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Creative Writing Poetry Thoughts and Entries

Some things are too immensely and intensely true

To interrupt the mechanisms of mundanity, of necessity.

In the sound of the dishwasher, I hear the clanging of a railroad crossing bell

And I reluctantly go to sleep – already, again.

Categories
Stories

A Bird in the Park

I’m swimming in earth and can’t move. The trees and grass are overpoweringly green, the stones in the ground golden and blue, depending on where the sun is in the sky. In this noonday light, my skin looks more radiant than it really is, and my cheeks are warmer than in the average given moment.

I am confused, like some roots that unexpectedly exit the ground, assume they will become a tree, then become increasingly bewildered as they only form into what is known as a lump, as a sore thumb.

God, get me out of here.

A golden-crowned kinglet hops over, pecking the earth as it goes; every leaf or root with a meal, it kisses. I can move now, and step closer.

It does not run; it even comes closer, as if I have something to offer. Really, I have nothing but admiration and awe, to observe how this sphere of feathers and flight moves alongside me, and how easily it flies, yet not fleeing from me.

Do I? I do. I reach in order to tentatively touch, and with the back of my index finger, stroke the down between its wings. I have done nothing, yet everything, and I am happy.

I eventually leave, as is necessary, but I am still in the park in my mind.

It was not wrong to reach out, nor was it reproachable to touch a willing creature, but do others think the same? Do they know what I’ve seen? As far as I could tell, the bird was well, and could not have harmed me, nor I it.

Oh, how I long for things to be right and to be won.

Categories
Poetry

Wrong

I feel…

No, think!

I think…

No, know!

I want…

No, need!

I can’t…

Don’t whine!

Don’t feel, don’t think, don’t want, nor whine. None of it can be helped, the fault is all thine.

If the fault lies on me, what is left to be done?

Pray to the Father, the Spirit, and Son.

If I do so, just when will I know? What thing I should do and what way I should go?

It’s already clear, you’ve been shown the path. You’re subjecting your heart to your own mind’s wrath.

I see what you mean, but all my strength is taken, the wrong mind has free reign, and my heart is shaken.

Someday will I leave? Am I all that I feel? I suppose a reply that’s not meant for the present is one that I never can steal.

Categories
Favorites Poetry

2014

The mirror shudders as violently

As that cardinal flings itself at our window;

Within, a stranger soul shrieks silently –

Which am I, Cain or Abel?

I cannot tell whether my feet touch the ground

Or if they fall right through;

I cannot process any or all sound;

I cannot tell what’s true.

Rosy whites of puddles for eyes –

Tender, inflamed, and oozing ego –

I grope to choke the murmuring mantra of lies;

But with what’s tangible

It’s been emulsified.

Holographic gazes glare through my skull –

I couldn’t feel worse naked;

To this body it’s not knowing who it is

That makes it entirely humiliated.