2.28.07.
I declare victory over February.
Yes, there are about 9.5 hours to go until March takes over,
But given the point margin, time remaining, and how much of today seems to be a point of constructive interference, I don't think that February can make a comeback in only 9.5 hours.
I was going to keep this quiet until the end so February wouldn't get suspicious and pull something tricky. But I am feeling confident enough to decree some justified gloating in order.
So prematurely, I declare:
Me vs. February: 1-2-1
A big THANKYOU to everyone who showed up.
*
2 comments:
2/08/06
The tree that I planted continued to grow
when watered with poetry, row on row
And the forest grew up with neglect and time
raising itself between thin blue lines
In margins it spread when it needed more space
But never confined to one time or place
The tree sent its roots to enclose like a cave
the poems I buried, but couldn't quite leave
I returned there in notebooks I never quite closed
like a mother going back to a child left exposed
on some hill in the forest just outside of Rome
and hoping for prophecy: someday he'll come home
Though it seems I dug up my poems every day
somehow the tree grew through them anyway
And its roots hold them firm in an underground cave
of thoughts I could build from, but never quite leave
I remember the day I first walked in this wood
my hands stained with ink and my writing with blood
I stumbled and fell, and while lying on the ground
I wrote
to remember the sights and the sounds
on ground level
And afterwards had a very hard time
looking up
Because I couldn't stand the thought of a climb
to the top
And leaving this all here behind
it was frightening
The weight of words that I carried
caused me to sink
so I left them behind
on pages on ink
And they fell in the dirt like stone tablets,
decrees
And to help myself from going back,
planted trees
I wrote in the seeds of the words on the page
if you leaf through the layers
you'll tell the age of the spirals
the dates, like black dots in the corner keep blinking
move on
A tree does not grow when your hands every day are darkened with soil
from digging to see
has anything changed? no it hasn't
has he?
Put down the paper, keep your hands where
you can see them,
and walk
Walk like you've just stuffed the witch in the oven
and have a long journey through forests to go
If you must, leave some landmarks, reminders for travelers
but you - don't turn around
If Hansel's alive, he'll come out on his own
Keep watch of your feet, not to stumble and fall
the thing is, keep moving, no matter how small
the progression, keep watch,
but do not get used to watching the pattern
on top of your shoes
or else when you find your way out and are free,
the tops of your shoes are still all you'll see
But what of that tree?
behind sheltering leaves,
it remains
and its roots hold a cavern of words
and of times, places, voices, I only have heard
speaking back from the page
one day, someday soon
I'll unearth them
This tree will bear flowers.
(originally posted 28/2/07 15:19. then modified some due to text layout)
It looks like prose, but if you hear it right, it's a poem. I call it arjay prosetry.
(this is the one before the sequel)
2/1/04
I might as well bury these letters. And plant a tree over top. So the roots could grow down in the dark and the dirt, wrap around these pages of hope and of hurt. I feel indecisive, which way will it turn? Will this page rot forever? Might it as well burn into ashes erasing each trace of connection to who, how, what, where we got close to perfection? I hardly dare hope, lest this be the end to a friendship that had to be more than just friends, and the dreams stroked in ink on these pages remain, only shattered deformed, broken, useless, and stained by the memories that are painful to keep or forget and the misguided hope in "It's not over yet." And I keep writing still 'cause the hope's all I have of a future where we can be safe at last from the rest of the world. And maybe we'll meet again on ground floor, and I can show you how its been and we can compare and share writing again. I'm afraid to hope because it might be taken away. I'm afraid not to because it's all I have beside trust in a God who loves me whom I love because He's my Dad and I love Him. I want you to meet Him and you can take walks and talk politics, sports, whatever you want, and I want you to find peace - the river kind.
So whenever its dug up, whenever we find our way back and beyond the place we left off can it be the end to our search? Can we finally rest, safe from ourselves in the arms of a God who has always been there to carry his children, to comfort them, guide them, help them, supply them with just what they need to get through this life? Can it be ok? I don't want to be wrong 'cause if its not the end, its hard to go on when you'd hoped for a chance for a moment of rest to ease your mind from the obstacled quest. And Hope's hard to kill 'cause its song is so sweet, and without it you're empty and hollow. But when it finally goes down, it takes everything with it, and leaves blackened craters the pit of your soul. And though blackened and broken and weary and worn, not an inch is removed from the distance to go.
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