The Space Between the Bars

Dynamite Faith: 'mother, I lost it all, the fear of the Lord I was given'

2012-01-23T20:33:00.002-06:00

oh pastor man
and all your lies about the grace you gave,
we saw through the thick, black book you held,
all those shouts about the Lord who saves;
we saw every god-damned mountain moved,
and all your lies about the dynamite
and as you climbed up on the hanging rood
and jabbed the spear into your side,
oh pastor man!
faith is not a tool to see that sheep abide.

prophets & angels: 'are you still on the stoop watching the windows close?' - i&w

2012-01-23T19:58:00.001-06:00

prophets and angels

may seem to speak of different gods

between their voices shouting truths

or their songs, a quiet grace -

and though their love has left us here

caught between the battle's wake,

a peace lies as the angel nears

what the prophet had to take.

Horizons: 'pink, pink, pink, pink moon' - ndrake

2011-09-05T11:30:00.000-06:00

the horizon is a lie
cloaked in contours
and caught between the
alpha and omega,
where the morning's embers
are fanned into flames
until the evening fades them
into ashes settling,
settling to a rigid ground
whose edges are softened
by their billion little truths
until the horizon brings again
its little lie.

Learning Love: 'and it's your heart not mine that's scarred' - esmith

2011-06-12T13:43:00.000-06:00

I learn love

between what's passing

and what's not

between my heart

and stomach's knot

between your fingers

and your words,

between what's spoken

and unheard,

I learn to love

the best of us;

I learn to love

the worst
and wish to love
the things I hate
from very last
to first.

Remnants: 'and in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take' - beatles

2011-06-12T13:20:00.000-06:00

it was the remnants of a field of corn

now overtaken with young saplings

making a name for themselves

in these woods of woods,

and the maize long forgotten

seemed to haunt the winding creek,

who crept along the sudden turns

in grace, a place of questions granted

and where there are no answers

sometimes is a home

where barren field and waterstream

might bring the bliss of uncertainty

Seeds, from friend to foe: 'if I told you the reasons why, would you take my hand and ride?' -cbrothers

2011-02-24T17:20:00.000-06:00

all along the field
where the wildflowers grow
I test the dirt beneath my feet
as though it were a snow,
freshly fallen, careful steps
I go, I go, I go,
and hope the dust will settle there,
will settle down below,

behind me now, those steps are made
I know, I know, I know
I must look toward the flowers as
I pass by every row
and make my every enemy,
my past steps and my foes,
the friends I love to love so well,
the better seeds I sew.

Remember: 'I want to be changed from the shadow in the tomb like water rushing over us, the tide pulls from the moon' - wfitz

2011-02-24T16:49:00.000-06:00

don't forget why you're here, boy
or where you are,
from the green sloping hills that turn
so abruptly
to the endless stretch of land, the sand
that pelts your face,
wipes away at all that grace
to let the sun replace you
when she will rise,
and a thousand miles away,
it seems, those beams
in the dust kicking up all along the horizon,
will settle,
and when you squint your eyes,
Mecca will arise

Fate, or Not: 'said I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war if you can tell me something worth fighting for' - cplay

2010-11-10T11:22:00.000-06:00

fate sometimes gets in the way of fate,
and I am a mind burdened by
the hands and feet I cannot see,
the ones attached to me, or so I think,
those silent limbs stretched forth
into some unknown chasm
where what I do is done
beyond the lines of who I am
or what I have become,
and Kafka's test of right or wrong
marries past and future
as a present song,
a Siren's shrill that all your life
is not your own
(or that the games the gods might play
will take your plans and hopes away),
this is the way things are.

This is Morocco - 'I wish I couldda stood where you wouldda been proud, but that won't happen now' -pg

2010-11-01T09:26:00.000-06:00

This is Morocco, my friend,
the way the dusty wind kicks us
til Kingdom Come,
and the hours we sit and stare
at the children in the street
there
where an orange is fitting for a ball,
there is beauty after all,
despite despair,
and the aching mixture of love and loss
is one.

