I'm trying the blog thing again.

But not here.

Here:
arandomscattering.wordpress.com

It's been a while. An old one and a new one...

This first one is an old poem. I wrote it a couple years ago (and it might be posted on here already). The second one is a response I wrote to that poem at the beginning of this summer. I had just moved into my new apartment and started to feel comfortable in myself and in my physical location for the first time in a long time (other than while in Italy).

A Cold Night

Smoke and pain twist
Toward the skylight (shut)—
Like the one in my room as a kid
When falling asleep I’d watch
The moon framed by astronaut walls—
And they fill the closed-in porch.

It’s freezing out with my
New coat, the freezing
Where you watch your

Breath (and pain twist
Toward the skylight [shut]—
Like the one in my room as a kid
When, falling asleep, I’d watch
The moon framed by astronaut walls—
And they fill the closed-in porch)

Dissipate into the vacuum
Of cold and marvel that
It’s not already ice.

But the pipe—a gift
From two halves that
Used to (maybe) not be
So halved; who can wrap a box
But keep separate houses—is warm
And something sweeter to taste.

Struck with the sharp finality
Of the interminable:
So smoke and pain
And breath and pain
And anything, and everything,
And pain.

A Warmer Night

Smoke drifts

up imprecise, dynamic

in the late spring t-shirt night,

and from the hammock hung

between two narrow trees I

watch it rise

through branches toward

the moon:

a glowing porcelain iris framed

by leafy cataracts—

the pipe gargles.

Slower.

Better to relight than to burn through.

But I love the way it moves

here

in our backyard [littere]decorated

with debris—a row boat capsized against

the fence, kept company by old

furniture for firewood and the train

clunkering through on the hour. I love

the way the

smoke

——————slips

on slight suggestions of the breeze

(impalpable); never knows the path

or destination, content to rise and the rest

will be a sweet surprise along the way.

I used to smoke in an old closed-

in porch, but the air was stale and stifling

to the curling plumes. They didn’t dance

like they do here.

Slower.

Savor it. Dissect.

I don’t know that I’ve ever really liked

the taste:

not so much a flavor as a gently caustic sting,

but there’s something there to love—a lost

memory, a new freedom—the power to control

time, to transcend nature: to take in a breath

of warmth in an intolerable winter; to track

it, magically visible through the spindly fingertips

of new trees as spring melts into summer.

Slower.

The wind knows where

it will blow

and the moon will never blink.

two more... tonight's been a writing-y kind of night

This Poem Has Metaphors.

So maybe I'm sharp,
but if only I were jagged...
Maybe I'm bright,
but just once
I'd like to burn your eyes...

to make
something
that not only is,
but
does.

No, I've spoon-fed
my lines with meaning
till they're puking up
melodrama,
green with wishing
it were not so green
with wanting, so very
mine.


Essentially, I get frustrated with how contrived my poetry feels sometimes.




Untitled

The crooked saw's
Worn-down teeth gleam,
Wet with blood
From its undead sapling feast.

The sun, perched impatiently
In early morning's seat,
Passes time by scorching dew
Like ants from every leaf.

The river bubbles slowly
Over stones, muttering somewhere
A cold hand creeps behind ancient
Man dozing in a chair.

Out with the old,
Out with the new,
In with whatever's left.
It's all entropy, right?

Yet somehow, I can't wait
For what comes next—
The young tree sputtering
Sugary green life on grateful bugs,

The sun attending the dew
In its heavenly home,
The old man feeling
Warmth of the Alone.



This one actually started out with just the image of the saw, and turned into something else entirely. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but until I decide I hate it, I'll keep it up.

I'm a bit apprehensive about posting this one, but that's kind of the point.

Object Impermanence

What is it?
What's the fear?
So worried
about scuffing the
whited sepulchre?

—a stroke of the brush
will clean that right up.
can't smell the piss
if it's covered in paint—

The censored sailor
still curses up a storm
under purgatorial bleeps
dead-set in slopping on
another coat, and I
mutter shit under my
breath when (I'm praying)
nobody can hear it.

—but what the world don't know won't hurt me,
and God's an infant lamenting
my new nothingness
as I leave the tomb.







If you want to take some more time to try and understand the poem on your own first, stop here.

