Similarities

Sometimes I draw strange conclusions between what actually happens and what I perceive. I will think that one is like the other, and then, when I think back, I’ll realize that I was wrong. We all do this sometimes. We hope against hope and get our expectations up – and then, when it all comes to an end – there is a strange discrepancy between thought and action, between beginnings and endings that spin around inside our heads….

Similarities

I draw similarities with my words
Of people, who aspire to lesser things
Of people, who aspire to catalogue the world
in an eternal heartbeat

And after the perfect day
When backlit museum pieces
frame the moonlit night
I wander among the spits of timbers
Cedar carcasses – rent apart – a stage
And hear you whisper into the wind

“I don’t care,” is what I hear you say
It hurts – when I, so foolish
decided you meant to love me
When you – honest man – burnt-wish Templar
decided I meant no harm
No harm at all

“No harm” – these words are akin to existing
in unspecified drones, weak hopes
hollow spaces, hollow minds
and homes without faces in the rain-washed windows

I hope
I hope – the candlelit moonlight speaks
I hope – it wills a dream inside my mind
I hope – it tells me whispers
And shows me little similarities
between the perfection I perceive
and stark – beautiful – intriguing reality

M.
Aug 26/15

On Wheels

Packing for college has made me think. I’m not leaving for long, but I realize that I’ve missed this, the hush of suitcase-slipper wheels on hard floors, the din of imaginary crowds in my head and on the city streets.
This one’s dug up from two years ago, and it says it well: How life sometimes is more together and yet still further apart when you’re walking on suitcase wheels….

A man walking, beautiful how
he has his suitcase by his side
comfortably. Its grip is smooth
and a familiar walking stick
on wheels. He walks, big steps
In a hurry to get somewhere
though he doesn’t know where
he’s going, really, just home.

I miss the walking quickly
when it’s dark and it’s cold
and the man needs his coat
as much as he loves his suitcase.
Sometimes I wish I was the man
in the city – any city, really –
that breathes as a body
is crawling with red ants.

I love the rush you get from
knowing you are completely
insignificant and yet a part
of some phenomenon we call
“The World”, I think. We know
not where we came from or where
to go, but the man is content
to simply fulfill that lust he feels
when sitting still.

M.
Oct 25/13

Beautiful Things

These beautiful things
So hard to make ’em last
We hunger through the day
Yet in the night we fast
From all the things we crave
‘Cause they can never last
And always they escape
To dreams where we begin again
And leave our worlds of glass

We see through all the pictures
The smiles and glances right
We hug and kiss and make love
But we never stop and fight
For all the things we hope for
For we think these things alright
If we simply believe
And avoid the haunting thoughts
That still visit us at night

And even if we fight this
If we commit and pray
There’s no God-given promise
That things will work out today
We like to point our fingers
And hunt some promised prey
Yet we can never know
The threads we wish to weave ourselves
Into the perfect way

And still

These beautiful things
So hard to hold on fast
Turn my life into joy
As long as they still last
I know I will remember
I know there’s more to see
But these beautiful things
Retain a silent grief inside
Their short-lived rush of racing tide

M.
Jul 31/15

Simple Pleasures

Cold apple-juice my insides licks
While sour-cream of coolness tastes
And in zucchini-soup goop sticks
While down my throat the food with haste

Next radish-horse on ham and bread
And pick of veggies from the cold
If cabbage, carrot, pepper red
Or something else my mouth enfolds

Yes sir, our fridge is full of food
Like herrings in their hallowed jar
A nest of eggs in styr-form broods
And juice completes the drinking bar

A taste of yogurt, frozen fruits
And freshly apples picked (and pears)
Pink radishes and onion-roots
‘Midst carrots with their verdant hairs

I don’t aspire to gluttons’ meals
Nor in my joy deny this wealth
But since, for once, the table feels
So full I won’t raid lair or shelf

From my own kitchen to my mouth
A spice, a sauce, a green, some meat
Ring true the words “i hör ned auf”**
And so, without a care, I’ll eat

M.
Apr 29/15
**”i hör ned auf” means “I won’t stop” in German dialect
And yes, I made the food in the pictures myself…

History and Blog Maintenance: PI#1

~ PI#1 – Personal Interlude #1 ~

FullSizeRendercropAs some of you might know, I have recently been selected as one of four recipients of the Colonel Douglas H. Gunter Memorial Award, which is presented by the Canadian War Museum and Friends of the Canadian War Museum. I received the scholarship for a wood burning project I did on the topic of War and Media. (You can find a link to the project I made here. Simply scroll to the bottom of the page where the winning entries are posted.)

