Other poems

I have tracked down a bunch more of my old poems that I thought were lost. Here they are...

Imagination

A little boy walks across the sand

Rocks weigh down his trousers

The sun makes him squint and strain

As he digs for hidden treasure

He digs up a wooden chest from a map

A glistening in his boyish eyes

Buried beneath an ex of black

Rich as a king at nine years and ten days

A gumdrop island with pale blue coast

Where not a cloud casts shadow

This little pirate tries his best

To ignore his mother who yells and shouts

I’ve spent Twenty-one years in the sapphire sweet

Twenty one years of adventure at sea

Settles Bridge

I have a place out east; a rusty bridge.

They call it “Settles Bridge”. It spans a part

of Georgia’s Chattahoochee River that

is always cold even in the summer.

You can find it south of the Buford Dam.

In High school my friends and I would climb up

and jump into the crisp blue, and swim to

shore with our teeth chattering and short breaths.

The second we get on shore into the

sunlight, the water melted like Georgia snow.

Back home life was hard for us. Our parents

divorced, homework, girlfriends, the pains of youth.

Everything seemed so important back then.

But not when our toes gripped that orange rust

pushing past fear and into the unknown.

There is always that moment, Suspended

in air. After your feet leave the rusty

metal and your body hits the cold blue.

You can fly. And it doesn't matter that

life is pain because this is more then life.

That moment right before my feet would hit

The water, I would close my eyes and make

a memory and quickly tuck it in

my pocket. I would call it stardust and

save it for a rainy day like today.

Life is pretty hard now with bills piling

up, and I am far away from my home.

Nothing I can do will bring those days back.

But when I’m sad I take my stardust out

and fly away for just a moment’s time.

Mended hearts prepare for the feast

Reconcile to me my lover

in thy dark and dreamless slumber,

lips that long in dark did search

as Christ would kiss His holy church.

Give me not the dismal dark

that overtook thy virgin heart,

or shallow touch and shallow pains

whose death is need to loose our chains.

Oh sweet bride, whome I bethrothed,

and at my hand did suffer woes,

lie down to rest and find thy peace

until we share in heaven's feast.

With empty hands I ask no more

then safe return; my spoils of war.

Surrender them to Christ and lo,

it shall be doubled; blow for blow

Adieu I say as we advance

no devil's arrow nor evil lance

shall steal the love we wrought in sorrow,

adieu adieu, my sweet tomorrow.

"Glamor"

a glamerous thing when first we see
the beauty and shimmer, the joy and glee
oh to endulge for a bit, if just for a while
it gives us such fullness, it proves we have style

for some it is white and fine as snow
and others its love found where love cannot grow
its found sometimes despite the restrictions
when our lust and desire defeats our convictions

so after some time it becomes okay
and after a while we put it away
as something normal and full of life
as a source of joy to illimate strife

then once it is ours and we eat it all up
we go to the well to refill our cup
but this time a change, it is not as before
what lasted at first, sustains us no more

so deeper we dig to draw from this well
and ignorance turns our heaven to hell
and that thing we once hated and spoke out against
robs our virginity and steals our innocense

so subtly it creeps and defines our wrongs
so softly it speaks with miraculous song
and where we once thrive and fill 'till we bloat
will become the rope that barely keeps us afloat

"My life in the computer trade"

tick tock tick tock the clock bellows thickly
click clack click clack my finger rattle onward
pitter pat pitter pat my heart beats faster
thump thump thump my feet ignore the boredom

empty voices echoing, sneaking through the halls
the confident business man as he forfeits his soul
and the women strangly sound very much the same
do they know their forsaken souls have misguided ambition to blame?

They don't notice me sitting in my safty spot
hiding out and counting down the minutes until I leave
because unlike them my time in here is a pause in real life
that resumes between 9 and 5 and continues on its path

oh this wretched trap has taken slaves indeed
if I wait here long enough I fear it may take me
no rhyme nor prose could possibly pose
a threat to this industry

I sit and think as I pass a new day about my former life
of locker doors and those fucking whores that loved to make me squirm
the very scum that later become society's living dead
yet deep inside I miss the pride of knowing where I'm going.

