Ponderings.

As man sits and ponders his own life’s work,

there is no one more intriguing than the solemn introvert.

Within his very soul he does deign to search

yet his own thoughts he does unwittingly besmirch.

Man is composed of many things within

Learning how to pray yet still dwelling in sin.

The conscious introvert recognizes his position

and weighs each move carefully before making his decision.

With precision, he moves his life ahead

and with passion, his eyes see naught but red.

Yet when the fire cools and the embers lay in ashes

his life flits before him in a succession of flashes.

What has he completed, who has he understood?

Can he hold onto anything that is good?

Or is he undeserving, and he is quick to agree

that the main purpose of his whole life was to flee.

Away from the troubles, away from the cares

Away from the darkness within his few hairs.

But a greater darkness yet within him resides

as he finds small joy in his former delights.

Reaching deeper, new light he does find

as sudden constraints on his heart does it bind.

The Lord has been faithful, He will be again

Our Teacher, our Savior, our eternal best Friend.

He walks with the lonely, with those who despair

as He crowns the brokenhearted who seek for Him there.

The introvert acknowledges with sorrowful regret

that he only turns to Him whenever he does fret.

He smiles and shakes His head, hearing this many times

Yet little does the introvert know He reads between the lines.

The introvert is anxious to his great Friend still please

and when in His presence, his soul is at ease.

He knows not his calling, but prays to discover

the power within that will help him recover

more brothers and sisters unto the one Body,

praying each day that his work be not shoddy. 

A perfect sacrifice, made acceptable to Him

as he sits in his room and composes a hymn.

Not one for the Body, but one for himself

To store with great care within his bookshelf.

A silent song of sorrow saved by Savior secretly,

Starting with the line “O Lord, bring me unto Thee.”

The Lord fulfills his all in all and asks to see his face

And as the introvert does turn, He sweeps him in embrace.

Tears streaming down his guilty face, he whispers in His ear

“How could I forget You my Lord, when You were always dear?

Forgive my every departure and every faithless tear.”

How dear the day that He was found 

when all His love did now abound.

With gentle arms and gentler breath, his body did His arms surround.

And so the introvert did weep, and asked the Lord his soul to keep

Waking with Him with each new day and foll’wing Him until he sleep.

How sweet the meekness of the story 

How great the shining of His glory

in this poor heart of man.

For he knew not that God did plan

yet in His arms he swiftly ran,

The tale ends well with God’s hand linked

and no longer back to darkness sinked

this poor young heart of mine.

Ponderings.

As man sits and ponders his own life’s work,

there is no one more intriguing than the solemn introvert.

Within his very soul he does deign to search

yet his own thoughts he does unwittingly besmirch.

Man is composed of many things within

Learning how to pray yet still dwelling in sin.

The conscious introvert recognizes his position

and weighs each move carefully before making his decision.

With precision, he moves his life ahead

and with passion, his eyes see naught but red.

Yet when the fire cools and the embers lay in ashes

his life flits before him in a succession of flashes.

What has he completed, who has he understood?

Can he hold onto anything that is good?

Or is he undeserving, and he is quick to agree

that the main purpose of his whole life was to flee.

Away from the troubles, away from the cares

Away from the darkness within his few hairs.

But a greater darkness yet within him resides

as he finds small joy in his former delights.

Reaching deeper, new light he does find

as sudden constraints on his heart does it bind.

The Lord has been faithful, He will be again

Our Teacher, our Savior, our eternal best Friend.

He walks with the lonely, with those who despair

as He crowns the brokenhearted who seek for Him there.

The introvert acknowledges with sorrowful regret

that he only turns to Him whenever he does fret.

He smiles and shakes His head, hearing this many times

Yet little does the introvert know He reads between the lines.

The introvert is anxious to his great Friend still please

and when in His presence, his soul is at ease.

He knows not his calling, but prays to discover

the power within that will help him recover

more brothers and sisters unto the one Body,

praying each day that his work be not shoddy. 

A perfect sacrifice, made acceptable to Him

as he sits in his room and composes a hymn.

Not one for the Body, but one for himself

To store with great care within his bookshelf.

A silent song of sorrow saved by Savior secretly,

Starting with the line “O Lord, bring me unto Thee.”

The Lord fulfills his all in all and asks to see his face

And as the introvert does turn, He sweeps him in embrace.

