compartmentalized
pretty little brown boxes
straight walls and shallow stalls
same in shape
in style
in signature
just same
each brimming with diversities
trimmed into awkward unity
cardboard clipped by shears
rusty yet precise
angled and even
down to the last corner
same in fit
in mold
in make
just same
you sit here
and you stand there
no
get away
your box is over here
that’s right
good
now hold your chin high
arms tucked in tight
don’t let your elbows fly
same in stance
in structure
that’s right
just same
It’s a forlorn sound,
the call of a bygone drifter-
a sound I recognize all too well.
Arches of water, black as bane,
rise high around me,
crumbling with thunder,
like sword against sword in
the raging war between sand and sea.
Fingers of foam bleed out from the battle,
clawing into obsidian sand that
glistens like hot coals.
I am small,
insignificant,
a grain of clay waiting to be washed by the surf,
swallowed by a sea of eternity.
My hair dances with the salt,
far freer than I will ever be,
and I am mocked
by that dark, watery line
that glimmers at the end up my fingertips,
unreachable.
It’s a heavy feeling,
the anchor between my ankles-
a feeling that’s weighed me long and well.
A foghorn cradles the morn.
I’ve been a bit inactive this past week, mostly due to the stress of school and exams and all those dismal dealings. I’m also absorbed by my current work-in-progress (just hit the halfway point!), so sorry for the lack of new content.
I molded this poem from an old piece I had sitting around my documents. It’s a bit rough around the edges, so I might come back to it later to tweak it.
It’s all in the lighting, you know-
the contours of your jaw, the shadow beneath your nose,
the curves of your lashes and folds of your clothes-
it’s a set-up, a farce, an acted-out scene,
a play performed in the dark
but heard through the screen.
I could curse every creation that conceals and cloaks,
spit upon the powders and perfumes that choke;
I could laugh at the lighting, the biggest liar of all;
I could snicker it sideways with unabashed gall.
But then what, do you think, does that make me?
A hypocrite? A blind pharisee?
Because I don’t hate the lighting-
I hate symmetry.
It mocks me from afar, shapely and shining;
its proportionate perfection pleases to persist,
and I wonder to myself, in a manner of whining-
does absolute symmetry even exist?
There’s hardly room to breathe in this monsoon I call life.
At first it’s just a trickle, just a leak under the door-
but with newfound knolls the windows burst
and brine batters ‘cross the floor.
Each wave’s a spoiling slap of unrequited obligation,
a vinegar vendetta to submerge procrastination.
I row against the roiling rush
of rotting deadlines and clotting chores;
I swim up, and up, and up…
but I’ll drown before I reach the shore.
There’s hardly room to breathe in a sea of strain and strife.
But hey, drowning in decisions is something I call life.
No, not hair-grooming and lip-smacking and nose-powdering
and all those kinds of skin-creaming schemings-
I’m an expert at forming a facade,
varnishing a veneer,
preening a pretense, if you will.
I’ve got a ripe, rosy smile. See? I’m smiling at you now.
Look at it, all pink and upturned and rigid.
It’s like a Barbie doll got a hold of Botox
and went to town on my lips.
Now I’m always smiling. Can’t help it.
But ain’t my beam a beaut?
I dress nice, I talk nice, I walk nice;
I am nice, with my carefully inserted giggles
and carefully crossed legs and carefully straightened posture-
you probably wouldn’t guess that I practice my laugh
in the mirror, ’cause it’s just so aerated and elated,
a chiming chuckle born and raised in my breast.
Persona preening isn’t just a personal pastime of mine.
I take it seriously with my morning coffee
(two sugars, hold the milk),
and tend to it with brittle fingers throughout the day.
I’m good at giving a guise, real good, and though on some days
my lips wilt and eyes twitch and shoulders slump,
I can always wring it around with sugary sweet smirk
and assurance that no, I’m fine, thank you.
I’m perfectly ok.
I can walk this path one hundred nights,
a sewn-lipped traveller, bronzed and bare-
and still the air tastes of mountain heights,
reminding me of a long lost prayer.
On this road of familiar winds,
my feet lead forth, tempered to leather,
and though grazing gusts bite and chagrin,
my pace shan’t be stayed by the weather.
Ripe as winter, time-torn and restitched,
unchanged from rage and war and gall;
I pause upon the rock, bewitched-
a home, I think, is what it’s called.
In obsidian nights when the rain lashes cold, the wanderer weeps through the land.
All hear his plight, as the twilight grows old; in tempest, how can he withstand?
First come the stars, like eyes in the sky, looking down on the traveler’s trail. Sanguine and simple, they smile in surprise, and gentle they breathe on the gale.
Then wakens the moon, veiled in velvet and light and his face chases shadows away. Mystic, his guidance leads the stray through the blight, ’round rivals and out of the gray.
In silence, the sun overlooks her domain, and sees the roamer wet and cold. Sagely, she spreads her arms ‘cross the plains, to embrace and warm him in gold.
In amber morrow,
when the weather has waned,
the wanderer sings to the skies.
None hear his sorrow,
for the Three banished pain,
and in joy, he strikes his reprise.
This is a song written for my work-in-progress. I really enjoy song-writing (especially when it’s for fantasy fiction), and find that it’s helpful in world-building and culture-creating. I also like to actually write the music for my songs; most of the time I use medieval styles, intervals, and instruments to establish its melody and harmony.
It’s probably difficult to understand the overall message of this song when taken out of context (though you can probably interpret it in multiple ways). Basically, the realm that my w.i.p. takes place in worships three fictional gods who take the form of the sun, moon, and stars. This would be a hymn sung in the Temple or by traveling minstrels.
Stellular Scribe 