<> the effigy <>

 | via |

...

God is more than a face

that waits

pulseless

behind Death's

torn

veil

...

A Word From ~ e.e.cummings

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness

<> another year around the sun <>

<>♥♥<>♥♥<>

It was I who occurred

{more exactly emerged}

these many years ago

{so the story goes}

...

but the truth be told, 

I am not old

In fact, I am still arriving...

<>♥♥<>♥♥<>

I Am Not Where I Ought To Be

Discontent.
I am eaten away by this plague of comparison.
I move my hand between my forehead and that of the latest adversary to my true joy.
If I fall short - disappointment.
If I come out ahead - disappointment.

I am exhausted by life.
This barrage of faces and needs…
…constantly checking a word, a look,
For subtlety, context, connotation...

I am weary of caring.
Of doubt.

My heart,
Though never brash,
Was once sure in those things expressed.
Now it crawls humbly before the world,
Asking meekly for permission to form any harebrained thought.

Release comes in fits and spasms;
Like the tremors of the insane.
I purge my woes unevenly on the page
And after a sad look of recognition,
They are orphaned and buried.

I toe the lines set out for me without question.
Spread thin by the old mischievous inklings to rub against the grain...

I am tired.
I am tepid.
I am slow.

My limbs hang like shackles.
My wrists betray my frailty.

Sometimes...
In sparse moments of mental clarity...
I reach out to those beauties just beyond the lines of reality...
But they have forgotten my name.
I have been too long away.

In my play at responsibility
I have replaced the urgency for truth
With the stability of compromise.

I have worked so hard to be understood.
I have sacrificed much to avoid the hurtful tone of dismissal.

But to whom will I answer to when my heavy head lies loose and unhinged...?
What goodness will be found after I have let go the last whim...?

I wish…once more…to be bold…
To speak good in haste:
Without heed to convention,
Or need of sanction.

Fear and fear and doubt and compromise...
...I am not where I ought to be.

<><><>

{{simultaneously trying to be both a better person and writer. it is no small task...}}

Beginning, The Trials of

{via}

>>>=<<<

...But sometimes the memories trail behind like tin cans, 

clanging loudly with each forward step...

>>>=<<<

...<>><<>...

...

that I can be comforted by the hand that chokes me

is the great irony of sin

...

{somber ponderings on the human condition stirred up by the words of O'Connor, Lewis, et al.}

{perhaps I need to take time to reread the Anne of Green Gables series again...}

A(nother) Word From ~ Flannery O'Connor & The Friday that Brought Good

"The poet is traditionally a blind man, but the Christian poet, and storyteller as well, is like the blind man whom Christ touched, who looked then and saw men as if they were trees, but walking. This is the beginning of vision, and it is an invitation to deeper and stranger visions that we shall have to learn to accept if we want to realize a truly Christian literature.” 

 <> O'Connor <>

{today we remember...Acts 17:27-28}

From the Vault :: Mending Paste For Mothers

she holds the broken pieces in her aging hands
memories further shattered
by her children's play
forever breaking and remaking
what is important

another apron string sliced
cord cut
from her past
a quiet tear for what was
and what isn't
...anymore...


i'm sorry the past is so breakable
i'm sorry your hurts can't all be fixed with glue and kisses
...and mine can...

The Musicbox

*~*~*

I freed a song from a dusty box
Now a fitting vessel I seek
Feathers made of steel, a key with no lock
Who knew braille could create melody?

|| Sunday Thoughts... ||

Been feeling rather Romantic lately...

p.s. i wish to be like "her"...

Dull, Washing

what if

the rain fell dull
washing
the color from the leaves
stealing
the fragrance of the grass
how sadder yet would earth so turn
…
i think God
had surely
got it right

Him Whose only now is forever...

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope, and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

e.e.cummings

3rd Degree

 

<><><>

If you feel burnt,

recall:

It was your own hands

that set me 

alight  

Lessons in "Creative License": Or How I Realized I Loved Self-Publishing

 A picture is worth a thousand words...and not one of those words found in the picture below belong to me.

{Most of the original artwork has been obscured}

What you are looking at is the talent of an unknown individual with whom I frequent the same campus and apparently likewise enjoy the varied facets of the Arts. Said person's talent was (in my opinion) badly paired with a short piece of prose I submitted to be published in our school literary journal. Badly paired I would say because it is obvious that the sentiment of the piece was completely misunderstood by the powers-that-be on that obviously overworked, underpaid, and slightly depressed committee.
The piece in question:

"I sit here waiting for Inspiration...

...while Inspiration sits somewhere waiting for me."

Now I understand how there might have been a slight snafu...but surely when in doubt we should err on the side of light-hearted and not morose sentiment?

For the record, this little thought was penned in a moment of frustration with my frequent bouts of writers block. Not, as the school committee would have you believe, in response to the knowledge that my middle school boyfriend dumped me for his cousin. It was meant as an encouragement. Inspiration for myself especially not to let time go by waiting for something to happen; something is happening, we just need to do our part and show up.

To the Artist, if you ever read this, this slightly miffed rant is in no way directed towards you. I actually like your style, and if it wasn't so completely off base with the message I was trying to convey, I'd gladly welcome the association (on that note, I wonder how you took the pairing...?).

No, my beef is with the folks who have (however unintentionally) mislead the twelve total people who will clap eyes on my humble submission in the journal; misrepresenting a sentiment I think a lot of people would do well to hear. Thanks for the laughs and the lesson on the meaning of "Creative License".
*tips hat* It's been a gas.

das Pusteblume

...

and we held

too tightly

to what the dandelions said

das Pusteblume promised

love and fortune

laughter and pretty boys

...

but their spell weakened

with the icy rain of winter's stay

the tiny chutes of fluff and heartbeats

withered

against that gale of stones

that is the final shudder

of summer's reign

...

these weeds of childhood

the unfulfilled and unrealized

forever sprout

in the remembered past

waiting...

waiting...

to be seized

...

Ambition

<>
Mine is a mountain too dwarfed to allow for
the grasping of heavenly spheres
Yet still too tall
to warrant them undesirable
<>

*...*

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
~

R.Frost

p.s Happy Labor Day...

A Swallow Lives in my Pocket Watch...

A swallow lives in my pocket watch

Nestled behind the face of time gone by...

It moves the hands

Restlessly

Sifting the seconds

Carelessly

Making its nest of Moments...

...And Occasions

...And Memories