The Race

          It took off with the speed and agility of an ancient Olympian runner, bursting forth at an unheard cue, as if there were some sudden and universal consensus that it was time for the race to begin. It did not look back as it soared at a blistering pace toward some unknown destination, some undisclosed finish line with adoring spectators and wealth and prestige no doubt in store. It began well. It began with a conviction, an immovable certainty of its beginning and its ending; it had most assuredly plotted out its course with the utmost care and consideration in order to ensure its destination was reached with all conceivable efficiency and expediency.

But, suddenly, hesitation.

Just as quickly as it had started, it stopped in midstride, hovering precariously between progression and inaction, frozen in time for an instant, inexplicably indecisive as to its next move. It drifted, slowly at first, but then quickening its pace downward as if it suddenly feared the heights to which it had climbed. Yet, before it touched the ground, a new gust of conviction seemed to fill its sails, and off it soared as if it had no memory of ever wanting to stop at all.

But what was this? It turned, did a spin of sorts and began its frenzied pursuit in the direction from which it had come. Had its fear turned to regret? Had it been a mistake to leave in the first place? Had the destination itself moved?

Regardless of the reason, it took off once more with all the passion and resolve it had possessed in the beginning, only pausing from time to time to enjoy a small spin of joy or maybe a quick, relaxing drift for a time. The confused parade continued in this way for some time, a conglomeration of processions and recessions, each close on the heels of the other, never convincingly promising consistency in direction, only motion.

At long last, it reached its destination, coming to rest by a stolid wall of blue, perhaps the sky itself, leaning against its side and rewarding itself with a much deserved rest. Its journey had been undulating, unpredictable, and uncertain at times, but here now, it finally felt it was precisely where it needed to be. If only to push just a little further…

It was just then that a bypassing person happened to glance down at it, and pausing from the tune they had just been humming, picked up the grocery bag, placed it in the recycling bin, and continued on their walk through the parking lot, humming happily once again.

Language Speaks

I am the writer of epithets, a living metaphor. Like a simile in motion or an allusion with his own cross to bear. Who can question my rhetoric? As I define the chiasmus, so the chiasmus defines me. I am the complementing antithesis and the soothsayer of sibilance. My words personify the inanimate and obliterate every hyperbole. I am the power of language.

Stories

           On every street corner there stands a story. Stories brush past you on a busy sidewalk. Stories hand you your groceries on a Saturday afternoon. Stories come knocking on your door, trying to sell you life insurance. We are surrounded by stories, yet how precious few do we ever really know? We may know our own story, we may even think we know the stories of those closest to us, but think of all the innumerable stories that we do not know and will never know. Which stories may be like our own? Which are complete contrasts? Which stories will the world remember?

With every day that we open our eyes, take in a new breath, and allow ourselves to be swept further along the current of life, we are effectively picking up our pens and etching another chapter in the narrative of our lives. Each action, word, glance, thought, emotion, reaction, attraction, repulsion, decision, indecision, and anything in between marks another addition to the ever-extending drama, comedy, melodrama, horror, and mystery that is us. It goes without saying that no two stories are alike. What might need to be said, however, is that even the same story is different depending on the audience. The beauty of our stories is that fact that they are not mere words on a page or typeface in a book, they are an infinitely complex assemblage of remembrances, feelings, emotions, and occurrences that come together in a uniquely definitive progression of what we have so simply named life. And while we may be tempted to believe our stories are immutable and unchangeable in the ways in which it is understood or ultimately viewed, I think we can all come to the realization that this is just not true.

The audience of our lives is not the audience of a book. They do not read the same words; they do not even see the same cover, title, or author. Our audiences and the part of our story that they experience is as varied as the very DNA of the human race. With each new pair of eyes, with each new set of ears, and with each new pair of hands, our story is seen, heard, and felt differently. Our audience rarely, if ever, gets the whole picture. Most often, they only get a glance, a fleeting picture of the long, rich storyline of our lives, and yet, this is all they will ever see. The members of our audience are not merely audience members either; they are authors themselves. In experiencing even a part of our story, our audience is compelled to add a few lines to their own work in progress; if not in exact detail, then in an impression, shade, or mood. In this way, even our most basic interactions represent an intermingling of two astonishingly intricate narratives, and the result is a breaking off, a sharing of one story to another. No two stories can come into contact without affecting the other.

This interaction is something like writing on a thin surface on an impressionable surface; whatever is written while on this surface will leave an imprint, even after the writing is finished and removed. In this way, we are all like a sea of impressionable sheets, constantly writing our own stories and imprinting them on others while simultaneously being imprinted. These imprints may not be perfectly legible, perfectly understood, but they are impressions nonetheless, with lasting, real effect.  

