a smile in her eyes and a sunflower in her hair.*'s Blurty

Subject:	History often mistakes itself.
Time:	10:41 pm.

its a cold war calamity
a thousand feet under and a hundred kilometres away
we built a nuke-proof bomb shelter
in the shape of the national gallery,
you know, as a disguise.

its rusted and old and looks like a bad Bond movie.
but i'm sure Rembrandt and Pollock would have called it home.

we hold secret meetings every tuesday
well, not that secret anymore.

nineteen...
left, right,
ninety-four.

it still stands,
proud, erect,
and not forgotten by those who knew it.

a little dust here and there never hid things well.

there are things only i know.
i've never filed anything,
never told.
it's something just for myself,
well, and the builders.

i papier-mached an entire room clay and limestone,
you could mistake it for an unfinished, earthen lair.

i wanted it to look normal, as much as possible
with everyone now interested in a new home for artistic expression.

the secret is partly that its secret,
that i don't want you to know.
you tour the house, my humble abode
and think "hey, is this an exhibit, or real?"
and keep on walking.

easily accepted, easily forgotten.

and now i'm thinking,
if i ever leave this place,
this crazy cool niche,
and you see me for me,
what will you think?

the cuban missile crisis was a tricky incident,
what was more fearful,
that the Cubans were helping the Russians?
or that the Americans never knew?

Diefenbaker, Diefenbunker,
the point is, it exists.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	I was the peanut butter, you were the jelly.
Time:	10:39 pm.

what a cruel thing it is to possess a memory
how it wrenches and twists and squeezes you into a tube that
does not allow you to do anything
except scream and gasp for breath.

and cry.

and all you can do is look up at what you're facing
the very truth that strangles life from your cradled eyes.

you can't do anything about it.
can't change, can't help, can't save with it is that
breaks you.

i can't move.

your eyes still sparkle the way they always did.

but they don't see me anymore.
they've forgotten me.
those strong, graceful eyes that embraced me,
even when i gave her the burnt popcorn.

the ones that held me int he night when my feet were cold
and no one else would warm them for me.

i shake your arms,
i shake myself,
hoping that like an etch-a-sketch
i can bring the lief i loved and held so dearly
back.

come back.

please come back.

you can't do this.
we had plans.
you promised you would come to my graduation
and clap and cry and be so proud of me.

your little girl would have finally
grown up into the perfect young
lady you raised like your own.

we were going to do the Queen wave
and lift our heads high in the picture
just like you promised.

but you don't feel me anymore.
someone else lives inside you.
a stranger peers through your eyes,
and,
and its not home anymore.

* * *

where are you my love?
where have the doves spirited you off to in the depths
of thick and sweet smelling clouds?
are you in your happy place?
did you find peace?

do you search for your little girl the way i do when i look in your eyes for the person i loved most?

are you lost?
do you struggle in your body,
fighting big ugly monsters to get to us?
are you fighting them with all your strength?
of course you are,
you're a fighter, you always were.

you always healed the quickest in every way imaginable.
you taught me that too.

when you broke your arm i always propped up the pillow because
you hated wearing your sling,
and when i had the fever you never left my side for a minute,

i remember laughing when you sent mom and dad for everything then.

you never really left my side

until now.

and all i have now is your beautiful face
and the best memories i've ever had
living in two bodies.

mica, where are you?

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	Angst
Time:	9:48 am.

this morning i was clunking my spoon in my cereal loud enough to even annoy me.

i don't like cereal.

i don't like what i'm doing to myself.

i step on the line
off the line
very quickly
very emotionally

and very subconsciously
and consciously.

i don't know what's gotten into me.

i'm so easily irritated by everyone.

and i'm botching things up just because i can.
and the only times i enjoy are either by myself
or in front of seeming strangers
like extras in movies.

hell even with them i'd wear a clown wig in front of my face
and make obscene gestures with my hands.

inevitably, remorse follows.

i've lived for ten minutes on and off without my shadow like peter pan.
wendy's never there to sow it on,
and i don't know if my superglue's expired.

wait a minute -
superglue expires?

maybe i'm expired
maybe that's why i'm so
neurotic and crazy.

but what scares me the most is that for the moment
i'm okay.

and then i want things the way they were.

i want s p a c e.

i want it to be okay to live on the moon for a month in nothing but maddening silence
just to shut me up
and calm me down

i want that to be okay with my parents
i want that to be okay with my parents
without me feeling guilty.

that's what i've been trying to do.

like trying to take the sour cream off meted cheesy nachos.
a stupid fantasy unless you order them without it.

but i need the sour cream for my own health
and for my family's.
its our superglue.

but i'm scared its expired.

and spaceships can take me to the ends of the world,
but they have to take me back,
whether i land on earth or not.

running from our problems only makes them follow us faster,
tinkerbell was never far behind.

i don't know what i want,
is that okay?

or do i know what i want,
but secretly can't say?

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	A Silent Endeavour
Time:	9:34 pm.

the symbols and timpanies took a soft and gentle rest
beating their rhapsody no longer to the frequent terror that oft came with clouds clashing,
the heavens were preaching o'er head.

down beneath, the mossy green forested a tender niche for those who picked wildflowers,
and those who sought refuge twixt branches tangled to harvest a protective roof,
a leaf fell here and there,
dusted with sun or drowned in sorrow,
the moods were just as omnipresent as the stars above.

and who is to say the daffodil climbs fairer than the pussy willow?
or the speckled trout demeans the frothy fungus?
each and everyone was picked,
each had a purpose.
the naval coat swam with the fishes,
and the peasant skirts caressed the fields.

a boy jumbled his way through the nearby shores,
unaware of life to come,
unaware of how he was to be harvested and cropped and tenderized into what he was to become,
his eyes spoke with winds,
with careful curiosity.

the shores were young with stones of every shape and size
and he taught them all he knew.
the gulls would perch for supper on the boulders,
and the smooth and supple ones would be sent into the ocean to be eroded into sand.

how did one know, learn, categorize all these things?

