wakingupto42: (shinewithme)
( Sep. 19th, 2009 07:06 am)

Been a while ne? Schedule got mad busy with weddings, work, and my EMT class. I'll try to be better. Here's the 7th poem in my self study. About my Aunt Lizzy who passed in front of me 2 years ago. She is the reason I want to take care of people instead of teaching English. I miss you Aunt Liz.




Sharing 103 Years

Watching The Moon nap away - I wonder why
She has descended from her vantage point high above to mingle
With the common folks that admire her so
The electric bed molded into a chair to fit her mood
She sits, asleep - so deeply asleep
Unable to hear the bustling of nurses - or
Our greetings as we enter the room.


This room is quiet - the television barely pushing through the air
This room is oppressively warm - it sits on me like a dead weight
Grandma, Jenny, Jackie all there
I keep looking at everyone's faces, but they reveal nothing
Like ancient stars in orbit - they are content to watch The Moon
My youth bubbles and nags - the sun is rising
But I manage to squash the dawn flat,
Amusing her with the little snores escaping The Moon.


The Moon inhales - holding it - holding it - holding
    my eyes open to receive the gift
She exhales one last time
Releasing the soul forward - dispelling across the room
Hitting me like the shrapnel from the car that plows head first into a semi
And I have felt each part all at once - entering the waters of the eye.

            Each one lacerates flesh
            Making my still beating heart - bloodied
            Shredding to strands the muscle of life
            A tattered curtain billows before the opened window -
                        blocks the quiet outside
            The hand with the shard of glass rips,
            But that jagged piece cuts too - the holder’s hands.

            Moon turns around - dropping her dress
            Revealing her darkness
            Sun blushes - half lidded eyes
            Cannot look away from her nakedness.

            Sterile air once cold and clinical
            Now warms with the smell of fresh earth and saline
            Blending in a graveyard
            The raindrops fall hard - carving holes in the soil and then consumed
            Each digs further beneath for the answers.

            A voice on the wind now
            Familiar, hearty, warm and -ah!-
            There is a faint smell of old foundation and lipstick
            Of stale cocktails, now being picked up and sipped
            Stirring the fragrance of orange peels
            Calling me back.


Back to the room where the nurse is saying – she’s gone

The Moon is pale and still - She returns the dress to her body and
 perches once again in the sky - even with her eyes closed

She watches with her wisdom.


In the face of death - I have found beauty
The life cycle has been spread before me:
       Bright flower blooms
       Breaking at the neck
       Bud and petals falling into current
       Below the rush of melting waters - take it away
She has shown me the spectrum – all the colors now visible.
I can appreciate its perfection - forever -
Haunting both my eyes.

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wakingupto42: (shinewithme)
( Aug. 12th, 2009 08:36 am)

Whispers to My Baby Blanket


The walls of this room feel like they are creeping in –

Silently hoping I will suffocate.

And then those shushing voices begin to crawl out -

Where I keep them beneath a sutured heart. 

Writhing up my spine and into my mind - ripping up the seams as they go along - popping the zipper open link by link, my cold innards spill out like cellulite - disgusting myself with inability to control it - I have come undone -

What they tell me is unspeakable.

And since they are inside me - like termites whittle away the foundations of my sanity – maggots boiling out of every orifice -keep me from hearing seeing speaking- devour the rotten meat - I cannot escape their torments -

Forced to hear lectures on subjects that don’t exist.

 

 

My only consolation would be that revolver and single bullet. Looking around this room - turning drawers and boxes inside out - 

The joke goes awry –

The bullet and revolver do not exist, either. There will be no pleasurable scent of smoke, no scurry of roaches over open eyes, one curious antennae fluttering against the still moist cornea. No stain flung on white walls for the artistic roommate to see; Very Pollock – she’d say.

