fetal position with nowhere to go, and I'd just rock back and forth in my chair, waitin' for some lullaby to whisk me into limbo, except there was no music, save the sound of the humming air conditioner outside, and limbo was where I already was until the church got rid of it. What in the world are they going to do with the dead babies now? I closed my eyes until I began choking on air, having forgotten that I was supposed to keep breathing through it all. So, I told myself, I've let the world pass me on by with pride, and when I tried to catch back up humbly, there was no crossing of bridges burnt, even if the water'd dried. I'd just have to swim across Acheron alone and hope that Charon might reach out his long paddle or suffocate within the hate that slapped, one wave against another, into the sands of Styx. These are the hours preciously dying, and the sign that once read "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate" has been painted over in red ink (or, maybe, blood) to read, "Sperare disponibile per il prezzo basso di un'anima a persona." Indulge, my friend. May the constant hum of that silly, old air conditioner relax every aching muscle, and if the fetal position doesn't work, try sleeping on your back. It's the only way you'll ever face Heaven.

Score.

Careful: 'moon sure is bright tonight, it wags its tail of white upon your waters' m@4

careful.
baskets made of reed
don't float like they used to,
and no matter how tall that grass may be,
you can't hide the truth
from a baby born to ask questions.
lay low, Miriam.
lay low and wonder
what you've done
and what was fair.
and how long you can hold that secret in,
'cause no matter how many of us just edged by
the swords of Pharaoh,
you cannot prolong fate:
we'll meet ours in time,
but were we really any better off
living a filthy little life
of wandering around that sweltering desert,
or climbing up Mount Sinai
just to realize how filthy
that little life really was?
sweet God, the river painted red
with our own blood
long before you commanded it
and long before you cleaned it up,
and we've been floatin' down it,
floatin' down it and hopin' someone'd pick us up,
and all the while, our basket was fillin' full,
the water just pouring in through the reed,
so I hope you can swim, little one,
'cause No One's gonna part these waters,
but if you're lucky,
they might dry up in time.

Lover of Horses: 'are you a dream? are you for real?' - joseph arthur

some force of agility, loneliness, and grace would storm about them,
and like the quick-fleeting feet that churned the dust against the rising moon,
the only feelings we could surmise might describe them were those of awe
and of some ongoing appreciation for their ability to love so much more than we.
funny how it is that they could tell us more about our pain and the world's
than we could or would ever admit to ourselves or to anyone else, for that matter
there's something deep and wise within those darkened eyes that know so much,
connected to the past, the four foundations of the world, and we - so busily
about our daily tinkerings - might forget to stop and stand to sleep awhile,
their nightly vigil, one in constant prayer, was meant that we might step within
their realm of blades of grass against pleasant wind, their coat-of-arms of silk,
and just to approach them softly might meet us face-to-face with Humility.

Sacrifice: 'return that bike that you stole before they find it' - clem

and love is giving up all your dreams
to help someone through a nightmare.

Easter: 'I just want a small part in your passion play' - wfitz

Like someone sprinkled glitter into the dirt, small sparkles twinkled back at me as my spotlight grazed the murky ground and mud I crawled through. Without it, I was helpless, and the dark that crept just beyond my slowly dying, flickering light chilled me within. It approached me with haste, and I became convinced that the darkness might even consume the air I breathe. This was supposed to be an adventure, but somehow, I'd gotten off the path and stumbled down some new cavern. Of course, that's all part of the plan when spelunking. There's lovely beauty to the dangerous unknown. It's an adventure beckoning us to take risks for once, but it's a mistake to think that romanticizing the dangerous makes anything less dangerous. That giant stalactite towering above you could break off and crash into the mud at any moment, and the cave itself could shatter into pieces. Even on the brink of death, there's still beauty to the world. Nature's trick can fool us.

Dead ends are actually good things. You reach those, and you know what to do: turn around and start over. It's the fork in the road that kills us. Of course, with a dying light, my choices were pretty even. There was not enough light to make good choices, but I was paste the point of no return, so I trudged forward, inching my way through the mud. Even with dim light, that brown is always familiar. Until your light dies.

Darkness, like danger in a beautiful world, can be tricky. You cannot even make out your own fingers, but you know (or, at least, you go on believing) that they are there, because you can feel them. If it weren't for feelings or noise, you might begin to question your own existence, but the worst part about darkness is the light that you think is there. Little splotches of dark can make you question whether or not you're in the presence of light. The iris keeps dilating, focusing, adjusting, but nothing is there. It's all a trick. That's the funny thing about light and darkness, though. The darker our world is, the more eager our eyes are to seek the slightest speck of dim light; the lighter our world, those dim lights that meant everything to us in the dark aren't even noticeable. Crawling around in the mud and dark, I've been made thankful for once.

That's the other thing about caverns. They're deeper in more ways than one. You crawl around searching for some new little nook and cranny to explore, and you start to think about your life. You think about what you've done in the dark; with no one around to hear your breathing, you can sigh a little more heavily - the mistakes you made, that stupid grudge you just couldn't let go of, every little sin you never should have sinned...even the little ones count in here.

That's how it works. Caving. It's simple. You dig into the mud, and if your light dies, you don't just give up. You let your iris do its work, and you keep crawling. Somewhere in all the hope and faith and trust you put into this dirty little life, you end up doing something you were proud of. You might even discover something completely new, like yourself. Three days in this murk, and you could only imagine the grace that might come pouring through the light at the end of the tunnel.

Writer's Retreat: 'every mistake we must surely be learning, still my guitar gently weeps' - beatles

Experiment in Writing

Exciting Tone:

A carnival of counterfeits, the red-balloon ready to pop, and the joy of a laughing child, eager, so eager for the one ride up, up into the sky. This is the night of laughters upon laughters, joys upon joys, and the exciting sound of the county fair. Oh, the way the prized pig clashed with the smell of cotton candy in the summer night, and I could not wait to step forward, wait in line and board yet another ride. From up, up in the sky and down upon the world, my minions, the little farmer and his wife, the children bristling about to-and-fro, and God only knows what other little ants I could see from this world above. My hands could touch the sky, and I could reach to God and ask him why, ask him why he would lift me oh, so, high. …and the red balloon might rise above me, pass me fast, and pop somewhere in the distance, as an eager, oh so eager night came to a silent close.

Depressing Tone:

A red balloon ready to pop, and though excitement filled the air, my hopes were to climb above the Ferris Wheel, up and away, where the wind might jostle me back and forth. I’d have it tip me over to plummet to my death if I could, but things don’t always happen so easily or so luckily. They strap us in and make it safe, but God, dear God, that red balloon might rise up higher and higher in the sky, lifting me out of my circling fortress, and I would rise with it until it and I might pop together and fall with heavy force - the string and broken balloon and a heart that had broken to pieces long before the thud that would end it all. There’s something peaceful to silence, the deadened noise that brings the close to life.