Tears streaming down his guilty face, he whispers in His ear

“How could I forget You my Lord, when You were always dear?

Forgive my every departure and every faithless tear.”

How dear the day that He was found 

when all His love did now abound.

With gentle arms and gentler breath, his body did His arms surround.

And so the introvert did weep, and asked the Lord his soul to keep

Waking with Him with each new day and foll’wing Him until he sleep.

How sweet the meekness of the story 

How great the shining of His glory

in this poor heart of man.

For he knew not that God did plan

yet in His arms he swiftly ran,

The tale ends well with God’s hand linked

and no longer back to darkness sinked

this poor young heart of mine.

Freestyle.

*This was all done because I felt like giving my mind an exercise haha, so sorry if it’s incoherent in some places; hope you enjoy!*

It starts with a bang that goes around my head

as I try to work hard and get my daily bread

but I’m mislead as my face soon turns red

My heart straight drops like a lump of lead

I lead, with a vocal to feed the minds of

the dumb blind sheep, my fingers can flow

nobody will know whether I was fast or slow,

Time is running out, the clock is ticking right now

and pow, into the future you shout.

Or into the void, what can you avoid?

Listening but with interest devoid.

A dart that I shoot into the heart

The point is in, the end is pointed at you

You flew from my heart and you never knew

that all along I just tried to be true.

Go through and see a tunnel of truth

as my fingers clack clack clack inside of the booth

A youth, trying to grow up as a man

Not knowing his plan, just having one lonely fan

His mom, his dad, his friends were his family

but this story sadly, ends up sadly.

A hope, destroyed, cast away in the sea.

See what you did to him, did to me?

No more thoughts, just life, barely a breath

fingers keep moving like he’s running from death

no stopping, no pause, just avoiding the paws

that swipe at his face with the razor sharp claws.

The crow caws, signalling his demise

surprise, he comes back out alive

Deprive him of his flow but he still has his soul

but the two mix together like eggs in the dough

You know, how this story ends but you just say no.

Waiting to see what you will soon sow

You reap and weep and stare in the street

seeing your sins, your life looking bleak

The peak of the mountain

is out there, without him.

Keep moving and grooving and soon

you have found him.

You hug and weep and laugh with joy

feeling like a kid with his favorite toy.

This took four minutes, goin onto five as I

realize that it’s losing the vibe

I try to keep the flow and the pace

but it seems like a never ending race

to finish I can’t, I can only stare and pant

at the work of my fingers freestyling out a rant.

So I end with this, a final try to spit

a mean coherent freestyle filled with some wit

Oh Lord, what a job, what a Job you knew

from all of his miseries and troubles brought through

It’s You, and it’ll always be

Now and forever, thinking on Thee.

My words are dribbling like drool

from an infant’s mouth, a fool

I was to try and outrule

Your work in my life, how could I be so cruel?

Love given, love returned

in the end this freestyle was learned

And burned in my mind til I could spit out a rhyme

worthy of churning the Spirit divine.

I’m blind and I’m deaf, surely not a threat

until all the requirements of me are now met.

Winding and grinding out an eternal flow

I know, that someday to Your kingdom I’ll go.

Moon’s Eye View.

Warm coffee in hand, I stare out at the surface

of the lagoon that’s in sight, wonderin’ if it’s worth it

to let my mind sink deep into thoughts of contemplation

or risk losing myself in pensive devastation.

The moon is imposing tonight, the sky’s sigil

a lone eye that is searching the night, keeping vigil.

A sigh escapes me as I reflect on the day

and sip my coffee while watching the lake.

The people I’ve met who’ve been kind to a stranger

the vibe I experienced, a positive languor.

And yet I think ahead, looking into the future

feeling like a student living as a time commuter.

Lecture halls filled with usurpers of knowledge

in this sempiternal flux otherwise known as college.

Many students studying with a different pair of eyes

Each working hard to try and realize

His or her dream, whether it’s the fame or the cream

Life suddenly isn’t all that it may seem.

And so back to the present I come

As I on an empty cup quietly drum

I’m looking through the eyes of the many

And for my thoughts I wouldn’t take a penny

Because thoughts are my perception of what I know as true

And though I used to look at stars, now it’s just the moons I view.

Food Dilemma.