Morse Code: 'so far away from everyone and everything starts today' -guster

2010-11-01T09:12:00.000-06:00

oh my friend,
I have watched you spin your lies and weave a mythology,
a story so deep, it is your truth,
but I've learned that it doesn't matter all that much to you
who is hurt or how
when perception is in your favor,
it is
all there is,
a world of nothing more than now,
and so, the shining beacon flickers out,
and those lost at sea
when you were the captain of their boat
suffer a loss of their own and alone,
despite the glaring hole you made
that sunk the ship.

The Days of Allah are Longer: 'couple young girls went sailing down A1A into the arms of Florida, sailin' down a highway' -patty

2010-10-07T09:02:00.000-06:00

our laughs bring harmony
to unexpected chords,
and the way you stand there
with that half-crooked smile,
as if you know something I don't -
a secret we seem to be tossing
back-and-forth,
this is the kind of thing I live for,
you,
you with your downward gaze
I turn up,
and it is my prayer that time is on our side,
or at least,
that the days of Allah are longer.

Life lived: 'isn't it hard sometimes, isn't it lonely how I still hang around here with nothing to hold me' -patty

2010-10-07T08:55:00.000-06:00

I live life like you're there,

and when I close my eyes,

you are the sun

pressed against my back,

wrapping me up in your touch -

skin-on-skin

and even the way the wind

might tease me,

I feel your tiny fingers

slip through my hair,

for I will never leave this place

where there is no guarantee

of how I end or you begin,

but I am us here,

and we are

this thing unreal but true

this thing so sacred

this joyful lie that we are not alone.

For Eli: 'these are just ghosts that broke my heart before I met you' - lmarling

2010-08-31T22:17:00.000-06:00

we are some sincere truth I cannot explain,
a belonging beyond what I claim to know
and tethered to a love I would not untie
were it my will to decide
how the tide might rise and fall
or the moon dance among the stars,
for if I could play god with the fate of the world
and keep you mine,
I'd risk it all
to tear at space and time
and align the stars in our constant favor.

Make Way: 'here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright' - beatles

2010-08-09T03:25:00.002-06:00

make way for the clouds,
as some etesian wind
would bring them in;
and make way for the falling leaves,
the butterflies of winter's eve;
summer is dying,
our dear friend is old;
the days of warm and sunny smiles
are soon to catch a cold,
but as we at the bedside lay
and bid to warmth, farewell,
we'll kneel and bow our heads to pray,
in hopes the clouds dispel,
though when the winter's had its run,
and spring shall surely rise,
those welcome words,
"Make Way the Sun!"
we'll shout up to the skies.

Veil: 'I'll wait for the sun, I'll wait for the light, look for you to run, lost you in the night' - jpurdy

2010-07-31T00:20:00.004-06:00

I am your veil,

and though I do not cover your eyes,

I've left you blind,

not so much that you'd stumble in the dark

to find your way

as the world stumbles over you,

so caught up in your gaze,

so curious of the secrets

that you hide.

and I am the mirror,

a surface hard as glass

you cannot penetrate

a vis-à-vis encounter with

the one you love to hate,

and though I mimic all your moves,

I've seen behind our veil

and know that you are you

behind the fears, you cannot tell

a truth to me or to yourself,

the hour, one day, shall come

when veils fall down or mirrors break

and love is on your tongue.

Sea & Shore: 'please don't wait for me, I lost my way again' - jgarrels

2010-06-28T01:17:00.004-06:00

old sea,

you sway your everlasting

rhythmic chant

and beat against these grains,

a countless billion sands

oppressed by the chatter

that foams at your mouth,

an ebb and flow of spit

or swallow

that stains the salty coast

in kelp,

and though you stormed the beach

a thousand times or more,

your swell simply could not survive

without your endless shore -

it seems to be a past

we've all lived through before.

Fireflies: 'we used to catch fireflies in mason jars' - jpurdy

2010-06-28T01:05:00.003-06:00

fireflies,

like the stars come down

to frolic in the pines,

and all those lies

you were sold

about love

and its cheap, ten-minute hold,

will fade as the sunrise claims

every flicker,

every firefly flame,

when the angels stop playing,

and again,

every truth in our shame

is told.

