Falling Branches.


A branch fell down today, carried off by

the wind?

Or was it the weight of life

bearing downwards a moment too long,

breaking its ability to hold on?

It fell slowly but loudly whispered,

demanding my attention, and so I paid.

The leaves fluttered, excited

to meet the ground.

The grass! Their unknown, distant cousins embraced

some of them, yet some of them

were still born aloft by the natural way of

the branches.

They had to wait their turn.  Warmth found them all

as the sun shadowed them with light;

they wait until night to begin life anew.

The thoughts of the natural world are –

or aren’t they?

Perhaps I’ve been staring outside for too long.

Back to the Old Haunt.

Let spirits sacrifice themselves at once,

Fresh ghosts delay the making of a dunce.

Hist’ry’s silhouettes bow into the dark

as tombstones crumble ‘fore love’s solemn mark.


What love is deep as wells in which death dwells?

Bodies of the slain piled on clouds above

paint out seven portraits for seven hells –

each one more lacking in art than in love.


Before the clock has finished its ticking,

may we stop and stare fast into the ground.

Who knows what rising tides come trickling

when tears of the hope-lost turned joyous found?


Sound a cry! The fury calls before the dawn;

its age-old custom torn away.

When forced silence reigns in a beating heart’s song

and there are left no more words to say.

Roads Traveled.

I’ve walked a shadow’s dance,

a letter’s prance, a mountain’s trance.

Lances, shattered spiral twirls,

fallen stars that sunshine hurls,

poppy meadows deign to bellow

melodies of churches yellow.

A song of sorrow for tomorrow,

dancing sprite a heart did borrow.

Pardon me, the ride’s at three,

I have not paid the rainbow fee!

Time to eat a panda’s meat,

filled with fury, tasty heat –

in a hurry, speak the worry

as I run to seek the meek.

Sky High.

I’ve dreams retained from yonder times

beyond the sun and seven skies.

Of scrolls that stretch from east to west

and ink that fills whatever’s left.

Soft sheets of ice drift this way

beyond the time we call Today.

And soon they melt into love’s tears,

burned by nights of lonely fears.

Hearts split by shrill yells of crowds

as summertime pierces through the clouds.

Clouds, comprised of purest dreams,

engulf the final teary streams,

never to flow again.


Click clack keyboards take the lead as the pillowed purple is couched upon the bed.  Roars of crowds, strangers unknown to the world as the building is unhinged, green is helping out as the shrill repeats itself.  A mirthless chuckle escapes as they have seen a lot tonight.  The darkness swallows the hunger as famished souls crave the thrill of curry.  The fourth quarter is dropped as the ball is given up.  Sounds of the environment swirl around as thoughts are incapable of being drawn out, only the sounds of the other, sounds unwanted and undesired, sounds that are not of my own mind, but of my surroundings.  The question of what I am doing is something that I don’t have the answer to all the time, as a lack of marbles is squawked about in the room.  The warmth of the bed is comforting as the bead of sweet is coming down upon the forehead, forever forgotten by the skin as the air receives it. The falcon, the crack, the snippets of life’s thoughts and actualities are refreshingly mundane.  A soreness in the left forearm dissipates, as with all things, as time draws on.  Time is simply an excuse to excuse the tardiness of the world’s expectations, expecting to excuse the lack of excuses that expect forgiveness.  And so the world spins around, time in one hand, space in the other as the ball rolls onto into the oblivion of infinite infinity, chorus sounding as the kingdom presses on, willing to reveal itself to the mindless and the mindful, the thirsty and the ones who have no thirst, for they are slaked in the present age.  Ages of people across the world await the anticipated amelioration of life as they know it, yet they willingly gaze into the eyes of death, forlorn souls without reason or breadth of knowledge, yet speaking with the wisdom of pastures.  The river runs on, unknowingly drenching the passionate with sorrow.


As I glumly sat behind the wheel of my minivan a few days ago, I began reflecting on things.  This prompted me to remain still at a green light, leading to the expected honking of people upset with the lack of action in their own lives.  However, the thing I began musing on was about how much I’ve changed.  I began thinking about my winter break and what I would be doing with it, and I came to the point where I reminisced on how I spent them in the past.  The realization settled on me when I discovered that I no longer enjoyed staying home alone and doing solitary things, like reading for hours.  It was a bitter moment actually; part of the blame was on college and how the forced interaction somehow stole a bit of my personality, dissipating any desire I had to be alone.  The need for human contact was, in a way, a crippling inability to exist and entertain myself independently.  However, the moment was fleeting when I began reflecting on my spiritual life as of now.  I began seeing that I had always been blessed with an ability to communicate fairly well with others – the exterior reserved, awkward, aloofness was the only thing that made me unable to reach out to others.  Now, I find myself in an internal skirmish come social gatherings; do I continue on with my newfound self, much of which has changed drastically, or do I let my old personality refresh itself.  It’s a question that I find harder and harder to answer with each meeting of old friends.  My life now is filled with God because of the environment that He’s placed me in, and yet, I’m not sure how it would be reflected if I did some of the things I used to do in order to get along with my old friends.  I have since limited my swearing exponentially, normally catching myself before saying them, but it was that casual usage of it that seemed to let me “fit in.”  All of this reflection is beginning to wear me out, so I guess I’ll just finish with a reminder that the true friends of mine won’t mind, and that as long as this new change doesn’t reflect my human judgment of my old friends but God’s love for them, I should be alright in the end.

Dreams Gone By.

Fluttering wings span just short of highlands,

iceborne shards of fast-slicing firebrands.

October leaves drift as melancholy blooms,

leaving behind trace memories it consumes.

A sigh of autumn wind, blowing by the ear

as realization soon hits; it’s almost been a year.

Time spent awake at times felt like a dream –

Yet what dreams came upon unraveling seams?

A blink of an eye is

the flash of a year’s life