the mental quiet

 
Quiet: the dearest of friends,
not a foe.
Never.

It was perturbing, at first,
to have silence inside and out;
only silence spinning a web in the eaves.

But the absence of a heartbeat,
no more creaking bones became
the most tranquil way of existence.

My mind let out a whir, infrequently:
a sound akin to raindrops
brushing past
the outspread fingers of the trees.

(Sleep on,
sleep on:
never dream aloud.

Bite back those thoughts.
Any sound might
melt this trance.)

Wishes slipping,
visions tripping:
the eventual souring of sleep.
I wake in a soaked, black-scribble bed.

And it haunts me the only reason I pray is
to remember you to God.

For now my soul has been opened, eroded
by the aggression of tears.

But...

How long until
I don't care again?

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

This piece is a strange combination of poetic license and a mélange of reality. I suppose that's hardly atypical, but I felt the need to mention it for some reason. The poem (as I suppose it is) was greatly inspired by the fact I've not been writing for the past... three weeks, I think? At first, I didn't really care; but finally it started eating me up inside, just eating me up. Yet I didn't want to force the issue, and the few thoughts that gleamed in the distance never felt worth pursuing. (The line between laziness and weariness often becomes saddeningly blurred for me. *sigh*) Scary things happened in vulnerable moments; I'd think, "Why do I bother writing?" or "I've had it with struggling with my music." Several mornings in a row, I nearly fell to pieces while trying to decide what to wear that day; I was that tired of having to get up every morning and live. But the Carole King song 'Beautiful' kept getting in my head: "You've got to get up every morning / with a smile on your face / and show the world / all the love in your heart..."
I've kept that song in mind, and, thanks to the fact my writing drought has ended, I'm trying to be more positive. While I haven't got the smile down yet, I get up every morning with a lighter heart, at least. And I'm extensively relieved to finally be writing again. I'm trying to make sure I never lose sight of my dreams again by remembering that, while writing is hard at times, especially as a possible career, ultimately it's what I love most. Haven't felt brave enough to work on songwriting again, but we're getting there.

Now I'm just hoping to be hit by some Christmas spirit... :) Maybe if the warm-ish weather would go away that would help. Please?







{Song is 'Beautiful' by Carole King and the painting is In Bed by Federico Zandomeneghi.}

dusty nonentities

My days are gathering a same-ish hue;
they are a collection of dusty nonentities.

We keep driving into the city where the rows
of houses dance cheek-to-cheek.
They aren't right.

None of this is right.
I would prefer a home in the country.
A wallflower house, isolated,
that blends into its surroundings
by donning a gown of ivy.

It seems the ugly things of life
stick to me like spiderwebs.
Though I tear them off with shaking hands
I can still feel their ghost threads
clinging.
Leave me alone, please.
Everyone just leave me alone.

I feel corseted.
And my words are pounding behind my ribcage
full of life.
But they cannot escape their bony prison
and I don’t know how to set them free.

So my songs go unsung
because right now my lungs barely have
enough air to breathe,
let alone give life to a melody.
Even one that could fill the empty spaces
my life is crowded with.

I've lost my vim.

{It's just been one of those weeks. One where I can't concentrate and nothing gets done. I haven't been sleeping enough, my words stick in my throat, and my emotions are in an uncharacteristic turmoil. WHEE! I think I'm mainly frustrated because I've been home alone quite a few times this week and I haven't taken any advantage of the fact. I usually use my rare alone time to work on my songwriting but I just haven't felt inspired at all, lately, so I don't even try. No wonder Time hates me; I do nothing but waste what he gives me.}

{Both pictures are of Françoise Hardy and I no longer remember where I found them.}

White Petals

As I left today
I noted the petals that had
fallen on the path
white and unblemished

It felt symbolic and
I knew what those white petals
stood for

Not hope; not purity;
not loving eternally
But goodbye
The petals told me to say
g o o d b y e
To say, jamais...
nevermore!

Though my tread was heavy above them
the raindrop petals gently
clung to my thoughts
and puddled at the bottom of my heart

Oh, how soft they are!
Oh, how they make me ache.
They've put such sorrow in me
(I know they are right)

With reluctance
and a nuance of inevitability,
I murmur goodbye
Not aloud, but every inch of me feels it
like a bruise forming

Only, the white petals swish around
in my brain, satisfied
But their blankness
can't blot out the picture of you
that I hold, and surely will
pour toujours
Their influence could never be so strong
as to erase completely
you

(No, I don't think anything could make me forget now.)