Experiment in Tone 2

Dangerous (?):

I’m shaking. I’m shaking and the wind knows it. That’s the ugly tease present in this moment, and the entire skyline says, “Jump, jump, we’ll catch you.” Oh, Nashville, why have you done this? From far away and up, your gray silhouette is just a cloud, some psychotic comfort in those blurry, nice skyscrapers of steel and glass. How they cut! How they cut without any knowledge, the sick tease, they please, they beckon us to jump and place our faith in their cloudy metal of death.

Romantic:

I’m shaking. I’m shaking and the wind knows it. As does she, and dear God, she might cradle me, my city, with her towering arms reaching into the clouds and bringing them lower to caress me within those reflections of steel and glass, and a face I know all too well might meet me too. I’ll go on shaking. I’ll go on shaking, cold and afraid, but I will never go on shaking without you somehow holding me still – shaking with me.

Experiment in Perspective:

So constant and with such flow, that’s you right there lapping against the brown beach and tapping your repeated “cla-dump” into the dock. How that shaky old boatshed might love feeling each wave crashing into its wood and metal, the reminder that you’re there. I guess i4t’s easy to forget these things in between the crest and the trough. Your surface brings warmth where the sun’s painted its twinkling gaze all around, a dance of light. You made the sky blue and collected his every drop. That’s why God made you deep, and yet, you felt so empty when you were overflowing. Oh, I wish you could look at yourself now. Look at yourself and see those little ripples that extend for miles; I’d want to call them smiles (to believe it for the both of us), and in this hour, I’ve prayed so earnestly for you to get one glance at what I see. I’d swim along your shore and let you envelop me. I won’t be violently swimming against your tide. You’re where I belong; where I reside, and the rest of our days, I’d make peaceful amends – if for nothing else - to answer the call from where you extend.

Co-written with Rachel Ross:

Trees, tall trees, beckon us, and cascading over, they have set the stage. The waltzing willows might care for a dance, and it would have to remain our little secret, the towering men we were, hiding in our precious forest. True, we storm in, saw and axe, ready to retaliate, but good God, we are the trees. There, we might sway back and forth between the work of Monday and the Sunday sermon to simply be told, “This is who you are called to be” – so someone, some unwilling someone, might venture into those towering, hypocritical willows. Their shag and fur teases us with shadow, but events of the seasons that throw down these trees might suggest of willows unfaithful. Who are we with axe in hand, like lightning from above to strike us astray? We might chop away our idols untrusting never to have lead, and all our swaying might reveal our secrets to the unkind world. The frazzled ideas of our shifting minds might shift our feet in song and dance. We who teeter and totter between the forest and the town might let our vulnerable dance seep as dripping sap from our skin. The truth lies, and the forests of our footwork might shine through the sly grins or the quick glances we made as we tipped high our pints.

Kingdom Peace: 'my song is love' - coldplay

kingdom peace
the armies marched
the years were battling on
and soldiers died
while people tried
to hide from rising dawn
I don't know what to tell you,
or how to say this so
your son has died,
but with great pride,
it made for quite a show.
we're not sure what
this war's about,
though freedom is the cost,
don't talk about
what might not be
had heaven not been lost.
this was the duty of the hour
we'd all been called to serve
to kill, rampage, or rape the land,
we've freedom to preserve.
away, away, the foreign land
its desert and its dust,
we'll raise it high to tear it down
in sanity and lust
trudge on, trudge on,
oh soldier's son,
you're daddy's somewhere grave
there's kingdom peace
to talk about;
it's something that we crave.

Brothers: 'I will wait, I will wait for you' - avcleve

Red cheeks and flowing tears, and someone had to be talking about Noah's Ark the way those tears were filling the room, except he didn't believe in Noah's Ark or the angels or God or any of that stuff. Though, by the looks of it, he believed in crying, because he was surely doing an awful lot of it.

Then, of course, there was me - a timid kid of sorts, myself, and I, unlike him, clung to those "silly" beliefs for whatever reason. I guess I knew how to find the boat when the waters were rising. Although, all too often, I'd sit alone in my room, just down the hall, sulking about my "pathetic" life; so enamored with myself; so unwilling to reach out and realize or admit that the reason my room stayed dark was because I never left it or because I never bothered to turn on the light.

Truth be told, I didn't know him all that well. He was just the guy down the hall, but I loved him, and though he still doesn't buy into the whole Noah's Ark thing, I sometimes wish he knew how many times he threw me a life vest without even realizing that he, too, was on a boat of sorts. It's funny how we hold each other up. It's funny how we spend so much of our pathetic little lives so sure of other people; so unsure of ourselves; with so much to learn.

So much to learn, and this is what he taught me:

For whatever reason, the whole house was empty, not unlike the hearts within it, and that was when I heard some noise from up the hallway - some painful, God-awful noise, and those red, usually rosy, cheeks were simply drenched. Most of it is a blur to me now, but I remember his room being brown or perhaps beige. Fitting. Brown - like the wood needed to finish up that ark, and someone, somewhere was starting to collect the animals two-by-two.

Except for one animal who wouldn't quite make it - a little puppy dog that had grown alongside my poor, red-cheeked friend.

Struggling to speak or even breathe, he eventually muttered out the fact that Mac, the thirty-seven pound half-poodle, half-schnauzer, had to be put to sleep after his twelve long years as man's best friend, and between the puddles streaming from his face, I gleaned that Mac must have truly been a wonderful dog. A furry little mutt can go a long way when they know best how to tell us they love us; one lick of the tongue, a wet nose, and a totally impatient tail. One wouldn't think these things could reach us better than a human, but I suppose sometimes, they can.

I held him in my arms for an hour or so, running back and forth to grab tissues (though it's no use wiping up the rain that falls for forty days and forty nights), unsure for some time of what to say. How do you comfort someone who just lost their best friend? ...and that was when I found out that Mac's death, though tragic, wasn't the hardest part.

"He told me he loved me," my rose-cheeked friend tore between sniffs, almost gagging, "it's the first time my brother has ever told me he loved me, but when he got ready to say goodbye on the phone...after...he told me about Mac...he told me he loved me."

He kissed my neck, and I gained a brother.

"I love you, too, man," I muttered out, totally baffled and touched by this all.

The dove didn't return. I suppose it seems rather odd that the dove would not return, but in this version of the story, the dove missing was a sign to us that land did exist and the waters might subside. No matter how much we wanted to see that dove again; we were all thankful it wasn't coming back. Those words - "I love you" - had been all too common for me; they held little meaning where I came from; yet, their power had been renewed. My friend, my hurting, sniffling friend, my brother...I loved everything about him. Somewhere, in Mac's death, those words had come to life for the first time for someone, and I watched them powerfully overtake not only my red-cheeked friend but also me. You see, I don't suppose all the animals are going to make it onto the ark. There's that story about the unicorn, after all, but how many lives did the unicorn touch before it went missing in that awful storm? Enough to be remembered, I suppose, and when that dove took flight, it took flight to prepare the way. I hope to do the same.