---

in a brazen, tattered and stylishly sleek orange jumpsuit,
a female bounced towards a jaggered beat,
up, two, three, four
down, two, three four.

she stares at the mirror of the rest of her class
and sees only her pupils
her sweating, exhausted, angry students
who would rather lick ice cream straight off the cone.

the lady cannot see her reflection covered by her class.
the rocks are hidden by each other.
the flowers are mixed in with weeds.
the fish swim out to sea.

and all the while,
though we have no sight or ourselves,
no assurance of who we are,
we are destined somewhere,
to fill a slot.

and the four estranged crew met together, here today,
in a lush, reed filled meadow,
to seek beyond what they had come to pay.
a short, stubbed seedling of long grass tilted its neck from the sun to the waves.

"you've glittered here before,
who so glum on this occassion?"

and all it took was curiosity and care,
when a professor's life is to sculpt and mend the future for the better,
how does one decide who to invest in, and who to shun,
when the saplings and the buds are just as covered, scared and torn as the florists themselves?

the lightning ignites us once more,
such a folly that rain does not fray far from indecision.
perhaps what we cannot see in ourselves, one needs to see in someone else,
to help the person grow not only into their best flower
but into our own.

thank you so kindly,
for keeping your eye on me,
if only for a moment,
to grace my stem, and replant me in the sun,
to walk away to a far away land,
and me, to develop strength in a field so crowded and confused as my mind.

i cannot repay to you what you have done to me,
i only hope,
i shall find a pebble, or a whale
that i could let see daylight as crisp and golden
and tangible and delicious
as that mere blink you made me feel.

life is to be loved.
happiness is to be shared.
intelligence perservered,
hope never to be lost.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	Configure me the type who strays from the subject and hits it home every time.
Time:	6:47 pm.

i used to love you.

i don't understand life sometimes.
i took a walk today, after dinner
tenderly nostalgic for a barbecue dinner
but shovelled three slices of pizza down instead.
and i was dressed up with nowhere to go,
and thus couldn't bike, couldn't run,
couldn't do anything to take my mind off the thoughts that like to steal me away.

so i sang.
quietly humming to myself,
its something i've always loved to do
but only alone
because i can't carry a tune
and i can't have people watching me.
so here i am, on the corner of colonial
entwining lyrics
thoughts,
memories.

"to really love a woman,
to let her hold you
till you know how she needs to be touched
hear every thought,
see ever dream,
till you feel her in your blood
and when you see your unborn children in her eyes,
you know you really love a woman.

if you love a woman
then tell her that she's really wanted,
if you love a woman,
tell her that she's the one ---"

stupid dog walker.
i smile in their direction
bring out my nervous cough and keepn on going
singing more quietly than ever
after all an entire zoo's just past.

"she needs somebody, to tell her that its going to last forever
so tell me have you ever really
really really ever loved a woman?"

strange how the songs you love the most you can't remember.
oh, its only me?
how clumsy to accuse such things!

screw fairer sex or whatever its called now-a-days,
i think sometimes men know us better than ourselves
and it scares us.
because we don't know if they realize it.

maybe thats why i hold onto your first draft of your birthday poster,
tucked away in my nighttable
did you know i couldn't open the thing for months?
but i couldn't live not knowing where it was,
wondering what landfill was recycling my poor attempts at colouring.

i bet you've forgotten me.

timing is everything they say.

so its 8:30 pm on a staurday night,
i'm finishing off my cerbral mixup of "to really love a woman" and the other greatest song of all time.

"oh, she takes care of herself,
she can wait if she wants,
she's ahead of her time,
oh, and she never gives out,
and she never gives in,
she just changes her mind
---
and the most she will do is throw shadows at you
but she's always a woman to me."

my lyrics are out of sorts,
out of tune, rhyme and place.
but the thought of the song and
the first time i heard them in my mother's car
probably at the age of five on the same saturday
but it's morning
and we're garage saleing
with about ten dollars in loonies, nickles and dimes.
you used to buy a lot with ten dollars at garage sales then,
and the beauty is -
life stayed the same, you still can.

so if somethings in life stay the same,
i guess my disney fascination makes sense.

because, i'm in the wooded pathway before the end of the park
with the first posquito bites of the year
(everytime i itch i find a new place)
i'm thinking
its so beautiful here,
i have to sing my favourite song,
and i can't think of it!
raindrops on roses?
two a.m.?
feed the birds?
mona lisa?
no.

and for some reason i try to remember my elementary school song,
and then,
right as an elderly couple passes by - boom!
"who will buy my sweet red roses,
who will bloom for a penny?"
that one tiny line from Olliver's Twist
mean the world to the musical
and to me.

its a new beginning.

and i'm smirking because i'm writing on the back of your rough drafts.
i couldn't find other paper,
is this an omen?

perhaps its the time of year as we flip through yearbooks that we remind ourselves of who we were,
how we've changed.

my change?
i stopped singing.
well, forcing it anyhow.
"you can't make someone love you if they don't,
you can't make your heart feel, something it won't"

i'm on the road home, inhaling the smell of sweet summer,
it's a fuzzy breezy haze,
and i find a floating spore,
no, that's not what you call it.

a wishing dandelion.
so i catch it with ease,
make my wish
"i hope to find true love"
take a deep breath before blowing it to find my wish
and out comes my whooping cough again.
i've magically swallowed it.
fan-diddly-tastic.
i spit it out, a little disenheartened.
ok, a little more disenheartened.

i keep walking, probably two blocks away now,
and i find another right in front of a hosue of twittering giggles and echoing footsteps.
this one was much harder to catch,
it was the first time that i actually stopped on my walk - right in the middle of everything
i didn't say my wish out loud and it glided on behind me,
a tall tan boy with curl hair walks in front of me and i stare at the pine tree in the opposite direction.

"forgive me for forgetting,
but these things i do,
see i've forgotten,
if they're green or they're blue,
anyway, thing is, what i mean to say,
those are the sweetest eyes, i've ever seen.

i hope you don't mind,
i hope you don't mind,
that i put it down in words,
how wonderful life is, while you're in the world"

and as i walk up my drive way, all my circling in my head finally brings me home
with new hope, new outlook,
new realization.

i want to say
i love you.

Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Love in Connotations.
Time:	7:59 pm.

a cool wind blows
old memories through the door
an addition to a chapter
we've held underneath our hearts
hidden there for sure.

o, what dominating glides
you swish
you slide
and manoevre us to your will
guiding us down the path you intend us to follow
leaving a lingering of hope and yet desire.

how we miss those days of yore.
where we lived through fantasy
where it was just oh so real.
where the tips of our tongues did not yearn with such a trembling effort
to our wishes.

our dreams present such obstacles for us
three cases shall be provided.

one:
a string is tied around my heart, pulling as it pleases
it does not hold great effort on me, for the pain it singes to my very core
and i would do anything for it
anything it asked
not because of the pain
it is a fire that burns within my soul
that craves to be fulfilled
and yet it bellows, to and fro.
it is a flag on a mast
the string, the flag, wavered by that tantalizing wind
it blows so gently
as if to kiss me in spite.
and yet, i follow it willingly
still hoping as the masts hold the flags
that i will end to my horizion.
my destination.

two:
a feeling of thine, so excuse the observer's sight.
a soul-searcher, such like I
wanders, wobblingly round and round
despairing for new entrances
through a revolving door
the glass is as strong as we are.
oh those dreadful mirages
that pose as shimmering light
we grasp for them with both hands
held tightly
onto falling sand
revealing a desert
yet again of hope.
shall we dig beneath till we can dig no more
to achieve our true heart's desires?
the wind, it again fools our deepest cries.
close your eyes from the storm
let it not blind those few seconds of bliss that dreams bestow.
please
above all else
let us dream.
dream to hope.
hope the wind will guide us to the only thing we've ever wanted.

three:
what is three?
a number, or a list?
the truth is
it hurts too much
to try and try
to even continue the ways that we live our lives.
always in search.
always holding hope.
the wind our fate.
the guides,
our love.

o, shine, windmill, shine
made of childhood dreams
glitter in the morning sun
of happiness that succeeds

if we cannot taste nothing such as pure as that
we must thank you for such a blessing,
but instill in us the greatest passion known to man
of not knowing how to achieve it
and have it dwell within us evermore
until our minds become as wild and insane as the winds that guide us
desperate for what we need

what is this lesson?

and an echo through the wind
makes the windmill stop at once
a cloud overhangs my head
a shadow upon the ground
figures dancing here and there
and the sun takes a nap.
drizzle drizzle down my neck,
now I lay me down to rest.

what is there to look forward to
but the hope of a dream?

Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Little Red Rain Boots
Time:	2:46 pm.

Time moves differently for different people.

She stood, six years old
at the edge of the lake, listening to the crunching of the sand beneath her feet
that there were soft turns and slips
and sharp wobbles between boulders
and when she had found the perfect spot

she sat
criss cross
applesauce
and just looked towards the big black blue
it didn't look very deep.
at least not for a while,
the algae still caressed the mountains of stone that peaked its head about halfway to the end of the eye can see

and its okay if nothing else happened except the tide rolling in
and the occasional seagull squawking for some bread

no thing was really happening.
everything was.

and just like that
just looking at the hypnotizing view
she suddenly felt the need to look beside her
it was as if someone else had found it
so gently and beautifully laid out
like a display

a smooth scultptured stone with a fossil in it
that could have been a shell
or a funky sort of fish
(there might have been fins)

she took her time closing her eyes
greeting the stone into her new world

and she awoke in a swing
swaying back
and forth
back and forth
her head towards the sand
this one was wet and damp
the smell of fresh rain had decorated the world

her foot skimmed two parallel lines
with bumps and faults inbetween
the sound reminded her of sandpaper
of her steps along the beach.

dizzy, she looks up.

water is a beautiful set of paints
that mediates and creates a medium
for birth, life, and beauty.

its not so topsy turvy anymore.
its prominent in a delicate sort of way.

cherry blossoms on a dark dark skin of bark
meshed with vibrant yet a calming green.

and the pavement smells like spring.

and now she opens her eyes again.
and there are people all around
its a different kind of time
for the same kind of person

but they don't seem to fit in.
they hustle
they bustle
they rhyme to a ciagrette tune.

they aren't where she is.

she closes her eyes again.

she is six years old.
with a blue rain coat that squeaks whenever you move.

splash!
and its okay
the puddles are fun
with Little Red Rain Boots
and a vinyl umbrella.

its good to see the sky cry
because its giving birth
it releases pain
it releases joy

it creates life.

and the sounds they don't mean that much.
to be honest the sights don't either.

its a very odd sort of daze.
a Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds
minus the pills and the horrible side effects.

she opens her heart.
and lets all in.
because not all is a one
and everyone isn't fair.

maybe things need to
clickclickclick
together
click

photograph
camera
memory

is she searching for something?
an escape?
a love?
a meaning.

a tap on the shoulder.
"Hey there sunshine,
what's in store for us today?"

"Melodies and sweet symphonies.
And candy by the lake."

Cotton Candy.

Yeah.
Cotton Candy.

How does this work?
Puzzle Puzzle Puzzle Piece.

searching for its partner.
we don't intertwine perfectly.
we are not in a box made for children three and over.

we are a ball of yarn.
and a pair of
Little
Red
Rain
Boots.

liferegretsresilientbreath.
maybe.maybe.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	A Word Jumble of Sorts - A Prolonged Thought.
Time:	7:01 pm.

A flicker of movement was sensed in my cerebral cortex the other day. Or whatever part of the brain that ignites those thoughts that are claimed to be "genius". You know, those which exceed the average 5% the normal human uses. Aren't blanketed statements wonderful?

And that's what got me thinking. Life plays out these wonderful puzzles. I speak in plural terms because there's so many ways to connect the dots. But hang in there for a minute while I play this out. I saw strands of time link with each other to give me one very large question. Perhaps you can answer it.

