A Choice

Up a jagged hillside to an uncertain future,
Or down the even, paved road toward comfort and security.
The map's key shows a thin line zigzagging up the mountains, barely a trail,
And a wide highway, well worn with travel.
At the end of one, rumor tells of a vast treasure.
The other, a kingdom of full stomachs and soft beds.
A lifetime of scars, calluses, and happiness,
Or of salty pillows and unfulfilled dreams?

Dancing Trees

The trees love the wind.
It is their one true dance partner.
They shiver in delight as it rustles their leaves and twirls their branches.
Sometimes the dance is too much
And the trees, in an effort to dance as hard as the wind
Break
And Fall
Never to Dance Again.
But still the trees love the wind,
And raise their branches to it as it passes.
For it is better to dance and die than to never dance at all.

The Courtyard

It is a rainy day in a courtyard.
Every surface is covered with jugs to catch the water.
A woman walks among them, pouring colorful acid into certain jugs, ignoring others.
The acid is very toxic, and if there isn't enough water,
The acid will eat away at any imperfections until the jug cracks and dies.
To protect some jugs, lids cover them, but then water doesn't enter either.
Be warned, once a lid is put on, it is difficult to remove it completely and the woman is more likely to pass it by.
However, the more water in the jug, the less colorful the acid.
The jugs of water tsk and sigh each time one breaks and spills its brightly colored contents onto the courtyard.
But those of us with the acid inside cheer and applaud, regretful only that the jug will no longer experience the acid.
It burns, it cleans, it brightens and polishes.
The water soothes and heals, but we pay the price with diluted acid.

My muse has left me

My muse has left me.
What else do I have to say?
He gave me my words, my reason for speaking.
The world is a little less bright without him.
The little things in life have stopped whispering their secrets and truths to me.
I feel deaf without him.
I thought he would always be there.
I don’t think I took him for granted.
I was always so grateful for the gifts he gave me, without asking.
I loved his sense of humor, I didn’t even mind his ADD.
How he loved to start projects and yet never finished them.
How could he leave me?
Was I a one- night stand on his business trip to inspire someone else?
Is he with her, right now, making her words sing while mine clink like muted cymbals?
Are her stories running away from her, in different and wonderful directions?
Does she appreciate every moment she has with him?
I should be grateful for the time he spent with me, all the art that flowed from between us.
I should be happy for her, and hope that she makes the most of her time with him.
I should move on, and do the best I can with what he left behind.
Life doesn’t stop just because my muse has left me.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful--a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
"I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed--Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill’s side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried--"La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

I really wanted to post something...

So you get a rant. I finished my replacement Jedi cloak, I began my Jedi cross stitch, and I need to practice my lines for a Jedi skit. Sense a theme? I may post a pic of my costume, if I get the nerve... I'll scan the opening layout for the skit sometime soon. That should be fun for some to look at. Unless you've already seen it. Then it would be boring.

I have submitted "My lover's eyes" and "psychologists are the janitors of our minds" to the poetry contest. It would be cool if I place or get an honorable mention for the former, I don't expect the latter to go anywhere.

The ants have discovered my room. But they've shown themselves in all corners, so I don't know where their entrance is. I found one crawling on my bra today. I don't need this.

I wish I had time to write. I wish my muse would come back, ADD and all. That's it! My muse has left me! I was wondering why I was depressed lately. All semester I've been in a funk. It's because my muse is gone. Wow. I need to find that poem about the lady by the lake that sucks the life out of men. That was a metapoem if there ever was one. I'll find it and post it for you guys so that you'll know how I feel.

My Lover's Eyes

My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sea,
His lips, poutier than mine, appear brass
He isn’t stacked, my man is more like a tree.
His hair sticks up like a field full of grass.

Some men have skin like dark wood, but not he.
Truly, paler than snow is his cheek’s hue.
His mouth has the taste of sour coffee,
Thinly disguised by an Altoid or two.

Not rich and deep is his voice, but if loud,
He goes high, like a mosquito whining.
He doesn’t walk regally, tall and proud,
Rather, his gait is hunched, from hours typing.

