Bruising My Palms

I appreciate your honesty,
Inlaid with steel and swung with great force.

The years have not been the kindest
But still you've kept your defenses up against the odds.

But while I would have you endure my friend,
It's time to lay down your weapons.

After all, steel never shines on its own,
Only reflecting a little light from yourself and that's dim enough.

I am tired of dancing through these dodges
And patching up these wounds when the blows land.

By now you're just swinging at shadows
Even if the only shadows are cast from friends.

So you pour yourself out like holy water,
Hoping your faults will wash out better through long suffering.

You never feel more useless then when the people you love most
Have no way for you to hold them up.

Maybe you're supposed to be this all encompassing mystery,
A knot to untangle as I try to sleep away these bruises.

Soul - Act V

All Circles

The war is over,
The war continues,
With ashes still crowning your head.
No one has won, no one has lost,
But you still can't call this a draw.

Beneath the roar of the river, rubble silently rolls on.
You watch from the ashen shores, unsure of what to feel.
Your monuments laid low, your vaults laid bare.
All you once were swept out to sea.

And I know this hurts like you're the only one here,
Isolated by these walls of fear and numbed from the cold
And afraid of fire for what once happened.
You scorched yourself black and the flame that once was dear
Charred your dreams and burned itself out.
Now the land has been left to the fog,
You no longer tend to the fire but only to the ruins.

This land doesn't have to be a cold, dead place.
Things could grow if only you would care again.
It will hurt you and you will become afraid,
But a soul need only agree to a 'tomorrow'
In order to start again.

Soul - Act IV

Miasma

Soon comes fire,
Sparked from my own hands.
This center cannot hold and the ship is lost.
All I know will be consumed in the roar and heat.
I will run from the trees, pursued by fire and flame
As my world burns and my tongue turns black from the ash.
The rivers all run dark with debris, buildings, and dead trees.
No larger a dark night of the soul but a night that must be survived,
With fear and doubt and loss and mistakes billowing with the flames.
If this is not the end then it must be close.

Soul - Act III

Haiku

All that I've wanted
Is someplace that's still and quiet,
Maybe that is peace.

Soul - Act II

Retreat

So I run,
Deeper into these woods.
Through thickets with thorns,
Too focused to turn east or west,
As I chase a myth long ways north.
I will never be whole with this hole
That I've knowingly burned through my soul.
I should have stayed on the path
Should have stayed silent,
Should have slowed my pace,
Maybe stayed home
Now I've stumbled down and earth fills my mouth and hands.
The longer I rest here
The harder I find it to leave.
Maybe I will join this floor of soil and roots and leaves
And remain here as a silent part of this old forest.

Soul - Act I

Stagnation

Maybe I have been chosen for this Pontious Pilate role
So I can keep washing my hands before making the right decision
With innocence not always intact.
So I will appreciate these acts of doubt
That I have raised up to place alongside all my other works of art.
Maybe I'm tired of being self-depreciating
And self-defeating when handed what I want
And the subsequent stumbling has haunted me ever since.
Like a record I'm skipping
Skipping
Skipping
Stuck in this rut.

Above the Bed

Early mornings alone feel like a thousand miles above home
And you look down on your sleeping friends,
Hoping they're safe and happy in their beds
As you burned yourself awake in your pyre of a bed.
Now rising and gaining speed, the world continues below
With all your slumbering friends, leaving and at peace.
So speak now or hold a piece of what you remember
As the world passes on.

Skin

I'm sure you know those kinds of days
Where you feel like any cut in your skin
Will make all that you are come unraveled,
That your insides will loosen and spill and bones crack and break.
When you're alone it is after all only you skin keeping you together.
All that makes us up is kept in place by the thin of our skin
Because so much of who we are are is skin deep but that is no bad thing.
Maybe thick skin is overrated, callouses unneeded.
A sense of vulnerability could let us feel the world anew.
Callouses block another's hands and mountain streams,
Thick skin numbing us when we ought to hear.
No one talks about the electricity found in skin,
Of raised hair along the curve of the head during embrace,
Skin chilling along the forearm in anticipation of some great symphony.
I appreciate the brick and mortar architecture of the skin of those I love.
Sunlight caught in the arches around the pools of eyes.
Veins below the surface but above the bones in your hands
And your dirty fingerprints hold your journey in their creases.
Bruises are the parchment charting your stories and mistakes.
Think about how skin can be pushed, pulled, creased, and soon cracked.
Be gentle to all, you never know how thin their skin can be.

Diamond Past the Pines

I love walking beneath this cathedral of creaking pines,

Down the aisles of overgrown forest-born pews
With the holy ferns all humming hymns of nature

As I emerge onto the edge of a sea of faded glory.

You can find ghosts here, haunting the lonely stretches of the field,

Between the bases and open expanses of the outfield.

You need to marvel at the wonder of this place

As children perform this ballet of bat and ball and bases.

There is a sweet science found in the perfect swing

And satisfaction in the sound of that lightning strike.

There is innocence and wonder in these things,

Tied so deeply to the past and this land.

I like this marriage of beauty and melancholy, 

Like when something innocent is the last of its kind

Or a moment holding precious fleeting perfection.

So I blinked and the kids were long gone and grown.