Devotion: 'if they say why, why, tell them that it's human nature' dmead

I remember how you loved to lie down in that ugly, green sofa for an afternoon nap, and as the years began to age you, your naps there grew longer until one day, you fell asleep and didn't wake up. I never liked that shade of green, and the whole thing of it was that the couch seemed a little fuzzy, as something born out of the seventies. Still, no one disturbs a queen who sits on a velvet thrown, even if that shade of red doesn't quite become her. You could have made any shade among the color scheme fit you peacefully with the way you smiled that sly smile in your sleep.

Eyes closed and perhaps even an occasional air of heavy breathing that flirted with snoring suggested you were soundly counting sheep, and there on that couch and resting, no one would know about the Alzheimer's slowly working its plague against your clock. While the secondhand ticked louder and louder, those aching fingers I once held with the hope to make you mine, I now held in hope that you would simply remember. It's a wishful and a hopeless hope, but hope, after all, is sometimes all that keeps any us going.

It's in those moments when that sly smile might grace your façade that I might have had myself convinced that you remembered everything. Hours on end, and I would watch and remember the littlest details you could not, and your lack of memory forced me to hold onto every moment in my own aging realm with such great clarity - the end of the war and me returning to your arms so ready for marriage; that day we went fishing, and you pushed me into the water as a joke; our dear, beautiful children and the very moment I carried the little ones straight to your reach (God, if you could just remember their names!). Some part of me needed to believe and still believes that it was those moments, those hours of naps, where that sly smile was dreaming of what you could not remember when you were awake.

"You need to get Hospice Care, Daddy," the children ranted on and on about these things so often, so convinced they were that I could not take care of you. "What," they might say, "can a seventy-eight year old do to help a seventy-two year old?" ...but five a.m., every morning, and sometimes, though it killed me, the pain you were in - the pain we were both in - I welcomed every waking hour I had to stare into those big, green eyes (though perhaps blank in some ways). I guess when you're on the verge of losing loved ones, you realize the preciousness of everything about them, the preciousness of life. You didn't know me, but you knew the way my brown eyes met yours that I was a good man, the best I could be, and after all, I've tried so, so hard (not always getting it right, I'm afraid). No matter how confusing things must've gotten for you, I could just stare into those big, green eyes for hours, and some part of both of us had to be believing in something greater than us to keep the day going without shear disaster.

Oh my, and how hard it was just to get you to eat one spoonful of breakfast! We would fight over it for entire mornings, and sometimes, it was tough to understand what good I was doing keeping you alive by forcing you to eat. Who was I pleasing? Myself? The kids didn't know how I did it each day, and I suppose, looking back on it now, I'm not sure I know either. We just took one day at a time, didn't we, Sweety, because that was life, and we were supposed to live it, so I did what I was supposed to do. Yet here I am, writing all of this, a few years since you passed have gone by, and they probably wouldn't understand how I could miss someone who knew and loved me for the first fifty years of our life together, and then the last ten were such a blur. Sure, they might have thought, "Well, of course he loved her; they were together for fifty years before she lost her mind!" ...but it wasn't the fifty years. Little do they know, I discovered how much I loved you most in those blurry years. I guess real love loves the most when it has to; when it's called to stand up in the arms of devotion; when you choose to do what's hardest, after all. ...and I probably remained more amazed than anyone that I found my purpose in taking care of you.

I still keep that green couch around, though, and on occasion, I think about you and that sly smile. I think about taking my own nap and forgetting the things I've seen in this world for something a good bit better, and on nights, when I lie down to sleep, I dream my own dreams (of us in happier times remembered). My task, my obligation, my devoted belonging all seemed to pass on when you did. My purpose has been fulfilled these many years now, or so I thought. Yet, for all those out there who just don't get it. It wasn't about your pretty face (which, amazingly, only got prettier in time). It wasn't about how you made me feel, because woman, you sure knew how to piss me off sometimes (though, amazingly, always forgave me for my temper). It wasn't even about your wonderful, beautiful personality (though even that personality remained in those blurry days, and if it weren't for that God-given laugh you laughed, I might have passed on before you did of weariness). It was a lot simpler than that. It was about family - who I was, who we were...together...as one...making the hard, but right choices. ...and all the while, God was urging me on to be a better person, because of you and who you were.

...and now that I've said that, now that you know that love is so much more than the movies and the romance, that it isn't always easy...I think I may go lie down for a short nap. There's a sly smile I'd like to see, whether in my dreams or in some life beyond this one.

Soaked: 'as I row, row, row, going so slow, slow, slow' - pattyg

Some streetlight in the distance bounced around on the glazed blacktop, as the rain continued to fall. Nights like this never ended, and all anyone had ever known, it seemed, was the rain. It was our only constant. The day's warmth rose like a fog that no longer belonged to the earth, as it commit its spirit into the heavens, and if any footsteps pondered these streets, they would not be heard above the pitter-patter of the quiet-but-constant droplets that gave new life to a would-be dead world. On nights as this, love can soak into your skin. Though too much rain, and the floods were guaranteed to wash it all away.

I stood blankly as the sky's tears trickled down my face. My nine year old hands gripped Teddy tightly, and with every squeeze, he - more soaked than I, it seemed - sloshed in my trembling hands and seemed to wet himself uncontrollably. I suppose Teddy didn't handle being alone as well as I. I could handle a little rain for now. I had to be strong for Teddy, after all.

...but the rain fell harder and blurred the passing time.

As much as I wanted to be, I wasn't that nine year old kid anymore. There was no plush bear in the grip of my hands - only the water that slid down my arm directly to the palm that would have happily held anything equally eager for companionship in its grip for comfort. No, no nine year old here anymore. At least, not at first glance. Deep down, perhaps, that boy lingered on, staring blankly, a little kid scared out of his mind for a future as ambiguous as whatever stood just beyond the mist rising from the penumbra of the streetlight.

I tensed my lips, furrowing my brow, desperately trying to make out the figure in the distance, uncertain of whether or not it even existed or if my eyes merely tricked me. I broke through the rain, approaching the streetlight, and a voice, as sweet as sirens, tore through every drop, as though it were merely soft snow and soundless. She...she teased me in the midst and moved within the dark, as the voice surrounded me, penetrating my very being, and I felt dizzy through-and-through. My mind drifted again to Teddy and back to things more grown-up - books and libraries and the lonely, arduous toil of the selfish life devoted to those things we'd been told for far too long mattered most. All the world had sent us mixed signals; the ugly struggle between dream and reality, love and work, family and providing for it kept me from inching any closer, and I stood within the puddle on which the lights above now danced. They, too, teased me, along with her, though I stood resolute and recalled the hope I once found in the grip of a little bear who, though soaked and scared as I, refused to let go, as I, too, had held tightly in faith.

