Piel

Your words wrap around me
   Seek the sky with new vantage
 How we flicker, rise and light

          So many broken... parallel lines

    Searching out a celestial sight
      
      But I am still more of earth

           Riding along your flight
     Marvel at captivations
        A circling dance, snipping together and apart
                                                       pieces of sunlight
          You will find a whole



"Why does hurt of heart inspire so much?"
"Because you're bleeding... letting out."

Piece of Eternity

I met someone today
Heard him talking away
Somehow I knew he meant me
Before I ever saw his face
He ran away when I looked
But felt bolder when a bit fatter
Momentarily distracted
When I looked up next, he was standing there
I fell into his eyes
Asking just one question
Once, again, then silently
But so completely taken
I could not think to answer
And he went away
Leaving me wishing to follow
Never even told me his name
So I call him Mr. Bushykins

Gray Musics

The rain hushing softly
Are you picking up where my heart left off
Yet not beating
Gentler, please we are
  So the petals of the rosebud don't bruise
                                     And the wings of the hummingbird won't tire

The last of a generation
               Sings a forgotten song to furry ears
   So familiar

          But my lips cannot find the words

    For this minute, I am quiet

                      Stirring, stirring
     There is no recipe
           When life becomes nothing more but onions steaming

  Forget your questions for a moment

         All too soon they'll return

    No longer  can  I  write  in  rigid  lines

          They grow akin to raindrops

                   Here and there

               Hushing, hushing


This is almost exactly how it ended up in my journal (do you see your influence, Cearra? Forgive me for seeming to imitate... but it could take no other format.)
Speaking of which, my journal! I bought a new journal at Borders, finally. After muddling and musing and giving up, on my way out... I spotted it. It's not pretty to look at, or perfectly lined, but it is mine. Big, black and unlined. Because one cannot ramble in small spaces.

Fourth Wall

The air is alive
The ropes quiver under damp fingers
Catch your breath, one one thousand, two one thousand, three
Get away from the curtains, fool
Violins starting up, there's the cue
Take one last look
Our world is about to be born once more
Curtain

See how productive I am in field service? For some reason this came to me as we were driving between calls.

Takes

Spinning words into cobwebs

I thought we’d passed that junction

But the artificial smiles under the artificial lights

Still sing their happy songs with sad eyes

So we get up and dance

‘Cause this music that keeps filling me

It also might be killing me

Just a little bit

Slip out of time, slide out of tune

Start all over again

We’ve lost sight of the beginning

So we’ll make up a new one

This was true, that was real

Clinging to the courtyard walls

When my feet can no longer find the ground

The wind’s going nowhere and back again

Somewhere my mind is turning

In time with your breaths

It’s a flickering connection

And the world isn’t over yet

Riding Kaleidoscopes

Inside another insanity

Been falling in circles so long

So long, so long

That waking moment of dreams

Counting sleep in raindrops

Perhaps to find myself a day

When sunshine gets another name

And our voices touch

I’ll sink down between the cobblestones

And listen to their stories

Until I can see the sky again

For the first time, so many times

Over there, turn around

Told it to myself

Now you smile, of course you would

I’ll be fine if it kills me

Switchback

Gravity's catching up with me
I've forgotten how to fall
Watch the clouds coming together
My feet have grown too small

By himself, against a window
There's a jester playing rhymes
People walking down the street
Pull their raincoats up to their eyes

A girl's playing games
With a stranger she knows
Hardly know the rules
But they call each other names

Not his bus, the plaid absorbed in Russian lit.
I might as well just walk
Who knows what time will see
I'll burn that bridge when I get to it

Lead me round the bricks, won'tcha?
I recognize your song
Hating won't change that it's in you
We've been staring for too long

One more Thursday, one more mask
Maybe more or less today
Maybe there's another way
Yet I don't know how to ask

Fictional Revolution

I was cleaning out my room and found this in my world history binder from 10th grade. We were assigned to make up a revolution. I marveled at my knowledge of government, and wondered what possessed me to write like this. But I'm starting to see a pattern of writing about monarchs...

-----------------------------------------------------

1. Seventeen year-old child of conqueror ascends throne of absolute monarchy. Suspected IQ is the same number as his age. Young monarch spends his days throwing costly balls and gambling. To please the king, any courtier playing against him must tactfully and consistently lose. Government is grossly neglected, and corrupt nobles are left to do as they please. Prices rise, wages drop, and law enforcement declines. All intellectuals who speak out are imprisoned, and nobles and commoners alike suffer. The king loses support, and those against him gain number. All are suffering economically, some are fueled by the idea that the youth is not the rightful ruler, his father having conquered the country. Resentment grows.

2. Enraged population deposits manure into all rivers and wells supplying the palace. General chaos ensues.

3. Moderates attempt a program of reform, and pass an order to register all male citizens in a revolt agreement that states all men as having equal rights and privileges.

4. Nobles protest against moderates, claiming that their social ranks should be maintained. Neighboring countries also send words of warning as the king is a close relation, and a revolution could cause changes in their own countries.