Silence sweeps back onto the field in waves with the wind
And this place becomes a monument to those who came before.
The birds of the air and insects of the ground rule here instead
So now where children should be laughing and running
We have this hallowed sacred silent ground.

The sun is setting now beyond the pine steeples

And the amber light turns all the rust back to gold.

Long stretching shadows hold long echoing voices

And for a brief moment this world has been restored.

Now I must leave this place, among the last of its kind,

Night has come down for this old diamond past the pines.

Would I Run

No one ever expects to have to worry about friends
Or rely on electronic messages to signal their safety.

People may talk about how there's no hope
And that this world is lost.

The people running to help never seem to think so.

Summer in the Suburbs

Being out of breath never felt better
After sprinting through the sprinkler
At our age when most other people question why we do such an act.

I appreciate the stillness of the street
Outside now, in the quiet summer heat
The rumbling in the concrete and clouds hint larger things to come.

I always appreciate these perfect lawns
And cookie cutter houses housing us all
This place is not as bad as it looks when you look past the cracks.

All of these sun-bleached roofs over our heads
With perfectly cubed nostalgia hued bedrooms
And kids sweating out dreams with guitars in the garage's heat.

I will run all these streets late into this night,
Wake my friends so we'll stay awake till light
Summer is finally here so let us dare each other to get outside.

Let's not act our age now, we could be older
Let's dress up and wander some art museums
Paying more attention to the people than the relics on the walls.

Let's just bike around till we find an empty lot
Let's daydream here underneath the sun or stars
Scheming of seeing the world but admitting our fears of leaving home.

Let's find some place that has been abandoned
Let's claim it, what's leftover from those before
We'll build a monument so someone will know that we were once here. 

Maybe leaving home is needed for some of us
Maybe staying home is needed for some of us
All I want is friendship to survive the distance of what's after here.

You could be such a perfect accomplice with me
Parking your car, charging the sprinkler together
I hope all friendships can be forged anew in the long summer heat.

Last Door on Your Right

And before you cross through that door
You will see all that the others left behind,
Fears and shame and mistakes and those small flaws
That always contributed to our hesitations.
Now we may leave our burdens at the door
And be reunited with those who we knew before,

This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it?

For when good-byes are useless and hellos are old news.
All the best reunions are like this,
Of equal parts melancholy from long leaves of absence
And joy grown out of restoration,
As water is always better after the desert.
You may come home now, slow down into this shelter,
And find the dawn you've long deserved.

Parts of A Whole

Once God took apart man to make something more
And Plato theorized that we all are just halves of a whole;
Either way we've been lonely since the beginning.
So when alone we're less than the sum of what fills that hole,
I guess this means it's okay to feel that something's lacking
Like when you walk into the next room and feel someone missing.

Have you ever held a stranger's gaze, accidental or deliberately decided,
In hopes of eventual conversation or should a smile suffice?
You're a brave one, breaking yourself over one of our unspoken barriers,
The one where silence rules in public places of desired minimalist interaction,
Hopefully you've been adequately rewarded by some decent human moments.

Go into the world and challenge yourself to catch a person unaware,
We are all tired of being alone and we all start as strangers anyways,
So might as well risk a little to gain what once was lost.

Worth of A Story

The best kind of stories have you longing for their friendships,

The kind of stories that make you weep at their ending,

The kind of stories involving sacrifice and fights and love and long talks at night.

These are the stories where you long to be there with the characters,

At their happiest or their dark nights of the soul,

Maybe just to bring them a cup of coffee or a word of reassurance. 

You always wish that you could bring these friends home,

So they could share in your story with all of its arcs,

You always grow sad when reality breaks your innocence and wonder.

So scuff your feet at the ground and grow alone in your bed,

Fondly remembering old friends and journeys,

But no one ever said you have to stay away forever from your well traveled tales.

These characters matter and these stories have meaning.

They have happened before and can happen again.

We tell love these characters and know these stories are worth repeating.

Stories have worth that should never be taken for granted,

Never let anyone attempt to tell you otherwise.

The dragon can be slain, friendships can last, and the princess can be rescued.

A good story is not an easy journey as each reader comes to it in their own way,

That should not dissuade you from sharing the story,

Rather it'll let you know that you have your own story and it's one worth writing well.

A Brief Evening With Hemingway

I found myself at a cocktail party once,
Hugging myself close to the wall
As Hemingway occupied everything else in the room.
He won himself quite the audience that evening,
Wetting his whistle with whiskey
And spouting terse terms
Of what Spain had been like
And of Africa before that,
All to underline some broad stroke of masculinity.

A rule that I always seem to break
Is to never make eye contact
With someone you don't want in your life,
No matter how brief that may be.
So when I committed that personal sin,
With the man at the center of attention,
He slopped and sipped his gin towards me
And said

"Write drunk."
And all the men and women laughed and cheered
As he was swallowed up once again by his worshipers.

I just stood there and shifted my weight around.
After all that's what I'm good at, maybe even good for.
So I said "Good night." to the wall,
Thanked it for some good conversation,
And found my way out the door.

Write drunk and you'll prolong the inevitable act of remembering.
Writing sober will hurt but the pain will paint for you your words.