This was a painful poem to write. I was struck today by how much fear I have of revealing more of myself than I am comfortable with in my writing. I am scared to death of showing what it is I really am sometimes. As a result, it doesn't even seem like me when it comes out. I think we keep an illusion very close to our hearts—that somehow, it's better not to be honest with yourself, with others, with God. I'm coming to the realization that I have often structured my personal life in a way that attempts to hide things—thoughts, feelings, actions—from many people, and from God. I have recently been trying to make a more concerted effort to counteract this tendency in my life, and it struck me that art is an area of life where honesty is not just valued, it is required. How can I assume that I could possibly create anything meaningful if I am afraid to articulate what it is I'm really trying to say because it's too self-disclosing, or because it involves language that I don't use on a regular basis? If this is what the truth of what I am trying to say hinges upon, how can I avoid it and stay honest in my writing?
Object permanence is the understanding that things exist whether you see them or not. Children below a very young age do not have the ability to understand this. They experience object impermanence. In attempting to hide things from God, or in believing that our actions matter more than our thoughts and our motivations, believing that these actions are the criteria on which we will be judged, we place God on the same level as these children who think an object that has been hidden from them no longer exists.

Pray for me, that I will become more open and honest with God and with people in all areas of my life.


note: If you think me a heathen now, please talk to me. I would love to have more than a one-sided conversation about this issue.

A Memory

When I was five, my family went on a trip across country. We camped out at a ton of places, one of which was on the Snake River in Wyoming. I have a vivid memory of standing on the edge of the water in front of our campsite and skipping stones with my brother, Nick, who is 7 years older than me, and my sister, Liz, who is 6 years older. I have been privileged and proud to watch my siblings grow up and make their choices as I make mine. This poem tries to use that memory to get at (among other things) how glad I am that no matter what paths our lives take, we are still family. Liz and Nick, this poem is ours. I love you both.


Snake River
(For Nick and Liz)

I can only assume that
Nick must have started it,
Then Liz, then me.

We stood at the edge
Of a swift and shallow stream,
Selecting stones judiciously

Then casting them out across
The water to count their steps
Before gravity took them under.

Each choice was irrevocable—
Once released, bound to fall below
The constant, rushing current

And join the droves of decisions
Already thrown by man or God,
Dissolving into the sand beneath our feet.

For all the fighting, the long ride bickering
About every nothing that masquerades
As anger and frustration,

We stood there on the bank
Of the Snake River, side by side by side,
And picked our destinies together.

swamped, drained, inspired.

I wish I had more time to write lately. Unfortunately, school has been quite demanding recently, and in the free time I do get, I can't really bring myself to open a notebook and think really hard for an hour. The most frustrating part about it all, though, is that I have so much I want to write about. There is so much ambition, I just don't know really how to harness it.
Recently, this is all I've been able to muster. The title changes pretty much every time I write it out.

To Move Mountains

I'd be content to see
a mustard seed turn over
in a gentle breeze.



—It's very short; very simple. I was talking to a friend about "faith-sized" requests in prayer. It's the idea that with whatever amount of faith we have at a given moment, there are things we can ask of God—things with tangible results (like "God please give me the opportunity to talk to this person before Friday")—that are proportionate to that amount of faith. If we pray and have complete faith in the fulfillment of those prayers, God will answer us in one way or another.
The gist of the poem, then, is that if with faith the size of a mustard seed we can make a mountain move into the sea, I must have a long way to go. At best, I might have enough faith to move the mustard seed. The mustard seed is not only a reference to the proportionate size difference from the mountain, but it is also the representation of faith. As such, the poem is also a prayer, that God could use what faith I do have in Him to begin to move and grow that seed, causing it to build upon itself. The mustard seed is a double metaphor, I suppose.

Ice

It's winter. There's a lot of it. Ever since I was a little kid, walking home from the bus stop, I've had this fascination with walking on ice—especially when it cracks underneath you. There's something so simple and childish about it. It reminds me of home. Lately I've been reconnecting with that feeling. I'm fixed on the concept of "home." It's a hard thing for me to wrap my mind around; I have this strong sense of it being a very real, tangible thing, however at the same time, it's almost impossible for me to really wrap my mind around it. As such, much of my poetry deals with "home," and with childhood and memories.
This is one of those, but it's also something more. It's the realization that home is still attainable in some form after childhood has passed.