5. The extremists take over and begin throwing all opposers of the revolution to lions. Lions grow healthy and breed. Economy temporarily receives boost from export of lions. Young king becomes officially insane, and throws self to lions.

6. As all resistance is eliminated and the lion trend drops, the terror decreases. It rises briefly when the lions are replaced with wolves, but the major crisis is over.

7. As no power in the monarchy remains, an intelligent revolter rises up and gathers followers with promises of peace and security. Becomes dictator and promptly makes gambling legal. As the lions and wolves have lost their previous jobs, the losers are eaten.

8. People support government because idiots gamble and are eaten and their fortunes are collected as taxes, so taxes in general decrease. Intellectuals survive and the arts flourish due to economical stability and the weeding out of the intellectually disinclined.

Digs

Once upon a time, there was a pebble.
The pebble did not remember where it came from, but it did know where it was at the moment. It was lodged  between the toes of King Louis XIV, because the king had decided to wear his very fashionable open-top high heels to a garden party. There have been very few instances in history where a monarch and a pebble agree, but that day both the pebble and the king wished to be elsewhere. At the moment, the king was greeting one of the prominent and particularly foppish members of his court. This particular fellow stood at a galling 6'1”, forcing the king to keep his shoes on, for he would have endured a thousand pebbles before he consented to stand lower than such a simpering fool. Indeed, at the moment he rather wished to be a pebble himself, and slip his shoes off unnoticed. The pebble on the other hand, was reflecting that he would much rather be greeting boring courtiers than sitting in the dark between someone's toes, even those of a very famous monarch. King or not, toes never smelled very nice, and these were especially poor specimens, tortured from years of being forced into uncomfortable heels.
At length, the pebble heard the king excuse himself and walk very quickly to the nearest chamber pot, which was set around the corner of a hedge. He grunted and snorted as he reached around his billowing skirts to reach his foot, and tugged awkwardly at the shoe. The pebble felt the stiff fabric compress and snag on the royal bunions. The king swore softly and peeked around the edge of the hedge. At a gesture, an attendant came swiftly and bowed low.
“M'Lord?”
Louis XIV cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height, wincing as the pebble dug deeper.
“My shoe is bothering me. Remove it.”
The attendant was well-trained, and only inwardly did he smirk as he thought of the laugh he and the chamber maid would have later.
The pebble felt a cool breeze, and sighed with relief as he was turned over onto the ground.
“Insolent thing,” the king muttered as he wriggled his way back into the shoe.
The pebble did not care for the opinions of the king, for it is very hard to lower the self-esteem of a pebble. It lay in the dirt and enjoyed the feel of fresh open air and the diffused light of the overcast sky.

dentist therapist frumpy villainous potato mongoose

Creative Writing - Fiction. Assignment #?

Incorporate the provided vocabulary into a short story.

I'm a dentist, usually the person standing over the patient. Lying on my back and having someone else examine me makes me nervous. Plus, this lady gives me the creeps.
“Sooo how do you feel today, Christopher?”
How she became the most successful therapist this side of the bridge is beyond me. She's every cat-hair covered, mouth-breathing fifth grade teacher that still gives you nightmares about missing homework when you're 30. Open the dictionary to “frumpy” and you'd find a picture of her.
“I'm...”
I found out fast that telling her I'm fine only leads to deep psychoanalysis of how I carry hidden scars and suppressed fears and desires. Well, I probably will after the time I'm done with this therapy. Seriously, why did Madeline have to get the latex and non-latex gloves mixed up on the one Monday last month when I overslept my alarm, the Starbucks drive-through was closed for repairs, and the Prius broke down two blocks from the office? Still, I shouldn't have blown up at her like that... how was I to know that Doc Rossen would send me to therapy for it?
“I'm feeling....”
What's an empty, deep-sounding word?
“I'm confused about my... purpose.”
My purpose? Since when?
“I've been having strange dreams lately.” At least that was somewhat true.
Her face crackled open into a gray-toothed grin, not unlike the look on a child's face when he discovers the power of sunlight and a magnifying glass over an anthill. Her solidly penciled-in eyebrows rose into almost villainous arcs.
“Descriiiibe yourrr dreaaammm” she said, somewhere between a croak and a croon.
I swear, she is possessed.
“It seemed familiar, but ominous. Like reading a book you know the ending to, but somehow fearing that this time it won't turn out the same way.”
An intrigued murmur escaped her, and she scribbled something on her pad.
“I was eating my mom's potato salad... in the middle of a large cornfield. The stalks rose around me, and the sun was beating down... it seemed peaceful, but the air carried a heavy, unsettling feel.”
Unexpectedly, I could feel myself slipping back into the story-telling mindset, and my voice became low and relaxed. How long had it been since I'd spun such tales? I used to do it all the time with Jules.
“Suddenly, I noticed the slow hissing sound that had slowly been crescendoing behind me. My hands felt clammy, despite the heat.”
My eyes were closed, and the therapist and her cackles were somewhere in a forgotten dimension. I could feel the sun on my back; hear the rustling of the corn.
“The King Cobra... the master of the garden... whose only fear is the chatter of the mongoose.”
Jules and I used to read Rudyard Kipling to each other for hours.