I inhaled the night's wet air deeply - one satisfying and determined gulp, and furrowing my brow again, I reached my arm out into the shadows in search for the voice that lived within my soul. She sang louder, as if in shock that I might - so bravely - trudge through this dark and cold. I caught her words, the lovely Song of Songs, "Many waters cannot quench love; neither can the floods drown it." More determined than ever, I called to her and disappeared into the thick darkness, and then it happened. Fingers clashed between my own, as though they had always been there - two hands composed of arms that held each other closely and at length. Perhaps, for the first time, it had really happened. She, too, had stood in some darkness, viewing the same streetlight from its opposite angle. I pulled her into view and saw a face I had always known and always needed, and the one thing we'd been told would never happen suddenly halted our entire world.

It stopped raining.

Immediately, we began to know a new world, a world without puddles and the constant flow of some torrential downfall. We nevertheless remained drenched.

After all, on nights as this, they say love can soak into your skin.

Church and Car

Princess: 'down in the gaze of solemnity' - smashp.

God made the little princess with her nice and shiny shoes
in the tall and staggered towers on the islands of the blues,
where the little, pretty people ranted on about the news,
no one's laughing, no one's crying, no one's paid their missing dues,
and the earth, it was a-rumblin' to the sound of a guitar,
while the little, pretty princess was a-drinkin' in the bar,
and all the people, all the people, who had scattered from afar,
came a-runnin' to the princess who had dreamt she was a star,
but she awoke unto the morning sun, a painful sight to see,
she awoke unto an empty town, as pretty people flee,
she awoke, a pretty princess, not so pretty as can be, and
sat and thought and thunk, she did, "No one does loveth me,"
though busy was her woe and gloom, the time, it passed on by,
and the little, pretty princess who had gone and learnt a lie,
that God would make a big mistake, a-one as big as she,
her little, pretty shiny shoes had gone and set her free.

Roods 2: 'to be alone with me, you went up on a tree' - suf

"did you know that I'm a tree,
rootless, old, I've come around,
some old woods will forsake me,
and tear me from their sacred ground."

They were banished from the garden before they ate from my fruit, but once they were gone, I lay there quietly in waiting. The years passed, and I withered away, although, my seed spread into the arms of Israel...for I am the Tree of Life.

-------------------------------------------

Gethsemane grew dark, and the olives loomed like ghosts with shadows stretching and flittering in a dance with the moonlight. Some suspense grew within the garden, as the sound of torch flames and fleeting feet stomped against a dust that collected on the ancient branches, stately and divine in their own, quiet way. Voices raised, though the thicket of the garden quickly silenced them to the distance.

It was as if the trees whispered to one another in those quick moments, "What is this that slumbers within our garden," suggesting they knew that something more bitter than their fruit had lurked within their presence and planted the kiss of death and darkness within the walls of this place of prayer. Voices scattered. Others marched, and bitter cold, pitch black fell upon the garden into the longest of nights it had ever known. As long as there had been a memory within this place, no night had drifted on so guiltily.

As morning broke, though the new day's sun painted its bright light across the grove of olives, something dark remained within Gethsemane.

Most of the olive trees of Gethsemane were thick and full, covered in fruit. Their heavy trunks sunk them into the ground, digging their roots deep within the dust and rock that gave them some stately feature. ...the olive, the branch of mighty Caesar, the very symbol of peace, and at the same time, a symbol as bitter as the fruit of the branch.

One tree was different.

Barren, one tree had fallen out of place among the others of the grove. It was as if someone had come along and shunned it. Even its lack of leaves made it seem more crooked than it really was, unlike the thick, stately olives that dwelled deeper within the orchard. It had stood alone, giving its leaves and fruit away to the seasons, as they chapped the old tree winter after winter, summer after summer.

"That one will do; fit for a king, I'd say," a Roman centurion barked and ordered, "Cut it down!" The soldier spit on the tree, as two centurions began the process of removing it from the ground. It wasn't even uprooted - just cut straight from its trunk, leaving an ugly stump (something the other trees could scoff about had they had it in them to bark like the soldiers). The Romans lashed the tree and drug it against the soil, dirtying its amber bark.

...and oh, the tree ached. It ached for the soil it had known all its life. It ached for the water that had fallen from the heavens, springing it up with life. It ached for the shade it found among the other trees; now, it torched in the burning sun. It ached for every splinter torn from its side that chipped off as it drug against the ground to a place it had never known within the streets of some ancient city.

The city, Jerusalem, was much louder than the taciturn branches of Gethsemane would ever allow. Shouting knew no ends. "Crucify him! Crucify him!" they cried, and the old tree lay unmoved, unwanted, unimportant in a nearby street awaiting its next fate.

"Pick up the rood!" the crowd moved toward the intimidated tree, surrounded it, and a bloodied man was forced to pick it up and again drag it painfully through the city streets to Golgotha.

How the trees of Gethsemane might laugh now! They, firm in their moist soil, and here, this olive was mocked - a Cross, a Rood, a Crucifix. Yet, some solace took over the tree. Never had it known such fate. Trees. Trees are born to bear fruit; some for the carpenters to make nice, useful things, and though the fate of this tree, dirtied and bloody, had an unknown end, it did not know pain alone. It, instead, knew the pain of a carpenter, one who might have once worn its brothers or sisters into some beautiful craft - a table, a chair. It was warmed by his touch, and perhaps for the first time ever, it knew that the darkness had been left in the garden.

A man called Simon joined to carry the tree, and at the hill of the Skull, the carpenter was tied and nailed, each stake warping years of tree-rings. Yet, as the years were warped, the blood seeped into the tree, sustaining it, giving it new life, and finally, it was hoisted and tied to the ground for all the people to see. As it overlooked the city, a Roman centurion who came nearby cried out, "It is the Lord!"

It is a beautiful thing for a tree to be made into something for the use of daily life - a boat, the walls of some family's home, a table on which feasts are prepared, the boardings of lover's beds. Yet, most of the trees of forests are forgotten. Nothing more memorable...nothing more beautiful... had happened to a tree than the day this little, old olive was plucked from its place, torn and tattered, and set high upon a hill never to be forgotten.

Flowers and Tools: 'the leaves are green and new like a baby' - pattyg

yeah, when you’re
finished with
Fate and Destiny’s
angels that fell
to the floors of
effervescent worlds
fix yourself
a bouquet of
troubles and
give them away
to the hardware stores
I bet you’d go buy
them, pink flowers
disguise them, the petals
that die on tomorrow’s
soft lap, defamed, proclaimed,
betrayal so bitter,
too sweet to taste,
gossamer, gorgeously
laying on shoulders
of the sweethearts of
August, only to leave
them with April tears.
no, the breakage,
Wont subside...
and I have sympathy
for those who are
too lonely
for suicide.

