Skull Practice

The Sleeping Stone

Dappled sunlight filters down through the fingers of gnarled old trees

 

He sits,

surrounded by nothing but bramble and bush

 

Calling out for a guiding hand on skinned and scratched knees

 

Not a sound answers back,

everything down to the fallen leaves appear muted,

dead

 

The shades are steep here, covering everything in quiet melancholy

 

All of the forest life is hidden and silent,

as if God himself has but the great green earth to bed

 

He huddles,

eyes shut tight, hands clamped over his ears

 

Waiting, more of a sleeping stone than a dreaming man

 

Counting slowly backwards,

falling quietly through the years

Up into the night sky

There was a fireworks show at the amusement park where I work this past weekend. Most of the park guests were looking for good places to see the show from, so business was slowing down. I let my mind wander a bit as the bright blasts lit the sky. I thought about all the little things that go into making a firework, what it is that makes that particular explosion a certain color and shape.

There must be a lot of variables firework technicians have to consider; the timing of the explosion itself, the weight of the rocket, the composition of the powder, and another hundred and one tiny little things.  All for a brief  flash and a few “oohs” and “ahhs”.

People are a lot like fireworks, aren’t they? Like all of the little things that go into those colored explosion in the sky, life has a lot of variables, too. People try and try, stumbling along. The do everything they can to climb up and up, hoping to find their spot up in the night sky. All for what? A few short moments of brilliance before we fade away.  Even then, these little shows we put on are meant more for those watching on the sides than they are for ourselves.

Despite that, I think it can still can very, very pretty sight to stop and watch. I want to believe that. Don’t you?

The Rain King

I speak to the rain in whispered words

as it falls quickly, silently down to earth

 

The tiny little rivulets carve out their traveling trails

down my bedroom window, calling out as they pass by

 

The dark clouds in the sky sing to me in great crescendos,

flashes of light adorning the stage

 

Storms are summoned at my passing

staining the streets and flowering the fields,

a weather vane spinning madly out of control

 

Raise the rivers

crush the flood gates on a whim

 

I sit upon a throne of storms,

atop my head a crown of rain

 

The people dance and pray,

hands raised high as the sky opens up,

pouring down on parched hearts

 

They call me the Rain King

 

 

 

Muse, personified

Another half baked tattoo idea that I pursued a little farther than a scribble.

 

Figure Practice

All of You

I’ve seen you through lingering, stolen glances

 

I’ve spoken to you in wavering whispers, using shy and unsure words

 

My heart beats at a manic pace whenever you pass by

 

Every word you speak seems powerful, poignant,

veritable poetry to my hungry ears

 

My mind has wrapped itself up in you,

wanting to become familiar with your ins and outs

 

Mt body yearns to pull itself close to you,

a fool’s dance on invisible strings

 

It’s far too easy tempting to meander down your winding paths,

to get tangled up and lost in hidden places

 

My hands are hungry to pry you open,

pounding down into the heart of you

 

 

Solid Ground

I spend too much time with my head in the clouds,

my feet hanging  precariously below me

 

I need to come back down,

plant my feet back on solid ground

 

My dreams have grown too large,

I’ve outstretched my means, it seems

 

I’ve jumbled up what I want and what I need,

two quite different things, you see

 

I need to gather up all of these little pieces of me,

small, scattered around, and hard to see

 

Put them back in shape and form,

a resolve now made whole

 

Off in search of a new place to go,

many little seeds in hand to now sow

 

To one day grow into tall, tall trees,

whose branches rise high and green

All Messed Up

When I woke up this morning,

the world was not the same as it was the night before

 

Time seems to be crawling backwards,

the clock’s hands slowly spinning out of control

 

The sky is painted in a verdant green,

and the grass in the lawn grows in blue

 

It’s as if the sun packed up its things and moved away,

and the moon simply refuses to rise in the night sky

 

Storm clouds whimper instead of roar,

and the rain falls steadily upwards

 

Cats run through the streets barking wildly,

while the dogs purr softly in quiet corners

 

God stopped going to church on sundays,

saying he doesn’t believe in us anymore

 

The sea has dried up,

the only waves that lap against the shores those of sand

 

The great fires have died down,

the cogs of man irreparably stuck

 

Has the world really come to an end,

or did I just have too much to drink again last night?

Paper Heart

My heart is a fragile thing,

made of worn paper

 

It’s crinkled and creased,

with scribbles and scratches all along its face

 

Many times have I written your name

crossed it out

only to re-write it once more

 

Over,

and over,

and over again

 

Sometimes in a soft graphite’s gray,

bold black,

or ballpoint blue

 

Regardless of shape, size, or style,

your name has come to cover every corner of the page

 

It has become a mass of inter-flowing lines, garbled up shapes, and odd angles

that come together to form off-kilter images

 

Even so,

I still can’t help but feel that your name,

written across the page,

is a thing of beauty