cryptic sonnet

suitor's soothe saying

the orchestra's lamentable playing

impotent poem

penitent man beseeches

a contrite heartache's hand reaches

tranquil verses

lovers breath breathing

extolling life, entwined, cleaving

The pressing's being pressed

between the life I'm living

and the American Dream, springing

from the mountains of ages past

and wisdom passed down

when the spring sunning melts away

the frosts from the coldness of the last seasons winter,

passing over the peaks and valleys solidifying the fluid motions,

to remember them and ponder

the creep of glaciers layered

with the tell tales of the life

now joined together in a loose bond

in the organized chaos of glaciers; of the creeks and streams filling with life and love and death of creation laying to rest a year's trials and tribulations

every blossom is perfect

you would not life waste in searching the delicate turn of each petal, in exacting awe, at the miracle of the lovers lips that kiss the sky in the amber glow of the morning's new light

Ah, the romantics.

And we, being they,

do find ourselves dancing

along the silvery-fine web threads

of the soulful and amorous articulation of prose,

emission of affections,

and spiritually-stirring tactility.

Many an expression go yet unfurled,

as I, being a mere, simple constructor,

have not the facility to contrive.

Dive into me,

and float thyself upon

the tender saline waters of tears

that flow from my eyes

into a secret cache of my heart, for thee,

while we are apart.

Reach for that which is reaching,

and longing, for you,

and touch.

Among the spinning

entanglement of wait

and tragedy,

entwined with the mysteries of God,

what thought was lost and never was,

nor could be,

burns a solitary ember

of "this" symbolic conception

within my breast.

I begin again at every breath,

in this dream of misty memories of thee,

my dearest.

Reborn, to a single course,

to once again find myself wrapped in thine arms,

in gentle slumber

and harmony of pulse and respiration.

During the hours of the ashen moonlight we,

in hushed whispers,

speak between caress and osculation.

To this, and with my every desire,

do I bestow these words upon thine eyes,

that they be evidence of mine most tender

of affections for thee.

Synesthesia

Dancing to the song of 7
tasting pink and blue and green
seeing in the colors love and joy
touching emotion
speaking in hue
synesthesia, when I think of you
I can't remember your name
But, I've seen you before
dancing on my neuronal dance floor
I like this pen, it changes the shape of my thought
slower to write
more time to see
to watch my simplicity
emerge from chemistry
and catch a nerve
one way ticket
to my page, two-dimensional plane
you be one, I'll be the other
we come together, not touching
a song, not singing
your breath, I'm breathing
straight up
and down
forward
and back
yaw and strain
impervious domain
someone's watching
I don't care
they find it unfair
for us to be here
and they to be there
they can watch all they want
we've come here to flaunt

sticky fingers
stuck in a groove
the more I think
the more we move
near to me
then away
See? We dance
we dance
we dance
and move to the beat
beat
heartbeat
brain treat

when my pen flows
memories slow

when the ink is on my fingers
I linger
over the body
I create

Random thought

Breath connects me to my body. Whether my mind wanders or not, it is here. Whether I am or not. We wait our entire existence to find people who will talk to our souls, our whole beings. Where we simply feel good in their presence. A teacher that doesn't make us feel weird, odd, or out of place. We search for people who are willing to transmit their whole being, not just disseminate information. People who will pray and sing with us. They give us practice so we can continue to teach ourselves about that goodness in their absence. Something that becomes central to our lives...and then they'll never leave us

The simple truth

Effulgent Grace, Matters of Time, Space, Peace inclined

Mysterious pace Create, no waste, Life's chance

Father takes, On Us in Him and we Partake

In the Space and Time; Our Heaven's stake

Honor, Chastity, Compassion, Charity, Obedience, Loyalty, Divining Clarity

World's tide; World's tied; World's collide

Ebb to Flow, Growing glow, Inertial spark, Line momentum, Once dark.

Plumb intention; Eyes source. The Gentle Course. Words in the Stars.

Reach forth, Knit Scars

Sine macula (Without fault, blemish, no Falling-Replenish)

Shield, Stand Take Command. Perfection demand.

The Path Taken: Tread not, Alone, Tread not On Me

I'm not forsaken.

I own My Soul. I See. I know.

I am a Child of God. He shares with me the name: Father. The Man. The Brother. Provider, Savior, Creator.

I am in Him what He sees in me. I am a perfect opportunity. The Hand out-reaching. To touch you and they. His commands I will obey. To go and do, provided the way.

The Soldier. The Sailor. Missionary. Example. The Light, The Truth, The Way. Blessed with Strength, Courage, Honor, Commitment, Joy, Vitality, Talent, Knowledge, Desire, Humility, Memory, Justice, Perseverance, Experience, Heart, Tongue, Nature, Beauty, Appreciation.

A winning Combination.

In the end, Us. Bound by Trust. Faith, Trust Faith, Remember. Remember Faith, Trust.

