Wednesday, November 23, 2011

more poetry.


an existential interrogative  

i ask
with the force of a
gale:  can any of us
see? can any of us
recognize the importance
of soul? do we know
the human condition?

or have we forgotten—
we, forever imprisoned,
know our fellow man
through the television
or the computer, where
no real interaction allows
for the intercession of
persons who, as always,
remain desirous of
companionship and
love.

but, do we even know
ourselves? when we
glare into the glass
mirrors, do we see
what we need? or
is our image merely
a reflection, both what
we present and what
we feel internally?

the intrinsic meets
the extrinsic, and
we forever float
without tether, without
seeing the internal
and embracing the
beautiful.

another poem.


the quiet

the night seems strangely
bright as i drive home
on the long, lonely road
that weaves between the
darkness.

the radio blares—it plays
cheesy, contrived pop
songs. none speak to the
soul. none have meaning.

yet they offer a break from the
silence. solace from the
uncomfortable. i continue to
drive toward the light as I let
the night be, strangely and soothingly,
irrevocably, irredeemably bright.  

Monday, November 21, 2011

untitled.


a smell of bug spray continues
to permeate through the house
as i prepare to step outside and
enjoy the cooling summer air.
soon, briskness will befall the
season and the world will
enter a powerful slumber.

leaves tumble, leaves fall.

alas, i am alone—Providence
my only keeper.

i am separate as it
all continues about
like clockwork.

such are the vicissitudes
of seasonal change.

Friday, November 18, 2011

stuff.

I expect something, and then things change -- my life veers sharply into the dark unknown. Six months ago, I'd assumed I would be in graduate school. When I was ten, I thought I would be at Harvard Medical school -- at some point. Everything changes. Nothing is permanent.

Such is my life. It's always been like this.

A few days ago, I was able to catch up with a professor whom I much admire. He, along with some others, shaped and guided my writing.

I saw him eating lunch -- I had briefly visited my alma matter -- and I asked to join. We talked writing, but I also lamented my frustrations.

I was worried, I told him, that writing would not get me anywhere. He told a powerful, moving story that described his youth. He, too, was unsure. He was expected to be a journalist, but he wanted to venture elsewhere. He took time to find himself. And he walked home, even though the street had no lights -- for a time.

It seemed dark, but something always pushed him. He realized what he was meant to do:  write, teach, and minister.

But he didn't figure all that out until a few years ago. He said he had written down his desires in his youth, but he locked them away -- both in mind and in the tangible.

I know my passions, but I need the moment he had -- everything, at some point, needs to click.

Where's my light? Where's my sign? Maybe God can help me out?

As I told him, I think this is why I enjoyed the show 'Lost' as much as I did. 

I just need to keep writing, though. Keep writing and let the words flow. Let my soul sing and let my mind dance with the language on the page.

I'm on the island. I need to get home.