that poetry jig i was gunna do but never did? yea..

I am a poetry fan, and am a poet at the oddest of times (instance: when I have writers block). So today I thought it'd be nice if I took portions of writing I've done lately and post them here (non in a complete form) in both the prose and poetic forms. But first! I must do that dreadful update thing that I generally do.

The spring term started. I'm (not) excited about it. I had to drop a class or two because my schedule was in chaos, however, and the classes to be cut happened to be the ones I wanted. So, that said, I'm glad my education is going forward this spring unlike last winter when everything was at a dead halt.

Hm.. not much else, so without further ado: the excerpts will begin!

The first is of an unnamed story that I've been writing in parts. This is the first portion in chronological order of events, and only an introduction. I've got more then this, but this is the extent I want to share (the rest is largely unedited). While this portion, too, is unedited, it is largely the closest to being complete.


The smoke filled my village when I was a mere 9-year-old child. My parents disappeared in the fiery source of that smoke and the villagers who could get away disappeared into the distant mist and darkness of a cloudy midnight. The image of their torching skin fill my head to this day. The reaction is sorrow at first, but in all I realize that there could never be a happy ending to such a story.

I was too young and naïve to realize what had caused the fire. There was a commotion among the villagers. They ran by each other, some shoving others into a nearby fire in order to get away. It must have been horrible if it could drive neighbors to betray each other murderously and without a second thought. I remember crying that night and thinking those tears would last an eternity. The orange beat of the flames, chilling screams from seemingly everywhere, and the cracking of skulls beneath the houses of which the now dead slept, all haunt my sleep to this day. No image will kill my temper more than that of my parents, however, and that bond we as a family shared.

I wasn’t sure what to do anymore. Suddenly the flames seemed to be a small detail in the larger picture of what was to happen with my life. Whether mercy would end it here or I would have to face the fact of my funereal existence. Long I sat there. Reflecting, thinking, worrying, crying, and all the same wanting to run for the hills with the rest of my village.

The trek from the village seemed longer than it did in past days when playing in the vast hills and trees was the activity of the time. It felt like an exile with no purpose or cause yet for the cause of life I made it. Perhaps it was that I felt bound to those screaming in the background. Those souls yet to pass that desired witness to their death called for me to be there yet I failed to look back. What would I have seen or heard had I looked back at them? I wonder, still, whether or not the answer I seek now would have been revealed. Yet I pray I will never know…


Next is a poem I wrote today. You probably won't be able to guess it (hint: I put the subject in parenthesis).


Open the gates--
crack the nut
then close-- lock them down.
Throw the keys--
bury them under trees--
in a concrete courtyard.

Show me a glimpse of heaven--
let me shake the seraphs hand at the gate
suddenly I have been condemned--
and to the depths I go!--

Under an ashen cherry bush--
I watch the black noon sky
I feel a pain in my feet--
missing the azure blues


I'll add more later, since I'm still trying to get one of my short stories into word. Once I'm done I'll post it in its entirety here.