A Few Brilliant Ideas...

A raindrop falls on an amorphous blob.

Science cannot solve the ultimate mystery of nature. And that is because, in the last analysis, we ourselves are a part of the mystery that we are trying to solve. 

~ Max Planck 

Lightning crackles through coils of hardened copper.
A squeak and sigh as they pull the stopper.
Green liquid flows between broken, battered lips,
the woman's hair falls as she bestows her kiss.

"Who ever said my kisses aren't magical!"
As her cackle grew heavy and dark and maniacal.
With a sweep of her arm, she throws up the lever,
causing tables to turn with the surge of the weather.

The clouds out the window were swirling so fast,
that beyond the cold chamber, wasn't heard the deep crack.

Of electricity building into a bright light
that would shatter the world in the dark of the night.

With a groan and a shift, the cadaver revived,
The eyes of the woman grew large, "It's alive!"

A woman sits by the grave and whispers quietly. She comes here often, to recount days past, discuss events of the present, and plan actions of the future.

Clenched between cold bones,
a decaying set of roses.
Petals worn by time, yet thorns still sharp.

Across his chest of faded blue,
with gold that would glint with the sunrise,
if the sunrise did indeed come.

Sometimes the earth quivers briefly,
and the petals believe just for a moment
that they heard a faint whisper groan from the mouth of their keeper.

But silence reigns over the grave
and so the man's body waits, expectantly.
The fruit of his life clasped between creaking bone.


She leans over beside the grave and whispers her traditional goodbye to her husband, kisses the gravestone, and rises walking away.

The stone will hold the words for him.

"Until we meet again, my love."

If you really look
You'll see Stevie plus no time
equals poetry.

My heart is on the mountain,
in the cold air,
where trees grow tall.
I left it in a pile of icy dreams,
blown hard like glass, unbroken.
The sound of a steel edge cutting into the snow
haunts me from miles away.
I close my eyes and feel the wind again,
beneath my eyelids, I grow light with the sense of flight.
This piece of wood is a part of me.
I am a part of it.
We are one.

The pain and ache of rising from my failures is fading...
but the remembrance of exhilaration still flows inside of me.
That sense of drifting, feeling the earth guide you down a pathway.
The right way.

My breath flows from my open mouth
filling the air with a cloud of vapor.
Laughter and shouting surrounds me,
warmth fills me as I smile.

My eyes open and I'm sitting at my desk chair,
NF in my headphones, lines of code in front of me,
but I can still hear the sound of my heart beating miles away
in time with the sound of razor edges carving snow.

I left my heart in the mountain.

If I have any tears left, you can have them.
Because today is not yesterday,
I've given up collecting tears,
because there are too many bottles on the wall to count now.

I only sleep to dream,
because sunlight turns to nightmares.

Only the stars knows what it's like,
to both love and fear the rise of the sun.
Because in its light we fade,
till we are gone erased by a big blue sky.

Remind me again, of the raindrops.
Remind me again, of the light.
Remind me again, of the many stars.
Remind me again, hope.

My tongue bleeds, twisted around a two-edged sword.
Hands tied. Feet broken. Heart torn.

That shooting star fell right through,
and the moment of burst has left me tattered.
There's a star shaped hole through my heart,
and a haunted look in my eyes.

When I look in the mirror, nothing.
There is no one there.

The room is empty.

I am not alone.
Because to be alone, one must be.

I am not.

And therefore, I am more alone than alone. There is no word for this.

I am nextant.

Stuck in my past,
I am no longer
Who I want to be
But who I was.
Fear cripples me
I long for peace - no

Rising
Jesus died
facing a grave
What is hope?

Remember what you have learned...
Remember what you have learned...

What is hope?
facing a grave
Jesus died
Rising.

I long for peace - no
Fear cripples me
But who I was
Who I want to be
I am no longer
Stuck in my past,

So, it feels like a lot more than 5 days has gone by, yet time defies this assumption. I accidentally prematurely posted something on my blog wemusttellthem.blogspot.com. You should check that out.

Pendulum

Air rushes through hair.
Mountains cave.
Oceans sink.
The sun burns.

