Dear Phiiip,

You are an amazing young man,
Wrought with all the things
     That good men are made of.

I understand as well as you
That the world doesn't understand
     Us, and it never could.

We go together, two peas in a pod,
Inseparable by nature and bond,
     Twins by thinking.

Know that I've got your back,
Just as I know that you've got mine;
     Keep strong and true.

Sincerely,

Your sister

Dear Matéo, (II)

I remember

[this greatly impacted me]

 

Playing games with you,

     Running into each other with couch cushions.

Convincing our brother

     That maple tree seed pods were candy.

That your favorite books were not mine -

     Perl, Java, C++, HTML, and SQL.

Playing on the banister of the landing,

     Then going down to the family room to play some more.

 

When we would dress up at grandma's house,

     You always chose to be an owl.

You learned to take the greatest caution

     When trying anything I had made with food.

Next you learned not to try anything

     That I had made, regardless if others would eat it.

But then you learned that I had learned

     And now you aren't as wary about what I cook.

 

Your mind always excelled

     At computer games and programming.

You started stamp collecting,

     But stopped somewhere along the way.

Instead you collected coins

     And various currency of intrinsic value.

You were prudent and wise,

     A natural outpouring of your character.

 

You thought me and our brother strange,

     But loved us nonetheless.

You never really cried,

     I can't remember a single instance.

You worked hard at school,

     And always tried to do your best.

You were a major influencing factor

     In my own geeky streak.

There are little snippets

     Here and there without pattern

Of things that I remember.

     And I remember them well.

Now you're moving onward with your life,

     You always have been.

I pray that God who has seen you through thus far

     Shall continue to do so 'til the end.

Sincerely,

Your sister

Dear Matéo,

It hurts.

Don't you understand?

I missed

[I chose not to look for]

 you.

Your quiet character

And reserved demeanor.

Your secret schemes,

      Laid like traps,

As young children

     Are wont to do.

I missed

[I didn't think you were worthy of my attention]

you.

Your knowing smiles,

And aversions to cameras.

Your application to studies

And desire to be your best.

Your daily devotions

And all the hidden secrets.

Don't you understand?

It hurts.

I missed

[I had closed myself off from everyone]

Most of my chances

To know you for who you are

So when people ask these days

I could tell them so much more

     Than

Merely your age and name,

Where you went to school

And now are attending.

     More

Than just your majors

And where you want to go.

It hurts.

Because I was negligent,

And ran away from the world.

I am the only one to blame.

For you were readily there

And are to this day.

And yet.

Regrets.

It hurts.

I missed

[let life pass by unnoticed]

you.

Regards,
Your sister

Poem Snippet #4 (just for the fun of it)

From Data's "Ode to Spot" (Star Trek:TNG, "Schisms")

"O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend."

Surrealism (list poem)

A day in the life,
     ... Still a bad dream.
The sheep and the goats
     Talk.
Fireflies
     Viva la vida.

Bittersweet blackbird,
Do you feel all my tears?
Cover me;
     Everybody's changing.

Everything fades,
     Faith,
          Hope,
               And happiness;
Illusion and dream.

Bittersweet blackbird,
Say (all I need),
     Should you return.
Tell me something good,
Maybe tomorrow
     Is a better day.

We Fall

We fall,
In Gothic cathedral music,
Soprano solo the cry
     Of humanity.
Plunging down to the bass,
Rumbling the air currents
Until we are hushed
     By crystal bell.

We fall,
Sorrow and madness of descent,
Not knowing if we shall survive
     The landing
On bare rocks and pinnacles,
Stretching to pierce sky and flesh,
With no respecter of persons;
     This we fear.

We fall,
The same hope plead by all hearts,
Proclaimed by the unheard words,
     Catch us.
And surely our cries our heard
Among the whistling wind
And roaring gales in canyons
     Of fear, death.