Walking Home

I
As winter melts away,
Little ice ledges overhang
The borders of paved
Walks from Lewis
To the Hill.

I don’t know why—
The path is wide
(And for the most part,
Unoccupied)—
But I stay to the side

And let my sneaker drop
Naturally over the fragile
Glassy surface until all
My world—direction,
Thought, desire—

Is reduced to pure crunching,
The satisfying snap underfoot
That breathes in cracks, “it’s okay
For things to break.”

So like a fading dream
Upon awakening,
I chase it:
A truth,
Half-known
(If that)
Until somehow
In my mind
It’s found again
And I am home—
I know
And I am known.

II
We lived on Battis Road
And could declare “home”
Without a moment lost
To wistful thoughts.

Here, I used to cry
On the living room floor
Begging never to grow up,
Never work, bleed, or die.

Then, older, I would wander
The four house-lengths
Back from the bus,
Famished for excitement.

Drainage water formed a brook—
Frozen in the early months—
And here I first learned
Of that raw and simple catharsis.

So like a pioneer
(Of sorts, I imagined)
I braved it
Stomping,
Falling through,
Soaking wet;
Warmly cold
And alive,
Crackling
My way home—
Where I know
And I am known.

III
There’s comfort in the collapse
And order in the entropy;
A sound and a feeling that ring
In my bones like the dim voices
Of dear old friends.

It struck me like a falling sole
On my way to meet you up the Hill:
The destination binds it all,
It makes every crushed crystal
Sing one crisp but subtle song;

Whether small boy or grown man,
The melody remains.
Footsteps keep cadence
And the improvised adventure hums:

Vital and young
And heading home.
Heading home:
To know
And to be known.

IV
The destination binds it all
To one singular sensation.

And this is my terminus:
Where I find rest
And lay things out to dry,
Where comfort can be
Free to flourish,
Where at least
Something is sure
To be in order,
To feel planned,
To seem right;
This common end
Is my home:

There I know
And I am known.

two new poems

A Sunday

I
arrived
to
find
the
Body
dis
membered:

the Feet more than
a few from

the Eyes, avoiding
contact with

the Arms that
couldn't reach

the Mouth, which refused
to speak to

the Ears, entirely
deaf to

the Head and the Heart,
pleading for unity.

We took our seats—
a pew to each—
begging for the LORD to touch
while dreading any other such.


You (you)

You’re You, but from the way i
close my eyes, refuse to get behind,
cover my ears, mutter my lies,
You’d think i thought You were you.

a heavy Hand high above
that could crush, or move, or love,
yet i pass over as if It were anchored
to the arms of a beggar, outstretched:

a sorry feint to faintly jingling pockets,
remorseful smile, (a look in the eye
to let him feel alive)
then passing by, no guilt, no memory.

you’re you, but from the way i
forget that old coat covers the Divine
(which i forget i claim to keep inside)
you’d think i thought you were You.

and what if i unblocked
my ears to You,
who asks me to find
You in every you?

25 Page Poetry Project Sampling

I had to write 25 pages of poetry for my creative writing class. Here is some of it.

York Harbor

Down by the ocean
on the rocks
where the crashing,
rolling, tumbling waves,
the warm breeze
and the night
spotted with stars
took the time away,
we sat in silence.

Down by the ocean
in the dark
where the sinking,
floating, anxious thoughts
spun my head
and the sand
clung to my socks,
we talked it all
into stillness.

Down by the ocean
side by side
where the painful,
awkward, stark truth
remained, knowing we
were only nothing
but still everything,
I thanked God for
airplanes to bring you back.


Highway Evangelism

I was in the third lane
and, in his defense,
the needle was barely
breaking seventy.

I was in the third lane
and couldn’t help but notice
the tiny metal fish
stuck to his bumper.

I was in the third lane
and will never quite forget
the rudest gesture, his eyes
filled with hate.

I moved to the second lane
and quietly considered
removing Christian keepsakes
from my car.


A Cold Night

Smoke and pain twist
Toward the skylight (shut)—
Like the one in my room as a kid
When falling asleep I’d watch
The moon framed by astronaut walls—
And they fill the closed-in porch.