In a quiet room in a house in Concord,
sits a grand father clock that has knowingly conquered.

Air rushes through hair.
Farms are cropped,
Forests chopped,
and rainbows glaze over.

The clock smiles, in the way that he always does,
keeping track of the time, in the house full of schemas.

Hours are made timeless.
Activity consumes in-activity.
Gravity falls.
And we forget.

The pendulum inside the clock swings back and forth,
and as it watches the people, it find a secret.
These people with plans and ideas and thoughts,
have no concept of time, which they practically wrought.
Without a watch on their wrist, or a clock in their home,
and even then dust grows thick as it feels its gears groan.
yet this is the way that the people must be,
unaware that they're free, self-enslaved with the key.
Giving themselves up, hiding time where they can no longer see.


So the grandfather clock pulled down deep in his gears,
and with a deep crack, Mr. Time disappeared.

A nugget, a pearl.
Something that we find
after long searching and long suffering.
When we meet it, it slices us across the face
leaving a bruised imprint,
mottled black and purple.

Wisdom is not necessarily painful,
but it always leaves its mark,
and often times it is just as lacerating as foolishness.

In the core of this gem, carved and glowing with a fantastical glow,
is a hard rock.

It is not so spectacular as the gem's outer layer.

In fact, it has been called many things:
obvious, mundane, hurtful, even unnecessary.
some of these description are, once again,
not untrue.

If they all were it would be particularly offensive
since the stone is truth.

One is never exactly sure of what form this rock will come:
One time a stone.
One time a jagged rock.
One time the cool tones of marble...

Truth is many things to many people, and one thing to all people.
Truth is invariable, steadfast, strong: a rock.

But truth is also like the seed from which blooms a beautiful flower,
the petals sighing gently in the morning mist.
This flower is wisdom, with a pungent odor.

It either drives away

or attracts.

Without the seed there is no flower,
but without the flower, one knows not what to do with the seed.

Wisdom is truth,
but truth is not necessarily wisdom.

This is why you have met adults
who seem more like children
than you, the thirteen year old with the bad haircut.

It is possible that you have misjudged them,
that their wisdom is more subtle than your understanding,
but alas,
it is not always the case.
These adults wield truth, as the saying goes
"you learning something new every day."
And although their truth is vaster, wider,
they lack the pearl,
the blossom of the flower,
the smile of wonder on the face of a mother holding her newborn child.
They have truth, but lack the knowledge of what to do with it.
They lack wisdom.

Wisdom is elusive, it crops up in the oddest places:
the sleepover at a friend's house,
the football game on Sunday,
the walk in the park,
and sometimes in the places where you expect it.

But rarely, it seems.

Wisdom's shape is never fixed, which makes it able fit in the notch in your wall
which appeared from pressing your thumb against it too hard,
or in the shopping cart at the grocery store.

It is situational, dressing itself appropriately for the occasion,
wearing a tie to work on the day of the big promotion,
and hiding behind the wall while your friend calms down, remaining just around the corner.

Yet with all this, what I yearn for most
is a special type of wisdom:
a universal wisdom...
that has applications the size of the galaxy
and a length of eternity.

If once or twice, I stumble on this wisdom
it is my duty to fix it in my understanding,
to work it into my life,
to hold it dear,
and never.
ever.
forget.

For a man is not proven foolish by what he hasn't learned,
but by what he has forgotten.

Emotion is not captive to instruction,
don't pretend like
you
have any more control than I do.

Anger flares at abrasion,
frustration with lack of success,
sorrow with loss.
It amazes me
that you think love is any different.

Love is a choice.

Yes.

I agree,

but love is also a yearning.
We do not conjure
or decide
the yearnings of our hearts,
or our stomachs,
or our souls.

Has it been so long,
since new born love,
that you have forgotten its sweetness
and the impenetrable nature of its haze?

I'm not being stubborn.
It's called being faithful.

Forgive me if,
I decide that my emotions are

worth something.

That the way I feel is

valuable.

That my impressions of God's will do not

-align-

with yours.

My understanding is surely
fallible
but I am confident that my faithful behavior
will be rewarded
either through reprimand and correction from my savior
or through treasure, perhaps here,
but certainly in heaven.

