Snowflake

Every day is a new one
in a million new days
just like it
every day is different
and in difference each is the same
regardless
of individuality
everything is the same
when the ball drops
And as the new day dawns
the snowflakes drift
lazy sorrowful sweeps from heaven
to earthly hell
in the cold that warms the hearts of some
and cools the earth over others
who never made it through the fog
the problem with being a snowflake
is the split personality
do we bring families together
with childlike joy
or rip them apart
with icy-road death
the problem with being a snowflake
is the lack of benifits
life is quick
but fleeting
and as a snowflake leaves the sky
to meet its brethren fading into the ground
no one is there with a bottle of champagne
or a pension
and already
the individuality is gone.

It takes a while

but then I'm there again
in rain or fog
or rays of sun
I'm there
tumbling through meadows
or falling down flights of stairs
rolling to the edge of the earth
on hands and knees
I'm there
opening boxes
climbing trees
I'm there
I'm here
I swear
to you
that I will never leave
I've found my nirvana
in spite of myself
in spite of the world around
to spite the world surround
surreal
this is
so strange
and queer
I reclaim
myself
here
I'm there
by the waterfall
counting the pebbles
in my pockets
golden raindrops
dripping from my hands
I hurt so big
the sky might burst
into a thousand shards of blue-green glass
like windsong
like heartbeats
like drum pounds
and low sounds
in the tall grass
I'm there
where no one will look
under the rock
under which
I'm there
or here
departing
or entering
falling
or rising
leaving
or going
searching
or finding
losing
or gaining
myself
far from anyone
who cares
to hate
and loves
to despise
thus

Drifting

out at sea
in a bucket
somewhere between
here and there
near and far
I sleep.
somewhere between
at peace and at ease
I am
now
drifting dangerously
much too close
I lie amidst
the place I've been
and where I am going
a bright new future
adrift
a raft
where
am I going
what shall I be
once I drift to shore
drifting
somewhere between
awake and asleep
one morning
I wrote
a poem
so beautiful
so true
defining my life
in a nutshell
but the way things go
is that you never remember
the things you realize while drifting
so much for profundity
so much for originality
we are only dreamers
adrift in the sea
of thought.

I wrote this awhile ago- reflections of a bird

This cage is a curious thing
The bars are made of gold
in the corner sits a velvet cushion
waiting on me
sometimes I feel like I'm outside
Looking inside
at myself
in this cage
Alone.

This cage is a curious thing
sometimes I feel like I'm free
And then
Out of the corner of my eye
I glimpse the golden glint
the bars
surrounding me
no rescue in sight
Alone.

This cage is a curious thing
Sometimes it feels like home
But then I remember
What freedom felt like
I was alive, once
Alive
I was happy
but now, nothing
save gold bars
And me.

I still wonder

what you think of

whenever

you close your eyes

I hope you think of me

every once and a while

I hope you dream of me

I hope I make you smile

sometimes
And once again 
I am cursed by the wonder

the wondering

the wandering

do you care

the way I do

the way I want you to

the way you tell me to

do you care

do you love

do you think

do you wander

are you cursed

by the wonder

the wondering

the wandering

too?

do you stay up late

some lonesome nights

and stare out the window

at the stars above

wishing

and wondering

that and if

someone might love you too

I honestly hope

and I honestly wonder

that and if

you are cursed by this longing

too.

Something more to life than neo-pseudo-hipsterdom?

*bear with me, here comes some truly terrible poetry.  Don't hate me though,  after spending all morning brushing up on my rhetoric skills I was tempted to write an ode to parentheses.*

Sighing softly, in the afternoon, Helen poured herself another cuppa tea
Rearranging her face in the microwave window
there must be something more to life than this
sitting by the computer
typing out a paper
staring at the golfing green across the path
removing onions from chilled soup
with a pair of broken, faded, jaded chopsticks
there must be something more to life than this
blowing roiling steam
off a mug heated to high
reading an theatrical, esoterical, Socratical debate
why was Meno such an idiot?
and why am I such a judgemental, neo-pseudo-hipster?
there must be something more to life than this
there must be something more to life than this
I bet there is
beyond computers, paper bags, skyscrapers
on the other side of the fence
which none of us will ever reach
when we realize life isn't about what we are doing
what we call ourselves
what we think of the world
and each other
perhaps we will see
that there is something more to life than this
than us
something more to life than us, than this.

She's a good girl

somewhere deep down inside her soul
she knows it
she thinks
but on this tuesday morning
the ground wet with dew
and the sky blue with a disapproving glare for the solitary runner
she can't quite believe it
she's something evil
something wild
and her feet pound the earth with the force just right
to force it out of her
send it showering into the sky through the tips of her hair
she hopes
but honestly
she knows
that she doesn't fit in a stained glass housefilled with stained glass light
in the shade of a steeple
where the pastor preaches love
and the people see evil behind every mask and corner
because if they knew her, they'd hate her
without a second thought
but it's dangerous to think like that
because she isn't there for the people.
she's there for the one who loves her
and wants her
thinking about the people is enough to send her running
back to the proud and the shackled
to laugh, and cuss, and drink, and smoke
and kiss the one whose heart she broke
again
it's dangerous to think like that
because she tells herself
she'll strive to be
the good girl she isn't
she'll try.

