Bent Yellow

it wakes
her slumbering body
even before it hits the floor,
even as it seemingly suspends itself
before any echo is ever heard.

it breaks
slivers of bending silver
in the single yellow beam
over the floor,
the down-fallen shards silent a time frame later
waiting to be swept back up
disposed of and left to be thought of as broken.

she only stares at them, unmoving
waiting just the same
defying every command telling her to
clean up the fractured reflecting pieces,
clean it and wash it and fold it
neatly back into place
as it should belong.

such is what stops her:
the reflective pieces reflect her
unblinking eyes that betray her
unblinking state
and fragile soul that barely can hang on
any longer
or, just as much, even simply know how to.

dangling dangerously, fraying.

time passes, the sun sets
rises again
and the wind whispers its
breeze through leaves of gold and brown.

life goes on, an infinite circle.
but even the sun is just fire
and fire can always be doused,
and so the sun too will cease to shine
and the yellow beam no longer be there
to reflect the broken shards that
allow her to really see.

but things don't become whole
just because they cease to be visible.

Whimsically Capturing Moments of Alone

Solitude
When you have tidied all things for the night,
And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,
You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood
In sympathetic silence all the day
With that old kindness of domestic wood;
Nevertheless the haunted room will say:
"Someone must be away."

The little dog rolls over half-awake,
Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,
Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,
That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor
Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door.

Silence is scattered like a broken glass.
The minutes prick their ears and run about,
Then one by one subside again and pass
Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear
Solitude walks one heavy step more near.
- Harold Monro

Writing on Blank Discs

How long it has been since concrete words, ideas, and thoughts have floated here...suspended themselves in the air of this greying backdrop the way piles of dust in a streak of light do. How long it has been since thoughts and and words and ideas have ceased to be abstract and loaded, to simply be what they are, and carry the meanings that they should. Meanings hoped to be, supposed to be, recognizable, known, understood. Meanings attached to the symbols, or it is not anything. Just words on a page, words in the air, circulating above for a little while, then expelled. Not anything...is that to be less desired than everything, even when it comes with the inevitable damned spilling of feelings? But oh, to remain numb. Frost bite numbs the skin it has poisoned.

How long, how long, how long. i write through the ambiguous and i express through it, and i feel through the endless enigmatic ambiguous... now, should i fear, have i left the ways of thinking in the concrete, in the solid, to have entered and reside in the world of the unknown, the unshown, the unclear. Recently i have not written - have not written...it sounds strange and anxious and out of place even to even see those three words form - out of what i presumed was a lack of substantial inspiration, motivation, emotion, condensation. Heh. Whatever. Such nonsense. i am a writer. Of course i write. i have ceaseless inspiration provided by looking at a blade of dew covered grass, at a kernal of popcorn, at the color blue, from holding a hand, from hearing an "a" quiver on the string of a violin.

So just write. Write, write, write.

Empty. Blank. Empty blank discs. Discs that should contain, that could contain, everything. But
quiet now. It's all understood. There is so much going on inside that i simply cannot grasp a hold of it and express it using modern day, contemporary, 5-vowels, native Canadian English. Or any other spoken language, for that matter. No, even my precious words, my adored written ink, can betray me, shrug shoulders and leave unable to be of assistance this time.

And so sit, and ponder, and let it be. And just try to allow emotion, try to let it be legitimate, acceptable, "ok." Just this once perhaps. What else is there? Infarction. Frost bite kills the skin it has poisoned.