An Offering

O Universe,
Here I am,
To service you and my fellows.
I offer devout service through myself as your instrument.
I open myself to creativity in my life
And surrender my old ideas in return for new.
I trust that you will unfold yourself before me,
That it is safe to walk,
That you will lead me.
I know I am your creation, a conduit for greater creativity.
I ask that you unfold my life accordingly.
Help me believe I am worthy and that it is not too late
That I am not too small or too flawed to be healed
By you and through each other -- and made whole again.
Help us love one another, to nurture each other's unfolding,
To encourage each other's growth,
And understand each other's fears.
Help us to know we are not alone,
That we are loved and lovable.
Help us to create as an act of worship to you.

Built Up

Life's been all over the place lately, showering me in glory and reward while also putting me through the ringer.  How very typical.  In any case, I haven't had much drive or time to write.  So here's three short freeform poems to tide you over until I'm back in May (hopefully sooner though).

Impeccably Poor Timing
I need to write.
Now is not the time.
I have studying to do.
Naturally, now is the best time to write.


Non-binary/Agender
More often a man
Less often a woman
Most often somewhere in between
Yet nowhere in particular


Genderfluid
So often striving for the unattainable
So often striving for something that
I won't even want by tomorrow afternoon
Yet will long desperately for the next morning

Bursting

I feel like I am
Unable to contain all
the art inside me.

Autobiography

Perhaps the only place a soul's life history
     could be told would be in poetry.
To be explicit, to be literal about me
     is to be truthful superficially,
But too much abstraction, telling it metaphorically
     is a story told artificially.

My whole life I've been a writer,
     and as you can see here, also a rhymer.
Poetry and writing allow me to life decipher,
     acting as designer and healing as survivor.
Creating forces me to ascend above transcriber.
     I enlighten, I live, I am wiser.

The Ranch

Speaking fondly of the ranch
One way I can pay tribute now.
The ranch was an entity of my identity.
The Lombardy poplars leading me
Home when I got lost
Deep starry nights and crisp clear skies
The train whistling when I went to sleep
Infinite treasures in native ruins
A stream with hot springs and geese
Peacocks crying in the willow tree
Stubborn ponies eating loco weed
Two and a half stories worth
of memories in the house
and a cellar of accumulated history
Radioactive lead plates, a mysterious tunnel and a secret journal
Typewriters, rotary phones, and painted china,
drumsticks in the freezer, beaded curtains, closets full of surprises,
pieces of paper wrapped in rubber bands on the desk,
knick knacks on bookshelves and oil paintings on the walls,
Grammi's tales and three playful dogs
for each playful child filling the living room
It was entertainment before dial up
Endless exploration in the house, on the ranch, through the states.
A picture, a price and a few pieces of stamped paper
Were an unjust estimation of worth.

Chrysalis

No one ever said the transformation was easy.
No one ever said the butterfly never felt pain
As it moved from leaf to air.
Secretly coccooned, we walk each path alone,
Silently enduring our changes
To beauty and perfection.
Showcase the rebirth.
Spread your wings and fly freely.
6/10/2011




...and suddenly I'm on a runaway freight train loaded with emotional baggage and a tanker full of explosive accusations and self-doubt...
(Feb. 16, 2011)



-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the part where I talk about my feelings:
I've been feeling like a lot's about to change in my life (which is why I felt like the Chrysalis poem was fitting to post today).  I'm about to move onto university and shortly after, hopefully, grad school.  I'm closing a (big) chapter of my life and it's very scary to move on.  It's also so very exciting.  It feels like I've been sleeping and my life is finally about to start.  My greatest fear is that I'll sabotage myself when I get there (which is why I've included the quote). (~5/11/2014)

I Rarely Do This

But I wanted to show you one of the places I draw inspiration from.

Kai Davis is who I wish I could be.  And this particular video is what I have felt the last two days.

He thought he escaped my gaze.  I planted my sickle in his throat and uprooted his head.  King cobras always fall victim to charms.  

