This one really speaks for itself. I would like to share this one little bit from a college history professor. There are only two tales: of death and of love. I pray fate with allow me to find one before the other.
Tarot Cards and Fate-filled Dreams
He's looking at me, and I'm telling him about my favorite New Age shop -
I believe in the powers evoked by the candles dubbed Love and Creativity,
and I am waiting for that night when Seduction will come in handy -
and I tell him about my wish to have my palm read, my future told, just for laughs.
He offers to read his tarot cards to me over a beer.
A medium, he says, a trait that runs in his family, and he tells me stories.
The scientist in me, the ruthless skeptic that asks too many questions, that doubts
even the sky above me, that wishes to disprove every hypothesis put to me,
dashes away, hands over her ears as the gullible believer rushes in to hear more.
Though his cards elude him, we still talk over beer and delicious bar food,
and I am glad he has misplaced his minions, for I cannot find a question to ask him.
I wrack my brain, and I'm trying and trying and trying, until I am too lost in my stupor.
After a few hours, I leave, tipsy and happy and all the more willing to believe he can see what I cannot.
Two nights later, I am plagued with dreams of you, as I have been since that dark night in late May.
It has been my ritual, though seemingly unnecessary, since you have retreated into mere memory.
You deny me, my Peter, my crowing rooster, and you tell me
whatever hope I could possess for finding you again is all in vain, painting my heart darker.
I am still ever the theorist, and what proof there is in prophetic dreams is circumstantial at best.
Still, I am shaken. And then, like Archimedes rising from the bath water,
I have my eureka.
But now I hesitate - my question has been posed, but do I give it to the stars?
Do I give the spirits the ability to sway my opinion on my fate?
But I have always had to remind myself: there is no enemy but fear.
So I shall set my doubts aside. I have devoted my life to bravery, to being bold and strong.
Even if there are no such things as spirits in tarot cards, I will have my answer.
I will embrace my fate with arms wide open.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Curiosities
I definitely am in the middle of a major project. Of course, this is about the sixth or seventh time I've attempted a novel, not counting my attempts in high school. But, for the first time, not to count my fan fiction, which I may or may not give you all someday, I truly am connecting with my characters. I am prepared to fully invest myself in this endeavor. I really want this to make the cut.
I am, of course, going to continue with this little side venture of writing and recording all my poems for you all, my little audience. I just wanted you to know and wish me well on my enterprise. I am very excited, and I really do hope I have the perseverance to complete this. Anyways, onto my topic of the week.
I've been struggling with love for a while now. Lust and love are one of those things that are very similar and often confused for one another, and right now, I can't tell the difference. I'm feeling one of them. Maybe both. Here is what happened one night when I was feeling an odd cocktail of the two.
My Continuing Curiosity with Your Back
Several weeks ago - counted by several workloads, dozens of truck loads of
sod and soil packed into Jeeps and Fords, many punches in and punches out -
you followed me out of my truck into a stranger's house, the stepfather of our mutual friend,
a party for a sister.
Despite our obvious differences, quality of life, treatments of our bodies
(I will never understand the draw of tobacco) among them, we talk avidly on many subjects.
We waste away the hours unraveling our brains in a pile until, in our midst,
there is a pile of yarn from all the opinions and experiences and ideas we've detailed.
Finally, like the zombie apocalypse, the conversation turns to the inevitable subject
of body art.
The stepfather, the motorcycle enthusiast, take no time in pointing out
his obvious sleeve of dark, daring design, flames and skulls and metal.
I look over at another piece of art, a more feminine piece on
a brusque, frank speaking aunt, admiring and examining.
When I look back to you for a reassuring smile, I am almost disappointed.
Until you do the unexpected.
Your shirt is hiked up to your neck, and the pulse of my blood in my ears,
it is deafening, but it is nothing to the feel of my nerves flooding with mercurial fire.
My breath is snagged in all the sudden new ways
that I desire you.
That smooth, muscled, masculine, rub-your-hands-all-over sinfulness of the planes
that are your back, that I can see in that instant, where
tendons coil and attach and stretch, and all in the space
of five seconds, my face is the color of a Bloody Mary, warmth singing in
my cheeks and an unnameable place in my abdomen, between the apex of my thighs
and the depression of my cave of a navel.
I do my very best to shadow my blushing, ducking my head to hide behind my bangs.
My breath comes in pants, soft and silent, and I work hard,
trying to slow the canter in my thoroughbred chest.
But before I glance away, an inky incomprehensible word
forms over the valley between your scapulae. My interest crests, like a spike,
a prick on the polygraph test of a compulsive liar.
Just as my mind starts the process of picking apart the letters and forming a word,
the cotton of your shirt descends, the curtain at the finale of the opera,
and my breath slows to symphonic sighs.
Someday,
though only God knows when,
I will find the time to read the word splayed across your back.