I appreciate your concern with my
current affairs,
but what I need is support
for the things that God has called me to,
not leading questions and imposed distractions.

For as amusing as they are to you,
they only remind me of the dull ache,
in the bottom of my heart,
that reminds me, of this... this...
yearning.

----------------------------------------

My eyelids flicker open to filtered light

as shades capture the stream and redirect it to the hardwood floor,

I swing feet over hardened frame as smooth, cool textures claim

my attention in sensation as my nerves explore.

Each day begins and ends with the setting of the sun,

and each night I lay my head to rest,

and each morn I rise, and I've begun

to forget to keep an eye on whether I've regressed.

The assumption is that forward progress is always the process,

rather than the one step forward and two steps back,

and I dare to ask what if the concepts and contests,

are actually standstills, or even worse, a self-defeating contract?

Search my words and see if you can't find validity,

for it's not as if this isn't applicable to all of humanity.

And it's my not uncommon personal philosophy, 

that if you get caught up with looking forward,

you'll repeat your mistakes like it's your speciality.

But I have a more specific design in mind,

and my purpose here is not to prove political parties awry,

for to be honest, I don't put stock there for society is blind,

and the world would crash and burn if God's plan was not defined.

The message I have to bring is not eloquent, but desperate,

and I bring it to the lost but my audience is you.

I realized last night, and many times in respite,

that the cross can fade from view.

This is scary. 

This is wrong. 

This is everything I am,

and if I'm not holding fast,

well then everything I said just simply isn't true.

But it slips on me like evening, like the sun falls from the sky,

and as day becomes the night, in the darkness I abide.

Then the signs begins to show, and the apathy will grow,

prayers will cease from cracked lips, 

and eyes unaccustomed to the word of God,

at most take in a glimpse.

This is scary.
This is wrong.

This is everything I am,

but God is faithful to his children.

There's no door about to slam.

And as I grow weary in the brightest of days,

and my sense of faith, lives on purchased grace.

Just as I would slip, on slick ground, my savior catches me

and points me back.

The illumination of glory,

where life was purchased from burst veins

and light poured from the Ancient of Days.

The hill where all of creation bowed in darkness,

to the one who wrestled death and victorious rose.

A hill eclipsed in total peace and total commitment,

a lamb prepared for slaughter,

a covenant,

a sanctuary,

a king.

Physical pain wracked my savior's body,

and eyes glazed, he screamed.

His words were not of the immense pain, however,

but of that much greater.

The Almighty, The Father, The Planner, The Creator

severing from himself his child, giving up his beloved,

that those once made in his image,

might once again find themselves in his presence.

This is the image of the cross.

This is where my salvation lies.

This is where my trust is.

This is my proclamation to the world around,

and I must fight, to maintain who I am.

My identity is secure, but not something I can ignore.

So watch yourself. 

Review your past.

Do not fall into the same mistakes,

but if you do, brother, sisters,

know that God will catch you

for he is gracious, and his love abounds.

The human a needle,

and the patterns we sow begin

hasty,

confused,

trembling.

And as we grow older, the weave becomes

steady,

rhythmic,

and a pattern emerges from the ashes of our failed attempts.

We launch ourselves into this design,

this ancient art, rediscovered by the contemporary child.

Our application becomes non-discriminatory,

and even stories,

begin to conform,

to this aesthetic sense of order.

Each day is molded into this pattern, seeking sanctuary

in the blend of daily recreation.

But in the evolution of our ideals,

we often forget

the wavering line

is no less beautiful

than the pattern of

symmetry.

The ethereal presence of unity

of the stars around their mother.

She calls them all to gather round,

and one shoots across the sky 

just to tease his little brother.

Before she knows it, they're all aloft,

all her children born of old.

They survey the world beneath,

and make fine their astral trail,

choosing silver over gold.

"Come along my darlings, sing with me

and leave off your silly game.

Join the chorus and symphony

of the host of all that's heavenly

singing light upon the plane."

So the little stars sparkle bright,

and the elders fall in place.

For clouds will part

on fairest night

giving window into space.