If only the walls really would collapse down upon me, crushing together everything inside, compact the garbage to be tossed -

THEN –

I could hear the sweet sound of nothing -

Instead of those things I keep under lock and key
wakingupto42: (Default)
( Aug. 12th, 2009 08:11 am)
Taken from a bunch of people, but mainly [personal profile] truestory
1. Leave me a comment with "BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE" in the subject line.
2. I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can get to know you better.
3. Update your journal with the answers to the questions (or comment here).
4. Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions.  
wakingupto42: (TokiNiAiWa)
( Aug. 8th, 2009 09:45 am)

I thought an explanation may be in order about these self studies since I actually have a few people reading this page now. There are 8 poems in total, all relating to who I am and the major events that formed my person up until now. Here in my 24th almost 25th year of living I have chronicled in poem format my adventures from an abusive early childhood, to meeting my best friend Devin, battling depression, drug use, and eventually culminating in finally finishing that BA in English I struggled so hard for until December 2008. If there's one thing I've learned putting together all of these poems, it's developing my own sense of poetic voice and style, which by it's nature is always changing and growing. However, these 8 poems, in order,  mark the core of a book of poetry I am working on and someday will attempt to get published.

Selfishly, all about me, I continue to write my journey.

But please feel free to comment and give any concrit.



Being Sky Clad for the First Time

Earth, Air, Fire, Water

The chant echoes into the night.

Our bonfire whips into a frenzy as we dance and yell

 

Faster and faster we circle, drawing up the energies all around us

Filling our bodies with the life of all the elements

Until it spills forth from every pore and we stop

 Raising our hands to the sky we perform the conclusion of our ritual

As we will it. So mote it be!

And we collapse onto the grass in wild laughter.

 

Delighting in our homage to her

The full moon drinks up left over energy escaping our overflowing bodies

We lie naked before her and each other

For once,

Unashamed by whom and what we are.

 

Devin slides across the soft ground to hold my hand

Our breath still synchronized

And heartbeats still drumming out the ritual’s rhythm

Finally, knowing what it means to be one

While the moon watches over us,

We drift asleep in that small forest clearing.

 

The only protection needed is the blanket of summer heat

Drawn up around us.

wakingupto42: (TokiNiAiWa)
( Aug. 7th, 2009 09:37 am)

Devin’s Inferno

I am – matryoshska in design

A doll within a doll – I must peel back the layers to reveal my yolk

Set in the deepest part of the forest – dry and dormant as winter

At the bottom of the lake – frozen over like Cocytus

            Is a heart, beating frantically

            The Puppet Master’s dead hand still grips it –

Eternity ensnared in his theatre.

 

I know she can find her way in

Draws out the path with her eyes – strange to me - not as strange as my own

One gaze of lightning – strike the dead leaves that blanket the ground

Ignite in me a fire so hungry – the wind cannot carry it

            Too heady and thick with the promise

            Of an unknown lust -

                        Smell of Soot in the forest air.

 

I know she can save me

The coliseum life is exhilarating – Nights and Days – churning up the forest floor

Flames licking at my doubts – wounds to be healed are sautered closed.

The lake is boiled down – leaving only his vice over my heart

            She pries open his hand

            Rips down the marionette’s strings -

                        Filling fast the lake with our whispers.

 

I know there is still work to do

Now that the needle is pointing North – magnetized again – Together we survey the damage

Nothing left of the forest – just foundation charred and barren – his arena left in ruins

Miles and miles stretching out of me – she inspects every acre closely

            And stoops to move aside

            A layer of burnt foliage –

                        Green growth fresh and healthy exposed

She says we can only build up from here.

wakingupto42: (Default)
( Aug. 6th, 2009 10:35 am)

A Plea to Falkor the Luck Dragon

Like the Childlike Empress, I have fallen ill

Parts of my rich Fantasia are winking out

A land once lush and dense with imagining

Replaced with darkness unknown

Unseen – I travel within to find an answer.

 

But all the while I am being chased

Big black beast – thrives – follows me through

The G’mork – messenger for The Nothing

 Helping to eat away the world – with sweet words

Wolf concealed by sheep’s skin

Convinces me there is no hope

Conspires to stop me before I find a cure.

