Only in the Dark

Endless Dreaming.
Let the curtain fall before the end.
Save me from embarrassment,
The witnesses to failing self.
Hiding in the open my dreaming reveals.
Written in to shape my face,
like an ink pen carving creases,
my dreaming.
My endless dreaming end already.

Seasons

Of seasons long ago,

unbeknownst to me.

I long to see

                With field of aching

after long hours of raking.

                The apricot tree, eating

the fruit thereof for need.

Chariots and carriage pulled

by the chestnut horse, and

Plowed following in track.

                Hog high fences rot

and that’s all I need to believe

                In these people of an older time,

I long to be one of them.

Working up the sum

to pay for family with produce.

                Living with and on the land

                Not the foolish man upon the sand.

A foundation of stone and built upon Him.

Without the pressures of politics,

yet still carrying some.

                The time of peace and plenty is yet to come.

As I look unto the son to come again

With fire upon his wings.

And the bounteous angels sing

Their praises to their God and King.

This is the day yet come

I long to see.

Its peace and longing shall always be

A treasured thought imbedded in my head

until I am laid down and dead.

Sitting in Class

               There is no time for fun, relaxation, and life. College is a necessary element to success, but it’s a sacrifice. Family vacations hindered when they occur. Homework nagging at the mind, prophesying an ‘F’ for the failure to complete the assignment. Ideas and theses rest on scrap paper, written in attempts to catch up, or get ahead, during the brief respites between classes, but it’s a lie. You’ll never catch up. Five page papers wait mocking the return from your short vacation and upon the return you realizes it has always been in the back of your mind mocking. Ten minutes before class you realize homework was fifty pages of an awful boring story that you cannot read. Of course today there’s a quiz. There are rarely ever quizzes. Wednesday two essays due, two different classes, fifty pages to read all over again. All due in two days.

            “What about our essays” a student asks, the class is quiet. Everyone is begging for mercy “I am drowning.” No mercy. Rarely ever mercy, there might be if teachers attended their class and had their homework. They do have grading though, but that is flexible and can be pushed back.

            The policy is two hours of homework for every credit hour, and they’ll use it. You want an ‘A’ you get a ‘B’, you aim for a ‘B’ you get a ‘C’. College doesn’t care for the old adage “An ‘A’ for effort.” Eh, but who cares they have the degree. Life’s similar in many ways though.

            Students versus teachers, but not really. We are of similar minds. Learning being the main desire. If we could see from the teacher’s perspective they would understand, and vise versa.

            The chalk board is a sea of green with white foam from erasing. No words make sense anymore. The ocean on the board moves in front of my eyes beautifully. It takes my mind away from the fear of failure and the desire to give in. Teachers plead for students to pay attention, but the mind is easy to break, and at failed and repeated attempts, desire dies.

            School and learning lose their excitement, but not really. There are just those moments when you have to lose your mind and sit blankly in front of the chalk board, while the entire class is silent from lack of answers. You have to picture the chalkboard in a different way, like an ocean that can transport reality, or look out the window and spot the birds on another building hopping up and down. Those simple distractions drown out the despair and rejuvenate the mind.

            The mind is like a muscle I guess, designed to be torn apart and rebuilt, stronger and more efficient. Life is full of chances, aim for an ‘A’ and you might just get a ‘B’.

Of Death I Wonder

-Sorry It has been a while, midterms and school work have slowed me down. Hope you like this poem!-

Life grips at my wounded youth,

tearing me back and forth.

My soul treading lightly

at the precipice of heaven.

Subject to the wiles of Death.

Death carries me, like a

New mother and I her babe,

Home to heights before unreachable,

Unattainable by man alone.

Birds chitter their soft chirps.

My guides, my sentinels.

Their music a melody

to wandering ears.

I loved life,

Now I wonder.

What is greater?

Death drops my weary body.

I tumble down the trodden path.

Back to life and reality,

With Men tugging at me.

Wrenching me back.

My shirt is ripped,

Torn asunder,

I simply sag

unable to lift myself.

I am alive, but

Picturing what was ahead

Upon the path of death.

I am aware now and back.

I see Black.

A bag too little to be needed.

I cry, reaching for him.

He is gone.

My son.

He’s carried up

the same path

with birds and

wonderful melodies.

I know my ‘little one’ found

His home,

farther than I traveled.

I must wait to know,

but in my heart I already do.

The Little Suns

** This is a personal experience that defines and describes me growing up**

I sat in the front seat of our maroon Chevy suburban. The shocks didn’t work and the big boat bounced, as we drove to my meeting. Friends asked me earlier that day if I wanted to see a movie I said, “No my family has something weird going on tonight.” I was ashamed to see a shrink. I thought people who saw shrinks were weak minded and needed a ‘mind doctor’ to fix them. Deep down I worried about mental illness or at least instability and I did not want to uncover my instability.