We fall,
As all our nations and peoples do,
Crashing unto proverbial darkness,
     Screaming.
The watched ones,
Never descending alone,
Yet never together,
     In want.

We fall,
Waiting for the sickening sound
Of our bodies impaled by shale,
     Terror.
Our guard does not stand idly by;
Serenity watches while we fall
Holding out hands to catch
     Us all.

Poem Snippet #3

Snippet from "Horizonte" by Antionio Machado (translated by Richard L. Predmore)

"La gloria del ocaso era un purpúreo espejo,
era un cristal de llamas, que al infinito viejo
iba arrojando el grave soñar en la llanura. . .
Y yo sentí la espuela sonora de mi paso
repercutir lejana en el sangriento ocaso,
y más allá, la alegre canción de un alba pura."

Translation:

"The glory of the sunset was a purple mirror,
it was a flaming lens which to old infinity
projected my solemn dreaming on the plain. . .
And I heard the sonorous spur of my step
reverberate far off against the bloody sunset,
and beyond, the joyful music of a pure dawn."

Poem Snippet #2

Snippet from "House by the Side of the Road" by Sam Walter Foss

"And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone."

Poem Snippet #1

Snippet from "The McPoem" by Ronald Wallace:

"I must confess that I, too, like it:
the poem that's fried up flat and fast with condiments
on a sesame seed bun.  Steamy, grease-spattered,
and juicy, fluent with salt, piping hot
from the grill, glazed with bubbling oil."

Near-Distance

We are near the point where the tree of life,
     Or so it is affectionately called,
Stretches down its branches with outspread limbs,
Seeming to call forth the grass and clover.

Silhouetted against the sky,
     Where birds rest their wings and sing,
The smallest red buds begin to grow,
Foretelling leaves and summer and cricket songs.

The scent of damp earth in the tree's shadow
     Rises unseen to tempt the watcher.
Until the sun fades behind the clouds,
Making the whole earth a shadow.

The claws of the old, gnarly tree
     Upon this happenstance,
Seem to grope for death
So that grass and clover might live.

Far-Distance

A single streak of pale white cloud
Dances down to touch the tree.
Birches, farther off, near horizon,
Mimic the wannabe lightning cloud.

A wide swath of pasture land
Sprawls out between the trees and me.
It is green and grassy, splattered with tan
Where dead plants have resisted the grave.

And this tree touched by clouds
Stands alone, surrounded in a ghostly way
By those resolute plants, clutching
At the roots and trunks of lonely tree.

Mid-Distance

The gurgling river flows beyond,
Eddies swirling around rock islands
Covered in rotting branches,
Laid to rest by time and tempest.

Small dirt cliffs fall sharply off,
Covered at the top by prairie grasses
Which are still the dead-beige of winter,
The greens of spring still not known.

Beyond the range of vision,
On top of one such earthy cliff,
There runs a road, busy,
Noises of cars a blight to nature.

A pair of shoes rest on rocks,
Forming a sort of miniature shore.
Near to them, a set of water bugs
Glide and dance on the water's surface.

A cool blue sky and still, white clouds
Rest as drapery behind the place.
They look down with the warming sun,
Waiting for spring to breathe again.

Ancient

Flipping through pages,
Musty, worn by years.
Lightly coffee-stained,
Spine coming undone.

The hard leather fades,
Overcome by dust.
Bright inks, green and blue,
Once covered pages.

But all has withered,
Rusting unto black.
Then-ornate pictures
Corroded by time.

Still, the words remain,
Withstanding ages;
Their meaning's steadfast,
Ancient, ever true.

To That Fluffy Thing You Lay Your Head Upon

     Makeup-stained, soaked with tears,
Old friend.
     I've known you for years and years,
So long.
     The world never listened; you had ears,
Caring.

One Inch Song

One by one by one;
Size does not matter.
You contain songs, hours
Upon hours of tunes.

You are the spritely cube
That dangles in abstraction;
Not slim enough for pockets,
But still just right for me.

