On the Weather

I write a lot of poetry. Some of it is not that good, and some of it may not even really count as poetry for some people. However, every now and then in the aimless wanderings of my pen, I come up with something special, something of which I am truly proud. I do not know if the following poem is all that special, but I am as proud of it as I have been of anything I've written in a long while. We have been getting a lot of rain lately (which I have enjoyed immensely) and I thought it ought to be commemorated with some poetry. Sorry if it is too long.

The Raincatcher

I can hear a distant, quivering thunder
And the patter of drops ascending the roof;
It is raining again:
The music of a dying sob.
I look out the window to share the melancholy,
But the storm looks too perfect,
Like something out of a movie,
Somehow strange:
Diluted splendour.
Perhaps it is the parking lot backdrop--
The manmade manicure.
At least the smell is authentic--
The perfume of life in song,
And it takes me back to rainy days long past--
Long passed away...
When I was young,
And I lay in bed at night
While nature's frenzy threatened at my window,
Or when I was older,
And I stood in the downpour
Begging to witness the heavens wrent open,
Begging to take it all in,
Begging to feel.
Storms have a terrible beauty.

How I wish I had a raincatcher!
Like the meteorologists have,
That I might gather up a storm,
Measure up magnificence,
And pour it in my inkwell:
The potent product of my effort
To use with care upon the page.
Think of it:
The might of a thundercloud--
Those mountains doing battle in the air--
Focused into every delicate stroke;
The roar of thunder,
Like the mustering of heroes,
Shouting in the briefest utterance;
The sizzle and crackle of lightning,
The bolts of Zeus himself,
Giving furious awe to my most crude speech;
And remaining long after the words have all been read:
A sweet sentimentality would linger,
Like the scent of rain,
Like a parting kiss.
Such words I would write then--
Such words!
Such poetry as would split the heavens
And stir the soul to tremble.
If only I could harness a storm,
Then I would be a true artist--
Yes, then I would be a poet indeed.

On Blogging

I was really excited when I started out this month with six posts in the first two weeks. However, I then proceeded to go almost two more weeks without a single post. So much for that little spree. It is not that I have had nothing to write; a lot of life can happen in two weeks, for some reason I have simply not been able to set anything down. It is like I have had some sort of blogger's block. I usually feel like I have to be witty, profound, or eloquent in my blog posts, and lately, I have not felt like I could muster any of those traits to write about myself, so I simply did not post.
I think I hold myself to too high a standard sometimes--a higher standard than that to which anyone else holds me.
I don't feel like this post is at all witty, profound, or eloquent either. Mostly it is just meandering thoughts, but I am at least doing something. Sometimes, the only way out of writer's block is to force yourself to write. You may not be particularly pleased with the result, but at least you have momentum again. I feel like the same practice applies to blogging as well. At least I am posting again. Maybe this is what I need to ease myself back into being witty, profound, and eloquent again. Or MAYBE I will finally learn not to take something as silly as a blog so seriously...

We shall see.

On an Antagonist

The following poem describes an event I have experienced fairly frequently ever since I moved into the house where I'm staying this summer. It is a tragic event, even more painful because of its frequency, and I hope that, through this poem, you will be able to understand some measure of my pain.

Morning

I roll over
And I see it
There it is
Mocking me
Waiting
Winking with that little red eye
The one next to the word:
Alarm
Numbers lit in green
Shift on schedule like a traffic light
Methodically keeping order
Keeping me in place
But right now
That place is bed
At least for a few more minutes
Or so the numbers tell me
In their own strange language
So why am I awake?
Why?
I wish I knew the answer
Perhaps it's a trick of the sun
Throwing its joy across my face
The sun is always so eager to bring me joy
Especially these summer months
Maybe my body is the traitor
Driven to wake
By some internal schedule
Known only to itself
Whatever the reason
I'm rolling back over
Clinging to night for just a little while longer
Just a little while
But I know
I know full well
That eye is watching me still
Glaring
Waiting
To call me from my dreams

On Nomenclature

In my continuing saga of writing poems about writing poems, I had a good time writing this one about a choice that most every poet makes, but one that is rarely given any thought. I don't know why, but I tend to adopt a very different tone when I write these sort of poems. Is it because I'm writing from outside of myself? Are they less personal? Maybe in some ways. Although, it is still in the first person. I am probably thinking too hard about this. I just know that it is fun to write about poets. We are such strange people who do such strange things and think in strange ways. Hopefully this poem captures at least one facet of that.

