Categories
Poetry

Still Life

A son who looks nothing like his father

Gets nothing he ought to.

Coldness is all he knows from his keepers,

Yet he adores them.

Retreat, dream,

Take the wide path, and then the narrow –

Come forth as a spring of words and verse;

Craft from a turbulent past

A still life.

Categories
Poetry Thoughts and Entries

What is a drawing, other than the end of a line?

Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil

Onto whatever surface you can find.

After all, don’t I look better on paper

Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?

Where the external is viewed in however many angles,

And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?

Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand

Or even what the outline of my face looks like.

Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.

Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;

Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.

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
Thoughts and Entries

Peers with Children

I was looking through my year-book from fourth grade, and suddenly realized how seriously I viewed my fellow classmates’ personalities as well as my own at that age.

I have kind of forgotten how equally real other people were to me when I was young. For some reason this thought surprises me. Have I started to think that children do not have as much serious self-consciousness as adults? Because I know this is not true, especially when I bring myself back into memories I had from those elementary school years.

There were people my age I was drawn to, people I rather disliked, people I felt shy around, and people I wished to be closer to, or felt slighted by. These were people who had deep wishes and solid personalities, with a very real sense of the world.

Why does this feel like a revelation? If I have managed to, either drastically or slightly, de-personalize children younger than me, I must urgently resensitize myself to that precious, equally human mindset and existence.