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

Subject:	The Absence of Dirt, or the Presence of Soap
Time:	1:15 pm.

i could never be a painter, or a proper composer.
couldn't depict with perfection the
pounding and
rushing.
the sweet chaos, release and power
that came from rain hitting the ground
slapping it,
richoeting it off walls, windows,
leaky roofs.

stampede.

couldn't command the timpanies with the same noise like that.
couldn't make people understand the sheer beauty in its all-mighty form.
my clouds look like cotton balls,
my paints are acryclic, acidic,
wrong.

i could never be a dancer.
never have my toes tap in a fury the way
that sang a song of wisdom and entertainment.
i was like a garden hose,
a leaking faucet.
powerless.
easy.
gentle.

never could turn an umbrella upside down.
never could make your heart spin.
never could knock the power out, even if only for a second.

i make flowers grow and they love me.
they breathe green, and yellow, and blue.
their melodies are timid and all-knowing as they sit beneath
large sycamores, small blades of grass, squrieels,
smelling of fresh,
fresh pine.

i am silence.

the silence that rain makes, that rain leaves.

because before everything,
we're happy, laughing.
oblivious.

and then it comes, pouring.
pouring, rushing, streaming, crying.
it is a giant release.
it is a great cleanse.
it is God scrubbing his drawing board clean as best as he can.
but somehow chalk dust still remains,
you can still see a different shade of black sometimes, with old words.

sometimes all i see is you.

what is it, to be clean?

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	The Meterologist says Love.
Time:	12:49 pm.

people say a lot about rain.
people say a lot.

how the springkling drops that echo off
eavestroughs
means rainboots.
means carrying an umbrella everywhere you
go, so you don't
get wet.

but the plants like it.
it's a cool drink of water for them.
perfect weather for ducks.

we like to say that.
we like to say things.

we like to hope that
the sun will come out
tomorrow.
that the old man
bumped his had and couldn't
get up in the morning.

because of rain.

because rain makes the world just a little darker,
little grayer than usual.
we feel the dampness in our
socks from our cheap shoes,
from our cheap paying job,
and if it weren't for the rain,
no one would notice.
not even you.

rain makes us crawl inside
as if we were, no.
we are,
threatened
by its magnificent, omnipresent and mighty force.

that rain can make the clouds spit electricity
that we call lightning.
because naming things makes us
less afraid.
that rain makes the clouds clap and boom thunder,
and puts litle children underneath beds in fright.

that the rain can make a mighty wave
and crash us into a river, a tsunami,
a puddle.

because we foget,
in the midst of our windshield wipers beating faster than our hearts that,
eventually,
the sound has gone.

the asphalt doesn't dance in ripples and
sometimes a rainbow comes.
maybe like the one with the leprachaun and the pot of gold.
maybe not.

for me,
it painted my windows with colourful drops and fog
that would condense and drip down like a fallen tear,
down the softest cheek.

it made the world a little quieter.

reminded me that we all are helpless, sometimes.

through clouded lenses and clumepd eyelashes
we can still see a little
and when its all over the world smells a little cleaner.
the grass a bit greener.
a new coat of paint.
a bath.

you sing rain to go away
and all you see are
impremeable jackets and
traffic.

and yet the garden grows.

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	The Mirror that Showed No Reflection - But a Portal.
Time:	10:53 am.

Look at me. Don't bury your face in the sand and say that a million excuses like distance, and not knowing about something can keep you from trying to understand me. You put your foot into this, and once the mud hits your skin, you can't lie and say you don't feel the layer of thick wetness touching your ankle.

Look at me. Look what I've become. Look that I'm many things you didn't account for. Do I disappoint you? Have you changed, have I changed? Have we both had something happen?

I knew it. I knew it since the moment you sat me in the chair and didn't understand me for the first time. I felt this was the end of what used to be. You said we grew, grew closer. And I believed you. But ever since, I've been more fragile than a broken piece of glass, and all I can feel is your sharp, six inch stiletto crushing me into even tinier pieces. You say you sympathize, empathize. I believe you.

Look at me. I'm crying.

What happened?

Do you think I play the pity card? Do you think I've become overly sensitive?

I think I've been hit in the ribs one too many times this summer, and it's never happened before from people I care about. I didn't expect this.

Look at me. I'm not excusing myself. I'm tired of doing it. You don't accept the way I act unless I do so. I could tell you I'm overworked, stressed beyond belief about piano, and about paying for university. About maintaining sanity in the face of my parents, about a million other reasons that have made me into this. This person I don't want to be.

LOOK AT ME. Look at me please. Look at me for who I am. Not for my excuses, not for what's happened that makes you think like its two puzzle pieces that don't fit. See me for the person you know I am, and try to understand and love me, like the way I have always done for you.

I never put you in this position. Never expected to be here either.

I'm glad I am though. New roads teach you new things. So even with dust in my eyes, even with a million obstacles and hurdles in my way,

look at me.