- co-written with Rachel Ross (I only really take credit for three lines and a word, if we're being honest)

Roods: 'wait for the bus that's going to Bangor' - patty

did you know that I'm a tree,
rootless, old, I've come around,
some old woods will forsake me,
and tear me from their sacred ground.

Grandfather: 'years 2002, doin exactly what I wanna do' - bobschn.

he had that ancient stride,
the one of a farmer
scouring over some field
in search of something
deeper than the soil
(oh, what a field is to
a farmer whose seen
the soldiers march across
the sprouting seed
on the way to Elysian!),
and like the long stretch
of soy in silence before him,
he stood to remember the
many fields of Falls past,
while a brisk wind would
tap against his cheek,
where one might think
that winter'd want to last,
they kept the words from his lips,
though let his eyes speak wise,
and humbled by a nervous laugh,
we couldn't help but wonder
whether he knew how he stood,
in our eyes, like the heroes
who had far surpassed
all the expectations of
anyone who'd been a grandfather.

Nashville Three: 'I hope you find it, because I could not find it in me" - w.fitzsimmons

I wept for you,
grey fog with blue.
there's a sky, and I,
I don't know where it's ending
or how the steel in the clouds
was ascending,
but dear God,
I feared in pretending,
and I wept for you,
grey fog with blue,
with the rain from my eyes,
a neverending surprise,
caught droplets of hope
on the glass in the skies,
that no one could see
save you and me,
as we nailed through the hands
of amending.

Nashville Two: 'will it always feel this way, so empty and estranged' - r.lamontagne

some corner street no one knew,
tucked behind the towering skies,
kept quiet its past and present,
as the old, dank river hid us from
what lies ahead for Miriam,
who watched it all drift away
and wondered about tomorrow -
while the aging, city streets
lit some path for the corvée,
who still worked into the night,
and as it deadened with the air,
I, too, slaved away and feared for
the sudden silence of the children,
or hoped of a time when those
stately arms that unknowingly
drew me from the water's edge
might return me to Jochebed's.

Nashville: 'on a childhood highway thru a night alone' - dmead

Gotham City heights
around the crooked bend
somewhere all the smoking
lights were lost in love within.
the smoke was red-orange rising
in the morning-evening day,
the city compromising
to the silence in the gray.

Marble: 'you're like the oceans and the light' - pete yorn

a marble majesty
whose ocean luster lit the dark -
but I don't deserve the world
no matter how much
it goes on living.
there's a piece of me that broke off
somewhere in you,
taking risks that these marbles
might break up into
the thousands of grains of sands
on this beach,
somewhere in limbo,
somewhere in speech,
but I've lit a candle
and scoured the sands
and searched for the blood
on the palm of my hands,
though, I guess that these oceans
had washed it away,
for this speckled marble
will go on okay

Scars: 'I don't know how you stand when you've got no floor or how you breathe with your hands on board' - wfitzsimmons

it might be okay,
it might not.
life isn't fought for
things to get over,
when some scars
just don't heal.
it's about learning
how to deal
with the scars
that are real,
so when they've
cut you apart,
cut out your heart,
made you a case for
your mirror to face -
I hope I'm still here
I hope I'm your start.
I've gone on believing
through love torn apart,
so when you hear
the old lie,
the one they tell still,
that it's all okay
or part of some will,
I'll look in those eyes,
though teared-up
and filled,
beyond all those scars
where you've hoped
to rebuild,
and tell you the truth,
the truth as it lies,
I see hope in those
terrible, beautiful eyes,
and far more than
ever you could have
surmised,
and that's how we go on,
that's how to survive,
love greater than
pictures or mirrors
contrive,
but mostly my love,
for the scars you've
endured,
I see only the grace
that our Rood has
procured.

What Lips Do: 'destiny, pure lunacy, incalcuable, insufferable' - smashing pumpkins

so much she says in her silence,
as I learn to listen to the forest,
instead of trees swaying to-and-fro.
I made this breeze my own to,
like her, quietly caress some face,
and with faith, I have answered
a call deep within those things
remaining secrets, two worlds akin,
where God dwelt within, and now,
my own silent speech spoke aloud
of a time when lips could close on
sweeter things than on themselves.

Common Senses: 'you'd go way back when if you wanted to be my friend' - bkweller

listen.
hear it?
that's the sound of
nothing.
there's something fitting to that
noise.
look.
see it?
that's the sight of
something.
there's nothing missing in her
poise.
sniff.
smell it?
that's the trace of
everything,
if there's one thing growing with our
joys.
bite.
test it?
that's the taste of
one thing
when there's everything for beauty to
destroy.

listen.
hear it?
that's the sound of
nothing,
and that's the music your love will
employ.

Sapphire: 'someday drawing you different, may I be weaved in your hair?'

there's a cold shivering, shivering,
softist sunrise this mourning's morning
knows the way you slept in those vacant
blankets, cradled up and shaking until
the aging break of dawn, while somehow,
last night's breath left you emptying and gone,
but I'll be overhead your picket fences,
picking roses in the waking of your senses,
and watching as the sunlight dances,
glances off the sapphire twinkle in your,
I can warm you, I can join you at your side,
as I will bring your breathing to subside.

Burnt Offerings: 'the songs you wrote got me through a lot, just want to tell you that' - bfolds

Ashes. Lots of ashes and some nostalgic smell of years past lingered in the crisp twilight, as I slowly stepped over the burnt house. It's funny how, when something is taken from you, you continue to see what once was there. "The bedroom," I can't help but think, "This is the bedroom." Though now, it was merely charcoal, kicking up some black dust with every step I took, and even the tears on my face left a streak through the dirt I had kicked up scouring through this life that had flattened in flame.

The sun was setting, and as the sky painted itself in colors of embers, I could not help but think that the entire world was aflame, and some sick beauty lingered with me. The black dust had covered my hands, as I had dug into this tattered life. A picture frame untouched by fire told of happier times. An old teddy bear who had survived my constant hold as a child had somehow managed to survive even this. I picked him up, holding him close one more time, and thought about all the years spent among this timber that had been shaped by love and sweat.

I weaved my way into the living room and stared blankly at the fireplace. The hearth remained and had long stood as my favorite spot to thaw out from chilly winters, snowball fights, and the hours I had spent constructing some igloo that would melt the next day. The mantle above it, now gone, had held Christmas stockings for Santa's arrival, two or three white candles, and the family portrait had towered above. All were gone, though the melted wax served as a reminder that they had been there so recently. I sat on the mantle, whose stone had never known daylight or the brisk breeze that seemed to find its way straight through my ribcage.

Not all of the memories were good, though. Voices of the past swerved through my mind, and I heard with them our fights, the yelling and carrying on that had persisted among these walls that were now rubble. In the midst of such sick beauty, I could not help but find some peace in this terrible end - that, despite its pain, evoked a new beginning. I wept. I wept for the past and for the future; for the old house I had loved and everything in it I had hated; for the rubble; for the peace I had needed for so long. I wept until a voice, much sweeter than those that seemed to engulf my mind, quietly called to me. I looked up from the hearth and once again was filled with warmth.