I've read The Great Gatsby. At first, I wasn't entirely impressed by its short and choppy flow. But then I understood that that was its purpose. We are an impatient species, enticed by quick, vivid descriptions and lots of action. With the ocassional soundbite we skim through our vision of the world. In the eary 1920's, we discover one very popular belief: (I say popular in the terms that the book is world famous, and not necessairly in regards to whether the general belief was accepted or not) life isn't what it seems.

We all strive towards a goal, whether it be prosperity, prestige, affection etc. But what happens if we maintain the goal until we achieve it? Is there nothing else to achieve? Do we become paranoid that this can't be it and so we create new goals so that we never truly achieve everything and in some way keep ourselves going for the sake of going or greed?

Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let's say we took one path. Say we achieved the dream and we said "let's park it right here in perfectland". Well then, how does one continue? Throughout the novel the reader sees that the characters feel something is missing, and ruin their perfection, or their perception of perfection.

Was it because the person's dreams were not genuine to begin with, or was it because once you've achieved something all the work is done? Or perhaps, by nature it crumbles so that we can rebuild ourselves.

Is happiness meant to be maintained?

Flip through approximately 60 years to a new world of materialism, wealth and class. More specfically, television. For those of us who didn't have the stars aligned in our favour for the "big win", we enjoyed watching shows, or soap operas that made us feel better about ourselves. Like Dallas. To inform the uninformed reader, Dallas was a TV soap opera beginning in 1978 through to 1990 which followed the lives of a rich texan oil family and the disaster that comes with power,greed and money. Along with the lust and empty love we almost have a reprecussion of The Great Gatsby. Except here's the twist. Now we see the world falling apart, and I'm not using the royal 'we' either. I mean the entire world is watching it. Why is this important you may ask? Well think about this.

We've always masked the truth. We've always wanted to live the dream. And when we know that we can't live the dream, but the next best thing, or a few notches down the list best thing, we like to know that those who do live the dream, aren't actually.That money can't buy happiness.

These were the strands that tied together a ball of yarn in my mind. I just thought it was totally tubular. Utterly fascinating. That we've done a 360 on how we see the world. There is no such thing as the dream. There's no such thing as old money, but older money. All your parents worked their butts off to get where they are. So if its your greatgrandfather who made the big dough, commend him. Don't butcher him because Sally's great great great grandfather made the millions before you. None of us sprouted from Heaven (despite Jesus which is still under investigation). We all worked hard, guaranteed we all came from the bottom of the list, because anyone who was anyone way back when would have been killed off revolutionary syle, or by their own overdosing means.

So I've slid onto another tangent (I haven't bothered to count, this isn't a formal essay). I don't know about you, but I wouldn't necessairly be proud to go up to Mr.Jones over there and say "Hey, I'm spending my grandpa Joe's hard-earned fortune because I don't need to work, and I'll never need to. I won't learn the essence of life, but of luxury, and that my goal in life is to dwindle into nothingness, by which self-destruction will occur at somepoint. You know, because only the bottom of the list survive. Do you actually think anyone is going to try and maintain this wealth? Hell no, hey, pass that cigar over there, yeah, the one in the solid gold ash tray".

Now I have nothing against the wealthy. I especially am in fond admiration to those who actually earned their fortunes. The fair and square way.

Where as J.R. Ewing,well, he can go to hell the way he's maintaing his fortune (snippet of Dallas, because everything really does connect).

And now I sound like this all-mighty God speaking of moral and amoral actions and the way of life. I know no one will read this, and I doubt that those who will read this will agree with me. I just had one thought,then another, and another and so on and so forth.

All I'm saying is this. We are really twisted. And that's overly-concrete, but you know what? Sometimes we need it, if everything was as bloody complex as we see it to be, well then, what's the point you know?

What is the point of goals again?

--------

I feel for ya Atlas.

or should I feel proud of Prometheus?

Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	A Tiding for Easter. (possession of a different sort)
Time:	4:04 pm.

Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall.

[Setting] A pitch black room. To which, if you were blind or not would make no differnce. You wouldn't be able to tell what it really is.
Watch your step,
these plots are open, and as we know, they're six feet deep,
not the most comforting of falls, into the earthen pit of merciless fate.

Welcome to the cemetery.

You shouldn't travel this late at night, besides, if you have to walk with your hands out to feel where you're going, that's not a good sign, seeing as you have no idea to what you're really holding.
Is it a tree?
A tombstone?
A life?

Humpty Dumpty Had A Great Fall.

The precursor to all pathetic fallicies is rain. In this case, it is set to the tune of Sonata in G Major by Franz Joseph Haydn, a rather delightful piece, unless you're not prepared, or are possessed by the Devil himself.

Death loomed the cast iron fences in its cascading cloak long before it actually arrived.
I sensed it before it curled its hand in my general direction,
sweeping its fog into my breath
whispering seductive sweet nothings into my ear.

No raven was needed.
Death and I had a fight to settle
a bone to pick
a deal to make.

The minute the violin played every part of me wanted to leap inside the cloak and smile in disgust at all those who cherished their lives and thought that caring for others actually mattered.

And then I realized, in this invisibly dark world, I saw the fog.
Light was coming from somewhere.
Somehow.

Death lost sight of years of tempting all in the blink of acknowledgement.
All in the capability of mine own sight.

Oh how stricken Death was, raising the inner fires from hell, its main joy to bring down Earth's only believer.
She was no angel, yes indeed, she was human.
And body and mind seperated for that one instant whereupon Death made sure that my decision was irreversible.
I could have leapt with minions and mongrels of the underworld, laughed at excessive pain, and wreak havoc on those whom I chose.

I could have, in Death's cloak, through Death's foggy perspective live.

"You temptress, you smoldering temptress! You befound me a glance of eternal glory! A mere glance! Dare you to smite powers of the extreme and test the waters for which you were never meant to survive? I cast upon you the true gift of life! The best gift the Devil himself could present upon the world to create you an immortal reminder of your decision! Learn now what it is to feel life crumble before your very hands, let all your wishes, health, love, and prosperity subside till you are exactly what I see you as! What you should be! WHAT YOU ARE!"