{This was inspired by something that happened today. I wrote it sitting on my bed, a gossamer sadness woven between my fingers. I cannot elaborate on what it is all about. It's ridiculous, it really is. And it's nothing very serious. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Actually, these past couple weeks I've been rather happy. But there are moments, sometimes days of sadness. And since I always write when I'm feeling low I probably appear to be constantly depressed. I'm not, don't worry. :)
In other news, I made a formspring because, well, I felt like it. So, go ask me anything you like, safely cloaked in the anonymity of the internet. :P}



{Picture found here.}

Dangling My Legs Off the Moon

I am going to do something radical today.
Something that I may regret.

....Are you ready? ;)

Okay. Last summer I wrote a poem-of-sorts that I call "Dangling My Legs Off the Moon". I wrote it after going to one of the Planetarium shows at the Creation Museum in KY.
I have always been rather creeped out by outer space but this show was just so amazing. It took you on an in depth tour through the solar system and... wow. It was absolutely incredible. (It definitely served as a reminder of how small we are and how big God is!) The show was also very calming and it made me feel that I was sitting on the moon and observing the galaxy. (Hence the poem.)

And now for the part I may regret...
I turned my poem (Dangling My Legs Off the Moon) into a song. I've only written a handful of songs though I've improvised many instrumental pieces on the piano. But I forget them as soon as the last note dies away. (A fact which causes me more than a little bit of sorrow.)
Sometimes, though, I will take one of my poems and sit down at the piano with a blank piece of sheet music and a pencil expressly with the purpose of writing a song. One song can take months though, since I'm only comfortable doing it when I am home alone which rarely happens these days.

I have been debating for quite some time whether or not to post this song. I vacillated, arguing that "no one wants to hear my stupid little song" and "couldn't I just post the poem without the recording?"
"No," I chided myself, "the poem and the melody now belong together and you cannot separate them."
So, today I am finally throwing caution to the winds and posting it. I may be filled with regret since I have grave insecurities about the whole thing... but if I do not post my little song, which I am rather fond of, it will languish on my hard drive. What a terrible fate!


But first I must apologize for all the things wrong with the recording.
1. The sound isn't great. I use a microphone that's in my laptop and I just place the laptop on top of the piano. So it's very poor sound quality, to say the least.
2. My vocals aren't great either (not to mention my enunciation!). Sitting down isn't the best position to sing from. And while I no longer cringe when I hear my voice in recordings I find no beauty in it so, yeah....
3. In the second to last stanza I sing the word "And" when it should have been the word "But". (I can't even get my own lyrics right! Sheesh! :P) I make other mistakes as well, in my piano playing but I won't go into those right now.

Alright... enough self-deprecation. Here we go.




Dangling my legs off the side of the moon
I am dangling my legs off the side…

I've never known a silence as quiet as this
I've never known such misty intensity

Against a purple velvet sky stars group together
In sequined clusters twinkling, twinkling
They’re not so little as we sing

I’m infinitely small
In these galactic realms
And I don’t feel hollow or alone
As I thought I would

Lighthearted and free
I sit and I swing
My dangling legs off the moon




{Aren't nebulae so stunning? I realized that's what I was describing in the 2nd and 3rd stanza of my poem.}



{Picture found here.}

the boy with the camera.

To them I am "the boy with the camera" .
Goodnaturedly, they laugh and tease -
Asking me if I 'ever part with it? Do I take it off when I sleep?'

I shrug and smile at their jokes cause I know they wouldn't understand,
that I'm happier viewing their world through my camera lens.

I need my camera to hide behind so no one sees the real me.
And the simple shades of black, white, and grey put me at my ease.

Many people pose for me, I forget them after a while.
Except that girl with the laughing eyes and tantalizing smile!
I wish she wouldn't haunt my dreams every single night
With long black hair, smart grey dress and skin so very white...



{My note: I have no idea what inspired me to write this. Also, it wasn't supposed to be a poem but it kind of worked out that way, hehe. So, please pardon the shaky rhymes.}


{Photo of: Ringo Starr, From: A Hard Day's Night.}