Imagining

over coffee, my mug becomes a paper fan
and I am a Japanese lady
with my eyebrows plucked
and my hair drawn back
my face powdered whiter than snow.
I smile, hidden, safe behind watercoloured paper
You cannot touch me.
Imagining, till something snaps
deep down inside
I tumble through the darkest nights
searching through the dustbin in my soul for something real
Windmilling, finding nothing but nothing to break my fall
There's a point now, when, grasping everything around me
And holding things up to the light
Examining the artifacts of myself
I have to wonder
What is real and what is false
I'm a mystery, even to myself

Your socks will be on the drier

Your socks will be on the drier
If you need them, that's where they'll be
Because I've finished the washing
I'll leave them on the drier, you see
They'll all be in the family room
talking about me
but their socks will be on the drier
and if they need em, that's where they'll be.
Your socks will be on the drier
they'll be waiting for you there
and I'll be having my morning cry
which will give you all quite a scare
but your socks will be on the drier
in the laundry room under the stair
Your socks wait on top of the drier
and if you look you'll find them there.
Your socks will be on the drier
I've finished giving em a good clean
The socks will all be on the drier
Though I fear I've made quite the scene
Your socks will be on the drier
It's the start of a brand new routine
In which I leave the socks on the drier
once the laundry's done and they're clean.

Rain slicker, Star slinger

A rain slicker drips on the hook by the door
She pulls a revolver from a bedside table drawer
She holds the barrel to her ear and thinks no more.
The stars shine naked in the black night sky
Concrete sees the changing day as people pass it by
Another minute wasted, the star slinger starts to cry.
A city washed with rain wakes from its drowsy sleep
We trail down dirty sidewalks finding what we'll keep
Pills are prescribed every day- no questions asked, like sheep.
A rain slicker drips
The star slinger cries
You will keep on taking pills
And so, my friend, will I.

Empty

A copy of the Bell Jar, unread, sits on her bedside table
and copies of old newspapers pile up in the hall
time ticks and water drips
she sits unmoving by the stairs
staring at the ceiling and the sky outside her box.
dust moves slowly
dancing out the window
and she stares at the clouds.
Drinking from an empty glass
and writing with an inkless pen
the world spins up to kiss the sky goodnight.
the moon looks down, solemn and lonesome
at a city barely living barely sleeping
and the woman in her box
sings a song until the morning
of emptiness and heartbreak after dusk.
There's a song for when you're going out
and another for when you come back in
the mocking bird preens before the mirror
standing on the rocking chair
sipping light tequila
flipping through For Esme With Love and Squalor.
An old man on the corner
looks up towards the window
and the songstress combs her hair with saddened eyes
the world will always wonder and she will ever laugh
and the song will go on singing for itself.

A poem for Frank

I'm not sure if I fell in love with you because your name was Frank
or if I fell in love with the name Frank because it was your name.
Perhaps if I could ask you
just why it is you love yourself so much
I'd know.
I'm not sure why I fell in love with you. I don't think it was your name.
But I can't imagine what it was. Likely I was simply enamoured
with your confidence
I never considered that you might just
be prideful.
I'm not sure how I feel about you anymore. I used to be angry.
But I saw you today and I felt nothing but sad.
because I feel like we missed out
on something that could have been
incredible.
I'm not sure if I was even in love. Or if I just thought you were beautiful.
I'm hoping that it wasn't either, because both seemed far too fleeting.
Don't worry about me
I'll be fine, in fact
I worry
about you.




(you heartless cow)

Fifteen Down

Every now and again I find myself wishing on falling stars

And I wish that the world would stop for just a moment, to accommodate me

Fifteen years down and the one great realization I’ve achieved is that time waits for no man.

The world marches on like a marching band in which half the musicians are playing notes not found on the sheet music

More sky rises go up in the city

And in the country more cows are pumped full of chemicals

And we all march on towards a future that smells like gasoline and possesses all the colour of a concrete block

Slow and silent we march towards the grave,

Our shadows trail behind us like homeless puppies

We strive to build monuments for ourselves

We amass small fortunes

Hoping that someone will take note, and pat us on the head

Or maybe even shake our hand.

Life is now a means to an end instead of an end in itself

And we live in fast pursuit of some higher knowledge

A few choice words that we can rattle off at dinner parties to define us as a person

An advertisement of self, a life philosophy.

Maybe one day we'll look back and finally appreciate that all our triumphs were not so large and our adversities not so incredible as we once believed

That our philosophies were not so profound as we once thought.