Death's voice sang in shrill incandesence, as if the lyrics of a georgian chant were being woven into the most mighty curse that even Jesus through crucifixion could not feel. This was not hate, this was revenge. This was hell in its most horrific and powerful moments.

Be still, everlasting love I hummed in my head. For if Death feels one movement, a miniscule vibration, then I truly have lost. I did what I had to, Death had given me no choice.

I held my breath.

Through the depths of a coat which could bare no face, no gender, no single attribute towards the living soul other than the shriek that most resembled voice, I felt a smile.

For we both knew that only two things could happen. A stumble in which I did not fully recognize being in my haughty temperance and desperation. Had I continued to hold my breath there would come a moment where I would build inside me such a need to inhale the oxygen which most likely was already poisioned that I would have to comply, or defeat the urge proving I was better, and die. And with Death so triumphantly posed infront of me, ready to devour me as if I was the most savoury meal the world had to offer, I couldn't do so. I wouldn't. Defeat would not surmise my lifelong actions.

I took a breath, and for the tiniest of moments (for time either passed as if the grain would never transfer into the other half of the glass, or as if time was comprised of the fastest movement, incapable of actually seeing, but only to realize that it jolted like lightning in quick bolts) I felt a shock. Death didn't know how to react, it was as if this had never happened before.

And I beamed all the light within me in sheer relief. And Death was sure not to slip twice between the Earthly cracks by which it transgressed from this world, and its own. It had found my true weakness, and acted upon the curse by which was first fueled by revenge and now utter hatred. The darkest form ever concieved. But how slow the process was to occur, was to its own liking.

It could have easily entangled itself around my neck until I could beg for mercy, but it knew, it understood like before. A life's worth of disruption does not amount to an easier success. And pride does not live in short achievements. It would be a slow, catastrophic Death that even Death the creator and terminiation of all Death, including themself had never endured.

And Death would make sure it was properly enjoyed to its full extent.

And All The King's Horses,
And All The King's Men,
Couldn't Put Humpty Together Again.

Resurrect me if you dare we both said as if they were the only words that could escape our mouths.

This was the End.
For me, For Death.
For all mankind that gave way for anything that mattered.

* * *

Now I see what all this was for.
Eight years of,
of mini trauma really.
I learned the physicality of a volcano, and what it really was.
The inception was a blemish on the earth which sought comfort,
and by doing so was ignored.
It grew a wrinkled exterior that grew inside a much larger problem than what was ever to be considered.
And spews of puss, saliva, blood and pungent vile excretions hiccuped me along the way to the top.
Those eight years, was my rising, for my debut.
My entering of the explosion for which all plots climax to.
This ain't a picture show.
And we not that smart.
-hic- -hic- Durr.
Dis vale cane oh
is upside down!
-hic- -hic-

Welcome, to the the End.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	True Love.
Time:	11:33 am.

I am sitting in a rocking chair
drinking hot cocoa in front of a roasting fireplace
we are cooking chestnuts that we collected in the fall
and every now and again
a magical wind seeps through the open vent,
and entrances me to look out the window

it beckons
"why are you still inside?"

so i pull on my longjohns
and my overcoat too
entangle a scarf
and look out the frosted and foggy window pane
i draw a heart with my fingers
and put on my hat and mittens

i've bundled myself quite well
and a peaceful excitement stirs my heart
it ignites the lantern in my left hand the same way
with a dim warmth

and i make may way out into the world
safely tucked in by a blanket of snow
that has put everyone in sight
into a very happy quiet.

its not a silence, for the owl still hoots the nocturnal world awake
and the crunching from my boots along the snow still exists
but it is muffled
it has no echo.

its a very crisp night
a sensation often attached to the love of morning birds
but it suits the occasion well
as i can still smell the smoky atmosphere
billowing, curling,
its irresistible aroma from my home,
yonder three kilometres back.

the snow makes walking enjoyable.
in fact, it makes everything enjoyable.
each step an adventure,
each different than the last
one may slip to the left,
the other may get your boot stuck inbetween ice.

but everything is so serene.
for in all this quiet,
there is an undeniable calm
nothing in the world could happen
the world is frozen
in an unexplicable content face
its a happiness that derives from nature
from childhood memories
of making snowangels behind the barn
or taking a sleigh ride with Farmer Joe
I walk to one of my childhood memories

The pond.

We leave our skates tied to the old willow tree
Louise's is on the bottommost branch,
Daddy's is round the trunk (his laces are very long)
Mother's is around the branch closest to the evergreen,
and mine is on the root.
good ol' Becca, was the root of most situations, daddy says.

and the smiles, and laughter
they fill the quiet air,
but they do not overpower
overtake it
quiet still prevails.

and one step on the ice,
than another,
and a twirl,
and my arms are open wide
staring at the incandescent moon.

I only circle in giant eights,
that way, I may enjoy every bit of the pond,
and the smoky atmosphere transforms into cherry pipe tobacco
and burnt marshmallows.

winter has no age.

and I could sit until the heavens lifted me above
here in this enchanted winter world.
for november brings the cold chill home,
to prepare for december's holidays.
January is winter month,
it is when winter has us all to herself.
and she wastes no minute to take us into her arms.

we have no car in winter.
we stay at home for 4 whole months
unless we use our snow shoes
or our sleigh,
and even then,
we oblige that we stay where we are headed overnight
or until the snow has stopped
the two most beautiful sights in winter's wonderful blanket
is its perfect, neverending quilt,
or with one's steps running through it,
more than one, and you have slush,
urban behaviour,
disregard,
no appreciation,
and winter will treat you the same.

be good to the most precious season of them all,
for she always has you in mind.

and so i find a new path, at the edge of the pond,
where the geese lay their eggs
and make their home,
there's a small log cabin
that Brendan built for me,
and his heart lives in there
with the cot, and the fire.
and i fall asleep,
staring out the window,
watching the gentle snow start afresh
finding new people to fall in love with
and embracing its joy
it grows.

we grow.
goodnight sweet stars,
and tender moon,
take care of winter,
i'll see you soon.

Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Pistachios
Time:	10:14 am.

Alfred nervously,
reflexively,
inhales a handful.

It's his version of oxygen.

His shoes,
worn, tattered,
with a hole large enough
to see his last two toes
where there shoud be a sock.

He is
desperate,
cunning,
and a man of might and question.

He will not speak with you.
Please don't take this personally,
he won't speak with anyone.

To be honest,
I haven't even heard him cough.

He's never ill,
but out of sorts.
Lost something down the way.
And all he does
is suck the salt out of
every shell he has.

He'll even eat the brown paper shell around the pastel green nut.

Is it a nut?
Well he must be.

He sits in front of
Cafe Auberge
like clockwork.

I'm not quite sure if he has money.
But he stalks the wealthy crowds whom
sip espressos for breakfast
and nibble on
fine black caviar
for lunch.

Out of curiosity,
I sat next to his beaten chair
the other day
to the side of the terrace.

Does he work there?
Does he sleep there?

The Chateau Frontenac doesn't provide the right
view I guess.

I've seen him walking with a black alligator leather folder,
a fountain pen with gold initials A.B.
and a napkin
and three sheets of stationary
one of which has been almost entirely
covered with scribbles that you would
think that the paper was black.

I'm not stalking him.

I'm trapped until the rain stops
and he happened to drop his folder
yesterday bumping into a horse and carriage.

Perhaps he needs glasses?

Wearing a black overcoat with an orange
patch on his left elbow he buys six
more kilograms of his life support.

"Eloise get away from that blasted window, go outside if you wish!"

Heard. Understood. Ignored.

Damnit, I missed how he bought them.
How can an entire civilization function knowing this
every man's gesture?
It's as if they created him...
no...
did they?

Was he one a man of luxe?
Who drank champagne
and danced all night?

Did he frolick with
fair ladies
and conquer the world
of finance?

Was the last shred
of his dignity the
very thing he thrives
himself upon...

Considering,
that life is only
worth what he
used to maintain...

And by eating
the most expensive
nut on the planet
he remains inside
whom he was
before?

But he does
not speak, ashamed
what he has become?

"ELOISE!"

I shut the four paned
window. Put on
my white silk
gloves and mae
my way down
to the boardwalk
outside.

He disappeared

As did my train of thought.

Little sherlock,
no,little
mistress of curiosity.

Perhaps I too have found my pistachios.

A tap from the
behind of
my shoulder
swerved me in his general direction.

He was looking
for wobbly
cobblestones
on the streets.
He looked like
he was skating for the first time.

He let slip a smile
so radiant
that the years of grime
that might have
possibly deteriorated
this man,
revived him
in the instant.

How old was he?

He looked up at me.

I quickly looked down.
How long had I stood inbetween
the tens of passerby's?

I looked up,
he was still looking at me.

Quickly I made my way
into a lift that would
take me to the bas.
Yes I know the word is
fernicular but that
sounds like an ant not
a giant mechanical monstrosity.

Perhaps he invented it?

I couldn' help but notice he
dd not wear any rings -
oh stop it -
it is a girl's first reflex
to look there.

He was in the car behind me now.
Oh God,
what had I done?
Was he following me?

A dozen reasons why crept into
my mind. I slipt my arm into
Druxy's as he looked at me
confused
insisting we stroll the avenue.

He was gone. But the distinct
sound of his pitter patter on the
old French steets reminded me,
that through these old French bricks
lies more than culture,
history
and art

but mystery.

Like traditions create the town
so has Alfred. His head turns
every time it is called, despite the
fact someone else is being
called. He continues to walk
this time clapping his hands
against the baggueterie,the
church next to it and an old
monument of Samuel de Champlain.

What a strange man...

What dos he see and feel
from this world?
There must be something
in the water.
For nowhere else in my
travels have I come upon
one so strange, so
intriguing.

so manipulative.
For he knew before
the very thought of
me existed he would
entrance me.

Surely, like the
pastors do on Sunday
sermon...right?

He buys himself a canvas
and throws his old fashioned
beret cap into the river
like a frisbee.

The streets are
like his puppets,
he holds them
with such ease.

Cafe Auberge
traumatizes him.
He ages a hundred years whenever
he walks across it.
I believe I've even seen a tear
well up in his eyes.

And it appears he regains consciousness
and gobbles up
another bag of them,
pouring the spout into his mouth...
shells and all.

He crunches them in his mouth,
spits them back
into his plastic bacg.
Wait,
he has two.
One he puts underneath his foot,
just sitting there...
the other he holds
as if they were
goldfish in a saliva pond.
He puts that bag into his pocket,
it jingles when he moves.

But then he jumps!
First with delight,
now anger,
confusion?
completion.

The shells underneath his foot are now
a very fine dust
which he takes a
handful of and
blows into the wind.

"Really now, binoculars? What birds are we looking at from the top of the town?"

A lady ought never cause violence,
so I just continued dreaming I elbowed Druxy
hard in the ribs.

I never get to see Alfred when I really want to.
I'm afraid of him.
And when Druxy is donewith work,
we will go home to Father.

But on the way back to my
chamber by myself that night
I was pleasantly surprised to
come across a trail of pistachio
shells that led to my bathroom,
in the tub, the blank canvas.

At the bottom of the canvas,
written in black pen

With all my love
Alfred Benevole

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	Ballerina
Time:	10:09 am.

ballerina
ballerina
twirls in a sea of rose

a christmas picture comes to mind.

enchantment alights the graceful figure
as her arms turn in perect tempo
to a familiar tune

she is keeper of her castle
a kind yet prominent soul
she dances the same routine
never without fail
never without disappointment

new and old smiles glisten
every time she turns
and they linger around
until the last drop,
movement,
sound,
echos feverently in their minds.

she brings an eerie joy
that no one else could

for her fluidity rises
like the turtledoves overhead
sweetly soaring
singing songs only heaven
could hear.

her hands as gentle as
the velvet she dances among
delicately find more
than the one picture perfect pose
she is known for.

somedays she wear a crown
and mames herself a pixie
on occasion she is a swan
in search for love and beauty

but today she remains her classic pink self.
her tutu frothy and rough over her silken leotard
mistaken for her skin

She is a creature of music.

and as the spring runs out
of love and energy
so does our little princess

she bids us farewell in a
complete bow kissing our
previous items that are
cared for.

well looked after.

mademoiselle of the antique
little world,

will great us again with a new story tomorrow
with the same song.