Perhaps I'll change, as we know the wind does, onto a deeper path
where enrichment and knowledge can set some goals other then getting by
or getting richer for that matter, for money and fame is not my desire
I want a life devoid of complacency that knows its destination.

"She was my Rushmore"

If people would remember
That a heart is an organ
And an organ makes you live
They would be more careful
With the hearts that they handle

But instead they threw them around
Like tennis balls on the ground
Over fences to the awaiting jaws
Of vicious, slobbering, evil dogs

My heart has been treated as so
By me and her also
And now I cannot breath
Because the pain is just too severe
And I can't live without my heart

"olmak"



A blue mosque

Bir blue mosque

Bir mavi camii

Just another place

I happen to be



Black sea, black sea

A big blue sea

There are a million other

Places I could be



A rising mist

Miasmal mist

A hippo will not be

On the ancient snow capped shroud

The modern mystery

Wrapped in ancient blasphemy



There are many places

Left to see

This plush rug

Is where I

Happen to

Be

I WAS A SHOOTING STAR:

A meteorite was revealed for a moment

It happened while I was driving across America.

And the banana yellow streak as it happened-

in the sky

was the apple of my eye


I drove across America.

The heavens watched me go.

And the faded greyish blur that was-

my car

was the joy of that solitary star


So it shone bright for one earth second.

And my body moved for all of September.

Yet somehow in the void known as-

endless days

we two traveled together always.


While I sat behind the wheel

I intersected this fiery line.

And I was really just the same as-

a streaking light

as I Luminated the lonely night.


This piece of rock moved away

from its home in outer space.

I burned up banana yellow in the-

east cost mist

and slowly moved my way northwest.

THE COMEDY OF LIFE

Like fire from heaven
this weeping rain
burn softly slowly
this creeping pain,
turned joy to sorrow
glory to rust
gold to green

substance to dust.

To find that hope
should have never been
is better then living
with the knowledge of sin,
of actually taking what isn't
and having it hurt you again,
and again.

But a hopeless man
is helpless too
and as long as he can
he will see things through,
because sometimes hope
can leave a stain
and like a ghost
will haunt this man.
When all that really still remains
is the promise of burning
and weeping rain.

In a town with gray ubiquitous
where enduring mist is all you can trust.
Where every face is a flash of life
and every heart has been slashed with a knife
by heartbreak that came
from noble intentions
whose tragedy has formed
all of life's conventions.
In a place where the sun all winter won't shine,
every body's a stranger
they are all passers-by.

So what remains when love's hope is gone?
What remedy can help the helpless move on?
The secret is here and is easily seen,
you can find it in beer and coffee beans;
in dives and shops
where the locals have learned
that time heals nothing
but love can return.

They mourn their losses
and endure the pain
and know that after
the winter fog clears
life will never be the same again.

So weep like a willow
but don't cry too long
for while hurt still remains
sorrow isn't wrong.
For the hopeless, despair
Is all that sustains
but beware for often
despair will remain
long after the fog clears.
And no new beginning
can dry those tears.

That is why in this wise old town,
where all winter long
sorrows are drowned
in booze and poetry
and cigarette smoke,
that everyone knows
love's little secret,
and it helps them by and by.

They say that nature has a cycle
and seasons never lie.
If in the winter dreams are of falling
in the summer man can fly.
What wonderful colors!
Lo and behold!
A new love is comedy
for the soul is born old.
As it ages the bitter pain
fades like the fog
and the winter rain.
It grows to youth and jubilee.

Two living souls in summer clean

will forever grow young
while bodies grow mean.
After many winters and summers trade
each physical body will surly fade.

So always remember that
love is a game
and the sun always shines after the rain.

Another recovered poem

Found this in a notebook... wrote it about 2 years ago.

Mocha

"Mocha brown, I lump color with sound,

and texture fair like Knotty hair.

No pun, no pun just mocha brown.

And taste like salt or Reese's piece

like chocolate wedding cake.

Like she, like she, ya weh.

Fond memory- mocha eyes,

find safety - knees and thighs

and feet, and feet and gaps in teeth.

In days for hours. Four hours in bed.

Lump sheets mix feets mix memories.

Life story, life story mix sheets and teeth.

No word for punny- a pun for a word.

No name like YHWH has ever been heard.

New words, new words on tiny screens.

And call thousands of miles or drive five hours?

