Furrowed Brow

The furrowed brow is not
    quite unlike the unfurrowed
        ground
    Waiting now
        for the planting.

The furrowed brow belies a thought
    which is not so much a seed
    than the manure
        turned
            into the soil.
Fertilizer but no genius
    no muse to summon forth
    the true spirit of the pen
and birther of the fruits
    of thought and feeling.

Furrowed but fallowed
    no truth has been writ
        and no measure has been
            found
to avail oneself of what's
        around.

Where has the seed gone?
        Whither the muse
    who has withered
        ripe for whatever is to come.

And yet plenty does come,
    by the wind, by the wing
        by the hoof...
            we just call them
                weeds

Cultivated by nature, and not
    the green thumb of man
    who would seek to tame
    that which nature makes unruly
    til the furrowed land lies
    hidden and only
        accidental
crops
    by nature chosen
        are given leave to grow.

And do we harvest this bounty
    this wolf among the weeds
    which is, in fact, a puppy,
        untrained, domestic
That we ourselves would call a wolf
    because we've already killed
        them all
        and no longer know
what the wolf is.

So we burn it all down,
    plow it under
        furrow the brow
and plant our wolves
    which will never see a
        harvest
for the wolf is neither fruit
        nor seed
    but the brow furrowed
    turning thoughts
        into manure
turning the soil
    hoping to find gold in
    the ground
        so that we might plow no
            more.
    But that apple is spoiled,
        and the gilding stripped
            from the bough.
        just ask Midas
    the value of gold,
that skeleton in
    El Dorado:
All that remains in the land of
    wolves.

So unfurrow the brow
    unfurl the sails
        and leave behind the plow
and let the wind
    natures genius carry you
        the seed
and behold that you are
the weed that bears true fruit
    to those who know the
        difference
    and plough the mistletoe.

Trebuchet

How about we sidle into the personal for a little while.  I can't actually remember when this was written (which just goes to show I need to date my work) nor can I remember the specifics behind it.  I have a few hunches, and it's possible a few people will see themselves within the thoughts.  I call myself a poet, and this tends to go into the realms of the personal vent that I don't often give myself leave for.  I traditionally consider it a priority to put my pen to paper only when seeking to create, and not so much to vent, but even then, sometimes the mood strikes me.  "Trebuchet" was probably written during one of my long spells of single-dom, but it also echoes things people have said to me; things which I began to see as true even when I wrote it.  In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Trebuchet

here I look into my soul...

too deep...

A place I cannot yet see

for my heart stands in the

way

How long has it been since I allowed it to feel?

How long have I labored in sacred vanity

o'er the conceit of a broken heart?

I opened the gates to my heart so long ago

let myself be tethered to a dream

that was in fact a trebuchet

that launched my heart away.

What siege was I but fodder for?

I know not.

Nor know who won,

though I know it was not I.

Once, I was selflessly selfish,

but that all changed

til now I stand

still selfish

Trying to remember how to give.

How many loves have past me by

Because giving my all was not enough

when there was not much left to give?

It has hurt every time, in my mind's eye;

and though my heart feels,

How much does it give.

Til now I see reflections of myself in other's lives

making the same mistakes I've already made

and wishing I could teach them.

I have lost great things because I could not let them in,

though I could let them

go.

Trapped in a glacier

Yet visible for all to see:

The great thaw has yet to come to me.

But it is no one else's work,

but mine

to shun the pain, and the fear

to melt the ice

til the path lays clear

again.

the pen returns...

So, it seems I have been away from this far too long.  I think I got lost somewhere along the way, and felt like I was running out of things to share.  This isn't entirely true, of course.  I have many more things I want to present, but I've never been entirely sure how I wanted to go about it.  I've also been a bit scared of the length of some of my pieces, as they are exactly as long as they need to be, but perhaps too long for the medium presented.  Other works, such as my plays, I'm not sure how I want to go about presenting them; in what form and format; by what ways and means, and I've been skittish of letting them have such free reign of the internets as to let them go.  But they also do no good just sitting on computers and flash drives that have the unfortunate tendencies of failing.  So perhaps I should release them into the wilds.  We'll see.

Now, though, to reintroduce myself to the blog-o-sphere, I will return to one of my other projects: Women in Myth.  To follow is a long piece called, "The Nixie of the Mill-pond" which is an adaptation of an old folk tale, and embellished with semi-historical nonsense.  It is possible that this is not its final form, but in the meantime... enjoy.  Did I mention it's long...

