Something New

I posted a new poem on my writing blog, classical pastoral. Would put it here but its a tad long so yeah, here's the link if you wanna see it: http://drepoetry.blogspot.com/2007/07/little-town-where-i-was-born.html

Please feel free to comment...

Understanding Us

He’s sitting in a dimly-lit and stuffy room, cramped and with a low ceiling. The only lights are those that are coming from his computer and the small neon bulb that hangs above him, nothing else will he allow—too much light hampers and frightens him. A thick nearly cloudlike, haze of smoke fills his room—equal to that smoke that filled the valley of Bull Run but this cloud is not of gunpowder. Its cigarette’s—cheap and thin ones, he could afford no other—and their smoke has been his oxygen for nearly as long as he could remember. Nervously, shakily, he reaches for another one and lights up between sipping his coffee. Java brew for liquid, cheap cigarettes and potato chips for food: this is life to him, one that he lives most lonely.
Loner—that is the one word that could accurately describe him though its many other variations could suffice. Alone, outsider, misfit, oddball, lonely, wallflower, hermit—take your pick, he’s had them all, every one them he proficiently emulates. Does he mind being this way? Not too much. Sometimes he might, when he takes an occasional walk outside and sees the happy couple sharing ice-cream in the open veranda. He will sneer at them then—most bitterly—and walk away dejectedly, his countenance then comparable accurately to the rain. He has other friends at home: his endless books stacked on the table. Though collecting dust by now he’s read them a thousand times, laughed with each character that’s laughed and equally shared their heartbroken tragedies. With these persons he’s comfortable because he knows them so well, can almost sense their subtle magic’s when reading the page. He knows that theirs no betrayals within them. They will always remain his friends.
There are endless reams of paper upon his table, sprinkled finely with cigarette ash, the words upon them scrawled so hastily that it seems that the one whom penned them had a nervous fit when employing his pen. The lines are thick and hard-pressed almost as if they were a persons passionate embraces to a lover, that they craved to be written. Yes, this he craves and, for this exact reason is why he languishes away in his self-imposed misery. Why do they laugh at him when he stares at the puddle in the middle of the street? Why do they cast him out from church because of his refusal to wear a tie? He was only observing them, he never wished to bite. All he wanted to do was set them free!
Madman? Perhaps he is, perhaps he’s not. His mother thinks he is but all artists walk a line between genius and insanity. The tightrope he walks is labeled “bastard” with a fine sugar- coating of “perverse” between its strings. He doesn’t wish to walk it but he must… else he would suffocate. Misunderstood? Most of the time he is, though most do not think him so; a person he is not though, he is too far alienated from humanity…..


He’s a writer…

For You

Written for anyone thats battling with anything...

I understand what you’ve been going through… yes, even though you’ve heard it from a thousand other people in a million different ways, what I said is still true. I still understand and feel deeply sorry for you.
It seems like life can be such a bitch sometimes that we feel we can’t even scream—it would only make things worse. Things can seem to suck now, even worse then a gay tornado, and though you know that it all goes away sooner or later it doesn’t matter now. There is still no end in sight: the dark haze of sorrow still lurks above you, its fumes making even your choking to draw tears. I know what it feels like to see all that you’ve known disappear so rapidly. Your crystal life gets smashed into countless tiny pieces and you don’t even know which one to pick up first, or how to mend it when you lost the superglue.
The battles can seem so intense sometimes that they nearly kill us. We can stifle tears, force smiles, but once you choke on your heart it’s hard to stop coughing. The fire is searing hot and even though our Savior has reassuringly told us, “Its good for you” all you can manage to scream is, “It burns!” And sometimes even that would seem a mild expression.
Please, understand what I’m saying when I tell you that I know what your going through. Even more then that, I care about it and understand. I can nearly taste the tears that you’ve poured into your bed each day. A waterbed for a water-god, your salt flows nearly suffocate you. You don’t know how many times that I’ve wished that I could take these things off your shoulders—even for just one moment. Even if they would crush me I wouldn’t care, I’d lift my hand out of the way just enough so that, with my strength, I could pick you a flower.
I care for you…no, not that…I love you! Yes, even if I’ve never met you, known your name, smiled at you, told you a lame joke, or know what kind of ice-cream you like. I love you and, even more then that, Jesus loves you too. He sent me here on this earth to tell you just that and, if I can make you—yes, just you—understand that it would make my life complete for me.
Hold on, even if just for one more day, hold on! The answerers are coming but, if they were to come tomorrow, what would it profit you if you were to give up today? Life will change for you, just hold on for tomorrow and see what it will bring. If that seems too big then hold on for today, or the next hour, or minute, or even now. You can take what the next second brings you, your doing it right now and, if you keep on doing it you’ll see better things come your way.

Just never forget that, whoever you are. I love you and Jesus loves you too…

EXIT

Imagine camping in the shadow of a 700 year old castle: The retaining walls are covered in ivy, long towers glare at the Danube river solemnly, there are lights all around--bright and flashing--and, in the valley below, 150,000 people mill around waiting for their favorite bands to play. There are about 30 family young people down there too, sitting in the grass amongst the Rasta's and Hippies, the words of jesus cutting through the cheap thrills of materialism and head-trips and touching the hearts of the lost and soul-searching. In the end hundreds of people will get saved, hundreds more will have felt the crazy, naked spirit of Jesus through our Holy Ghost samples, there will be many sheep to follow up on several of which will drop out on by the end of it and decide to give their lives to following Jesus.

Now you've gotten a little idea of what the EXIT festival was like. It was more then just a "witnessing experience." For me it was a taste of what family life was like for our parents when they first started the revolution. Now I can understand why they origianlly wanted to join: the high of the spirit was better then anything you could ever try, the freedom to live and love Jesus and your fellow man was intoxicating, the fellowship of a group of young people that want to give their all to Jesus is invigorating... in short, it was all just plain fun!

