Sunday, April 23, 2017

Monologue

One day I wrote a poem about my heart. I guess I was trying to understand how it worked, or something, so of course I do this stream-of-consciousness sort of freestyle thing that goes on for two pages. Was it good? Definitely not my best, but I guess it was all right. That isn't really the point though, is it? Was it honest, or did it help me to understand myself? Well, maybe in pieces. What I recall the most about the poem was that it was two pages long.

A two page long freestyle, stream of consciousness poem, in size 12 times new roman, single spaced. And at the end of it I still had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. It just went on and on, and I ended up jabbering in circles, as a result? No clarity, only more questions.

Now one day, in the much more recent past, I wrote another poem. It wasn't about my heart, it wasn't about feelings or right and wrong or moral centers or what people expect of me and you and everyone else. It wasn't about acceptance, and it wasn't about friendship. It had nothing to do with social stigma or politics or the education system. It was a three line haiku, written in a chilly, rainy night in a room open to the woods and flanked by wysteria. On blankets that smelled slightly musty, and the noise of a few dozen bees about five feet from the foot of my bed. There was the popping of bamboo stalks on a bonfire in the distance that resounded like gunshots, and the sky was completely inked black by clouds.

See the point is you don't have to puzzle over everything. Not everything can have related logic patterns and make perfect sense.

Life doesn't MAKE sense. Life is chaos. Love is chaos. And the heart? It beats, it pumps blood, it can be dissected and recreated into a jet engine turbine that doesn't have a pulse, or whatever. It can be measured and tested, it is a muscle in a body full of muscles and it is made of flesh and blood, and without one we die.

But it is also the part that links our souls to our bodies, you know. When something hurts, we feel it there, in our hearts. When something gives us immeasurable joy, that is where we feel it. It is the safety pin holding our souls to our bodies and an anchor to this reality, and the string to the end of our kites. And that safety pin bit, the clincher, the anchor, the little golden thread is an inexplicable, incomprehensible mystery.

Who the hell am I to try and explain or fathom or logic it?

And in that case, who the hell do you think YOU are to try, either?

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Love Poem


To Jes & Jayce

My heart Believes in many things
In first sight, distance growing & true.
It used to believe that one was for one
Until it began to think anew.

There are so many of us here,
dwelling, fighting, laughing on this rock,
And we are split, fractured and divided
as we look for a heart's building block.

Who is to say that you love only once?
That only one person will be all you own
That you can only live in monogamy
Or else be damned, outcast and thrown.

My heart Believes in many things -
That My Love is true and kind
But that another can make us whole?
"Yes," my heart made up it's mind.

So when we three walk hand in hand
With smiles and hearts linked like a fence
One man, two women, all friends in this void
If we're at peace? If just to try, it just makes sense.

Monday, April 10, 2017

How Many

When man was new
And soul-gifted, freely given
And Will and Spirit born,
How many were there to go around?
When the Earth was young,
And man first crawled about,
helpless infants fresh to life
They all had a soul each, I assume.
One for each matron, girl and crone
One for each brother and father
One for each lover and each villain.

But that was many years ago.
There is no newness about man,
And I wonder, at what point
Did whomever-up-there decide
"Well, I just ran out -
So let me break them into pieces,
That way everyone gets at least a little."
Because they evidently thought it fair.
But it isn't.

Since we all only have a piece
A sliver of something once whole,
We slave and search and wonder
for the rest of us, driven, determined
to find just one other piece of us.
So in fact, whomever-up-there gave us holes.
And if you happen to find one piece -
Or Good gracious lucky you, Two! -
Hang on to them good.
Because it only makes sense that you -
And them, and her and he and whomever you see -
Can fill each other's souls in
Like a puzzle. (Or another cliche.)
Add thus be a little more whole
Then you were before.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Free Fridays

Ahh, the first day off of the week!

So let me update you loyal readers with a few things!

Until March 31st, 2017, I will be participating in a Novel Contest through Inkitt.com. (Although it asks you to sign in, it is totally free, and is basically just so you can add things to your personal reading lists.)

Anywho, this writing contest isn't just voting and such. There are several factors that go into judging all the fine stories that were submitted. Firstly, there is the count of 'reads' a story gets. This is basically every click my story gets that would send a reader to it's first chapter, as well as all subsequent clicks to other, later chapters.

I am currently at 94 'reads'!

And though that makes me feel wonderful, there is another aspect in which stories are judged. This is the over-all 'hooked-ness' of the readers who click on my story. This is judged by time spent reading a chapter, how many chapters are read in succession, if a free copy is downloaded for reading, if it is added to a reading list, etc... Inkitt will collect all of this data and analyse it to see if it is publish-worthy.

Every contestant gets 100 free copies that are available to readers. I am down to 89.

The number of copies left also factors in to where on the listing your story places. For example - contest entries with 0 copies left are usually at the top of the list. Therefore, people are far more likely to click on them and read them, as opposed to mine, which has 89 copies left, and takes 5 clicks of the "show me more" button to find.

SO I took the liberty of posting the link to said tale in my right hand link column there --->

It is The Cellar City Chronicles.

It is also Rated R, mature audiences only, at least 18+ please.

PLease enjoy and support your local Oru!

It would seem she very much needs the support that is sometimes very fleeting in these parts. Of time. And The World.

Oru

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Wedding

Someday, there will be an autumn night with a crisp, clean sky, free of clouds. The stars will shine in their sockets like diamonds and a cool breeze will drift lazily across the rolling yard. Several red and brown leaves will scatter into the paths of patrons as they arrive, all dressed to match their masks.

The invitation will be written on them, arriving like a mystery to their doorsteps. A singular note attached for a response says, 'This mask is your invitation & entry, so please dress to match.' On which will be the date and time, in silver or gold ink, scrawled like magical items.

The affair would be in and outdoors; a hall to eat with a lawn beside, tables dotted among the stars with lanterns burning and a few fire pits glowing, like the campfires of a traveling gypsy band on the road. Indoors shall be lit by crystal and candle; colored glass and paper to match the wedding party.

Each one wears a mask. All of them do. Including the bride and groom, situated as royalty among their subjects. A gown from a dream, dotted with shimmer and cut well out of fashion with the day and age of things. Tapered sleeves - or not. Perhaps a half cloak lined with deep, deep crimson satin. Or not. Perhaps a flowing sash & twist down the side of burgundy and deep-sea blue. Maybe. But out of a dream. Happy and smiling, mysterious eyes, surrounded by friends.

And the groom is so charming, like a prince from this fairy tale. Elegant and poised, a delicate smirk perched on his lips at all the little joys that his bride receives on this night. He is groomed and well-pressed, and shines like satin himself, and only shines brighter when the bride is near.

Their first dance is like the perfection of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Like butterflies they swirl about the dance floor, enthralling their guests with a dream-like display, where their eyes are locked, and their bodies move without the second-guessing hesitation of beginners.

The banquet is home-made and with love, by friends who smile at the plentiful compliments. The speeches are tearful and humorous, with quick quips and sincerity enough to fill the room with light. The vows - oh the vows, all hand written. Gasping as if speaking their emotions for the first time, discovered anew in the beauty of their words. Hands held. A kiss, a kiss to soothe a tempest-sea, a kiss to level a mountain, a kiss that could shear a whole field of wheat, break down doors, shatter windows, stoke a dying ember into an inferno, a kiss is shared.

And celebration? Lasts until the wee hours of the morning, where the patrons finally seem to awaken, as if from a dream. Most seem to have lost their masks, and now look upon each other as if recognition had just touched them.

They smile.