The Nixie of the Mill-pond

Twas during the in-between times
Ere Christ had risen to glory
Before the fall of druid lore.
Twas a time when Rome still flourished
When mighty Jupiter still reigned
From that high Capitoline hill.
In a quiet Gallic village,
Much ignored by Roman power
A miller still minded the stone;
Minded as his father before. 

Bic Pen(itentray)

"Bic Pen(itentary)" is another one of those pieces where I whine about the muse. It is really a very simple structure, and a part of me would like to go back and expand upon it more, but there is the other side that really likes the execution of it as it is. Lately, of course, the muse has been active enough, but the motivation is lagging a little further behind it than is usual, so, at the moment, this piece feels particularly poignant. In some ways, I feel like I'm in the in-between times, where the story is about to be freed, and the world is going to become new and fresh again. But the story is not free yet, and the labours and toils we suffer while still imprisoned weight heavily. In part, perhaps, we are afraid, as is the ink, what lays beyond the ball. We approach, tentative. And of course, in the due course of time, as we begin to accustom ourselves to the world outside the pen; to the story upon the page, the weight we thought we were carrying slides off of our backs, and a new inspiration strikes; a new world unfolds, and we find ourselves staring once again at the Bic (or the keyboard). Of course, it is not always a tedious business. Just as often, the caper comes off without a hitch, and we get away, avoiding and evading the crystalline prison. But not every time. We do get caught. This is the muse. This is writer's block. Welcome to Bic Pen(itentary). Let's hope for a quick parole.


Bic Pen(itentary)

Each night they howl
“Let me Free”
from their crystalline
prison.

We wardens hear them
locked in the inky black
but to scribe their tales;
powerless

The muse hears them beg
one by one
before the board
for parole.

No matter what we
as wardens think
or how the stories
plead.

Though we may check
their cells
feed them
provoke;

Though the key lies ready
the bic posed
blank lies
the page.

The Muse has granted
no paroles;
none promising
proved.

So we writers,
who know justice,
stand ready;
with our pen

For when the Muse grants such;
frees the tale;
the pen descends
purposeful

And we wardens who watched
now prisoners become:
‘gainst the Muse
We’re powerless.

Perfection

"Perfection" is another old piece, and in interesting concept in and of itself. This poem stems not necessarily from my own views, because it was written to compliment a drawing given to me once upon a time. My old friend Erica Hegebarth(now Horton)drew it up, and I was so taken with it that she gave it to me. Unfortunately, I don't have a digital copy of it, but imagine a human like figure from the waist up, and below tentacles that are rising up, filling the form. There are shreds of skin still clinging to the tentacles, and the figure itself is looking out of a window frame that is suspended from the top of the page by some flesh like strands. It sounds more grizzly than it actually is, but I am still taken with it. Erica told me some of what she was thinking about when she drew it, and I combine that with my own ideas to write it.


Perfection

Peaceful; green; such perfect streets.
Perfect houses, perfect people, perfect trees.
Gazing out upon it all as the sun retreats,
Wonders I what it is everyone sees.

And as they walk their perfect dogs along,
Perfect feet in perfect shoes; a perfect beat,
Humming in perfect tune the perfect song,
The perfect song for this day’s feat.

And how look I to their perfect eyes,
My perfect house, it’s perfect lawn,
And thinking of their perfect blindness, sighs,
What caused this perfect light to dawn?

So perfect in their lonely perfect dreams,
Spending cash with the perfect aspirations of yore,
When will they realize it’s all just seems?
Would they abandon isolation and knock upon my door?

And if they would their reflection perceive,
Would they know perfection’s shattered mirror
While their greater skills continue to deceive,
Holding them back with their own hidden fears?

Who would look upon this mine home
To see my imperfections set down as manifold?
Would see my reflection as theirs, alone;
The harsh truth in the empty dreams of old.

The ugly truth that I know as me,
Knows that these streets are hollow too...
If they would but their empty hearts see…
If they knew that truth, what would they do?

Alas their perfect world is a bed of molded lies.
I can tell from this place what’s been said,
That comforting illusion to deceit ties
And the sad truth that they are dead.

They only see a perfect image
Through a perfect window shown,
Yet I know the truth of sacrilege –
The truth that we are perfected alone.