Dance and throb with song,
Keeping beat to lovely melodies,
Choosing to serenade only one,
By one; that one is me.

Wooden Palette

Come to life, Magic's instrument!
She creates the mysteries upon thine wooden back,
Covered in pools and spills of painted colours.

Like Atlas, thou dost hold up the world of her's;
But thine weight is not a heavy one to bear,
Simply creative, evocative, artistically transcending.

Come to life and bear thine load with steadfastness
And love the results created from the world thou dost carry.

This Represents

Spin the stars and galaxy,
Swath of silver Milky Way,
Twirling 'round the bone
     and flesh
Of your beloved's finger.

All that glitters is not gold;
For argent vows shine just as bright
When wrought in metal
     silver
Given to promise forever.

This ring is your word
Said with deep conviction.
You spun the stars and galaxy,
     my heart
The world of yet to be.

Cliche Poem

"It's up in the air."

"It's part of God's plan."

sigh

Love is blind -

The blind,

     Leading the blind.

Open mouth,

     Insert foot.

Play His trump card.

Kill two birds

     With one stone,

Digging yourself a hole.

Cliches

Women love chocolate.

Two peas in a pod.

This chair has your name on it.

I'm dead tired.

I woke up feeling like I was hit by a train.

Epigrams

Writers tell the human story and artists show the human soul.

Controlled falling is successfully walking down stairs.

We have lots of "day one"s but not enough "day done"s.

Imagination is the things to which little children fall asleep.

Eyebrows are mustaches for our eyes.

What goes in one ear comes out the mouth.

Fall Asleep

We are dreamers of melancholy dreams,
Running wildly through a world of haze.
reality no longer appears true;
The hallucinations, visions, and more,
Are the concrete blocks and stone foundations
With which we build our mental skyscrapers.
They clay and scratch to reach sickening heights,
To touch the atmosphere of dreams, visions.

We are the dreamers, forsaking our lives,
Searching for meaning in the oracles,
To change our lives for the better, not worse.
We dare to tower tall - to touch the stars.
We dare to dream, and we dream of daring.
Dreams have become the sustenance of life.

Child of the Wind

Walk down the path of the wind, my dear child.
It races and runs through lavender halls,
Passing the flowers which your heart enthralls.
Twisting through tree tops, it is hard to trace,
Yet it has chosen you to give it chase.
Dash over the placid, cool blue water,
Watch the wind dance in thunderheads over
Whipping prairie grasses no longer mild.

The spinning wind has got you beguiled,
And you are destined to follow it now;
If you find her nest, no one may say how.
The world only knows that your heart is drawn
To your mother, the wind, who waits at dawn
For her child to come and leave the world wild.

Made a Side Note

I sat outside the door,
My ear pressed against the crack,
The air pressure between
Foyer and sanctuary
Rushed there,
Denying me my hearing.
Still, I was
Listening,
     Waiting,
          Fearing.

They had finished counting ballots,
Then counting them once again
     Just to be sure.
To choose to make the children leave,
Or to keep them in their arms.

All that was left was
Waiting,
     Fearing,

Praying

That the news would not be
The words I was scared to hear;
That me and my friends would have to leave,
Forced out by the decisions of the uninvolved.

They said that the school
Was the cause of division,
That we were the reason
The church was falling
     To pieces.

And then
The announcement was made,
So cluttered in with other business
I nearly missed it.

And then I wished that I had.

We left

And never
Looked
Back.

Images

~poem for Jessica Dreiling's paragraph~

Were sunsets to dawn
And the ground crunch overhead;
Such things would make more sense.

Were time to crawl
          Slowly
     Backwards,
Then I could happier rest.

Love is the drink untasted
But craved from birth.
It is morning glory that grows
     And will not die,
No matter how many stalks
  I pull
From the reaching soil
  That is within me,
Unheeded humanity?