I fathom blissfully. I debate endlessly.

No answer, no answer yet hastily.

Mocha skin. Iranian. Trapped serenity.

Quiet mystery- half secretary, half lost in admiration.

No surprise, no surprise trapped in mocha eyes

Mocha dress, jacket too-

just several days - mocha shoes.

I'm lost, I'm lost I'm confused."

Damn internets

So as you (both haha) already know I deleted my myspace account because it has become obsolete due to the far superior quality of facebook. I did this on a foolish whim and failed to remember that my myspace blog was the only place that like half of the things I have ever written was backed up. Then POOF gone forever...

So I think I will try and recreate some of it here. I will start with some stuff that I already have written down. Then later on I think I will actually try and rewrite some of the old stuff. It will be different of course... because i am not in the same place I was when I wrote those things, and I want to feel like it comes from the heart. But maybe I can sort of keep the construction and rebuild with my current thoughts and feelings. It will be a fun experiment anyway.

Here are a few I found on my computer randomly... I don't even remember writing these haha

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS:

"Home is where the heart is

So I’ll lock my heart up in my chest

Everywhere I go I will have a home

Locked up tight within my breast"

Actually here is one I remember writing. It is not very good but sort of interesting I guess. I was walking across the Hawthorne Bridge in Portland, OR and it was night time and I was wondering about how close we are to death all the time. How random it is and how with every small decision or step we take we could possibly be putting ourselves in the path of something that will end our lives... its sort of a dark subject but I guess I was contemplative that night. Here is what came out of my head and onto the paper...

RED AND BLUE

"So I’m at that point. Faced between death and death- red on the right

blue on the left.

It could have been avoided I guess, I could have taken the bus

But life doesn’t give us a choice- life just happens.

Here is how I died:

I am on the bridge walking home, walking away and wondering

Why it always happens that I have to go home this way. I’m a penny pincher I guess.

It is crisp tonight and I’m thinking… the Willamette must

Be nice this time of year. All cold with currents pulling backward.

In a different world I would have wanted the currents to pull me down

To a waterfall and flip-flop around and fall fall fall until I make a bold splash.

 

The river is on my right. Takes three seconds for my spit to hit the surface, I should

Try and avoid the bikes. The Hawthorne Bridge connects Madison and Main and it

Always happens this way- the locals know. They drive slow because they know.

 

On my left is a car. It is red and driving fast. A careless bike begins to nudge my back

And my feet run fast and smack smack on the concrete surface.

Balance gives option and I’m predestined to choose between left and right,

death and death.

 

Its natural to choose left, as my body tumbles awe full and timing bad.

To go there is red and the death is fast perhaps. As the car screeches and screams-

My bones cracking on the metal grate. The car could try and stop but it is

Useless to try. I am dead before they arrive,

At the knowledge of my brain on the dashboard.

 

So maybe jump right. I could switch it up in time I guess. Over the wheels and handlebars,

The flashing lights and flailing arms. I could throw my body into black-

One

Two

Three seconds and I splash a wonderful dive to concussion and frostbite.

Oregon cold and icy hair- I always thought those handrails were rather low.

I doubt the thinly snow felt shores will even let me get a grip to pull myself out.

It would not come to that anyway. I’m dead before I arrive,

At the realization that my body is descending to the depths where fish swim

Among heavy items discarded by other passers by.

 

Left I’m a deer and right I’m a salmon. The choice between death and death.

I could blame the bike but what’s the point? I could not have chosen it another way

Death has a way of finding us and it is merely the sequence of events

That led me to this day. So I better choose

Between red and blue.

Here is the last thing I will post today. Wrote this little story right after I first arrived in Scotland for the first time. I had not done a whole lot of traveling prior to that so it was all pretty new to me. I was 18 when I wrote it so my skills were not quite honed but I like the story because it reminds me of a big adventure that happened what feels like a long time ago.

The endless tracks

 

“It is good to have an end to journey towards, but it is the journey that matters in the end.“

 ~Ursula K. LeGuin

           

 

 

            Click-clack click-clack click-clack. It is amazing how a massive steel train, as it rolls along two endless iron beams, with sparks flying and horns blowing, can produce such a comforting and sleep inducing lullaby. It is unclear at what point I stopped noticing the music in my headphones, because you can never tell exactly when you fall asleep. I always try and think back to the last moments I am awake before sleep happens, but it’s impossible. All you remember is that at one moment you were staring out the window listening to Pedro The Lion, and the next moment you are in some distant place dreaming about life on mars or something. I love to think about things like that, especially when riding on trains in foreign lands.