I may laugh at him when he struts his stuff,
But his love for me is sexy enough.

Conversation with my Main Character

I'm sorry, my darling. It's been four chapters and I've yet to name you. To be frank, your name wouldn't change your behavior thus far, but it will determine your choices in the future. But this is why you don't have a name. I know how important it is. If I didn't care about it, I'd just call you "Sarah" like all the other authors who wanted a special character with a bland name. You are special, but you have been overlooked throughout your life. People overlook bland names. But I do want you to be unique, so I can't choose a worn-out, bland name. I've tried several, but none fit you. You are just as picky as I am. You have horrible spelling, by the way.

Wind in the Trees

So, quick exercise. Wave your hand at your face, like you're fanning yourself on a hot day. Question: is your hand moving the air, or is the air flowing past your hand and making it wave? You've answered the question, whether aloud or to yourself, and you've given the text a weird look because you think the answer's obvious. Question 2: When you see the wind moving through the trees, is the wind flowing past the trees and making them wave, or are the trees pushing the air? And you stubbornly give the opposite answer because you KNOW that the wind is made by hot air moving up and cold air moving down. Let me ask you another question: When was the last time you felt wind moving either up or down? I mean, down near the ground, not miles up in the air, wind seems to go in a side to side motion, right? Just, allow for the fact that air can circulate up and down in the atmosphere, AND there may be another reason why wind moves side to side down on the ground. Forget what you KNOW and answer this question: is your hand moving the air, or is the air moving your hand?

Oim A Faerie!

You scored as Faerie. Faerie: Aren't you a cute little flying person? Faeries are earth spirits. They live among each element completely hidden. They have cousins called Pixies. Pixies however, are very mischevious. They enjoy tormenting other creatures for fun. Little pranksters.. I hope you never meet one. Pixies have a bad reputation for finding a creature and clinging to them until death. Faeries can be somewhat close to a Pixie, but mostly they are loving, playful, and carry with them a child-like enthusiasm for life. Hide among the pedals of a Daisy, you are a Faerie. Faerie 100% Dragon 92% WereWolf 75% Mermaid 67% Angel 67% Demon 42% What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!) created with QuizFarm.com

Daddy

Daddy? Are you there? Daddy?
Daddy, remember how I asked to go abroad for a semester,
But I needed you to help me with my homework?
Well, my GPA’s still too low. I can’t go.
It’s okay, Daddy, maybe it’d be too hard for me.
Maybe something would happen overseas and I’d get hurt.
I know you’re looking out for me, but, Daddy, are you?
I cussed at my sister the other day, did you know?
Mom heard me and told me to stop.
She said that what was worse than hearing those words
Was hearing them come out of my mouth.
My angel’s mouth. But I haven’t had an angel’s mouth
Since I learned how to talk. Remember?
Daddy, I’ve seen you spank others when they sin,
And then they give you a hug. They know you care.
I can’t remember the last time you punished me.
I lust after boys, have you noticed?
I’m angry on the inside, do you care?
I speed, I’m impatient with people, I hate, I’m selfish and lazy.
Thank you for this beautiful day, but, Daddy,
You make the sun shine on the good and the wicked.
What will it take for you to pay attention to me?
What do I need to do?

Journal 11.8

This past year I've been trying to figure out what it means to be an adult. I thought that 18 was the line, but apparently you're still a teenager. Then I thought 20 was the difference, but I didn't feel anything. Next comes 21 and alcohol. Is that what makes us adult? Being able to make bad decisions and get shitfaced? And what about those that "grew up too fast"? Or those that "never grew up"? Is responsibility the deciding factor?

What is responsibility? The ability to be responsible? To follow through with your promises? To be able to look out for yourself? I've been mostly on my own for three years. I've paid rent, I've kept the same job, I've gone grocery shopping, I've done the dishes and cleaned the bathroom. Does that make me responsible? Does that make me an adult? I don't feel like I deserve the title.