Look at me. Look at me.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	goodbye will never be the same.
Time:	1:10 pm.

i think the classroom breeds conformity.
slowly, through its dull and neutral walls,
with the same dimples identically placed in each brick,
i feel the strands of uniquity snap off the guitar.

the yawn emits itself stealthily from the back corner,
contagiously seeping into the mouth one row ahead,
making its way over to Miss.

this place was designed for us to hate.
when the back is turned even the most studious want
to throw airplanes, chat,
dream lazily out the window.

i am staring out the window.
looking at vivian hoover,
her pants worn with excitement and experience,
each thread with a modest scream of exuberance,
the kind we each used to have.
and she drowns herself with distractions,
i think she knows.
and i look at her, with her mousy, unwashed hair,
and how people find her arrogant,
misunderstood.
hoover isn't misunderstood.
hoover's not sticking it to the man.
hoover works in a cupcake shop on thursday nights,
gets her fingers sticky with icing, pinches pennies from the cash register to pay the bus fare home,
and is the smartest person i'll ever meet.

i watch her doodle cartoons in economics.

but poor vivian is caught in a trap.
she's everything i wanted to be,
and she's afraid, that the kinship she sees in me,
could ruin the distastrous beauty of watching tcm till 3 in the morning while bending pop cans into orgami.

nah.
vivan hooover knows.

i can hear her now:
"just do whatever you want to do,
and don't look back.
the dust in your face was meant for someone else."

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject:	today was that day, it was that time. and that was all that she wrote for me.
Time:	4:31 pm.

These thoughts, they sound so much better in my head. When I think of word "oragami" I laugh and remember how we spent two whole hours teaching each other the craziest manipulations of paper, just because we had nothing else better to do. When it's etched in pen, the r is disjointed and oddly attached to the o, and it just looks like a word. The memory isn't there.

The roof is leaking again. I can hear the tin bucket pinging again. I always liked tin buckets, always loved how they reminded me of warm Sunday mornings with a tall glass of lemonade and a gardening spade. Like the 1950's without the gender roles. Just love. I guess that's why I bought the bucket from Ikea; because you thought it was cheap, and I thought it was special. And you said you liked it because I found beauty in it. Because I saw the best in everything, even when you couldn't.

The drip, drop, drip drip drop is picking up again. It doesn't have a melody anymore, it's just spattering and stammering like the rush of words that always flowed through my mouth. To me, I always thought you saw it as just a bucket. You never really told me why you liked it, I just assumed because it was Ikea you wanted it, you always liked that store.

You laughed and told me that I was always so insecure, that you found my ramblings adorable, that you loved to hear me talk. That's when you told me about the bucket, do you remember that? And every part of me wanted you to hold me, to comfort me. I wanted to hide underneath our blanket with a flashlight and wait for the rain to stop. We would make shadow puppets, and tell each other our deepest secrets.

But all I could hear was my voice, and the pinging.

I guess all along it was me. In all our wonderful pizza-making-from-scratch nights, or movie marathons, I felt like we were always forgetting something. I had too many questions to ask, and you forgot your cue cards.

I wanted more than I asked for.

Last week, when we were lying together on the couch, and the power was out because of, of course, another thunder storm (we're such romantics, we picked the rainy city), I rested my head on your chest, and instead of feeling the warmth of your body, the rise and fall of your heart, I heard that damn pinging. I didn't want to hate the pinging, I didn't want to even think about it. But it's all that echoed through my mind. It bounced off the walls and reverberated like the only sound that existed in our world.

A random stream of drops.

I wanted you to love me so badly. I wanted you to clutch me in your arms with all your strength as if there really was a monster under the bed. I wanted to mean something to you, like you do to me. But it was always me, always the pinging. And unless I bombarded you with a grocery list of questions, you didn't have much to say.

I don't blame you.

So I'm writing you this letter, folding the paper in half so you'll think its smaller and less significant than it actually is. And if you see a crackle in the paper here or there, don't think it was my tears. Just wonder why hadn't I chose a clean sheet of paper, if that at all.

I probably should have told you long ago that I'm not the one you want. But I guess you figured that out in a different way. We saw x meets y and different trains, and understood that distance makes all the difference. And the need wasn't the deep, or hungry as we would have liked it to be.

I think we saw too many bad remakes of Romeo and Juliet. I'm sorry for making you watch so many chick flicks with me, you should have told me that you hated them.

I am writing you this letter, because you never did. Because I loved you without really knowing why, and that secretly, a small part of me wishes that you'll read this and come after me.

You don't have to.

Don't.

We're better off this way.

Before I go, I'll empty the bucket, you can have it. And I'll finally call the roof guy. Maybe it's just a band-aid solution, but it's the best that I can do.

You'll never know how much you mean to me,
Alexandra.

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

Comments: Add Your Own.

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: Read 1 or 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: Read 1 or 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: Read 1 or 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: Read 1 or 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 7 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 4 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: Read 1 or 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 4 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: Read 1 or 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 6 or Add Your Own.