It’s freezing out with my
New coat, the freezing
Where you watch your

Breath (and pain twist
Toward the skylight [shut]—
Like the one in my room as a kid
When, falling asleep, I’d watch
The moon framed by astronaut walls—
And they fill the closed-in porch)

Dissipate into the vacuum
Of cold and marvel that
It’s not already ice.

But the pipe—a gift
From two halves that
Used to (maybe) not be
So halved; who can wrap a box
But keep separate houses—is warm
And something sweeter to taste.

Struck with the sharp finality
Of the interminable:
So smoke and pain
And breath and pain
And anything, and everything,
And pain.


Guilty

I remember once feeling guilty
For having no sad story to tell.

Now I only feel guilty
For having felt guilty.


Constellation
(for Dad)

I still trace Orion
Every winter night
When the stars oblige
And remember the first time
You filled in the lines.

Showed me the belt
The shoulders, the sheath,
The head and the feet, perfect
As if, when I had looked away
You moved them all to fit that shape.

You couldn’t have known,
And you needn’t understand,
But on cold evenings,
I find the piece of sky
My father signed.


Toss-Up

You’re a toss-up between
A flickering bulb and
A closing comet.

The bulb just needs
A turn or two
To tighten some
Loose connection;
Then you’ll be bright.

The comet, on the
Other hand, circles
In slow cycles
Until finally
Burning up.

I’ve seen the way
Your light undulates:
Predictable, celestial,
But hope still sends prayers
For the flicker.


Again

Take me back
To the hill
We’d sled
Between the fence
And the porch
When youth was new
To waste on youth.

Bring me back
To the trails
That wound behind
The town we never,
Never thought once
We’d ever
Ever leave.

But now it’s lost
To time and age
And age brought pain,
Real pain;
Real pain then brought
The drugs that dragged
Those friends away.

And now I’m left
With snowy days
Remind of when
We’d waste our days
Our days I wish
I wish again
Again again.


From “The Dead”
a (found) poem

His soul swooned slowly
As he heard
The snow falling faintly
Through the
Universe and faintly
Falling

(Covering all but
Revealing all
the same)

Like the descent
Of their last end
On all the living
And the dead

(Praise God
For the day
When this all
Melts away).


Poor Parenting

I learned today
That parents
Petitioned
To have the Cookie
Moster changed.

Apparently, the
Obese oaf was
Slacking on his
Duties in rearing
Their children,

Letting them into
The sweets. But
Never fear, the
Veggie Monster’s here
To raise kids right.


We’re Not Doing Any Favors

The paper said
A schizophrenic son
Killed his caring mom,
Believing her to be
A terrorist.

It didn’t note
The psychiatric ward
That stole his sanity
In deeming his state sufficiently
Sane to leave;

Because when he does
Begin to come down,
The grief alone
Is all he’ll need to bring
Him back around.

But we live in a
Humane society
Where we oblige to let
The cancer itself decide
If it should cease,

And redefine
Insanity to mean
You’re fully capable
Of opting for the half-life
You will lead.


And It Will Be the Sign of the Covenant Between Me and the Earth

Sometimes I thank God
for rainbows—

not because they’re
pretty or pleasing,
but because of the
promise to Noah—

because sometimes I wonder
if I’d make it onto the ark.


Sermon

The preacher spoke of
Healthy, wealthy, and happy,

And I couldn’t keep my mind
From wandering down
The road marked with suffering,
To crosses, camels
And the eye of a needle

As he explained that faith
Was a bank account
In which the smart investor
Accrues interest
On his deposits.

A random sampling...

I had to write a lot today for my creative writing final. Here is some of it.


York Beach
(for Patrick and Megan)

It was cold.
We dove in head-first
Like our feet
Couldn’t feel it.

The weight of the cool
Pressed into my skull
Like a brain-freeze (but
I can’t stick my thumb
To the roof of my
Mouth to stop it).

The warm air was good
Against my thawing head.
We mocked the waves
And dared them
To come closer.

They crashed into us
And we crashed right back.
They raced and roared
And we ran and shouted back.

We were ten and
Knew nothing of real waves,
Of real cold—the kind
That sticks to your heart.

