"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

My MICHAELangelo.

Only been without you
five long, Blank Canvas days.
The whole of Painted Summer
is sprawled before me.
But I can't see the colors.

No beautiful Hazel-Greens,
like your Eyes.
No accute Yellow-Blondes,
Like your too-short Hair.
No sharp, deep, Crystalline Blues,
like your favorite Color.
Lost the Vibrancy,
like that which you
Etch into my Life.

A Broken Tile,
fallen from the ceiling.
You fit me back
into place.

you Paint me,
as I Kiss your Heart.

* * *

Written for my baby, whom I miss more everyday. I love you.

Monday, June 29, 2009

For the CD.

on the Vellum Record.
on the Cassette Tape.
on the CD.
a big Circular Downward spiral.
With Grooves like Ruts,
and Static like Misunderstandings.
But no Skips.

Got to live it
All Out,
Got to work
Through It,
Got to Jump to
The Beat.
Move through the Melody,
Sing all the Harmonies.

Color the World,
Color it Sad,
Color it Happy,
Color it with Sound.

Got to Make my
Own Music.

* * *

I'm not sure what brought on the inspiration for this one. But I'm always coming up with little Life analogies. In this case, Life is like a Cd. The inspiration for the title of this work was influenced by a friend of mine. I'm always saying "For the Record.." whenever I have an important point to make, and she always replies, "We live in modern times, Deana. It's for the Cd, not the record." God bless her and her randomness.

An Empty Throne, The King of Pop Dead.

Just recently I heard about the death of Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, as he was so rightfully titled. There is no doubt in my mind that for the longest time he was continually raising the bar for music videos, pop/dance culture, and music as a general divison. He really was the Elvis Presley of our time, the Christopher Columbus of dance and pop music, if you dared to go so far.

It upsets me that even after his death, many people still think of him as nothing but a joke. Okay, so you didn't like the guy. Maybe you never got over the allegations of sexual deviance. Thousands of people all over the world kicked him while he was down, and made him the butt of every joke possible. I watched a comedy show once, and now I can't remember the comedian's name, but one of the lines he said was, "If you forget the punchline of the joke, all you gotta say is Michael Jackson.' It seems incredibly profound now. Well, he's gone. So we can all do ourselves a favor and stop kicking him when he's down and out for good.

Being only sixteen, and I can't say that I grew up listening to him sky rocket to super stardom. I can't say that I've always absolutely loved every song he ever wrote and know all the words by heart. But what I can say, is that I know good music when I hear it. In my mind, Micheal Jackson is right up there with The Greats. I'm talking about The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Pink Floyd, the list goes on.

So Rest in Peace, Michael Jackson. You'll not soon be forgotten.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

The Krash.

Serene, calm with Regal Posture.
Not quite as Graceful.
an Intellect, and Understanding
that reaches farther than
the Clouds that
cried Jagged White Dancers
in March.
Could never grasp,
what you saw in me.
Could never give up
the Friendship you've
Gifted Me.
like Toppling Ladders.
like being Razorblade Beautiful.
like Grace that goes Awry.
who has Always
been There for me.

* * *

This is a poem I wrote for a really good friend of mine. She means the world to me. Many of the references in the poem only she will understand, but nonetheless, one of my favorites.

The Bus Ride.

He was lost to the comforting tremors of the road, his head pressed up against the window pane. He watched as dusty roads and weather worn trees and hills that tumbled forever onwards rushed by. The beautiful, sacharine sky was masked with clouds. The summer sun, partially hidden by these, kissed the world in a hazy light.

He could feel his eyelids drooping, getting heavier with every moment that past. He knew it would be easier just to let them drop. But the landscape kept rushing by; he was afraid to miss it, it was so beautiful.

He kept fighting back the urge to sleep, and as he did, his eyes continued to sweep across the painted canvas of the earth. He loved this country, he didn't want to leave it. But he knew, for the sake of his family, he must.

* * *

This is just a short something I started working on while riding the bus to Calgary. I never really decided what it was about, or where it would have headed as a story idea, but I thought I'd share.

At 3:45 in the Morning, What is There to Say?

As the title suggests, it is very late at night. Or incredibly early, if you're that kind of person. I guess the only thing I really want to say is that I've wanted to start up a blog for a long time now. I never did until this point because I've always felt like I've just never had anything to say. It's not a misplaced statement either. Honestly, does any sixteen year old, especially in this day and age, really have something to say? Ask any of my friends and they might, with a lot of passion, say that YES, we do indeed have something to say. And then we rant about how much we hate this teacher, or how hot the new guy is, or maybe we'll just fuss about what we're going to wear tommorrow.

Yes, I know I'm just rambling. But it's late, and I'm tired. So therefore allowed to ramble.

The point that I'm trying to make is that even though all that stuff just mentioned seems like it's something to say and share with the world, it's not. All that is is meaningless things that only matter to maybe one person. You. Me. Whatever. That's what I've always thought.

I've always wanted to be heard, to have people listen to how I feel and what I think. Writing, art, music, photography. These are the things that I feel I can most express myself with. Now, with a little help to get past my insecurites about having nothing to say, I feel as though I have something to share.

And maybe you read this, and whatever comes after and you say, "This is nothing but worthless crap," and you never visit my blog again. That's all fine and dandy. Cause if what I'm writing is nothing but crap that's supposed to be in a septic tank somewhere, then I can honestly say that what you have to say isn't much better.

I have a voice. And even if half the stuff coming out of my mouth means nothing, it means something to me. That's what it means to be an individual, what it means to move against the flow and see that it goes somewhere better. It's the lesson that took me years to learn, and I've just told you so that you won't have to suffer through Junior High and Highschool to learn it yourself.

So avast! Ye scurvy dog!

Time to set sail.