I am, of course, going to continue with this little side venture of writing and recording all my poems for you all, my little audience. I just wanted you to know and wish me well on my enterprise. I am very excited, and I really do hope I have the perseverance to complete this. Anyways, onto my topic of the week.
I've been struggling with love for a while now. Lust and love are one of those things that are very similar and often confused for one another, and right now, I can't tell the difference. I'm feeling one of them. Maybe both. Here is what happened one night when I was feeling an odd cocktail of the two.
My Continuing Curiosity with Your Back
Several weeks ago - counted by several workloads, dozens of truck loads of
sod and soil packed into Jeeps and Fords, many punches in and punches out -
you followed me out of my truck into a stranger's house, the stepfather of our mutual friend,
a party for a sister.
Despite our obvious differences, quality of life, treatments of our bodies
(I will never understand the draw of tobacco) among them, we talk avidly on many subjects.
We waste away the hours unraveling our brains in a pile until, in our midst,
there is a pile of yarn from all the opinions and experiences and ideas we've detailed.
Finally, like the zombie apocalypse, the conversation turns to the inevitable subject
of body art.
The stepfather, the motorcycle enthusiast, take no time in pointing out
his obvious sleeve of dark, daring design, flames and skulls and metal.
I look over at another piece of art, a more feminine piece on
a brusque, frank speaking aunt, admiring and examining.
When I look back to you for a reassuring smile, I am almost disappointed.
Until you do the unexpected.
Your shirt is hiked up to your neck, and the pulse of my blood in my ears,
it is deafening, but it is nothing to the feel of my nerves flooding with mercurial fire.
My breath is snagged in all the sudden new ways
that I desire you.
That smooth, muscled, masculine, rub-your-hands-all-over sinfulness of the planes
that are your back, that I can see in that instant, where
tendons coil and attach and stretch, and all in the space
of five seconds, my face is the color of a Bloody Mary, warmth singing in
my cheeks and an unnameable place in my abdomen, between the apex of my thighs
and the depression of my cave of a navel.
I do my very best to shadow my blushing, ducking my head to hide behind my bangs.
My breath comes in pants, soft and silent, and I work hard,
trying to slow the canter in my thoroughbred chest.
But before I glance away, an inky incomprehensible word
forms over the valley between your scapulae. My interest crests, like a spike,
a prick on the polygraph test of a compulsive liar.
Just as my mind starts the process of picking apart the letters and forming a word,
the cotton of your shirt descends, the curtain at the finale of the opera,
and my breath slows to symphonic sighs.
Someday,
though only God knows when,
I will find the time to read the word splayed across your back.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Dedicated to Those Who Can't Seem to Keep Their Space Clean
In the nest of velvet and ancient tomes and golden statuettes, there lies a slumbering creature.
With soft growls, she curls up, her long snout tucked beneath her tail,
her scales like silvery rain drops moving over stain glass.
Dreams come, and her paws stretch out, her raptor claws unsheathing and relaxing,
her weapons in a hunting reverie.
It is here she stews in her predatory rage.
My room is a dragon's hoard, with treasures strewn from corner to corner.
Candles of various scents line the walls, their savory perfumes smoking their fiery breath,
clothes scattered here and there, a princess's wardrobe of silks and satin, and jewels dripping from the nooks, reflecting gleaming shine on the walls.
Treasure chests of kings and counts brimming with platinum and silver, gilded pieces spilling,
frothing over the edges stack upon each other like dominoes.
My desk is a dragon's ledger, full of lost documents,
DaVinci's forgotten blueprints, Earhart's disappeared flight-plans,
the first draft of the Magna Carta - they all sit gathering that thin blanket of dust
as they lie together in a pile of parchments.
My door is the Black Gate, and Dante's words of warning hang over the fire,
but still I gain entrance,
and although the door slams behind me, a foreboding sound to others, I show no fear.
This is my cave, my sacred place, my hoarding chamber.
This is my Dragon's Lair.
With soft growls, she curls up, her long snout tucked beneath her tail,
her scales like silvery rain drops moving over stain glass.
Dreams come, and her paws stretch out, her raptor claws unsheathing and relaxing,
her weapons in a hunting reverie.
It is here she stews in her predatory rage.
My room is a dragon's hoard, with treasures strewn from corner to corner.
Candles of various scents line the walls, their savory perfumes smoking their fiery breath,
clothes scattered here and there, a princess's wardrobe of silks and satin, and jewels dripping from the nooks, reflecting gleaming shine on the walls.
Treasure chests of kings and counts brimming with platinum and silver, gilded pieces spilling,
frothing over the edges stack upon each other like dominoes.
DaVinci's forgotten blueprints, Earhart's disappeared flight-plans,
the first draft of the Magna Carta - they all sit gathering that thin blanket of dust
as they lie together in a pile of parchments.
My door is the Black Gate, and Dante's words of warning hang over the fire,
but still I gain entrance,
and although the door slams behind me, a foreboding sound to others, I show no fear.
This is my cave, my sacred place, my hoarding chamber.
This is my Dragon's Lair.
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