Anxiety developed near the end of my freshman year. The first day of my sophomore year felt horrible and my student ID was a witness, with my grumpy face.

We drove out of town, further than any of us had been before. We turned, no one talked. My sister sat in the back, silent and innocent as my fears increased. I was nervous, so I tricked my mind into relaxing, but it was smarter than me. I looked out the window to distract myself, but it made it worse.

Panic grew in my efforts to calm down. Fear took over like a plague. It griped at my body, starting in my mind. Ferocious, beastlike, with only desires to tear out, and I had no leash. It bit me, and caused me to retreat until I was safe. Safe from people and unwanted attention. The dark became my only escape. This beast didn’t seek me when I was alone and outnumbered. It was the worst kind of monster. Most monsters are afraid of crowds, but this one had no fear. It was greater than fear. It was fear itself, and it hunted me.    

 “Look!” My sister said pointing out the window.

Yellow-gold petals peered at the car as miles of sunflowers faced us. Golden brown fields with hints of green littered the hillside. The sunflowers swayed like a river and for the first time the monster fled. It did have a fear. It was afraid of peace and this field held peace for me. Little suns, captured on green sticks. They lit my soul and warmed my heart, but how long would the feeling last?

The fields would ended and the monster did not return, not immediately.

My nerves calmed as we pulled up to the massive house. Being a shrink paid well, I thought, looking around the high end neighborhood. Maybe I’ll be a shrink someday I thought somewhat joking and somewhat not.

We walked to the door. My mom knocked, because I would not. The door looked expensive and elegant.

I waited in anticipation, picturing her wearing an apron stashed full of surgeon tools. She came and looked normal, too normal. She looked like a simple stay at home mom, but she was still different. She could read minds, at least that was her job and I didn’t want her reading mine.

She indicated for us to enter. The house was decorated well, but was it a ploy, disguising the secrets occurring behind the curtain of normality?

She led us to a little room with an archway instead of a door. I sat and relaxed, but not for long.

“Well Travis, do you have any questions before we begin?” I shrugged. I had too many questions, but I wasn’t going to start asking them.

“Okay well we are going to go to another room and we will start.” She said. This is a waste I thought. I stood, glanced at my mother. She knew what I was thinking and she encouraged me to go by nodding her head.

Hundreds of books were organized on the shelves of the office. How could someone need that many books? She indicated to a big brown chair. I thought I would be lying down. Normally shrinks had brown leather bed couches, the chair reclined though, so maybe it’s the same.

“Travis, I want to teach you a few techniques. They will help you fight anxiety and stop panic attacks. We start by breathing, slow deep rhythmic breaths. This will help calm your body and mind. Once you get the breathing down, I’ll show you how to create a safe place to go in your mind.”

I breathed like instructed, and that was all I focused on. It became my silent isolation and quiet redemption.

She said “Think about the worst panic attack you’ve had. We are going to reconstruct the memory.” She taught me to lie to or trick myself. It must only work when you are breathing correctly, I thought mocking her structure. She was a human programmer. My father was a computer programmer, they do the same thing? Her exercises were odd, but they were working.

Her voice was calming and peaceful. I started to fall asleep, so I stirred and moved. I didn’t want to relax too much. She noticed my movements and told me to relax. She said “don’t forget your breathing techniques even if you are close to sleep.” Did she want me sleep, so she had an easy paid session?

“Now you have the breathing down and we restructured some memories, let’s move on.” She continued. “Find a happy place. What is in that happy place? Don’t tell me just think of it.” I tried and found one “This place needs to be a secret and safe place that no one knows about except for you. Where is it? What does it look like? Think of the colors, the warmth, maybe even the season if it is outside. Let me know when you have it. Take your time.”

I was a painter with a blank canvas and too many ideas. I saw clouds, birds, bees, trees, ants, me, slow down… “Not all at once. I am a painter, painting takes time.” I said to myself. The scene was setting. The crowning piece formed as golden little suns on green stems. The sunflower fields traveled for miles. They swayed while caressing the hills. “I’ve got my place.” I said.

The session lasted an hour, but cost a lot, not just money, but embarrassment. My parents did not tell me the cost, but I knew it was a lot, which made me feel guilty and weak. They had to spend their money because I was weak and scared.

I was grateful that I had a strategy now. I left confident I had the ticket to win now, well at least a plan. I could beat the monster. I just needed to carry those little suns in my minds, in my happy place.

In the car once again we drove back past the sunflowers which were facing away after a long day of chasing the sun. I uttered a loud noise, it came from excitement, but my mother said “That sounded like an Indian,” so the ride home we patted our mouths and pretended to be Indians. Our chant called to my heart “you are normal.” I would make sure to prove my normality.  

First Attempted Hiku

Cherry blossoms drop.