            This particular train was Scotrail #463 departing from London-King's Cross at 13:45h, and finally arriving at Glasgow-Central at 19:00h(this is how British people tell time; also they write the date in dd/mm/year format. So instead of writing January 1st, 2004 as 01/10/04, they would say 10/01/04. I am scarred for life because of this. In fact, I can't write dates in the numerical format at all anymore because I can never remember if month or day goes first). Trains are my choice of transportation almost everywhere I travel to. It is one of the best ways of getting familiar with a new place. You see, people often think they are going to travel to some foreign place and do all the things the local people do, and they are going to have some "off the beaten path" adventure. This never happens though; because they are walking around with some travel guide they bought at Barnes and Noble, which just proves that the secret of those "off the beaten path" places just might be out. So I choose trains because that way it is possible to not be super "touristy" yet at the same time still soak up a large amount of culture and geography as you just sit there and stare blankly out the window. It's for this reason that I have found myself all over the world in trains; it makes for a good collection of memories.

            I usually try my hardest to stay awake on the daytime ones, but for the first time in my life, I was just too tired. I guess it was because I had just been on a 9-hour flight from Atlanta, finding myself lost and confused in a huge London airport, then getting on the wrong train and ending up at Victoria station, which has no connection to Glasgow at all. So I had to get on the London underground with 6 months worth of bags, and ride on two different lines in order to get to King's Cross station. Then waiting on the trains, and purchasing the tickets, and on top of that I was completely alone. The alone part is okay though, I am quite content by myself, but it does make traveling a bit more hectic and stressful. Also, the people were not very friendly. I always imagined that when I got to Great Britain, everyone would be polite and sophisticated like in movies, but this is not true. They are the same as people everywhere, in fact it was worse for me. I didn't even have to talk; yet they somehow knew I was an American right away. It was like this the whole 6 months, even if I had no bags or anything, they just knew by how I walked and dressed. So not only were people rather rude to me in my fragile and tired state, they also made me feel like a minority.

            The date was January 10th, 2004, and the time was about 19:00h. I had not spoken more then five words to anyone since leaving America almost 24 hours earlier. I stepped onto the escalator that goes up and exits the historic, old train station and feeds out onto the streets of Glasgow. As I gained altitude, a picture unfolded before me, and revealed what historic, old Scotland looks like. At first just dim streetlights that fought to serve their purpose despite the thick air, then the beautifully carved (yet miserably grey) archways of buildings adjacent, and then I was even able to see the old cobblestone sidewalks neatly lined with green metal bins labeled "rubbish". Near the top I stepped to the middle of the escalator and let the cool wind blow through my hair and sooth my soar muscles. Then suddenly, "move oudda the way, ya fuckin septic", and a quick shove as a flash of pink mohawk and silver studded jacket brushed past me in a brisk and offensive manner. I learned quickly that when you are on an escalator, it is mandatory to stand to the right side. (To the British, not observing this courtesy is as rude and offensive as giving the middle finger. There is a very specific order to how you use stairs and escalators.) Suddenly my heart stopped (as did the escalator, causing a bit of embarrassing stumbling) and my head began to spin. I had been in a complete state of business all the way until this point, and really had not gotten a chance to breath in the new air, as I so love to do in new places. So right there on the sidewalk I dropped my bags and quietly whispered six very profound words: "I will never be the same."

            It was only 19:00h but the sun was completely down, which was a bit disturbing because I expected it to be light. It is sort of like that feeling when you go to the movie theater during the daytime, and after the movie you walk out and expect it to be night and you are sort of confused and uncomfortable about the fact that it is still light outside, except this was the opposite. I looked into the night and a drunken man was staggering around in the road and shouting at the long line of old-fashioned British taxis that were honking at him. (I wish I could explain these taxis better; they were just so cliché. It is one of those things where you know that is how something is, but you never really fully understand it until you experience it yourself.) Through the headlights of the taxis and the streetlights hanging on the side of the train station, it was evident that a light drizzle was falling from the sky. (Little did I know that that pretty much wouldn't stop... ever.) Eager to explore more, I took to walking.