            What are we then? Are we authors, protagonists, antagonists, or audience members? Are we the story or the medium on which the story is written? Are we the writers or the written? To the best of my knowledge, and to the fullest extent of my intellectual probing, I can only think to answer this question with: yes. We are all of these and so much more. We are the experience that makes a mystery intriguing or a comedy hilarious. We are the tears that make a tragedy sorrowful and the fear that makes a horror terrifying. We are the fire and tenderness that makes a love story infatuating, and we are the love and longing that makes a journey home worth every step of the way. We are stories, we are inseparable, and in the end, we are a part of something so much larger than our own story. Our stories are not isolated and self-sustaining; they are fueled by the stories of others and the experiences we share with them. Our story may only be one of many, but they are no less important or significant because of this; our story touches a myriad of others, whether we know it or not. What we are left with, then, is life. Life and all its nuances, peculiarities, and similarities, all bundled up into each of our stories, beautifully and sometimes unwittingly interwoven into a masterful tapestry of “good mornings,” “how do you do’s” and “I love you’s.”

            This is the story of all our stories.

Remember Well, Remember When

Remember well, remember when

The tone of Arcady rang in our hearts,

There was a time when we were men.

When we chanced the storms most brazen,

When we bent the lightning’s arc;

Remember well, remember when

The well of virtue knew no end,

From beauty we did not depart,

There was a time when we were men.

Whether on salty shore or shady glen,

We reveled in nature’s finest arts,

Remember well, remember when

No deceptive shadow could touch us then,

We fought them off with iron’s spark,

Yes, there was a time when we were men.

But a faded story can be told again,

With whispered words we softly start:

Remember well, remember when,

There was a time when we were men.

Seven

Hey ya'll, this is a short one and may seem insanely simple and straightforward, but there are a couple of subtleties that I found to be enjoyable myself. Anyways, just wanted to give you the heads up that there's more to this one than meets the eye, combining form, construct, and overall meaning. Enjoy!

Seven

Love

Descends

From above

To make amends,

To make right the wrong,

And heal the brokenness

Of the widow’s weary song.

And They Say

And they say she never got old,

Only younger at heart

And rejected the cold

Of nights of regret,

Her character bold,

If you saw this girl, you would never forget.

She’d dance and dance,

She’d whirl and whirl,

No age could touch

That lovely girl.

They say she never learned to hate,

But with open arms

She would always wait

For better days

And brighter years,

And found a way

To conquer fears.

She’d love and love

With no thought to self,

Her heart more precious

Than the finest wealth.

They say she trusted like a child,

With tender touch

And a manner mild;

Never short on a word of care,

And if pain was present,

She was there.

She’d laugh and laugh,

That spirit of mirth,

Her shouts could touch

Each corner of earth.

Beauty her name, joy her cloak,

Darkness she banished,

The impossible broke;

See her there, hear her now,

If only to hold her,

To keep her somehow.

And they say she never got old,

But waited in wait

For one fearless and bold

To run alongside in heart-beating stride,

If I don’t reach her now,

At least I’ll have tried.

Just to try for her grace,

That will satisfy me;

Just to try for her heart,

And let come what may be.

She’s beautiful, you see,

Brighter than the sun,

More elegant than the sea.

I’d give my life

To break on her shore,

To lay on her sands

And be weary no more.

But such things are too great for me,

I may never taste,

But perhaps I will see

Her smile, every once in a while,

And remember for a moment

That something good can be.

She’d dance and dance,

Her arms above,

I will always know,

That girl was love.

An Encounter With Conscience

And what shall we do with this world,

You and I?

Will we twirl it ‘round our fingers,

Watch the spectacles go by?

See the stars and shapes of

A thousand years

Pass on and out of sight.

What have they to do with us?

We coheirs of the lot,

Yes you and I are all that counts,

Oh yes, you and I.

But wait, there I see the legions

Of mighty warrior’s past,

They conquer and they slaughter,

With civility aghast.

No matter though,

We all ought know,

The bruteness of their strides.

Never again will we fall away

To those turbulent, roiling tides.

For what matters most

Is that I hold you close,

And forget the world of strife;

And in the end you and I,

Yes, we will have the life.

Pay no mind to those pestering cries,

They too will fade away.

Their distress is naught but heathen lies,

Intended to get their way.

Their sorrows are a sham,

Their tears a sick charade,

I won’t fulfill demands,

Nor myself degrade.

For you and I,

We rest above,

This rubbish and this mess.

Their sickly fingers

Stay far away,

And for this, I count us blest.

And see there the words of men,

Whose ideas define the laws,

Of width and weight and collagen,

Of rainfall and its cause.

See there how they change,

With the turn of every age,

Yet their truthfulness not doubted,

And even reckoned sage.

And alongside them, the pondering ones,

Who squint and wonder, “Why the sun?

And why us now? And why he there?

And how does a circle fit a square?”

They point and state, “This is so.”

While another laughs a hearty, “No!”

But enough of that, let’s turn away,

The right and wrong is not to say.

Why do you look distraught, my love?

Why this troubled glance?

You seem as if these specters haunt

A realm where change has chance.

But what will you have us do?

To blast these bounds asunder,

To tear this world in two?

Why break these chains so taut,

Why question what is so?

We’re taught what’s ought and surely not,

Can this not suffice to know?

But I see you there,

Your stare austere,

In a fire moved to move;

To shake the mountains

And release the fountains

Of flowing fortitude.

Who am I to stop you now?

Your mind is set, your head is bowed.

Just know that I forewarned you here,

To seek not what is not sincere.

For every grapple of the world without

Will clutch and claw at every doubt,

But with heart assured, your cost to pay,

God save the fool who’s in your way.