The biggest leaf will fall too.

Who can see it all?

The little bird sings.

The meanest of the dogs bark.

Who can hear it all?

The planets will spin,

The cresent moons orbiting.

Can we feel it all?

Objects big and small,

Monumental and tiny.

Can we comprehend?

The world goes around,

We stand still, never moving.

Could it be our felt?

Speculating laws,

Nature’s laws are in action,

And will never change.

Nature doesn't judge,

and it will never plays games.

It’s strict, unchanging.

Nature gives freedom.

Trees can change their color. Red.

But it all returns.

Nature governs all.

I must wonder, does it rest.

I may never know.

Who is nature’s God?

He must rule high in heaven,

and is kind to us.

Peace

Peace is found

amidst achievement, 

Self-succeeding, 

but not the kind

to get gain, because

then that’s the focus.

No, the kind when

surprise comes after

Self-success, then

you'll find peace.

In the confines

of your competence

you'll see potential,

to achieve, to be

Great, Greatness,

but still that’s

not peace, because

then you are the focus.

Only when coupled

with giving, the

lesson taught to

the young, can there

be peace. 
A peace that lasts.

In the giving of

Greatness and results,

you'll see peace,

of a kind that

can not fade.

A Friend

            The engine sputter and Randal Magnuson knew the noise meant trouble. The stick vibrated dully in his hands, while he looked for any indication of a problem on the gauges. They read normal, his altitude and speed were normal. The gas was full, he always filled the tank before flight. 

            He did not feel the plane sinking, but worried that the engine would not last long. He thought of any potential problem, while rechecking the gauges and looking for any indication. 

            Nothing appeared to be wrong, but the noise continued.

            He served as an aviation officer for the last fifteen years. After early retirement he didn't know what to do with his life. After many weeks of considering his options, he concluded he was a pilot born to fly. He purchased a yellow painted PZL-106 Kruk, a small crop duster, that relieved his stress since returning home from his service. 

            The plane had rusted slightly on the hinges and around a couple bolts, but given its age it was in great condition. The plane didn't cost him a lot of money, which was why he could afford to fly again.

            Randal never crashed a plane and he didn’t want to start. He began his decent, in anticipation of a problem, although the noise was the only indication. 

            He would have preferred to fly back to the air strip, but decided he might not make it. His destination was a field, which he never would have attempted, but his gut was telling him to land, so he descended. 

            His altitude and speed decreased in preparation and everything went wrong. His fears became his reality, as the engine screamed and smoke billowed from the sides. The propeller spun oddly and in infrequent patterns. The plane sunk with a lurch and he pulled the stick back in an attempt to stabilize the small aircraft.

            He still had power, but not enough to make this landing easy or possible. Smoke collapsed in and around him, making things worse. He did all he could to keep the plane up, but it was sinking and he couldn't see anything through the smoke. He tried to keep it from diving straight into the ground.

            When Randal was young, he was used to diving. Before joining the navy and earning his wings, he swam, his specialty, diving, and that’s how he met Mary Lillet. He dove to show off. She was beautiful, with long blond hair. She was the envy of the town. She had caught his eye and they dated till he left for war, but she only wrote twice. Since he never heard from her, he stayed, flying routines at sea, and had been there ever since.

            He tried his hardest to land, but the conditions were unmanageable. The plane crashed, sinking into moist field. The shock jarred his thighs, where they connected to the seat and it sent a shock through his spine and rattled his head. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his vision went black. He slumped in his seat unconscious, lucky to be alive. He involuntarily sucked the smoke in, which was black and thick.

            He woke, tried to orient himself and quickly realized he was in a dangerous situation. He pushed the hatch out, which was still intact and unhindered. He flopped out on to the windshield, sucking in clean air. He climbed down the side of the plane, thinking she looked bad the entire way. He knew she was destroyed.

            He walked away, stumbling, trying to recover from the shock. He felt pain in his lower leg and saw no blood, which surprised him. He headed for a side road that he saw from the plane. He knew it was to the East.

            He neared the road, as a truck pulled up. The man driving was in his fifties. He had the window down waving his arm and called out. The sun was in his face.

            Randal lifted his arm and waved back glad he came to help.The man parked facing the field. He had pulled a little off the road, and hurried to help Randal.

            "The names Murphy, Murph for short." He said as he put his arm under Randal's armpit and helped him walked the short distance to the truck.  He looked like a hard man who knew his way around machinery, his oil stained rag and suspenders worked as indicator of his profession. The bed of the truck was littered with car parts and hay. Randal liked the man since seeing him, but the more he saw of the him, the more he felt they related to each other. Murph helped Randal into the passenger seat, which was upholstered with a red, black and white patterned blanket. The seat was extremely worn, but he sat grateful.