We played outside
Pretending to save
Each other’s lives
(Before we knew that
We could really die).

It’s still cold.
I stuck a foot in
To test my tolerance
And felt unbearably old.


Obituary

I died the other day.

Not one of those poetic deaths
Where the narrator clearly wishes
For some sentiment to be achieved
While he remains very much alive,
Basking in the brilliance of his metaphor.

No, this was not that kind of “died”.

Instead, it was the ugly one—
The people screaming, clutched chest,
“Call an ambulance!”, waiting room,
“I have some bad news,” cue the tears type—
The one that makes a lot less sense.

What happened next I can’t quite say.

Not to say I don’t quite know,
But rather that it doesn’t quite work to tell.
However, I will offer up what little sense I can
(And forgive me if it’s a bit obvious,
But I promise that it’s worth the thought):

When I died, I did not end.
I began.


The End of Something

and what’s left:
just a cryptic hint
of what was;

what became of it all:
just a case-in-point
of what it all could have become—

like a sunburn
or the little drops falling
from low trees after the rain.


A Realization

It has come to my attention
that I think about failing
far more than I
consider changing.

(A statement which now resounds
with some profoundly
strong strain of
sad irony)

Another story

believe it or not, this story is an encouragement. hope is never as far gone as we convince ourselves it is.

Hope

“Okay, now clip the harness in and hold the rope tight!”
There is a splash at his side. He attaches the harness and grips the dangling yellow rope with both hands and tugs twice like they told him. Surrounding him, the illuminated patch of turbulent waters cuts stark and unnatural into the moonless night. The helicopter propels a salty mist into the cold air.
He feels the pull of the rope and holds on tightly as his ascension begins. The sea allows his body to glide freely from its midst—a merciful captor. His drenched clothes begin to drain, and he watches each desperate, hopeless drop fall to its death.
“Hang in there! You’ll be home in no time!”
Liars. Home has drowned.
The rope begins to burn. His feet dangle a story above the surface, the helicopter still more than fifty feet up.
. . .
It did not happen “so fast.” It was agonizingly slow. An explosion in the engine compartment breached the hull and jammed the sliding door shut. He was on the stern; she was inside. All sound ceased but that of her muffled screams and the desperate pounding on the glass.
It wouldn’t break. Why wouldn’t it break?
He stayed for the next hour as the water seeped into the cabin. It surrounded her ankles, then her knees, her waist, her shoulders, her neck. Then the boat slowly tilted forward and disappeared into the dark water.
A current took him further and further away until he could no longer watch her last breaths bubble to the surface, and he knew it was hopeless. Her terrified green eyes blazed from behind the fogging glass in his mind.
Why wouldn’t it break?
. . .
The rope burns. His hands are too tired. The harness creaks and whines as if it wants to release him. What is there left to hold on for?
. . .
Her green eyes peek our from a huddled, shivering, blanketed mass.
“Is he okay?”
“Just ten more feet and he’s here.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. This day was full of miracles.
. . .
There is nothing left. All is lost, all is hopeless, all is gone. The searchlight stings his eyes. The rope cuts into his hands and the harness into his thighs as he dangles high above the water. I will never be home. His own tears join in the fate of the helpless droplets still falling by the hundreds from his clothes. He runs his fingers over the harness buckle that keeps him dangling, pulled toward a half-life. Tears and water roll off his body, falling—slow, soft, beautiful—into nonexistence.
. . .
“No!”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, eyes locked on the open door of the helicopter.
“I’m so sorry. He… his harness. It must have come undone. He fell.”

thinking, theorizing, philosiphizing, etc...

Self and Whole

I watched as invisible rain
Leapt from the grey sky
And each tiny, fragile globe
Exploded on a glass sea.

I saw each drop as it hit—
Water plunging boldly into water.
Hopefully, I traced their paths
To shore, but not one ripple
Reached my feet.

Instead I saw myself
Pulsing subtly,
Shaken by the motion:
The unanimous union
Of self and whole.


The Wounded Bird

We rest stiff in stuffy studies
And complain of minor aches
While symphonies saturate the halls
And billow like smoke from the doors
Of our burning houses.

Denial.
Reclusion.
Indifference.