I figure this is as good a time as any, then, to let you know that if you ever have the chance to take a history course, you should do so. Understanding history is crucial to understanding the political climate and context of current events, and the History course I had the pleasure of taking this past year taught me this more than ever; In fact, I am even considering eventually majoring in military or ancient history.

So yeah. I hope to be posting on historical facts and events occasionally, and at any rate, some of my poems are inspired by history and the past in general. That being said, however, my blog will likely dwell more and more on art over the next year and a half as I begin my college studies in the visual and creative arts. And while I’m on the topic of blog maintenance, I hope you enjoy the new look. I know I do.

M.
Jul 23/15

“I Love You Dark”

My love’s not pure nor glorious as the day
As dark and coarse as skin is fair and bright
It shines, but without light to guide its way
Not holy or of perfect, lacy white
It clads itself in simple, dirty scabs
In scars and bone and curling, muddy hair
My pulse it quickens and my hear it grabs
Without decorum, rules, or playing fair
As old as earth, as dark as dawn is light
It twists and writhes; it shudders like the frost
My love is neither perfect nor alright
But hard and dark and all too eas’ly lost
My love is simply man and shades of skin
So dark they mold this golden heart within

M.
May 13/15

The God Beneath

I am a nation. I am the fabric of pride, nationalism, and community. Rippling in the breeze, the heavy folds of cloth remind me of my importance, the fact that no expense is spared in me, and no sky is above my conquering gaze.

I fly. The gentle wind lifts me and the shining sun casts my shadow down below, where among heaps of fallen bricks the ants run around in a frenzy. I can hear snatches of conversation from them.

“Left my textbook in the math hall,” they say.

“Wonder if she’ll go with me,” they say.

I neither care nor understand.

Each day I guard the ants and make their courage rise up in their chests, make their feet run faster, and make the day so much brighter. In red and blue glory, I watch their meager attempts, their futile squabbles and short-lived victories. I am timeless.

Each evening I sink with the sun, coaxed downwards by the gentle slap of rope against pole, folded like a child, and carried to a boxed bed of finest silk like the treasure I am. Each evening my stars lie folded, and I die – and in the morning I rise again, the first to wake. Drawn aloft by the threads of spider’s silk, newly coated with dew, I come to watch again over the bustling anthill of mankind.

I am timeless. I have existed as long as I can remember, which must be a very long time indeed. No one has come before me, and no one would dare follow. The ants, however, aren’t timeless at all. They come and go, and when they go I am sure they die.

“The flag’s getting a worn patch,” they say.

“I’m so screwed for that English final,” they say.

“Look into getting a new one,” they say. “The pride of America.”

I am right, see? They leave and when they leave, they die. That is what they say. The word America means death, or maybe heaven, I think. At least, that is what I’ve discovered.

This is a day like every other day, except that I do a thing I’ve never done before. I have experienced all, and yet today I do the thing I’ve never done before: I touch The God Beneath.

The God Beneath is big, and it is mottled. It is the only thing bigger than myself, because so matter how far I stretch, my folds of painted skin can never quite obscure it completely, whereas the ants are blocked out easily.

The God Beneath is something beyond me, something too vast for me, but today, as I am gently drawn down towards it to be put away, it rises up to meet me.

I don’t quite know what happens.

“Don’t let it slip-” says a voice.

“You’re letting go,” replies a second voice.

They are loud voices, much louder down here than when I am flying above them. My ant servants hold me gently, but I tip, and the God Beneath jumps up and grabs hold of one of my corners – the one that’s blue with a star in it.

The exhilaration is too much. I am flushed beyond comprehension, alive with the fire of a presence so much bigger and more important than myself. I’ve never felt this before. It feels like ice so hot it burns me up, and I feel this so strongly that the flames spring from my imagination and suddenly coat me in a fire feeding hungrily on my red and blue flesh.

“Well, it was getting worn anyways,” says the first voice.

“Shouldn’t have dropped it though. Shame we have to burn it,” says the second.

The Flames consume me, and before I pass into America, the last thing I feel is the God Beneath embracing me.

M.
Jun 2015
photo credits: http://ilimage.com/american-flag-2/

accidentally inspired; purposefully written