Addressing a Poem

How should I write it?
To whom should I address my verse?
Should it be to her?
Or should it be to you?
To write to you
Is to speak my feelings
Into the heart of whoever reads
To speak the words that may be longed for
As though we were face to face
As though we knew each other truly
But it is dangerous to write to you
For what if the words are secret?
Written to only a single you?
So whenever the poem was read
It would be a conversation overheard
Words cheapened
Secrets stolen
Given to a heart which had not earned them.
But to write to her
Provides a certain anonymity
For no one knows who she might be
A secret love
A faultless Muse
Or maybe even an unknown you
Regardless
Praise will make her timeless
She will be forever enshrined
While a you will change with every read.
With every poem
Comes the choice
To write to her or you
But always
The greatest fear
Is that you will never realize
The she I adore is you.

On Carpentry: Addendum

So, if using a wood chisel in the shop makes me feel like a real carpenter, then who or what should I feel like after using a chain saw?

On Carpentry

I was very excited for this summer when I found out that one of my job titles would be carpenter. I have been building sets for three years, but this is the first time I have ever been called a carpenter. However, even then, I did not feel like a real carpenter until I used a wood chisel. Accomplishing a task without the aid of power tools suddenly made me feel like I actually deserve the title.
Oddly enough, it also makes me feel like I have a new sense or understanding of who Jesus was. I wonder if he had calluses in some of the same places I do, I wonder how he dealt with splinters, I wonder what the sawdust that coated him would have smelled like (I always end up smelling like pine), and I wonder how many cool things he could make with a wood chisel. It's always cool to find something in common with Jesus. I just hope I have more in common with him than a marketable skill set.

On Finding Gilead

I had the day off from work today in honour of Independence Day, and along with wasting a lot of time lounging about the house, I also managed to get outside long enough to go on a walk with God. It was a simple thing, just me exploring the world around me. No one who knows me well would have been surprised at all by anything I did: walking by the river, looking over the edge of a bridge, swinging, climbing a jungle gym, climbing a tree. But I went with God, and I talked with him a lot. It was one of the most restorative conversations I have ever had with him. Perhaps it was because I let myself be myself with him. I am sometimes overly formal when it comes to prayer, and even my faith in general. This was a good break from that. I think God would agree.
Maybe I'm learning something.

Rest

I went down to the river this afternoon
The sun was finally out
And I thought the day deserved a walk
It certainly did
I think perhaps it told me so.
Beneath the bridge the water raced quickly
Hastening on with unknown purpose
And the wind in the trees
Lent a roar to the river's murmur
So one would almost think the water dangerous
It wasn't so dangerous
And it delighted in the sunshine
Reflecting and spreading the light for all to share.
I walked in the shade of the trees
Where the sunlight fell in mottled grins
And I found an inlet there
Where the water was calm and gentle
Smooth stones rested below
And ducks were teaching their young to swim
The ground all about was flecked with tufts of down
Shed by ducklings yearning to fly
The soft, tiny feathers
Reminded me of the not too distant spring
When the cotton fell
And hung in the air like magic
Casting the world in a softer tint.
I waded into the still water
Delicately
It was colder than I expected
But refreshing
Maybe even healing
The water swirled and eddied about my feet
Washing away
The dirt of the steps that brought me there
Washing it away
Then I sat on a broad flat stone
Letting my feet dry in the mottled sunlight
Listening to the quiet words of the water
And I felt my soul restored.

On a Memorium

With the recent death of the "King of Pop," I thought it only fitting to pay tribute to Michael Jackson through an image montage which chronicles his life.












Seriously! Shouldn't we have figured this out a long time ago?


IT EXPLAINS SO MUCH!