I never wanted to grow up. Never. People say that they look back and wish they'd taken advantage of their childhood... I knew what I had when I had it. I'd be playing hide and seek, and I'd think, "in a couple years, I won't fit back here anymore." I enjoyed the fact that my parents made dinner and all I had to do was put five plates on the table. I knew that back then, it didn't really matter if I did my homework right after school or if I stayed up late doing it, I could go outside and play. I knew that my parents weren't happy with their jobs, and that I probably wouldn't be either. But I didn't have to worry about that. The most on my mind was the cute boy two desks down. Whether I could get to the swingset before they were full. Whether I wanted the nacho lunch or the corndogs for lunch. I knew what I had, and I didn't want to leave it.

Based on what actions give me guilt, and which actions give me a bitter satisfaction, I think that adults weigh what they want to do against what they need to do, and set aside their desires. This past semester, I've been regressing. Almost to the point of jeopardizing my grades. I've made orange juice popsicles, I got a hold of sippy cup tops, I've been watching movies when I should be doing homework, I even sucked my thumb to remember what it was like to have a self-comfort system. And I know that these things are not adult. That an adult would let them go and fulfill their responsibilities. I'm not ready. I never wanted to grow up, and I certainly don't want to now. But I have no choice. It's either this path of dissatisfaction and denial, or the street. Because that's where I'll end up if I let go of everything. And don't try to tell me that there's a balance. Children don't want balance. They want black and white. Either what I want, or what I don't.

Journal 10.30

My word, that was harder than I thought. The three janitor pieces are all attempts to communicate the single, same idea. The thought entered my mind and I tried to describe it and flesh it out a bit. Hense I. Though it went in a different direction than I wanted. In it, the shrink came to the house. I meant to show that we left our junk in their office, so I tried again. But I couldn't shake the cooperative cleaning. So finally, after a third attempt, which is also the shortest, I think I finally came as close as I'm going to on this. Bon apetite.

Psychologists are the janitors of our minds III

I walk in, loaded down with crap. Everything I’ve been collecting
Since my childhood. Slowly, I separate my self from my issues.
They become a pile on the carpet next to my chair. Afterward,
I feel light, clean, and I think I smiled. I left my crap where it fell.

Psychologists are the janitors of our minds II

Psychologists are the janitors of our mind.
We enter their offices covered in angst, despair, depression,
Hatred, pity, loathing, sadness, stress, issues, and family.
They pull out the fire hose and rinse us off.
Then they grab the soap and industrial gloves and get to work.
These problems won’t solve themselves. That’s why they
Have solution. Together we remove all those nasty things
That have been festering for years, just drop them on the carpet.
We leave smiling, squeaky and sparkly. We leave our problems
In their office. They’re the janitors. It’s their job to clean up
After us.

Psychologists are the janitors of our mind I

Psychologists are the janitors of our mind.
They knock gently and wait for us to let them in.
Going from room to room, they point out the tough stains.
“How long has this been here?” They wonder.
“Don’t you know that you’re supposed to throw this out?”
We sit back and try to relax, while they walk around our psyche
With a vacuum cleaner, but every time the machine catches on
Something large, we flinch and show that we really were paying attention.
Then they pull out the dust cloth, and we really start to sweat.
“You don’t need to go in there.” We tell them.
But with persistence, or perhaps when they’re done with everything else,
They make their way back into the corners that have been mildewing
For years, and with their Freudian carpet cleaner, they attack the nastiest spots.
Finally they pack up their gear, hand us the bill, and walk out with a whistle.
We shut the door, marveling at the fee. Then we stand uncomfortable,
Unfamiliar with this space that was once our own.
And despite the knowledge that eventually we’d have to call them back,
We can’t stand the white and the stench of cleaning solution,
So we spill our coffee onto the carpet.

I am not the lost sheep

I am not the lost sheep,
I am not the prodigal son.
I obediently stayed at home,
I am with the other 98.

I envy the lost sheep,
I am jealous of the prodigal son.
My father killed not the calf for me,
My shepherd has not carried me home.