Every now and again I find myself wishing on falling stars

And I wish that the world would slow down for just a moment, to accommodate me.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate one thing about life- the inevitability of it.

Whether you want it or not,

Whether you care or not,

Whether you involve yourself or not,

Life goes on.

I feel like the man in the hole

unable to jump my way out,
having convinced everybody that I could.
I've dug myself a hole
and there's no escaping
no denying
no defying
my situation
there's no running away
from the truth

It doesn't feel like Christmas

It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
No it doesn't.
Not at all.
It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
There are presents under the tree,
but the tree is fake.
It can't be Christmas yet, yet it's just three days away.
It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
No it doesn't.
Not at all.
It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
Where's the magic in the air?
The carolers?
Does any one even care?
That it doesn't feel like Christmas.
It just doesn't.
Not at all.
It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
There's no snow, no love, no feel good feelings.
It doesn't feel like Christmas anymore
Can you get too old for Christmas?
I don't know.

I'm like a coin

Happy on one side
Sad on the other
constantly flipping
always just one
never both
each fighting
the other to be
the one on top.
never winning
for very long
but lingering
if they can.
my emotions
play with me
bat me back
bat me forth
just like a
ping-pong ball
caught in this
eternal game.
Happy now
Sad tomorrow
living not in
equilibrium
but in a state
of constant
rearrangement
of my heart
rearrangement
of my mind
and of myself.
every fiber of
my being will
love life so much
one day and
hate it the next,
hate life so much
I'm willing to
throw it away
like a coin
on the sidewalk
vacillating between
happy and sad
bitter and sweet
rejoicing one day
and cursing the next.
two sides, one coin
that's me.

A letter long forgotten

I found a letter in my desk the other day
I'd written it to a friend of mine (I'd meant to send it her way)
but I didn't
so I've still got it
In my desk.

I wrote you a letter long forgotten
It wasn't long forgotten at the time
but why I felt the way I did, I've now forgotten
and I still have the letter after all these years gone by.

I'm sending you this letter long forgotten
About all the things I used to feel
I'm adding on all the things I feel now (things I had forgotten)
By stopping myself from feeling and trying not to be me.

I figured you should probably see this letter long forgotten
 So that you'd know how I miss you, my old friend
I figured there might be some things that we had both forgotten
About promises we'd made and the letters we thought we'd send

I moved away, and that was no one's fault at all
But I'm the one who chose to forget
not you
never you
so I'll put this in the mail
and I'll tell you how I feel
how I miss you
I'll tell it all
In this letter long forgotten.

Look

but don't touch
like a sign in a china shop
it hovers above your head
Look, but don't touch
See, but don't feel
Gaze at longingly, but never stroke, brush, converge with.
I'm breaking in these shoes, see?
I'm feeling out the edges of uncharted territory
This- this is what they call lust?
This is what it feels like to want something you can't have
Longing to reach out and take what could so easily be yours
And stopping yourself.
Wishing to tap, pat, fondle caress, heck even just graze, become contiguous with, connect with, pet
And exchanging all that desire to study, inspect, observe, contemplate
Exchanging contact for the mere contemplation of how it would feel
To run my hand down the side of your face,
to grasp your hand in mine
To stroke the lobe of your ear or kiss the crook of your elbow
This- this is lust?
this is the thing I'm taught to fear, to run away from?
It doesn't feel hellish
Frustrating, yes, but simultaneously heavenly
For I would rather spend a day gazing at what can never be mine,
Wanting it, yet denying my desires
Than spend a day in the presence of angels.
Call me sacrilegious.
Call me depraved, fallen, abominable, corrupted, disgusted, despicable
But don't deny me the right to
Look,
But not touch.

Metaphor

The man who eats his words shall have a feast indeed
It may be flavorful and rich
Or scanty and decayed
but it shall be a feast nonetheless

The man who speaks with much thought
may not have much to eat
but each bite will be wholesome and good

The man who speaks only good of himself and only ill of others
Shall eat until he runs to fat
Gorging himself on the things he oughtn't to have said

And the man who speaks only in lies shall not eat his words
but be eaten by them.

One thing we have established, if words are food for thought
I quite like playing with my food

Anagrams and Spoonereisms

May- yam, my a.
May I have a yam?
My, a yam you may certainly have.

Sushi- hi sus, uh sis, she sues.
Hi Sus, fancy seeing you at the sushi bar.
Uh, sis here is Sus, here at the sushi bar.

Her sushi is rotten, therefore she sues.

New year- you near.
This one should speak for itself, I think.

Um no- numb oh

Um, I was um, going to tell you, um no, but it came out um more like um a rather numb "oh."

Belated- late bed
I wished you a belated birthday, and then was late to bed.

Battery charged- Chattery barged
My battery was almost charged, before the chattery squirrel barged in

Mouse- so emu
A mouse met an emu and he said, so emu...



and yeah..... this has been fun. but now i'm getting bored of it all.

if you have any you'd like to share, feel free to do so.