constellations

we laid our commiserations

to rest in the sand by our hands.

in the sky, we drew in constellations

that mapped out pathways up high

above the sullen, sunken land. 

fingers bronzed, and melded still

we lit the unlit lamps of the stars,

we nursed the young oil to flame until, 

it glowed like the embers of afar.  

on the sea puddled pools of backward suns

that sway and ripple like sounds on waves, 

linked to each other, one-by-one

and lit up, like the path our life has paved,
they hold hands until the night is done.

if love is blue

if love is blue,
organic, it flows through,
like streams in the dew
of the morning blue.
it's azure like a blue jay's wing
as it settles down to sing
of the gentle hearts' coupling
in the blue, blue stream.
if love is blue,
it is the heaven's sky,
caressing life from up high
and stretching far and wide
into the sea's loving tide.
if love is blue,
it is calm and sure,
undulating as the tide who
eats the sullen shore.
magnificent as the
rolling hills on the land.
soft as the warm-sunlit
touch of tender hands.
oh yes, if love is blue,
it is the color reflected in you.

story telling.

So recently I had this idea of writing a novella of sorts, not quite a novel (wow - that would be hard) but longer than the prose and short little snippets I usually write. Now, I did not realize how big of a challenge it is to write a story. Not because of the actual writing, as I write almost every day. But because of the "let's think of a plot" thing. It is hard. People sometimes say draw upon your own experiences. But I feel like I have ruminated and contemplated my own experience to such levels that they no longer have the same poignancy, and actually end up sounding inorganic when written down, so rehearsed. I could tell a story about a little girl, like me, and what mischiefs she did - only they sound trite and boring when I write it down. Fondest memories turn into a haze of mediocrity. So then, I thought, why not write about experiences I wished I had, or was glad I didn't. But they sound over dramatic and over the top. Too much.

The only thing I know to write about (or at least write adequately about) is emotion. I could come up with a  boatload of similes and metaphors, and things to compare this feeling to the sound of thunder or the hint of rain in the air. But, you can't write a story without a plot, a climax, a lesson... and in the end, my writing ends up being about the present. I'm so wrapped up in a moment that I can't seem to string together moments, in a fluid chain of experiences that form a lasting story.

For now, I will keep brainstorming. Maybe one day something will click. Maybe this is why some great authors only write one book. They only find one story worthy enough to tell.

and we are forever in motion

I am.

anxious and worried. should I
not have better words for how I feel?
I wish I could open this frame
that holds my body so still,
and let my cells parade out
in a spasm of words that mean
what i mean to feel to mean.

i mean, what i feel is what
these words will mean.
change the definition
according to this feeling, and
the rating of its intensity,
of its propinquity, of its purity.

these words, they mean that

maybe my life is in a cycle

like running in one place, fast.

tread marks deep in the dirt,

when we try to race like this, past

all these unwanted things.

and we are forever in motion,

but moving nowhere fast. 

i mean, well, i mean is this:
is it fair to say that I am lost?

No direction in sight,

and in a moment,
i find the silence too earthly.
too still, like a rock in space
orbiting endlessly around the light
but never towards it.
this is how i feel.