News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

October 30, 2012

Conglomerate I -- A Poem

Hey ya'll, so I decided to spew out a bit of poetry because I kinda felt like it. I don't really see much reasoning at all in what I wrote...just a little burble to clear the mind and whatnot :) Although, I must say for the last stanza I was definitely envisioning a military scene, if that helps clear up the cobwebs. Anyways, inspiring music for this piece was Jonathan Harvey's "Tranquil Abiding" (now there's some unique orchestral material for you). Enjoy!

P.S. Oh yeah, and when I was writing about the "forbidden depths" I totally had that Smeagol-by-the-pool scene where Bilbo comes in and observes the poor soul :P entirely random haha!!


Conglomerate I

Render me incapable, tie the knot and throw the ship to sea,
Puddles of gloom, despair, suggestion.
Stoke the fire and let it flame across the forest,
Take down the trees, smoulder across the sky,
One pause, one look into forbidden depths,
Forgotten emptiness that bodes danger,
The last out-ridge before the drop-off.
The eclipse of stone with air,
Tumbling down, spiralling, swirling, swirling, spinning,
Out of control, swinging as a pendulum, swinging and hovering.

A crystal burns away the mid-morning fog,
Glistening in the sallow candle-light, frothing against the glow of the moon,
Rippling amongst the air, shimmering between my fingers.
Throw it away, out across the lake, skipping skipping
Down the fountain’s peacock plumes to the penny-drenched depths,
Let it blend in silently, morosely with the glassy-eyed victims.
Another drop of amber pulls passionately against the rim of the glass,
Reaching for the floor, reaching reaching, crashing,
Successfully leaping and splattering into a hundred pieces.

Fold the blanket, fold and re-fold and unfold and fold again,
Smooth the crinkles and wrinkled lines,
Turn about, pressing black against linoleum, pressing skin against skin,
Salute, then spiral, soul spilling, senses searching and reaching,
Across the galaxies. Time has no essence.


Signed with green leaves and tinsel,


October 1, 2012

The Hasty || Stop -- (a poem)

I needed a little break from studying and doing I wrote a poem. It might not make sense...but that's ok :) Poems don't always make sense. They are strange creatures after all, as we know from Lewis Carroll (who was, indeed, somewhat of an inspiration for this piece...although with some other Victorian novel of which I cannot remember the title for at the current time). 



The Hasty || Stop

Inhale the water, let it fill your tepid, dried up lungs,
Let it moisten your skin, ever so softly brush it.
Drain the poison from the sink, watch it swirl and swirl away,
Do not touch.
Vibrant colours, sensory organs, splayed across the mind,
Watch the waves pull and pull again, toward their deepness.
Another whirlpool swishes and tries so hhardh to pull you deeper,
Restrain. Metal chains clink. I shot my radiator. Stop.

The steam rises upward – dragon’s breath by man – filling the air,
Heaven rains down abundantly upon my rusted limbs,
Down, torrent, russshhh.
Not a splatter elsewhere but my skin, soaking in, breathing out – steam.
The sun grimaces at the earth and tugs, tugs away at its cape,
Dragging it slowly across the solemn land. Now, ooze of darkness.
Now silence. Now. Stop.

Cold, cold dank hands pat the wall, the cement wall,
Slap slapping their way through the musty, humid air.
Find an apple, now fingers curl confidently around its orbit,
Smooth its gloss with a thumb, feel resistance and grin.
What does it taste like? Is it poisoned? Adam? Eve?
Snow White? Oh my land. To bite or not to bite.
Pearls from an oyster’s nemesis gleam joyously, hidden between the red tide,
Swallowed up by a sea of breath unique, breathe two and twice. Stop.

There was once a laughing seal, it was hideously wonderful.
It laughed so very hard and erratic with its asthma.
Once it tore down a curtain, knocking over the genie,
The genie escaped. Tell that to the ringmaster with his white wig.
Wot: pallid face, lips crushed by cranberries, and chicken stock air.
Mind you (and your mind is beautiful) he’s never sober enough to care,
Always drunk on tirades of cruel jests and ill humour.
No one else will listen though. The seal doesn’t speak English. Stop.

Bend your ear to the wind; it whispers your name,
In the dead of night, hear it calling, calling and beseeching you to turn.
Turn once, turn twice, three times and now you’re there,
Dead silent, dead air.
Not a realism in sight, not a heart beating, just the landscape
Muttering brushes and stutter out a stump now and then,
Pass through the wall, this way, tarry not,
Bind what cannot be bound and break what never is broken.
Mind where you step, you might fall out. Stop.


Note: If anyone has any idea for a title, I would love it if you made note of one to me :P the current standing title was chosen without much I cannot seem to put my finger on the pulse of this piece and name it. Perhaps you may have better insight.

Signed with white and petals amidst blurred thoughts, 

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