 

In The Swamps of Sadness I cannot get any farther

I only have to believe in myself

The power of the swamp rendered useless

But the hero Atreyu and his horse Artax are both missing

Their loss is mine

I have no one to carry me out

 No friend to see me through

And not even the ancient turtle Morla can give me wisdom.

 

The Auryn slips from around my neck – plunging beneath the silky black waters

And though I search frantically

 I am unable to retrieve the will to go on

My inner Fantasia slowly succumbs to the decay – sleep is restless and without dreams

Without them I will be lost

And I begin to sink beneath the Swamps of Sadness.

 

Looking into the night sky I pray to see the slow swim of white lightning

Undulating ever lower

He will come to save me just like he did for Atreyu in adventures past

At the last second will whisk me into the air

 Far from the G’Mork’s reach

Take me to a place where I might heal.

 

But I haven’t seen him yet

And I know - The Nothing approaches.

wakingupto42: (shinewithme)
( Aug. 3rd, 2009 08:13 am)

Blue Lace Dolly

 

He begins to tell her tales of Mermaids and Talking Lions.

Wanting to see a climax - never the resolution - unaware the doll’s eyes fall shut

He examines his beautiful doll and her painted face - frozen in time

Heartbeats – Breaths - what absurd thoughts - wishing she was human

And how one day they met on the beach to wage war.

Plump with childhood fat yet to be eaten by metabolism

All the while probing the molded flesh of the doll - Malleable but weak enough to bruise

Almost feeling the short nervous breaths

The battle was very violent and many of the Merfolk and Lionfolk were killed.

He can almost feel the heartbeat under the artificial skin

Gingerly –one hand - feels along awkward limbs

Strings pulled tight to keep her in place

The master reaches the end of the story frantically.

Taking care to line her small clothing to the side

She stares up at him - waiting for his inspection to continue - to know when she’s real

Carcasses are scattered along the beach - blood turns the foam red.

Brow sweaty - breathing heavy - the toils of battle rolling across his face

Smoothing palms over nipples not yet attached to breasts

The Puppet Master spreads her out on the bed.

And it seems to him – she has heard this story before

 

And the dolly - blue lace and tear stained face - drifts out to sea.

 


wakingupto42: (shinewithme)
( Jul. 31st, 2009 06:24 pm)

Pilot Episode

Paging Doctor House! Paging Doctor House!

Gregory House, you have better things to be doing: watching, listening, and saving lives

Of people you don’t even care about

I’m in need of a specialist - I’ve added my name to your clinic duties.

 

If only for the autopsy.

 

I’ve heard a rumor that you like puzzles

Pieces fit together just so or not at all.

 

And there is your problem, Dr. House

There’s no redemption to being healthy one day and a cripple the next

No improvisation that you are anything but a miserable man

But at least there is dignity in that

Better to die as what you are than as something other people mistake you for.

 

Pass me some Vicodin - I want to be stoned, numb, and absolutely brilliant

I did a lot of the messy work - used the scalpel to remove everything within

Spilling the jigsaw chunks of me onto your lab table

Even sorted them into nice piles to help you get the picture

Or wait - I think that one goes over there - and maybe this one couldn’t possibly be…

Trauma like that requires a crash cart - But it seems I’ve made due with a band-aid.

 

Maybe you could figure me out?

 

Start along the borders and move inside.

Savor the effort to working your way into the center – Find the problem

Pop that pain killer dry and give me the diagnosis Greg!


wakingupto42: (TokiNiAiWa)
( Jul. 31st, 2009 02:33 pm)
I suppose there isn't a huge difference between this and Live Journal. However, I'm thinking a new blog area is just what I need to actually get myself back into writing a bit each day, even if it's only a little blurb about how the day went. So here it goes. Hopefully, I'll be posting some of my poetry and other, more meaningful, works on here for people to see.
.

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