War: 'time has had a different effect on you, look at you, you're blue black and you're thru being that kid I knew' - rocky

2010-05-22T01:46:00.006-06:00

we hold no bayonets,

march no cadence,

chant no victory songs,

and our army of one

is truly that,

alone,

where the war we fight

is one with ourselves,

as we determine

right versus wrong,

which is always,

always

blurred on the battlefield,

and in this constant tussle,

the silliest thing of all,

is that the thing we learn

to hate the most

is not some almighty evil

or some great foe

who brought upon us, calamity,

but the test of ourselves,

when we are called to face

a mirror image and

do not like the things we see:

that is the nature of war.

Nashville Nine: 'Because you're mine, I walk the line' - Johnny

2010-05-11T00:32:00.006-06:00

no tears for Nashville,

no sense in adding to the flood,

though the roads that ran like rivers

had us wading in the mud,

and even when the Opry House

took the floodgates in,

or even when the Titan gods

were crying 'sink or swim,'

we knew that 'we are Nashville,'

the Athens of this land,

no call to arms was needed,

'cause it's here, we understand

that there's simply something different

in the way this city sings,

where, when the waters rise so high,

we strum our banjo strings,

and tell the story of the South,

its land of volunteers,

its people and the love they share

bring music to our ears.

Sunset: 'if there's no one beside you when you're soul embarks, I'll follow you into the dark' - dc

2010-04-30T00:39:00.003-06:00

the Sunset found me in your field,

and I bent the blades of grass against your back

like pillows that could've been swords instead,

though the only blood drawn gave life,

a test of love and sacrifice,

but as we bathed in all this bliss,

the Sunset burned upon us, this:

that time cannot be captured or removed,

that love cannot be proven or disproved,

but life is lived from moment here to there,

and of those that I cherish most,

none others will compare.

Train track: 'I fought in a war, and I left my friends behind me to go looking for the enemy' - belle&sebastian

2010-03-29T15:31:00.002-06:00

are you in Some-ville still,

or did you take that Memphis train,

the one that drained you,

a choo-choo track

that claimed the veins you used,

though the stains you saw were the same as

the colors that Christ bled,

that human condition was just

a withdrawal from his bread,

and this thing that you fear the most,

instead of another false comfort dose,

is the end of the track and a railway station,

the beginning of love as a new foundation,

where you'll find us with open arms to meet you.

Rood Again: 'soil and six feet under kept just like we were before you knew you'd know me' - bpilot

2010-03-27T23:40:00.005-06:00

old tree,

the way you sway

with the wind,

you test your roots

and make known your age,

but we do not hear

the grinds or groans

of decay -

no,

these sounds you sigh

are those of aching beauty,

of cruciform desire,

a path laid out

beyond

the time when

leaves no longer dawn you

and in anticipation

of how your saplings grow.

Swim: 'come find me on a beach and there'll be no moon' - iron&wine

2010-03-26T00:19:00.003-06:00

you compared your pain to mine,

a fish that broke the tethered line

and swam to show your scars at sea,

free, as you were, but still hooked,

lies lay in your convicting looks,

and I will not fish again.

Trees: 'a flower in the concrete' - eels

2010-02-26T14:13:00.005-06:00

I like your trees,
I like the roots I don't
always see there
below you and me,
and I like the rusty bark
you might wish was smooth.
I like hanging in your
canopy
way up in your leaf-like roof.
I like the little breeze,
the way it blows your hair
to here or there.
I like the birds that love you
and chirp a song,
a prayer.
I like your colors
and all they are,
I like the things that make you
you, I even like your scars.
I like the fact that I like you,
it makes me understand
that trees and men like me
are sown into this land.

Stained-Glass: 'your love is an anchor' - rocky

2010-02-26T03:16:00.003-06:00

she sees through stained-glass

a broken world but hers the same

though mended for a sacred room,

those dark hues have kept her here

between cold concrete and convinced

of the old, opaque lies,

that made the sacred so profane,

the ones where sins were daily stains

and grace had faded from her name,

and I can't help but wonder if

love reaching far beyond this

might shatter those windows again

to show her mistake and her beauty

are really just one and the same.

Gravitational Pull: 'oh, what a little moonlight can do to you' -bholiday

2010-01-23T01:49:00.003-06:00

still moon,

a friendly face

no cloud would chase away,

you made the sky the sea,

you turned that haze into a reef

to flood the galaxy,

you made our stars all plankton,

an algae constellation,

and moving like a jellyfish,

you hid your consternation,

while all that time you smiled

that smile and looked upon creation,

we thought it us who moved about

in constant dislocation,

but as you schemed and plotted so,

that friendly face we saw

flipped the world upon its head

with help from Newton's Law -

to think, in time, your clever smile

had come to drown us all!