Her presence was enough. She carried herself with radiance and spoke little, nodding and helping me up just to give me that much-needed hug. She had come ready, wearing gloves to dig through the rubble. I stood there in awe, stepping back into some pensive arrest. Sometimes, I look back on my life, and I don't quite know where it's been or how it got there. Standing there looking into those blue eyes across from me, though, I was lost and enchanted in some place I would happily lose myself any day. The rest of the house around me could have been standing. It could have never been there to begin with. No longer were there places I had once been. This hold she gave took me to places I was ready to go. I smiled, muttered out some soft thanksgiving, and we sat on the hearth together, teasing and giggling over unimportant things - just the way it should be.

My Prayer for You: 'some would rather give than to receive; some would rather give up before they believe' - b.harper

you opened up
that crimson door,
though didn't know
what keys were for -
you got hurt,
maybe once or twice
and sipped a glass
of melting ice,
while someone said,
"there's more to life
than I can whisper
in your ear, so
lean in closer,
have a stay.
I'll try to kiss
those tears astray
no matter what
you long to hear,
but it's all good,
yeah, it's okay,
and all those wounds
have bled away,
so let us leave,
so let us pray,
so let me keep
your fears at bay.

Esther: 'you can brave decisions before you crumble up inside' - damien rice

save me grace,
amazing thing.
wretched daughter
is a scene,
and I am bitter,
so make me sweet.
give my mother
love to keep
her eyes astray
from all that sings,
torn and tattered,
ungrateful things.
I call and pray
and beg and stall;
my heart was slammed
against the wall
in some old house,
I don't belong;
I cannot tell you
right from wrong,
but I can tell
what I know now
that love abounds
somewhere, somehow.
I'll seek it till I carry on
and fight for what
I may call home.
it may not be
within these walls,
their creaks and cracks
with sinful falls,
though love for me
that you had had,
amazing grace
that made me glad.

(co-written with rachel ross)

Silence: 'but I feel my strength returning tonight, its flowing from the purest well to ever give water' - r.votolato

there's silence,
only waiting,
anticipating,
holiness inside you.
I gave my hopes away
into another heart -
I feared you'd set
your love apart
for someone else
to come to shine,
to take from me
what once was mine.
there's silence
in the aging grey,
a color scheme
within the clay -
you molded me
and moved with care,
a happiness
within your prayer.
you kept me going,
my thankful call,
a silence toward
a softened fall.

Ugliness: 'hey babe, take a walk on the wild side' - lou reed

you're the skeleton in my skin,
every wrong turn you took within,
your heart, I broke, when you awoke
among the moon, whose tears gave in
and fell on us from far away,
a billion miles of blue and grey, and
she spaced herself between the stars
in hopes to play on metal bars
that locked away those ancient scars,
of bone and blood deep in this mud,
our face was worn and torn with sin.

Okay in the Grey: 'I am a prisoner in the sunlight; you are my cellmate in the darkness' - rocky votolato

I never sleep,
but I die a little
every night.
this world is
not what it seems
when the sun ain't
right, although the
dark ain't dark,
and the bright
ain't bright, but
some call it
mystery, and
some call it light,
but I think its
in between the
fun and the fight,
where the flag
meets the bull, a
spectacular sight,
and hope is a
terrible, horrible
trite, which makes
rumor and truth
a flame to ignite,
though I go on
believing that the
flag raised is white,
and in vain I have
run from those
masked with polite,
so run with me
run with me, run
with delight -
we'll find the grey
ocean, we'll seek
it tonight, we'll
pray to the gods,
our salvation from
plight, and if
sunny's too sunny and
dark is too fright,
our twilight approaches,
we'll think it just right.

Dance: 'clean up the mess that adam and eve got us in' - clem snide

dance with me in the sun,
where the beach was having fun
lapping its waves against the land,
while you bat your pretty eyes
against those constant, ugly lies -
bring us back to where we stand,

with an afternoon, delicious smile,
or bitten lips with giggles for a while,
the sand was diamonds from the sky -
as you meet me in the moonlit night,
our silhouettes would be a pretty sight,
I'll trace your heart from eye-to-eye.

till we'd talk awhile of something good
and keep the secrets that we could,
I'd speak a quiet, calm remark,
that something's dark about this place,
yet you're the light that I've embraced,
while guiding me along as we embark.

so to keep the vigil, bring us home,
a steadied heart that gave us calm -
the neverending dance we waited for
is come.

Good News: 'when we pass these old desert stations, I want to go there with you' - teitur

I picked up a newspaper,
glanced through the grey,
same old story as it was
yesterday, someone built
a picket fence around this
neighborhood, and I watched
us tear down walls but
replace what we could with
new borders and lies that
no reporter reported,
while no one believed what
they should. a story to
tell in this towering town,
all the people were dressing
their lives up-and-down,
and I left for something
better - a pen in my hand,
guitar at my side, a traveling
man, while my mother who cried
had left long ago,
her silence pervaded the years
like the snow that sat quiet,
its white everywhere,
she hoped for the best,
though with a blank stare.
I saw her in passing,
my time here now gone -
couldn't help what I'd finished
couldn't finish a song,
until I picked up a paper,
her story I read -
her life, as it ended,
it ended with dread -
the same she was born with,
the same when she died.
picket fences for borders,
a world to divide.

A Garden: 'the same questions of who, the same stories I hide, and I know that this is your beginning' - denison witmer

you got rid of those shoes,
the ones that walked the earth,
and I washed away my blues
for whatever it was worth.
now listen, there's a bird
that's dying to get out
and into the open air,
a song has been waiting
to be sung by someone there,
so, don't keep us in some cage
we were locked up on some stage
where you dug a little garden,
only to plant around the weeds,
and we watered what we pardoned,
giving sad news to the seeds.
so listen, there's a rose
that's dying without thorns
and living for moving on,
a song from a painting
whose brushes were withdrawn, so
don't keep us in some cage, where
we were locked up on some stage.

Sheep: 'I got the wanderin blues, and I'll say, the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs' - the be good tanyas

I disappeared just beyond the horizon,
my shadow and silhouette, once twins
separated, now the same being lingered,
as the darkness brought them together
in one pitch of night. we prayed
to gods that the sun might rise on
this mountaintop that towered over,
bringing color and shape to the land
now so monotone and dead. not even the
satellite graced us within its glimmer.
at least, we thought, its light would
paint us grey, but nay, there was some
struggle between shadow and silhouette,
for one would beg for corners dark,
to stay and one would beg for light
of day, and I knew not which one I was,
nor did it matter when the world was
all one color that asked to lead astray.