            I was not allowed to arrive at the Seamill Centre until the 11th because they did not have the rooms ready yet until then, so I had to find a hostel. But first I resolved to find a pub. Eager to experience the essence of Scottish culture, I sat at the bar and sort of looked around.

"Whadda ya have mate?” from behind the bar.

"Um... is Guinness good?"

"Ha! Ay atis, yeed havda be daft te say its not."

I had to really think hard to make sure I understood what he was saying,

"Okay well then a pint it is", I said cheerfully and really quite American.

The bartender poured the pitch-black liquid into the pint glass and left it sitting under the tap.

"I'll just let dat settle fer ya. s'gonna be two quid sixty”. I really didn't understand that, so I took out the Five-pound note I had in my pocket from the change I got for my train ticket. The bartender gave me my change and after a few seconds the beer as well.

"Thanks"

"Cheers mate, down tha hatch"

This made me smile, and I sat in the smoky pub and enjoyed a very delicious beer.

            After two pints and about a half pack of cigarettes I decided I was pretty tired and really needed to find that hostel. To my luck I found one that was only 10 pounds a night. Whether the luck was good or bad is up for debate. I am not sure if I have ever been to a sketchier place in my life. I have heard stories about an infamous hostel in Dundee, Scotland called the “Ho Ho Hostel” and the name says it all. Although I have never been to Dundee… I believe this hostel must have been equally as bad. I just sat in my bed, in a room filled with about 10 other beds and listened to the conversations, realizing it was pretty much a foreign language to me.

"Oi mate, fetch me anotha can, I needa get fucked up",

"Piss off ya shited cunt, ya couldn't even be bothered ta drop a few quid in me direction back at the shop? Ha, piss off, getcher own".

"Well fuck you then, yer no mate oh mine, ya fuckin dafty. Ya wee spaz. Go drive around after a few pints ey? Go on then... fucking wanker" (This language is known as Glaswegian, it is English, but a very thick dialect that gets thicker the closer you get to the center of Glasgow. Seeing that I was just outside of "Glasgow Central Station", you can imagine just how thick it was).

            I was beginning to wonder if my time in Scotland was going to be a bad one. These people just spoke so incredibly fast, and their language was overwhelmingly offensive and vulgar. It took me about a month before I realized that it is just part of the culture to insult each other. That is how they communicate. It is funny because later that night those same two guys were talking to me about my trip over and traveling and such, and were nothing but polite and entertaining. In fact, they gave me some great tips on things to do while I was in town. I just hoped that when I arrived at the Seamill Center the next morning I would find that there is a breed of Scots that are not so down on themselves and dead inside. I fell asleep praying that the Lord would protect my possessions while I slept and that I would never have to return to the Blue Sky Hostel.

            The next morning my train pulled into West Kilbride-platform 2 at 09:45h and I was speechless. I was standing on a hill at a small outdoor train station, and the most beautiful landscape I had ever seen unfolded before me. The deep green hills were thick with wet grass and hundreds of grazing sheep spotted the emerald horizon. Down to the left was the ocean, and since it was such a clear day, I could see Northern Ireland masked in gray way off in the distance. This whole scene was a rare scene, because there was never a day more clear and beautiful for the whole time I was abroad. Just on the coast I could see huge windmills turning their turbines with great force, and just below that, was a massive stone castle. I stood there wondering if someone was going to pick me up when suddenly,

"There's Patrick!"

"Huh?” I turned around.

A slightly overweight man with glasses and short, balding hair, and a thin quite naturally beautiful woman were standing before me.

"You must be Patrick. I am Lee and this is my wife Carolyn. We talked to you on the phone last week, remember? We are so glad you are here," said the man, in a soft English accent. We shook hands and exchanged small chatter.

"Is that the Seamill Centre down there?" I asked with a bit of awe and fatigue in my eyes, as I peered down at the ancient dinosaur of a castle.

"It is indeed. Welcome home mate. We're so glad you're here".

Cease to begin

Ok Lindsey I started a blog but I'm too busy to write in it presently. You can follow me though and I will update with random thoughts and tidbits of creative writing.