I stumble within the herd,
I falter in my work,
But my father is watching for my brother,
My shepherd is out searching for the lamb.

I stare at the pit,
I know where to find sin.
I know that a rebuke is still attention,
That to be dragged by the neck is still to be touched.

But the shepherd sees my mind,
My father’s disapproving eyes make me consider.
So I return home, untouched,
I back away from the pit.

I hide in the center of the herd,
I work the fields with the servants.
But he left the party to talk,
And he reached out his staff
To tap my head.
He cares for me.

To All Literary Professors

My professor is a valiant knight
protecting the fortress of her convictions.
It has taken her a lifetime to build,
using bricks of books and cemented with historical perspective.
We lay seige to her castle
attempting to tear it down.
To exploit her holes, her seeming weak structure,
to build our own upon her rubble.
Her one goal is to defend her fortress.
To prove her stance, and win us to her cause.
Sometimes she cheats.
But then, sometimes she has to.

Present Life Lesson: Humility

There are times in my life when God needs to apply a 2x4 to my head. These, I am sure, are times when the gentle nudges were unnoticed, and are the final resort of a Teacher needing to impart a lesson. The current lesson is: (check the title) Humility. The acknowledgement that alone, I can not do anything. Or at least, anything good or worthy. So far, it's been a rather gentle 2x4 experience, no nails yet. He started with a definition of humility in a sermon.

Humility is: acknowledging that we need God to help us. One of my friends told me once that she saw God as a crutch. Yes, to a healthy person, a crutch slows us down, gets in our way, and weakens us. But ask a person with a broken leg who can't put weight on it without excruciating pain how they feel about a crutch. Guess what? Our legs are broken. We need a crutch in order to function. And if we can't acknowledge that, God will break our legs.

Yes, that seems ruthless, and mean, but it is necessary. In order to prove to us how much we need Him, He will take away His crutch, and let us fall. He will bring us low in order to raise us up again. But the point in raising us is that He actively does it to us, we don't pick ourselves up.

I used to not (and still don't, as I am in the process of learning my lesson) understand how we needed God for every little aspect of our life. Why I should be in constant communication with Him throughout my day. Surely I can handle most of my life on my own, I only need help with the tough stuff. I see ungodly people prospering, and so my logic is: if they can do that well on their own, without God, then surely, I can go as far without Him, and He'll supplement for me in my life what they don't have. But that is one definition of pride. "I can do this on my own. I am self-sufficient. I don't need you." Or even, "surely God has more important things to deal with, why would He care about these little details?"

But the thing is, not only is He powerful enough to help us handle the little details in our lives as well as everything else going on in the universe, but He already does. He cares about the little things that matter to us, and He's already involved, it's just that we don't recognize Him. That's part of humility. Recognizing what He does, and giving Him the credit. If we don't, He'll remove his crutch until we do. And it's not being mean. For all the blessings He gives us, for even just being Him, the fact that He is what He is, He deserves our praise and acknowledgement. It's not too much for Him to expect from us. And if we're dense enough to need a rough wake up call, and that's what it takes, then we deserve it.

I said that this particular lesson was more gentle than usual, for me. Instead of dropping me to the ground, He showed me an obstacle in my path, and pointed out to me that with my broken leg, I COULD NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT GETTING ACROSS. Together, tonight, we have taken the first step through this obstacle. Time, humility, and patience will show me whether or not God will bring me through this obstacle unscathed. But even if I do get hurt, it will be nothing compared to the absolute disaster I would have brought upon myself, if I had tried it alone.

Labeling Forever

Shivering, shuffling, scooting down the hall,
Pushing, pulling, kicking the stupid flat.
Searching, seeking for my predecessor's place,
Finding, feeling, taking and opening.
Groaning, grumbling, shutting mine eyes,
Picking, placing, covering, stamping.
Replacing, removing, endlessly repeating,
Impractical, impossible, a feat a decade long.
Bending, breaking under the Hunt's lash,
One day I'll shove this label right up his