Edges: 'sunrise, sunrise, couldn't tempt us if we tried' - norah jones

I stepped up to the edge, eyes half-watered and ready for something new, as the wind battered me to-and-fro. There's always more wind on the edge, it seems. There's something beautiful about being there, too, overlooking the great landscape - the birds climbing from out of the trees while the clouds overtake the blue horizon with mighty force.

What some people call your "life flashing before your eyes" was a little more like several, very random moments frozen in time -- a lady crossing a street you smiled at this one time; the last time you hugged your best friend; the lips that missed you as much as you missed them; a sunset at your grandfather's farm that seemed painted into your mind. It's never a "flash," as they call it. To the contrary, life slows down, and each slap of the wind across your face begs a new memory "flash before you" the longer you contemplate the fall. Everything about life beckons us to remain, and yet, there on the edge, the thought of jumping or falling or slipping seems so oddly appealing. Half of it is about the thrill, not the end, despite the fact that "the end" sounds so good. At least, when I first heard the sound of her voice, "the end" was the goal in sight:

"That's not going to get you anywhere," she teased almost arrogantly and then, with a little more seriousness, "I've been there. I know."

A large gust of wind nearly pushed me off the edge without my willing it, and I quickly crouched down to the ground in hopes to make myself more stable, hugging gravity. Should this fall come, it was going to be in my own time, I told myself. Again, the wind tempted me to stay, reminding me where I really was standing. Nothing about death is scary until you realize it might actually meet you vis-a-vis.

"There's no other choice. People don't come to the edge for no reason. I'm done with this."

"...isn't so bad when you look at it from way up here, y'know." She had a point.

"Why can't we just go back? Why isn't that an option?"

"Maybe the better question is, 'Why can't we go forward? Why do we never let that be an option?'" I turned to look at her with that statement, and she just smiled at me, as though we were two people meeting in the middle of some street and not here on the edge or so near the end. She had a name, a life probably as difficult as my own, a spiffy little job somewhere, a laugh that made a heart flutter, and yet, all those things that she was didn't matter in this moment. In this moment, she was God come down from the heavens, reaching out to save me, to clutch me in the palm of her soft hands and whisk me away from this mountain edge. All the beauty around me, in its attempts to remind me why leaving this place behind isn't quite as appealing as I wished it were, couldn't match her voice when she spoke the simple things that spilled from her heart. "Come on, let's get out of here...maybe go forward somewhere for once."

It's a story all-so-familiar. We know the ending. There's no jump, no fall, no slip, and even when there is, it's a jump, slip, or fall to somewhere safer, better - into hands greater than our own. Somehow, the flock is gathered, and when the one disappears, the shepherd leaves the rest for that one. It's never about the ending, though. It's about how we get there. And really, it's always beautiful when you stand on the edge, ready to give it all up. I guess beauty tempts us not to leave somehow. It's the one way God let's us know he's still there. At any moment, your feet could slip on the tiny rocks, and that world you stare at so blankly and calmly, almost apathetically (but with some sense of wonder) absorbs you in those final seconds. I guess all we can really do is a little hoping that some "angel" might come along and save us. I don't know if I ever believed in angels, like the ones with wings and halos, but I definitely believe that any of us can be an "angel in disguise" without ever even knowing it. I suppose I could do that to. Maybe I should give it a try. You know, start moving forward and all.

aaahhh grass! aahhh we're cows. who are we? 

Sunrise: 'now that I'm older, wiser and working less, I don't regret having left the place a mess' - sufjan stevens

broken
inside
somewhere
I hide from you.
bent backwards,
a downfall
somehow
I call to you.
a sun sets
on this tide
it rises and falls
they rise up and fall

stolen
my heart
somewhere
apart from you.
they kept it,
evident
somehow
it fell into
a sun sets
on this tide
it rises and falls
they rise up and fall

nobody knows
how this wind blows,
but it blows for you,
it blows to you -
caresses your face
whispers our place
sits us down within
your holy grace,
and I was good for you,
for you were good too.
I was better
through and through
better
through and through

a sun sets
on this tide
it rises and falls
they rise up and fall
a sun climbs
through this sky
it rises and falls
we rise up and fall
a Son came
on this night
to rise up and fall
he rose up to call
to call to us all

broken
inside
somewhere
I hide from you.
bent backwards,
a downfall
somehow
sing hallelu.
a sun sets (sing hallelu)
on this tide (sing hallelu)
it rises and falls
they rise up and fall.

Judge me: 'just be gentle with me' - boy least likely to

in your eyes, I am stained,
shackled, and tried, and yes,
I have stumbled,
fallen to the ground,
beaten into the dirt.
oh, I breathe in -
the dust that I am
only to stand again,
as the mud dries,
cracks from my back,
and I, a chip off some block,
stand strong -
call out some name
not my own and ask for
Freedom
only to find what I know -
I believe -
is right
is You,
Lord,
is You.

Devotion: 'if you could save me from the ranks of the freaks' - aimee mann

her mind was gone at seventy,
and she lived to eighty-five -
those fifteen years were hardest
on Mom and Dad, but Grandpa
cherished every moment he'd had,
and I'd never seen such devotion
among the best of us.
in her forgetful state, she asked
the same questions over and over,
but his response was always some form
of 'I love you,' mostly in his deeds,
and when the rest of us were annoyed,
he laughed with her, and as she fed
his spirit, he begged she take one
spoonful to eat.
I was convinced in her final hours that
Grandpa would have to be relieved
from the chore of her constant care,
but with the most serious resolve,
his heart broke to see her go, and
part of him died with her.
to long for such devotion:
to tuck her in
to watch over or breathe to calm
to be given
given in such a way that the
'I love you' need not be spoken,
but shown in constant passing,
that when I should sail into the ancient mist,
like those before me, I'd go knowing
I could end my life as I had begun it today.

Sometimes: 'it was easy when you were younger, you can put it back together' - pete yorn

sometimes, I sway like the trees
in my back-and-forth way
until wind may silence
to calm the broken day.
the grass, its blades were
cushions to our feet,
as we scattered across a field
calmly discreet.

Breeze: 'something in the way she moves' - beatles

I am love -
the little leaves in the careful breeze
so frail.
only to meet us face-to-face without
knowledge of it.
I am love
and so are you.

Clock: 'but I was on the hatch, riding on the avalanche' - sufjan stevens

I lie awake,
my eyes connected to the clock
my ears alive to the ticking
with the tock.
some office I know well -
with roaches roaching;
a frog a-croaking,
and the mail that lies around
all cluttered on some desk,
though silence aches through
this building's wood:
I am alive
I am alive, and
well, there's a radio singing
softly as though it never stops
singing the sounds like those of
distant clocks
who, like I, belong
in solitary noise -
where even silence knows a way
to speak quite loudly to us still
peace,
peace
is an hour in the middle of some night,
always more chaotic than it seems,
and calm nonetheless.