Perversion

I've come so far and not far enough.
I'm no longer sure that it's obsession,
Madness or just that life's rough.
But whatever it was led to my cession.
Nothing's the same since this perversion
Of reality into something more sinister.
It was an indisputable act of subversion,
Since I met the mutinous minister.
I did all I could to try to tame him,
And all I did was tame myself.
Blindly, but fiercely, I planned a coup,
And somehow successfully asserted myself.
The unshakeable weight of my preoccupation
Left me bereft, befuddled and invisible.
I won't get burnt after my reincarnation.
But I can't live like this, an individual divisible.



Can this poem be saved?  It's chunked together from bits and pieces from different nights.  I am very reluctant to release this one because it's stumbling, in my opinion.  But here we are.  I'm a whore for my views stats going up, and they go up when I release things, whether they're good or tasteless. (Admittedly, there are far more views when a poem is an actual success).

Probably need a therapist, but Blogger is the only therapist I want to go to, since at least it's productive.

Lonely poet poets alone.

Letters to an Ex-Lover Anthology: Unaccompanied

Last night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
The fan sent me sailing in the breeze,
And then the music sent me reeling.
It was the soundtrack you gave me, love's reprise.
Suddenly I couldn't breathe, again I was vulnerable,
A feeling and state I deeply despise.
So I decided that it finally ends tonight.
I promised I'd kill you next time I saw you,
With the weapon kindness, rather than a fight.
Forgiveness wasn't enough, maybe this will be.
So here I lie, with the breeze on my face,
And I'm forgetting all the things you did to me.



How my poetry often starts out (as disjointed, ugly, stupid-sounding notes):
"I was listening to that cd he gave me when we first met."  "Used to be soundtrack of our love."  "I feel vulnerable again and I can't breathe."  "So tonight I'm going to lie down and forget all the things he did to me."  "Kill them all with kindness."

Fiona Apple has been inspiring me.  "Remember when I was so sick and you didn't believe me?  Then you got sick too, and guess who took care of you.  You hated that didn't you?  Didn't you?" from her song Regret.

Sometimes, I feel like I use rhymes as a crutch, because they're so easy to work with.  But there's a romantic element that plays into this.  I want to transform the simple rhyme into something complex and beautiful.  Maybe one day I'll be satisfied that I've accomplished that, but not yet.  Never yet.  Rhymes do so delight me.  I suppose Shel Silverstein was more whimsical with his, but I like to think that maybe we shared a similar fascination.

Also, it's been a very long time since I added to this anthology.  I know it's just personal, but this anthology holds some of my favorite pieces I've ever written.  The first title for this poem was Otolaryngological Fatalities. But it doesn't start with U like the theme of the anthology.  So I changed it, for now...

One last thing, is this the end of the anthology??

Ode to an English Teacher

It was Ms. Shope
Who gave me hope,
Who told me to write a lot.
It's the way she taught.
Carry on, she said,
And so my imagination fed.
Thank you for all you've showed me.
When I write, I know I'm truly free.



She inspired me and gave me a taste of true freedom writing poetry offers.  I can never thank her enough for what she helped me become, especially so young.  (I had her in 7th and 8th grade).
I tried to visit her today, but I came too late.  So I ran to my car and jotted down this little ditty.  I needed to get my thanks out.  She's the reason I broke 1000 views.  There wouldn't be a blog without her somewhere in this story.

Dream Garden

This is the creative process: here was the warm up.

It's a little bit like
homesickness,
Except I'm antsy,
and I already am
home.

It's like a little bit of
me died when
I pushed you,
out the door and
my life.

If we'd just worked a little bit,
if we this...
All I have is,
all you gave, not
enough.


Here is product after a warm up:

I dream of a garden
It has a nice view.
I dream of many vines
with flowers, pale blue.
I walk on tiles, barefoot,
tracking through the dew.
I tend my garden when
I bid Sun adieu.
There are citrus trees
and trees that Seuss knew.
I walk through in the night,
and morning too.
I find peace of mind and
more, like good juju.
I dream of a garden.
I invite all you.

I had a migraine, this helped a little bit though. Too many thoughts in my head at once.

Sleep is coming for me. I like being in the garden way more than running into Ray. I'm finally not dreaming of him as much or at least not remembering it. Relief is relief.