Her wings lie in our hearts.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	this was written a year ago before i went to sleep.strange what fantasies can do.
Time:	8:27 pm.

Miss Delaine, in an elegant paisley frock, sat accompanied by Mister Turner in a garden on a timid May afternoon.

With her head bowed away from the sun her modesty stirred the fine porcelain teacup in her hand. Mister Turner, cunning as can be was admiring the blossoming of the tulips nearby. The grammaphone in the distance was playing Chopin's Nocturne in E flat which was most inappropriate for the time of day.

The setting could have been a rucus in the town square, he would still not look at her. How in love she was with him, though she had never heard his voice, she had not even the knowledge of his first name. She admired him from afar in her sketches by the woords. He enjoyed taking strolls by himself...

He was smart and successful and yet the care of his mother was always his frist priority. He was polite and kind and his charm, so unique. She could not help but begin to weep ever so softly. He would go to some dame who could care less about him.

Miss Delaine could no longer stand the pain screaming in her silent surroundings. She placed the cup on the table and picked up her gloves. Her head slowly rising to ask permission to leave, due to her 'allergies'.

He was now in front of her.

" If you love this song as much as I do, please take my hand. "

He was so courteous.

He kissed her hand and noticed its salty taste and he looked up at her wiped face.

" I never want to see you cry again. "

She pondered at his manners. Could there be something more?

" Then never let me go. " she replied in utter fear.

" I wasn't going to. " he said as he danced and kissed her until the stars greeted them.

Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	What they see is what they'll never know.
Time:	6:06 pm.

A Miss Eleanor Maeval
has been cordially invited
to her dear friend
Miss Jane Kingsbury's
high tea.

How charming.
It should be a delightful day, Miss Maeval thinks to herself as she contemplates other possible guests.

She picks out a lovely cream laced dress tinged with hints of Robin's Egg Blue.
She arrives with th emost delicate and befitting hostess gift.
Her conversation is both delightful and charming.

Obviously something is wrong.

She can't understand
this matter at hand
that some people whom she knows find her endearing
and wonderfully respectable
and a person to whom one seeks advice
someone who is always kind and gentille
someone who they feel they know.

the problem is she would love nothing more than to be closer and learn Miss Kingsbury's ways because though politely Miss Maeval has described herself, it is neither completley nor whole-heartedly.

It's these guests she blames thinking to herself, that give her this conceded outlook to others.

Surely this is just another excuse that drives her into a maddening state.

All these people feel the know me, when I barely see them or know them. she pondrs folding her napkin.

I feel so distant and cold to them, as if they could only possibly ever understand one dimension of me.

And then her worst thought enters her mind.

Is this kindness of mine a facade? Is it just being polite, is it what I hope to feel or achieve with this person? How can I write such wonderful phrases in letters about people whom I don't feel connected too?

She stares at her now filling teacup.

"One lump or two?" Smithers, the butler said. Reflexivley I respond, "How sweet should I be?" and she knows his response, giggles without thought as he pours in two lumps.

Maybe he's right.

Nonetheless she continues her thoughts:

She can honestly say that only two or three people she feels connected to, feels they love her and understand her. Though to her surprise eight or nine say they feel the same way she feels about two or three...

What keeps her so closed off?

No.
For the first time this is not the question.
She braces herself.

Why am I not able to befriend people completley?

Perhaps this is the explanation for her eternal kindness, that someone, somewhere, will understand her.
And yet she shudders at her superficilaity, realizing that she too now sees herself two-dimensionally.

There's something missing, that's for sure.

It's this time alone,
time together,
it's time alright that
continuall sculpts her
k
c
a
b
and
f
o
r
t
h

putting her into the kiln to be
glazed
matted
and then
re-finished
and glazed again.

But why?

Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	The Unknown And It's Possibilites.
Time:	8:58 pm.

"Stop giggling. Are you ready?" I tell her with my hands covering her eyes.
"Ooooh, I can't wait!" she says excitedly as every inch we move closer and closer to our destination settles a new layer of excitement and adrenaline through her veins. We wobble but i'm holding on to her, always making sure she'll be alright. "We're almost there, almost there" I whisper gently in her ear and she continues to stir. Loud noises spark through the air, disturbingly and painful. "What was that?" she cries in fear. " I'm, here. We're almost there." I reassure her.

"Almost where? Almost where?" she exclaims and I can feel the tears beginning to form over her soft closed eyes. But this time, I don't respond. Silence soothes the situation, she will meddle in her own thoughts. Vibrations come through the now creaking floors. She raises her arms in a reflexive motion and clenches her hands against mine.
"This isn't funny, I'm scared! "she bellows in terror. But I let her hold onto my arms if thats what helps her, but I won't let go, she'll soon see in time. Her greatest fears flash before her very eyes vividly through her closed eyes, though she nothing to fear. She no longer speaks, trembling with a penetrating fear still going forward as if it were her death march, she cannot stop now, not knowing where she is, but she knows its not safe, and she can't turn back, she does not know how. There is no way she'll open her eyes, she just can't bear to face the world outside.

The floors beneath them seem frighteningly weak, and if they fall she doesn't know where they'll land, nor how far they will. In all this madness, she pauses to wonder in her mess of thoughts Why on Earth was I brought here? Why would my friend do this to me? What is going on?.

There is a banister nearby, but to my open eyes it resembles too much a slithering, venemous cobra, I'd much rather hold onto my friend, and trek through this as best as I possibly can without receiving help from strangers, or any other befriending creature, we must go through this by ourselves, together.