AEKDB: 'come with me, we can take the long way home' - norah jones

hope means everything
to the sluggish sighs -
there's nothing I can
no longer comprise.
with these hands now,
I left it somehow
unspoken and dying
to reach the skies,
so let's not continue
to cry but move on
with a resolute look
assigned to our eyes:
I called you my brother,
I called you my friend;
God-willing, these things
remain until the end.

Brethren Alive, Brethren Dead: 'do you feel like I'm fallen down? just say hello to the ground' - ben kweller

I did not fight among them, and I am no soldier,
though I'd fight for them to the heavy end,
while these men, who knew the fleeting years
so well, would pass - they've heard the striking
of some bell that called us here and sends us off
into unknown abodes, as we are sure to fill
those big shoes our Fathers taught us to wear
with honor, respect, and zeal, and carry always -
we will - the love and cherished memories that
last from here, our scarlet years have come and
gone and passed: in silent reverence I know no
way to speak my peace for whenever it may come,
so with dignity, I would offer my reach from
above and below the slippy steps that once again
and always, we might bind ourselves as brothers.

Fences: 'these fleeting years we tarry here beneath the scarlett sway' - wabash glee club

there was another lonely place
where we began another chase
I put a gun up to my head, and
thought about those things you said.
somehow I've lost my grace,
but you lost your mind instead.
now listen, don't you give me guff,
or keep my heart in this handcuff -
I'll lose my wings to gain some sense
and hope you give to me twopence. good
God, you know, this could get rough,
if all we do is build a fence.

Goodnight: 'fall in love and fall apart, things will end before they start - sleeping on lake michigan' - sufjan stevens

it's better this way
that I go and do not stay:
I left you, my friends -
I promise, it's just
common sense, and
there's a light somewhere
on the other side
that I've been
seeking with too much pride:
bring me home,
so I can drink your water
and finally know
just what is black and white
or whether or not
I was right,
and do what you have to do
to bury me tonight
in words and tears,
I hate your fears - for you
it's better this way
that I go and do not stay:
I can stand on the
shoulders of giants,
but I cannot fix their
warped backs, so
let me rest,
I've gone and made a mess,
yet somehow,
you keep me blessed,
and that,
I do not forget
and never will.
goodnight, goodnight,
sweet goodnight.

Why is there always so much to think about? And why do I enjoy it so much and hate it at the same time? 

Mountain Move: 'the time of no reply is calling me to stay, there's no hello and no goodbye, to leave there is no way' - nick drake

if there is something more fitting than love,
I do not know it, though I wait in patient angst
that the hour should strike with a bell to ring,
and I, with my heavy coat-of-arms - my shield -
ready and with sword held high, I advance:
my task to move some mountain, and we,
we are heavily equipped for the improper measure,
unsure of where shield and sword might anchor
into the mountainside in hopes to budge,
though some small rocks nearby are all we move,
as the snow advances on our numbing suits.
Good Sir, the knight is prepared for all you give,
though moving mountains may be a task for someone
of some other time, uncertain though we are,
for now, I beg of thee, let us rest our weary hearts,
as our lips chill shut and chap open our eyes,
in silent fear that we were called to do this task -
unsure of the end but certain, so certain that
we could not avoid the mighty peak above,
that all she needed to move required one word
would be believed and given greater weight
than any other words the alphabet could assemble,
but could we muster it spoken, or should we?

Pangaea: 'I'm glad I hitched my apple wagon to your star, I never would've got here if I followed my heart' - the boy least likely to

I am the divider
under the plates
of Pangaea - I
twiddle my toes,
and the quakes
that waken all
my friendly foes,
which open the seas,
as I, with forceful
separation am
here to please,
though little
did you know
how I could be.
so, on account of
my ability
to do something
good, I think
you maybe should
accept the little
tumbles, shakes,
and earthly sighs
with a somewhat
open-minded
perspective -
in two hundred
fifty million
years, I'd think
you could see
that I brought you
tranquility,
cause you can't
even handle livin'
two miles apart,
so I seeped
the waters of
Panthalassa
deep into your
lands, and there,
I brought you life.

Hope Waits, as Love: 'time has had a different effect on you. look at you, you're blue, black, and thru bein that kid I knew' - rocky votolato

The night lingered on the way it always does with the moon's watchful eye drifting in the distance, and quiet hushed even the sounds of the cicade's call, as the noises of their bagpipes dwindled from thirty to twenty to none. I had been awake for it all, as I always am, staring into the distance, poised and ready for the inevitable that will never occur. From the moment the sun passed beyond the last distant branches to the moment it would again paint the distant waters - as it had done the day before - I, finding myself more nocturnal than the owl, kept watch over my flock, my fields, my friends, like shepherds watching for wolves as they simultaneously charted the night's sky and loved the sleeping sheep. All along, ready for anything, unsure of everything, comforted only by what they were protecting.

There are times when my faith is nothing but hope. "What has been", "what is to come", and "what is real" are questions that I cannot answer, but what "I hope has been", "what I hope will come", and "what I hope is real" are the very essence of my faith and everything that I am. Belief may slip into darkness, but hope brings light.

...and there are things that I do not say because I cannot speak them. Silence, luckily, the most divine gift of God. Protecting the sheep comes with the responsibility of protecting them from themselves and protecting them from myself, as well, as no wolf is more mischevious than one who can dress in sheep's clothing. ...and all along, I must be ever-watchful and always secretive, for the interests of all. It is not the wetness or the sound of rain that makes me love it so. It is the greying, vague skies that bring stories on the shoulders of clouds I feel know me best. I would burst out the "I love you" I long to say, like some streak of lightning, but I fear it lost in the thunder.

I wait for storms, though. I wait for my storm, my raging fit of passion. Will you wait with me? Until then, listen closely. You may hear the cicade dancing again in the distance, growing louder with time. If not, rest assured, she will sing again, even if it should mean we wait another night to lie awake in hopes the sound of the bagpipe would spark.

Willow Tree: 'stood on the edge tied to a noose - you came along and you cut me loose' - coldplay

there's a place I know,
and I know it
well, I embrace all I see -
bring me outta that shell,
and there's a tree or two
just hanging around,
whose climbing vine
was hanging down
its romance sang,
its leaves like twine,
its shaggy hair was
once like mine.
whisper softly in my ear
the words you know
I long to hear -
I'll think and laugh
and sing and pray
your pretty little heart away.
there's a thing I said
I wanted to
say, we crossed a bridge
in this place today,
and there's a smile or two
that we made one,
this little flower
you stole from the sun
on a little stroll
in every passing hour,
we climbed a big hill
to gaze from this tower.
whisper softly in my ear
the words you know
I long to hear -
I'll think and laugh
and sing and pray
your pretty little heart away.
your pretty little heart away.

A Thought: 'if I lived in Michigan, would you comfort me again' - sufjan stevens

if I had it my way
your nom de guerre
would be Love