Over the course of the past four years or so, it seems like everything we Americans enjoy stuffing in our faces has actually grown more and more minuscule.  From bite size macarons (macaroons in some schools of culinary thought) to mini cheeseburgers, the average edible consumed has had its price raised and its portion reduced.  And we consumers (no pun intended) have been, ahem, eating it up.  Although I am rather partial to macarons, the issue isn’t with the quality of the food; indeed, it has actually gone back to the quantity of food.

For instance, today I found myself enjoying what is known as a donut peach in Asian culture – frequenters of 99 Ranch will surely know which fruit I am referring to.  It seemed like I had taken two bites of the succulent flesh before I realized I was staring into, or at, rather, the dark pit.  Although I had thoroughly enjoyed the flavor, aroma, texture, and juiciness of the peach, I found myself in the awkward position of being exceedingly unsatisfied.  The peach to the naked eye appeared to be of average girth and acceptable size, yet after eating it, it was extraordinarily disappointing.  If the peach began small, then I would not have expected much from it, but it deceived me in that way left me feeling confused and betrayed.  Being small, it would have been socially acceptable and I would not have felt as guilty about taking another.  However, it seemed large enough for a single peach to satisfy me; after finishing it, I found myself looking longingly at the other peaches, glowing on their pedestal.  But I was in a quandary indeed, for to take another peach that would certainly look as large to others as it did to me would be a complete and unashamed indulgence in my own personal greed.  And so I departed, unfulfilled and greatly depressed from this encounter with the donut peach, learning that despite our complaints about having too much food, it’s the quantity that really satisfies.  For no matter how good that peach was, I would have definitely preferred a more average tasting peach with more flesh to bite into than that one.  Just some food for thought for my readers.  Oh, the puns…it appears I’ve gotten a bit, er, fruitier, over the course of the summer.

Part 1: Our Hero

Whit Loard was a very strange man.  He babbled on at great length, but what issued forth was not incoherent, but among the wisest words that man has given utterance to.  However, his appearance indeed told the story of a man who took both the road less traveled by and the regular road; with a mane of unruly hair, he definitely had the look of a traveler.  Whit Loard didn’t understand that his appearance was odd, however; he did not see, hear, or even feel as normal humans do.  Instead, Whit’s eyes were open to a flurry of colors and emotions, seeing feelings instead of interpreting and understanding them.  When he felt, it was in shadows; they evaded him the more he attempted to pursue them.  So he just let them be.  As for his hearing, he heard his environment, but it diffused through his consciousness in a tempest of connections.

Rhythm, not formed, but felt. Meters, not written, but breathed. Poetry, not memorized, but lived.  On these three pillars stood Whit.  He lived the three pillars, which have come to be known as the Poetry Three.  Of course, the last thing he wanted to do was form a formal doctrine for Poetry; it simply could not be done.  And he journeyed his whole life to come to this solitary truth: Poetry is perpetual, always in motion.  He lived until eternity’s end, clinging to this fact; indeed, he built his life from it.  However, this is a story for another time. For now, his journey’s tale shall suffice.

His journey, a long, tortuous one, contains many memorable characters, characters who have each made their own individual impression on Whit.  There was his dear old English teacher and his longtime companion and his parents and his boyhood friends and even his turtle; the list grows but time shortens.  He started out as a regular student, but soon found what it meant to be a student of Poetry.  As a student of Poetry, he found that his outlook on life had more color and a freshness that he had never encountered.  However, this was not his first time as a student of Poetry; he had sampled Poetry a few years prior and found it bitter to taste.  Little did he know Time only matures the bitter drink that is Poetry, refining it and preserving it to become a rich, dark wine.

Time, Time; the creator of chaos, preserver of peace.  A wily scoundrel,  constantly appearing in the most inopportune of occasions and bending human perception to its own will, Time allowed Whit to truly grasp at the depths of Poetry’s existence, to taste the sweetness of Poetry and gaze at it in a near-drunken stupor.  Time, the lord of all men, became Whit’s servant, slowing his various steeds and racing onward at Whit’s command.

Whit did not know this, of course; he was far too immersed in Poetry, testing its elasticity and inquiring with innocent curiosity until he was certain of Poetry’s existence, and eventually, he adopted Poetry as his closest companion.  In turn, Poetry constantly provided solace in dark times and enchanted Whit during the bright times.