Our mansions at the center,
The world spins in dizzy circles
Flung by a bullet in springtime,
And reeling from the blow,
It staggers to our doorsteps.

Dismissed.
Refused.
Ignored.

It dies at the threshold
With desperate pleas for notice
Unheard over the deafening sound
Of our endless search for cheer.
We drown the globe in comfort.


A White Thought

A white thought
Defies me to define,
Drifting in
And wandering out
In stubborn ambiguity.

It is all feelings
Yet none.
A sunken chest,
A lifted spirit;
Crippling fear,
Overwhelming joy.

A white thought
Defies me to define.
Poking,
Teasing,
Prodding,
Then floating off again.


An Epitaph

When my pen ran dry,
And crowded shopping malls and dim beer halls
Decayed back into forests they replaced;
When towering city skylines were erased
And everything I knew faltered and fell,
Still, I shut my eyes.

When my pen ran dry,
And every thought became a memory
Of loss and failure, vivid and haunting;
Enemies yielded to ceaseless taunting
And extinguished life with cold brevity,
Still, I shut my eyes.

When my pen ran dry,
And the time came when I should cease to be,
Burdened and weary of a world fleeting;
When I left this world, broken and bleeding
And suffering and sorrow I ceased to see,
Still, I shut my eyes.

Faith-Related Stuff

Not to say that all of my writing isn't influenced by my faith, but that these deal with it fairly explicitly.

A Brief Scene

“It was a good choice,”
she smiled as they left
the cramped and crowded
theater.

“I’ve seen better,”
he mumbled, unaffected in
a shameless move for pointless
control.

Never dead, never awake,
not intentionally evil nor trying
for truth, but only seeking
self.


The Fall

We lay in deep embrace
inching warm death up round our waists.
Hidden in the blackness of its shroud,
we steal away to some secluded
Garden corner,
ignoring saddened, searching cries.




To the condemner…

Dear Sir
—or Madam:
The LORD would request
that you return
His gavel, and
encloses the
following message:

“Judgment is mine.”

He also wishes to
inform you that
He would be
more than happy
to offer some
lovely grace
in exchange,

which you are welcome
(and encouraged)
to share.
It should suit you
far better than
the black robe and
stern look.

Warmest Regards,
Faith, Hope, and Love

P.S.
We humbly suggest
some apologies
might be in order.


Gideon

I’ve found I
need the things
that shine—
a little light
to blind the
nagging doubt.

So I took
it—Your proof,
Your truth—
I took the
treasure won by
Your hands,

saying, “Thine be
Israel, but grant
me this:
some small shimmering
tokens of our
great victory.”

The fire raged;
I melted faith
into form—
placed it in
the land of
Your promise,

and all Israel
slithered like snakes
around golden
idols, losing Your
name in the
bright confusion.

You see, whether
wet or dry,
I couldn’t
catch You with
the water near
the fleece.

I’d prefer the
deaf ears of
dead statues
to trusting in
still, small voices.
Simply put,

I’ve found I
need the things
that shine—
a little light
to blind the
nagging doubt.



Untitled

Like ghosts, the clouds (in shadow) flow
Undefined and unrestrained
Over the static green of the field.

Like Providence, the spectral wind blows
Unseen, though dimly palpable
Through the sprawled fingers of the trees.

Like our moment, a little boy plays in the grass,
Unalarmed or unaware
As past and future move within and without.

From the UK

Westminster Abbey

Standing over dead men
Breathing solemn air
Smiling
Bright light blinds
The subtle blues and reds
Cast through stained glass.

Your moment stolen
Static, empty.

Cameras pass through
Souls seeped
From ancient graves
Like arrows flung
To kill them once again.

I’ll have the Abbey keep
Its secrets sacred.