Though knowledge is in form, light,
Looked to, through, and cast aside:
Knowledge is truest corruption; blight
Forever the gateway of illusion denied.

So I’ll watch the imperfected world go,
Saddened by their hollow smiles,
Knowing what they may never know –
Perfection’s illusion truth defiles

Stranger Echoes

So I was struck again by the thought that, though there are so many people in the world, no matter where we go, we find people who remind us of someone else. I know this is not a new thought but it is a thought that strikes my heart and mind alike. I think the thing I find most fascinating about it is how little it matters to us to meet the person who resembles our distant friend. We sit and marvel and dwell in our memories. We look at this stranger who has pulled so strongly on our thoughts, and we wish the conjoured illusion was real; that the mirage was a true oasis. This nameless stranger sits, content in there own little world, unaware of what they have wrought in ours.

It is an ache; and as we think about this other person, we say; "I should really call so-and-so." And then, of course, 90% of the time we do not. We are too busy. We are too distracted by our moment in time, that we allow it to slide away. But even though the thought has vanished, the ache awoken in our heart by this stranger for our forgotten friend remains. There is no patch for it, no cure. It is something that can only be fulfilled by the person in question.

The piece that follows was written in an airport, as I was struck by the thought, though this post is inspired by another person and another memory in another place. The essence of it remains, and I ask of you, my friends, the next time this thought strikes you; do not allow it to slip away. Call upon this forgotten friend in the name of a vague, yet familiar stranger.


Life is echoes
Faces like memories
Alike
Yet bold distortions
Visions that tease a tempered mind
Made feverish by hope.
Voices pass on a wind,
Tones and words
Ghosts of friends left behind
That ask us to recall them.
We're presented a sea
Of vague yet familiar faces
That push and prod
Our memories of the past
And make us wonder
What if...
Was that...
Until the echo fades
And we see,
And doubt takes hold.
Then, the echoes fade,
The strangers pass on
Forgotten,
Gone with the face of a
Friend
Whom we have never met.
We do not even say goodbye
As memory's replaced
By the harsh reality;
We are alone.
The moments tick by,
Seconds pass
Our gaze wanders
Til
Eyes meet
And through their eyes
We see
We are
A vague yet familiar stranger

an Ode for a Bic pen

Every once in a while, the muse strikes us with the most innocuous ideas... ideas that make us giggle at the idea, and drive the writer's itch so deep into the brain that we can feel it in the fingers. We know we HAVE to do something with it. We are driven to DO something with it. And, sometimes(read rarely) when we sit down with the pen in our hand or our fingers upon the keyboard- we disappear and the muse takes over.

I have many BIC® pens, but there are only a few that I consider "collected." They are old friends from the days when I was not so fortunate as to have my fingers rest upon the keyboard. I remember those days fondly, and the empty corpses of Crystal BICs® that I have kept are a testament in and of themselves of my dead-ication to the written word. It seems only fitting that I should title my blog, and lead my entries with this earnest lament for my fallen friend.


an Ode for a BIC® pen


How do we say goodbye?
How sad, dear friend, to part.
Do we measure your life in inky blood?
Do we commend your duration?
Or are the tracked thoughts
Blots
Words across a page
Written in your blood
A testament to your time?
How brave the mighty BIC®,
How clear.
We see your veins
As we bleed you;
Slowly;
Word by word,
Letter by letter.
You are the voice,
The Bearer,
The Apollo of thought;
An avatar to the world.
We cherish as we remember
That ev’ry colour is yours.
Blue
Red
All black.

Now the rainbow dresses in black,
In homage;
In sorrow.
They say a picture is worth
one thousand words…
How much greater, then, is
the stately BIC®?
So vivid its details
Its expressions
Its lines upon the page…
It is an analog truth
a fortune teller
a historian
a soul.
Should we torturers be guilty
As each drop
blot
clot
Of viscous blood
Becomes a culture,
a revolution
an idea?
Do we pity the BIC®,
A martyr to the cause,
A brave and heroic villain,
That we wield without
a second thought
Against an unthinking world?
Or do we relish
spilling the BIC®’s life-blood
writing comedy
celebrating vanity.

Is each drip of
inky blackness
that
slowly kills the pen
a
necessary sacrifice?
Do we make trophies
of the
bloodless BIC®?
Do we count it a victory
To empty our maker
and deliver its corpse
to the garbage?
The BIC® has made us
And it will break us
For what can the writer say
when the BIC®
runs
d…