Spring Lies: 'one way or another, winter pays for summer' - glen

2010-01-16T00:48:00.004-06:00

the Forget-Me-Nots forgot what happened

to the Morning Glory as the sun peaked,

but they, too, met their bitter end

wilted from what had once been full in bloom,

the couplet of some sacred sonnet torn

to tell its tattered tale elsewhere,

when the truth is not welcome in this bed,

and the lie of spring is that we come to think

it cannot end but frolic in its bliss instead,

but were there a way to know just when

to let the lies lie down, to face the truth

the sunshine casts as every flower drowns,

I think it best that I forget the way the couplet rhymes

though should the sunshine find me, I'm sure that she reminds.

Song of Nature: 'she starts to paint a perfect picture of this river parade' - jpurdy

2010-01-14T01:31:00.003-06:00

to the Sun,

that you would glow radiant

upon this dark dot of ours,

may you catch the shadows

and fold them into

silhouettes,

and to the Moon,

so soon to pick up

where the Sun leaves off,

or to tarry long after her return,

Waltz along the placid lake

to bring to life the wake

that can't be seen without you;

and my friend, the Wind,

who empties all the trees

of color

and paints the ground

new shades of orange or brown,

blow this song about -

that every ear may hear

the faintest sound of love

that nature makes.

A Grand Canyon, I: 'combin back her long yellow hair, her cheeks were as red as a rose' - bgtanyas

2009-12-16T01:03:00.004-06:00

the old rusted rocks,

cold and covered in

snow-splatters across that

precipice,

bring forth the evergreen

not as likely seen on summer days,

and as the sun can't sink

to shove off shadow,

the old Colorado teases us

to think she plays dead,

but instead, she lies

alive and in search

of even one grain of dirt

to conquer

what the Sol Invictus could not.

Walls: 'and people dragging crosses down the street, they put a child upon the mercy seat' - bondy

2009-12-09T02:49:00.005-06:00

the way a wall stands,

as though it knows just how to separate these lands,

and to think of what it must see with concrete eyes

closed for y(our) protection,

two or three miles of brown, barren sand

are worth more lives than Death can give,

and kicked up, screaming

for the blood Abel bled long ago,

this sacred ground cannot survive

what lies ahead in the ugly meaning of family,

that all in some unspoken, holy name,

we'd gather building walls to keep out what's profane,

and on our way to perfection,

the concrete might keep us from seeing ourselves,

for what is a wall but a mirror obstructing our view

beyond me to you, where the two are one in the same.

Nashville Eight: 'my cover is blown when she leaves me alone' - fiction fam

2009-12-03T02:00:00.003-06:00

Gotham sits quiet,

as the bridge-and-tunnel clan trudges home,

while Batman reads his poetry

on a channel all his own,

and no one's watching,

no one's watching,

as the streets receive their shine,

as the trash along the Cumberland

will tarry with the crime.

the searchlight wavers to-and-fro,

the hero will not come,

our hope has wane,

the scum below

has risen from the slum.

the hour is dark, the people cry,

and Batman has retired,

put on a pound and read the poems

his lonely heart desired,

so Gotham sinks

beyond repair,

beyond where dream meets doubt,

and the world so made of reason

has shut all lovers out.

Life of Death: 'you'll be dead by morning, so nothing'll matter then' - rocky

2009-12-01T01:47:00.003-06:00

I am Death,

his black cloak and silence cover me,

a peace I cannot yet describe,

but the horrible thing of it is that I'm still alive,

or so they say,

I pace about screaming whispers

that don't get out and look you in the eye,

as I am some invisible lie beyond truths not told,

an empty shell and broken mold,

and though my mirror holds me up bone by bone,

the two of us here are quite alone and flayed

(although we have our skin, our insides seem to've done us in),

it is ourselves we have betrayed, joined Judas, Brutus,

the world's crusade, as we are Death,

we are Death,

and in Life's ugly, final breath,

we sound our serenade.