Sent to mine this Space and Time. Harbinger of Peace. My story told, by countless Souls. They have gone and done. They're Legacy passed in Time and Age, their Battle won.

Testimony written in the Sky, and Earth, Soul, Air, Ocean's Tide.

I Am. To be the Witness. Bearing my testimony with sweat and tears, about my Father's work.

In this moment, I can show you my soul and the Promise upon it written. To return with Honor. Agency and the Guide. The Spirit and Comforter lead me to His side. Endowed, washed from sin. His right is my right. His Eyes are my eyes. He gives me sight.

I have one simple truth: I know God lives.

I must first say a little something about pens. I may have already, but I don't care. I'm going to say it again. I'm obscenely particular about the things I write with. My usual weapon of choice is the Uni Ball Signo RT Gel 0.3mm microfine. You would see I like a fine point so's I can write very small. They are great for making notes in my scriptures. But, anyway, I have taken this interest in writing, journaling, and recording, story telling, messaging, poetizing, scripting, and jotting down words. These fancy little characters that leap off the page and into your brain, infecting you with my imagination, my experience, my take, my slant, my opinion, my story. I plant a see (not misspelled) of myself in your eye with every scratch of this steely ball against this paper, this page of dried and pressed tree meat. My ink, bleeding onto your mind. Through the study of my ancient history and my ever present, you will come to know I really am a man, a magician, and a god. Understand me. Get to know me. Accept me. Don't accept me. Laugh. Cry, or not.

Know that somewhere amongst the cogs and chains of this process I am learning myself. By learning myself, I mean ~me~, I am learning me. I will be going back (from time to time) year by year, regurgitating the fading details of my time spent. Sure, I'll do some of that. You are going to see a part of me, this, this part of me that only the pen knows. There are very few who have ever really known "Jake of the pen." Two, I can say, have understood and accepted me fully. Perhaps even more than my own mother. Mom doesn't know that much about Jake with his pen in his hand. She's always been proud of sister and me. Our talents as artists, writers, and sisters music.

I haven't ever let mom in though. It scares me a little, for some reason. I don't know why. Two people, so close as mother and son, yet as far away as two people at odds and evens. . It's weird, trust me. After near thirty years, we haven't really gotten to know each other that well. I'll bet that I can become more comfortable through this practice of writing. One day I'll open this book and place it in her lap. "Get to know me now; it's been so very long." I like that my handwriting evolves and adopts as I write. You can see the leans and swirls. You can feel the intimacy. I hope it means I'm on to something. I've read books by Natalie Goldberg; she's written books about freeing the writer within all of us. Emerging from our monkey minds and drawing energy from our wild minds.

I was interrupted by the phone. It's near time for me to sleep. I would rather stay in here with you and explore this page and the next. I like how the pen in my hand so efficiently uncovers the secrets contained on these pages. It scratches away the build up on the surface to free the living characters you see. What was I thinking when that letter was etched? Why does that one lean slightly? Why are some words scrunched? Why are those over-spaced?

How am I so neurotic as to worry over the lack of exacting repetitions in my penmanship?

It truly bothers me that I can't exactly reproduce these letters in build each time. I've thought about giving the old cursive writing a go. Hoping to try to speed up this process. I get behind my thoughts writing so painfully slow. I start to lose direction.

I wonder how many pages I will fill by months end. Don't be surprised by the mounds of garbage on these pages in order to get words onto a page, to keep filling them. Part of this process is wading through all the crap in order to get words out. It will take time before I can put words into a more pleasing form.

Poems or maybe even just interesting journal entries by this kid lying across his bed, thinking into his pen. Thinking aloud. I write loud. I press hard. My hand makes a sliding sound each time I finish a word and go onto the next. Imagine the sound of an old-fashioned typewriter. The thud of the spacebar between words. Tap tap tap tap tap tap thud tap tap tap thud tap tap tap tap tap thud *ding* ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

So goes the motion of my hand, scraping away at the vellum.

Straight and Main

I have no peace of mind
You stopped the hands of time
you made my darkness shine

I keep asking myself why
I felt so paralyzed
even when you just walked by

I couldn't find any words to say
I turned my back and walked away
I missed touch with you that day

I'm standing in the rain
on the corner of Straight and Main
drowning away my pain

I never touched your hand
because, nothing went as I'd planned
through the glass fell the sand

why didn't I just reach out?
it would have erased all the doubt
If I'd taken that route

I'm standing here in the rain
at the crossroads of Straight and Main
drowning in all of my pain

I stopped asking myself why
The beat of my heart was paralyzed
the last time you walked by

I've completely lost my mind
that was the very last time
you would ever make my darkness shine

You'd forgotten all the things I'd said

I turned away and bowed my head

I feel for you, deep inside

I ran from my place to hide

To the arms you held open wide

We fell for each other, faithfully

we caught this dream, that magically

transformed our souls instantly

into butterflies and ceaseless grins

if you ask me what I knew then

I'll tell you I never saw this end

Is this love for you deep inside,

or just a lie I'm trying to hide?