It will not die.
Nor is it sated
     But by a glimpse of its epitome.
It blooms
     Unbidden and unwanted,
A weed that is yet more precious
     But for the very one
          For whom it spreads its petals.

How did you call forth
The bud that first sprang up in me?

Why do you stand opposite me,
With that look on your face -
     Like you know not of what I speak?

I offer you these blossoms
     Which you yourself have watered.
Why then will you not take them?


Heart of my heart,
You have renamed yourself to me.
Do you find it strange
That you could be loved of me?

Come then,
And uproot this plant
You have so tenderly nursed to life.

Choke this weed
You have so unwisely grown.

Or see me as I am.
A helpless flowerpot.

To the Voice in the Wind

Sweet chickadee, 

sweet pea, 

sweet little lips 

     with rosiness in cheeks.  

 Sing softly 

     and slowly, 

lowly 

     in a lullaby.  

Sing the world to sleep.

  

Rest your cool hands upon the atmosphere, 

swirling and twirling the stars to your beat.  

Sway 

and set the winds and breezes in place, 

caressing the world with their moving feet.  

Close your dark eyes, 

     enchantment and mystery, 

close them 

     and let your eyelashes fall.  

Block out the sun with your right hand, 

and let show the moon with your left.   

If you must cry, 

weep for the world.  

Let your tears fall to the broken hearts.   

Carry the children safe in your arms. 

     Carry them safely to home. 

Sing low, 

sweet chickadee, 

sweet pea, 

sweet little lips 

     with rosiness in cheeks.

Black, White, and Red

~based off of my narrative paragraph~

We begin with black hair

                And the whims of a spontaneous mind.

Black hair is the hair of enchanters and mysteries.

The darkness was the impulsive decision

Of the girl who has yet to learn to be a woman –

                What it means to be mature

                And convey the wisdom and knowledge

                Of an age far ahead of one’s own.

The deed was done and the girl saw contrast

Between her raven locks and the paleness of her skin;

                And her skin is very pale.

She is the modern Snow White,

The girl of black tresses with near-white skin.

She was led to boldness, spurred on by others,

To a step that the girl had never taken before.

Delicately,

Daintily,

With a small blaze of determination,

She swept the pool of red against her lips.

She walked out of the door,

                Into the open and vulnerable,

Wearing something bold and audacious,

                Blatantly brash

                Upon her normally neutral lips.

Walking down the sidewalks,

                Self-conscious of her lips,

                Daring against black and white,

A smile creeps up along her lips,

Red –

                The adventurous end result

                Of a black-haired beginning.

Run

Like a madman,
     Weaving,
Dodging Bullets.
Run,
Or they,
     Those black memories,
Will catch you.

What Drives

The mad little spirit,
Those devil eyes
Set in pale, pale skin
With flaking wrinkles

Snow 4

It's my secret.
Desire,
Burning passion,
To run with you,
On paths in the wind.

Snow 3

Footprints in flakes
The frost of the muse
The winter of a cold blue moon

Snow 2

Iciness in her breath,
Snow in her eyes,
Wind for her hair.

Snow 1

Muffled silence,
     Encompassing.
Silent air,
     Undisturbed.
The fog,
     A cloud of crystals.

Untitled 3

Falling drops
In a stream
Like consciousness
Only purer
Clearer
Agua

Blur by Command

"Squint your eyes."
As though I would,

Me,
Blurred vision
     on-command
extraordinaire.

theoslogia

Whispered words of spirits,
     Saints,
          And creeds.
Vague
    Though challenging;
Frail words hiding untapped strength.

Unlike Love Whispers

Liquid drugs in thin clear bags,
Flowing through tubes -
The harshest sound in coma's silence.

Untitled 2

Slick,
     Shiny,
          Reflective;
Oil, metal, bristles
Slapped
     On canvas.
Mystery - revealed.
Form - breathed to life.

Untitled 1

Old man's legs,
Numb,
     Crippled,
          Senseless.
Cruel product of time
     And misfortune.