Samsara (Ginkgo V): 'singing gravity away but the water keeps on falling from the sky' - foreman

2009-11-30T01:24:00.004-06:00

Ginkgo, who's bare of your butterflies, all wretched right down to the bone,

it's hard to believe they clothed you like leaves,

then flittered so far from their home.

Ginkgo, who's bare of the truth in disguise, believing your beauty is gone,

dead wings on the ground as you look all around

replenish the roots in your lawn.

Ginkgo, my friend, the season's reprise, that death is how life may atone,

the great wheel that turns shall ease your concerns,

as seeds of samsara are sown.

Past Meet Present: 'a mercy ship to sail you off to sleep' - bondy

2009-11-23T14:02:00.004-06:00

they hung them there from a tree,

dangling lifeless like Christ

and all 'cause God painted their skin

something ugly, non-white, and on the outside,

the color of what some called "sin,"

we'd really like to think we're far-gone from then,

progression.

when in the dark, we celebrate

our reds, greens, browns, in ... difference -

the color of progress, a cultureless rinse,

but the real thing to mourn

is that we're still all the same -

so filled with hate, so fueled by shame,

that we'd schlepp our own past

beyond present tense

to hang kindred on crosses

as no one repents.

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

2009-11-17T03:21:00.003-06:00

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

2009-09-19T23:19:00.005-06:00

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

2009-09-18T15:36:00.004-06:00

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

2009-09-10T22:16:00.003-06:00

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

2009-08-20T01:32:00.005-06:00

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

2009-08-11T13:30:00.004-06:00

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.

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

2009-08-11T01:19:00.003-06:00

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

2009-07-31T23:19:00.002-06:00

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

2009-07-28T22:39:00.004-06:00

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

2009-07-21T14:23:00.004-06:00

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

2009-07-13T19:47:00.004-06:00

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

2009-07-11T01:23:00.003-06:00

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

2009-07-08T00:24:00.004-06:00

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

2009-06-11T00:58:00.004-06:00

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

2009-06-05T22:56:00.003-06:00

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'

2009-05-29T22:11:00.003-06:00

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

2009-05-01T01:09:00.003-06:00

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

2009-04-15T02:20:00.003-06:00

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

2009-04-14T03:50:00.000-06:00

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

2009-03-30T00:49:00.005-06:00

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

2009-03-13T00:22:00.002-06:00

"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

2009-03-04T01:21:00.004-06:00

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

2009-02-26T03:18:00.000-06:00

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

2009-02-16T23:33:00.003-06:00

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

2009-02-10T01:49:00.005-06:00

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

2009-01-21T17:14:00.003-06:00

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

2009-01-09T03:09:00.001-06:00

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

2008-12-27T01:49:00.005-06:00

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

2008-12-27T00:36:00.004-06:00

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

2008-12-06T22:50:00.000-06:00

Mediterranean Girl: 'love love me do' - beatles

2008-12-06T01:16:00.002-06:00

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

2008-12-01T19:13:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-17T22:24:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-15T02:29:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-08T03:33:00.005-06:00

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

2008-10-10T01:17:00.006-06:00

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.

2008-10-03T21:59:00.002-06:00

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

2008-09-22T02:30:00.002-06:00

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

2008-09-13T20:41:00.003-06:00

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

2008-09-12T21:36:00.002-06:00

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

2008-09-02T10:18:00.002-06:00

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

2008-08-21T21:05:00.004-06:00

"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

2008-08-18T23:14:00.004-06:00

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

2008-06-18T21:09:00.002-06:00

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

2008-06-16T20:44:00.003-06:00

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

2008-05-16T01:18:00.004-06:00

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

2008-04-30T01:33:00.003-06:00

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

2008-04-10T21:18:00.000-06:00

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

2008-02-18T03:22:00.005-06:00

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

2008-02-12T04:15:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-14T18:46:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-11T01:22:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-28T00:50:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-18T00:14:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-07T22:06:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-01T22:01:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-25T22:01:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-22T22:13:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-22T21:49:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-22T21:42:00.001-06:00

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

2007-10-22T21:31:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-16T00:08:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-27T19:37:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-10T22:35:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-08T03:06:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-05T23:28:00.000-06:00

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.