You took all the things that I said

and threw them out with my heart you shred

the sparkle's gone from your eyes

I never thought I'd realize

your love for me quickly died

in your heart there's no place for me

no longer do I see

the resaon I wanted to be

right there, with you, by your side

not letting love pass us by

Just turn around and walk away

there's nothing here left to say

you've forgotten all the things I'd said

all I have left are coils of thread

that I had wov'n into tapestry

so delicately the thread entwined

an image, pure, came into my mind

I don't want to leave it behind

but, your love for me was just a lie

down my cheeks fall tears as I cry

I keep asking you why

why,

why?

but, no answers fall from your lips

they're locked away in vice-like grip

I will no more before you stand

and reach out for you and touch your hand

Just turn around and walk away

there's nothing here left to say

You've forgotten all the things I said

all I have left is this empty bed

Not hungry

Today I ate:
3 egg yolks-scrambled with onions, tomatoes, and ground flax seed
3 pieces of toast with butter and raspberry jam

The biggest part of a 5.25 ounce of David sunflower seeds

Two personal size frozen pizzas

Two peanut butter and honey sandwiches

A big bowl of ice cream

two 50/50 creamscicles

a bowl full of watermelon chunks

some chocolate/white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie dough

a fuji apple
a gala apple

a handful of mixed nuts

and I still feel hungry, but it must not be for food.

Thesaurical

Conjured from stellar obscure detonation
sent to rage engagement inter-feudal babylon
trip, rent, torn-University born
Ecclesiastical eccentric echelon
Providing providential domination, prominence
haranguing harbinger of hardship passed
harassing senses, consumptive enlightened paralysis
pragmatacists practicability, reliable, predictable
honorous amelioration bound in penitent constituent's hands
consigned on behalf of those felonious angels falling
diurnal course forsaken for stumbling upon blades of grass
pronated locomotion , falling on faces, hiding in stasis
counterfeit piety; gaudy skeletons cacophony
rendezvous with rendered freemartin
foundry, crimson bathed quintessence
percussing fulminating skulls
freeing enslaved verbose veracity
endowing ensanguined terricolous creations
with infinite exquisite enlightenment

We're too young to know many things

We're too young to know many things.
Books and flowers and dust and light,
Stringed instruments sing, in silvery harmony.
Teaching us how to love and touch emotion.
Tears of music run down our faces,
Flowing streams of sound filling hollow places.
We're too young to know many things.
Rain and fear and dark and wind,
Walking paths we've never taken,
Fumbling towards the edge of living.
Reaching out for one hand to guide.
Seeking out safe places to hide.
We're too young to know many things.
We read and dance and exchange heart shaped boxes,
We sing along in faith and knowledge,
We reflect each other in understanding,
Opening doors and knitting wounds,
Blending tactile flesh and misty spirits.
And, we're still too young to know many things.
We ponder clouds and the turn of leaves on trees,
Gazing into a loved ones eyes, we see everything,
Cherishing memories of simple moments.
We don't have to know all kinds of things,
To know the happiness the other brings.

If not this, nothing.

If not this, nothing

I want you to remember that I am not the poem. I am not the words you read. If you freeze me in a poem, a story, a phrase, then I won't be anymore. I will only be a few characters arranged on a page, isolated into a single pin-prick of observation. I write in a moment. I scribble down thoughts and ideas, clips and phrases. I feel them. I hear them, I believe them, and then I transcend them. I move on by. I understand the power words have on us. I'm moved by what I read, often more deeply than by any other thing. A great moment passig through us, the reader and the author. Neither are embodied by their work.
I am not the poem.
I've been obsessive.
I've been too close to many things I've written.
I've used them, the writings, to get love. Not always romantic love, love like fame, adoration, awe, notice, attention.
Very powerful.
Living twice can be a heavy price to pay. I understand why people don't do this. It makes writers special.
I live and die a little with each piece. I write, I pass my breath along.
I forgot my support system. I flashed words around, like cash, to gather support. All around me was the support I needed.
The earth.
My God.
My pen.
The Universe.
I am interpenetrated by this world that exists, by all that exists, and they by me.
I am the blade of grass beneath your feet.
I have visions of who I am and how I can be.
My writing stays with the vision, and I fall back to Earth with a greater understanding. Again and again I read, I write, I fall, and have compassion for myself and learn to treat others kindly.
I stay on this edge, this beginning of real. Continually stopping myself with tricks and waking up from dreams.
Every other month I am ready to quit.
There is no place to go in doubt, but into negativity and pain.
I have grown a deep tenderness and determination toward writing, a sense of humor and tremendous patience.
I drop the reigns and run through green fields.
I break through the hard, solid crust and go deep, deep into places where things are born.
It can be lonely.
I ache.
I can use the energy of that ache to propel myself deeper into my need for expression. If not this, nothing.