I love hippies and, to sit and listen to many of them for the past five days and share their stories and lives with me was wonderful. What was even better was when one would get saved and you would see it in their eyes: that look when one who has been searching for truth for so long has finally found it. That look, I would say, is one of the most fufilling.

I'll have pictures of it when the CD's get developed, until then I must go. A week of lots of sun and little sleep will wipe anyone out... Ta-ta everyone.

Spoil the Innocent

Story: I have a friend--very good friend--whom, after leaving the family turned to Meth for the answers... This poem is for her.

Warning: Mature content involved...


Spoil the Innocent

The dark spectrums of black and red
Clash luminously with your pale skin—
Under this light you look like those
Terrors you told me of last night
As you shook beside the fire,
And contemplated why you saw
Just another brick in the wall.

Its so dark here you can taste it,
Can feel the bugs before your stoned,
They crawl along your legs and arms
As freely as your Buddha charms
Kneel on the knob of every door.
Yet, for all your talk of knowing,
Where are your sought Nirvanas?

In tiny spills of little pills
You have found your peace at last;
“Eat me, drink me—this ride’s gone once—
Watch now, Alice, here’s Wonderland!”
And Jimmy plays with placid rage—
As these pills roll down your throat,
Search for your stairs to heaven.

But does the stillborn child feel
The fire you make him ingest:
One cheap delight to dull the fright,
With the knowledge of all that’s wrong?
So, with a sigh, you swallow flames—
And while your brain boils slow
Your innards freeze as cold as ice.

Yet nothing matters as you search
For your once beheld innocence;
Let fire come, let passion burn—
Its over now, its over now.
With your dinner thrown on the floor
You reach for pills through the vomit
And will start it once again.

East meets West

It seems a funny thing really: whatever thrid world country one can possibly go to the people there try to imitate the west in some area or to some degree. Granted, some do it more then others... and I'm sure we've all heard Offspring sing, "The world wants wannabe's yeah" but really, when one thinks about it, the imitations are quite amusing.

In Romania its mostly in the music. When I first came here I thought the streets would be filled with like gypsy stuff--you know, citars, tamborines--Emuzeki type stuff... Heh, boy was I WRONG!! They try to copy the western music industry at any given oportunity which is kinda funny really, cause they do it so badly.

Like today when I was doing pickups, there was this one song playing (I think it was supposed to be country) but the guy was putting on this voice that sounded something like a badly done Arkansas accent and a squaking chicken dunked repeatedly with the entire chorus being "Woah-hoho-Woah-hoho-Woah-hoho-and-a-rang-dang-dang." I mean, gawd, it elvates the normal country stuff to sound like ACTUAL music.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, there was this music video I saw when we were in the store. The singer looked like a mix between Ricky Martin and Little Red Riding Hood. Gayer then an Emo (with a large cheesy grin on his face that screamed "come close and I'll rape you") half the music video consisted of his Pitbull and French poodle head banging and some girl walking into a club to find it full of people that look exactly like him. I'm sure if the video went on long enough he would have started making out with himself or something.. hehe.

The moral being.... there is none. Just stay away from music in general when on the feild... unless its family. Thats usually the best bet.

Artistic Tribute 5

This weeks runner is Caspar David Friedrich: German Romanticism painter, his works haunt me and are an infinite source of inspiration for my Blank Verse, both in tone and imagery. Just look for yourself and you'll see... Behold, my darlings, a feast!

Newest

Excuse this... I think a certain French, Rimbaudish, author is influencing my verse more then he should... The sleepy rhymes of July could put an insomniac asleep.

The Hills Beside the Bluffs

There are some hills beside the bluffs
Where we once, as children, roamed;
Their grass of green stands vast apart
From golden fields that hugged their base—
While their long, laborious arms
Reached wide and, silent, drank the rain.

We once canopied among those clefts—
Don’t you recall, I surely do—
I held your hand while we both slept
Beneath a violent swirl of stars,
We sipped the mists that surrounded
The passion fruits of our delights.

Fireflies indulging poison
Swooned in stupors around us then,
As we both loved so brazenly
Beneath a jealous, bulging moon—
There: near at those hills beside the bluffs
Where we once, as children, roamed.

First Contact

Girls and boys hark unto me for I have a story to tell you:

Yesterday I came in contact with another form of life—at first I thought he was from outer space, but now I’m not entirely sure. He was brown… he was fat… and spoke a language that smacked of Spanish mixed with Russian. With a straw hat, dirty yellow shirt that clashed terrifically with his dark blue shorts, and down-turned expression I knew it could be only one thing…

Yes, I met a *gasp* GYPSY!!!

ALRIGHT NOW CLAM DOWN I NEVER SAW ONE BEFORE O.K?!?!?

You see, I’m still rather giggly about the whole thing.

So right where was I…. oh yes—my first Gypsy. So I walked over to him to try to make “first contact” my head swimming over with endless combinations of things to say. Admittedly, it didn’t turn out too good—I think it was because I waved a rather bright set of beads in his face while grinning from ear to ear and saying “How” in sign language.

Me: Can you really see my future?

Gypsy: Blank stare

Me: Looky looky—beeeaaadddss. Don’t steal me, I don’t want to know what you did with Heidi.

Gypsy: …….*brandishes fist* Ishkliemich gargenhoff!

I swear, if his horse-drawn cart hadn’t hit some nasty bumps right after he said that I wouldn’t have been in one piece by now. Good thing any road outside of the downtown is chalk full of them. Teehee

Gotta run, dinnertime. Catchya later.