As we slowly ascend the moaning stairs, the walls seem to cry with a startling chiming bell tower that startingly sounds closer and closer with each chime. The house seems just as startled as the cobwebs shiver their silver gleaming lights from the only source of light that must be coming from a high window that somehow catches the peering moon. How haunting.

I'm not quite sure how we got here to be honest, nor do I know why we are. It's very much like a magnet, I'm drawn to go forward, knowing that there is a destination us two are intended to reach together. But to be frank, I'd hide in a blink of an eye if I knew where to, if there was a somewhat safe spot in this eerie and creepy location that we reside in. And then I remember whose eyes I'm covering, by now surely both of us are wondering why they're still there, but I won't take them off, no I can't, my surprise, is literally what it is, my surprise. At first I thought it was something different, completley materialistic and minimalistic in comparison to what I have discovered.

Shooting streams of foggy white light zoom through our midsts and possibly even through as, as we are ashaken from our already quivering state. Surely by now our fears and nightmares have not only come to life, but have conquered us. And yet we continue on, almost as foolishly as a criminal walks to a jail cell.

What we don't realize, is that the most petrifying thing we encounter, is when we reach the top of the stairs, we continue to mount an invisible step, we do not notice we have arrived.

The screaming, shrieks of pain, the calling of names, sounds of gunshots and hearbeats do not fade, no, they only move rhythmically to our footsteps, each mis-step we take, and our fears linger and encircle us confusing us more.

And miraculously, like a sign from God, my hip finds a rusted old doorknob, I can tell because it does not have a smooth finish, but I push my side down the handle and the door lifts free, surpressing all our worries as we find the window and the light source.

We find a tattered, old four poster bed, aged beautifully with time, but with a sad and sorrowful taste. Well, I find it really, my hands are still covering her eyes. I unveil the bed's fine velvet covers with a small disturbance so that I can rest my dearest friend upon the bed, she has suffered a tremendous amount.

Finally, I lift my hands, and she realizes so and lifts her hands from mine and finds them a new home, hugging my sides very tightly, the tears that she was holding back, could have flooded the room we were inhibiting, but they were no longer of fear, nor of happiness, but of sheer relief and gratitude, I've noticed she hasn't opened her eyes.

I pat her on the back reassuringly, "It's ok, we're here."
"Oh I know, aren't the stars lovely?" she replies, with her eyes still closed. I glimpse quickly out the window, the stars had begun to appear one by one glistening around the moon. I sit in shock silently, I open my mouth but no sound echoes.
"Thank you so much, this is the most wonderful present I've ever received." she says kissing the top of my head as a dear friend would. I pay closer attention to her, her eyes are firmly shut, and there was no way she could have peeked at any point in time.
"But...how?" I manage to squeak.
"Great friends, are one whole person. They care for each other first before themselves, and complete each others flaws by doing so." we continue to lie down on the bed, her head tilting towards the window, she opens her eyes beaming her dancing blue eyes around as I turn opposite of her so that we each have enough seperate space for us to sleep without invading each other's personal comfort zone. She finds a hand of mine and brings it to her open eyes covering them again.

And that was all that needed to be said.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	for your consideration.
Time:	4:00 pm.

A small, fragile hand lingers gently on an old oak tree
she looks amongst the rolling hills
the air completes her
she breathes in life
and sighs

there are times when she would like nothing more then to remain here
it seems that too many times she has hurt the ones she loves the most
too much time passes until the pain heals

but...
and here the melody swirls with the ripples in the water and flows falling leaves back in her direction
its a pretty little dance
stepping in and out of time
wobbling in and out of life

if she remained
here with the birds and the bees
and the sweet aroma of trees
and skipping stones into the lake for hours at a time
snapping photographs just to make sure she'll never forget her times

if she remained here, solely the only human
she wouldn't have to hurt anyone
she couldn't
she would have her
fine feathered
furry little
creatures who
teetered and tottered
her only thoughts of
utter simplicity.

if she could create artwork with her barefoot steps on the newly formed sand
and sing a song only the birds could here
and the only tears she would ever see
would be falling from the sky
she would comford God.

but she keeps her photographs in an old oak box,
made from the tree's predecessor
but that's too cold
its grandfather,
yes his grandfather.

she'll sweeten the cake,
so you can't taste the mistakes
and she'll frost a smile
that will make everyone contagious with happy thoughts
and if she could keep it like that
she wouldn't have to leave her dream
because they would conicide with reality
and then it wouldn't have to hurt.

she still keeps the pictures,
for as we all know
something often startles us
and makes us
rub our eyes,
shift their position.

but its not waking up.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	The price is wrong.
Time:	11:41 am.

steve: and what's behind door number one johnny?

johnny: well steve its a fantabulous new depression! one filled with half tries and half marks and no real achievement! but the cherry on the cake is her parents utter disappointment! boy, she won't get out of this coma for a longggg time

steve: and how did she win this johnny?

johnny: by doing the best that she could all semester and screwing up completley the exams! she didn't study no where near as much as she should have.

steve: sounds teerrific johnny now tell her what shes won!

johnny: well she's won a ticket to perspective. seeing these new marks for sure she'll improve her grades, its the push she needed for IB but what will come before the calm of the storm? well that steve, is behind door number two.

steve: and what's behind door number two steve?

johnny: I'm going to need Alex to open it in order for me to see

steve: can't you give us a sneak peek? or give us a hint?

johnny: sorry johnny, only Alex can tell us what's going to happen. That and mr.time

steve: well lets get mr.time on here!

johnny: he's always here. ticking away. slowly at our lives.

steve: you're scaring the viewers johnny, go into your happy voice again

johnny: sometimes, you just can't steve. sometimes you just get tired of crying, and tired of making sure everyone else is better before you. no one can help you. and no reassurance can help. its one battle, that's too painful to fight. you're already weak and wounded to begin with. you've fought yourself, now you're entering the battledome with the ones you care the most.

steve: ugh...come on steve, maybe there's something behind door number three to cheer up the show!

johnny: what's the point? it won't help anyone.

Comments: Add Your Own.