Grass

“Why doesn’t the grass grow longer up there?” She watched the mountain intently, as if expecting the pale green surface to sprout up into a thick forest at her command. “I mean it’s not like someone cuts it. Our grass gets longer than that back home, and we have to cut it once a week or so.”
I made something up. “It’s probably a different species. Some grass just doesn’t grow very high.”
“Oh.” She was clearly looking for something more profound.
“Plus, would you really want it that green up there? The contrast between the rocks and the grass is my favorite part. It’s like there’s this fine dusting of life, and if it wanted to, the mountain could just shake it all off,” I couldn’t tell if she was listening. Something in that view had gotten a hold of her. I kept trying. “But it doesn’t, you see. The rocks coexist with the grass. They compliment one another. It’s really beautiful if you think about it.”
I really was trying. “Beth?”
“Huh?” She cast a short look from the corner of her eye, but was still fixed on the window.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“’Well’ what?”
“Can you say something? Please. I just like to know I’m not talking to a brick wall.”
“I know you do. I don’t have anything to say.”
Her elbow rested on the edge of the table. I traced it down her forearm to her palm and we linked our fingers and held hands. It was quiet for a long time. I watched her as she looked out at the rough Scottish hillside. She was beautiful. Her hands were like ice.
“I don’t like rocks,” she finally said, “The small ones get in my shoes and I can’t seem to get them out. They ruin my day. And the big ones just get in the way. We could see the water without those hills.”
“Oh.”
“There. I said something.”
“Thanks.”
We were still holding hands. She was watching the mountain, waiting for the grass to grow. “But yeah,” I broke the silence, “it’s probably just different grass.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I let go of her hand. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Can’t you look at me when you say it? I mean, I know the view is beautiful, but I’d like to feel it when you say it.”
She looked. “I love you too.” It seemed like she meant it this time. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and felt it cold and rigid against my lips. Her hand broke away slowly but intentionally. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“What?”
“About the grass.”
“Oh?”
“It’s the wind. It’s the wind and the rocks. The wind won’t let it stand. It just presses all the grass up against the rocks, and strangles it to death.”
I thought about correcting her—the notion of the wind and the rocks conspiring to suffocate the grass was simply absurd—but she spoke again before I had the chance.
“I think I’ll move to Peru.”
Clearly there was something wrong with her thinking. “What are you talking about?”
“Have you seen the mountains there? They’re so lush—so green. I think I’ll move there.”
“Beth, we can’t move to Peru,” I had to talk some sense into her.
“I know we can’t.”
She started to cry. There was no sense to talk into her. Her cheek was still cold and now wet as I kissed her for the last time.

For Nick

A Family Visit

It’s all too clear.
The light has left again
And the grey begins
To creep back to the vacant
Corners of your eyes.

As you sit silent
We calculate with careful
Barely moving fingers
What number this will be,

Counting all the times
You’ve had to pace
Those dismal halls before;
My heart sinks at the thought:

And how many more?


Moving In

It’s that feeling of falling,
Heart in throat,
Stomach in chest,
And no more futile stalling.

Up the stairs to your new place,
With all you haven’t lost
And all that you will
In hand, its fate: to be erased.

Your laugh cuts straight through
Any lingering hope
And any doubt of what
We know to be in store for you.

The drive home. No words exchanged.
All that’s left is fear
And waiting for the call
When hospital beds must be arranged.

The Title

No hand of man
could plant by plan
the symmetry of
a random scattering of daisies.

-Helen Wolfe Allen

I admire my grandmother's poetry. If anyone, she is the writer who I try to emulate. It is nothing short of tragic that the only light her poems have seen since she died is in a small book, collected as a Christmas present from my aunt to our family. It is at the same time, however, an incredible blessing that I have that book. Her poems are one of my greatest sources of inspiration.
As such, anything I write here, and the blog itself, is ultimately dedicated to her.

With that, a poem.

A Pressed Petal
(for Nana)

We never really met,
you and I.
I must have been, to you,
a barely opened seed
And you, to me,
a wilting flower,
Your petals all falling,
waiting for the frost.

I (the now I, with roots
and leaves and fruit)
Would have liked to see you
(the then you,
In full bloom—a lilac
in your spring).

But since, by some irking
requisite genetics,
Our paths can’t cross
as such,
I must thank you deeply
for your foresight.

Your poems, pressed and dried
like fragile petals
Between the pages of
a well loved book,
Still carry your scent,
and it’s May again.

(If only your withered eyes could
see my reciprocal.)

First.

I'm not sure what will end up going up here.
Probably some sort of creative writing. Maybe random rants... but mostly I'd just like to share some things with some people. We'll see if I even remember this in two weeks.