            Murph moved to the driver side and pulled himself in. He backed up, onto the road and said “I’ll take you into town. My wife Louisa will get you bandaged up, and then we'll go to the hospital and get you checked out.” 

            Randal nodded his head, “Thanks” he said and the effort made him start coughing. The smoke had done its damage. His throat was hoarse. 

             “You know after seeing you crash, I sure hope you weren’t one of the airmen flying above me in the war.” Murph said with a smile, mocking the wounded man. Randal smiled and began laughing, both laughed long and hard. The laughing made Randal start another coughing fit.

            The two drove down the road. Murph talked the entire time, while the plane continued to burn and Randal tried not to laugh at Murph's jokes.   

Mother's Raiment

For times when dreams are

All but false realities,

How does freedom come?

In the silent whispering of kind hearts?

A mother’s kind, a mother’s love.

Mothers ought to go

Straight to heaven,

If they are true.

A mother’s love.

Through insufferable conflict,

She still loves,

Holy and wholly.

Then, in what Raiment

Does she travel?

She is not dressed

In perfect gown,

But in anything

Lying around.

Her glory not

To be found.

Unless you hear

A child play.

Then, oh who

Is to say, she

Has no cause,

No purpose?

To this I say.

She is clothed

In eternal raiment.

Glory, for her honor

And kindness shared.

She has built a

Mansion not so near,

But far away.

Her life here, not to be

All glam and glory,

But I have a feeling her life after

Might be more holy.

Brighter than most could dream to see.

She will eternally live with me!

Self Imposed Wall

We are good at

Rejecting emotion

And hiding in it.

We are but a mirror

Reflecting what we receive.

The world rejects us.

It hurts.

In place, barriers erected

Surrounding our heart.

Nothing in, nothing out.

Can I love or is

It in opposition to

My inner command?

Brick upon brick.

Nothing in, and

Nothing out.

That’s how it will be.

Built up, built down.

Just never broke down!

How can I Love,

When I can’t

Love myself?

Away! Away!

Be Away!

I push so hard,

You won’t

See what I see.

It can’t be.

Can’t be.

No hope.

No Love.

No Faith.

 No real emotion.

All is faked,

But doubt.

My emotions

Are in uproar

Behind the restricted

Dominion of

My self-IMPOSED wall.

I am the Dictator

Killer of my

Dreams and hopes.

-I duck my head

Near mirrors and

Cringe upon my seeing me.-

WHO AM I?

Can you see?

I can’t and

It’s drowning me.

Although I can’t

See through the

Opalescent Transcendence

I see you

And you seem to

See me!

Who are you?

You have become

My hope,

My faith.

My Love

And real emotion

Belongs to thee.

You helped me see me.

You gently hold

Me and break

Down my wall.

And when you see,

You smile back at me.

My Healer,

My God

And King.

I now see me.

My heart, full

For what you’ve

Done.

My Love.

My God.

My King.

The Long Lit Candle

Arthur Wright was born in 1749 and survived for decades. He made it through wars and revolutions, all because of a candle. He was trained to keep the perpetual flame lit, so it might refuel his soul.

It was 1769 and he was twenty. He was young, handsome, full of life and potential when he first received the candle. He went to town during market, and as he walked around carelessly, a man grabbed him. He pulled him into an alley and whispered "How would you like to live forever?” The question was so absurd Arthur became entranced in his story. The man explained how the candle he held could give life to the person who cared for it. The candle was not to burn thin or empty. He explained how the candle needed to burn frequently and only when he worked the wick, the wax, and slept should the flame be allowed to be extinguished. Arthur worked laboriously with the candle his entire life. 

He was in most mentions an old man by now, although young in appearance you could see his experience. His face showed age, dishevelment, and deep loss, but it was oddly hidden in the depths of his newly cracking skin. He looked dead, but full of life. He did not notice the deception in his young face, maybe because it looked so familiar.

He occurred a swarm of property and wealth in his lifetime, but he felt he had little to show for it. Many people who knew him called him a hermit. He sat in his darkened study, which was shelved with books, some as old as him, watching and working the candle. There were times he stayed up late and watched the candle’s flickering flame. He slept very little and ate even less.

Arthur thought many times of putting the candle out and leaving it behind. He could never bring himself to do it. He told himself it was due to the candles beauty, but he knew that was a lie. He lived too long, learning how to run from death. He distanced the rapidly changing world and its society. He knew he didn't belong, but he questioned if he belonged in the other world to come. That though, was another issue he tried to avoid.

He stood and walked to the flame. He didn't know if it was early or late, but it didn't matter. He sat at the round Victorian table he carved, the candle rested in the center.

He pulled out his tools, blew the flame out gently to let the wax settle. He needed the wax cool so he could work it. He began to braid thin pieces of clothe together and intertwined foreign materials as he went. He mastered the art of wick making and wax molding, to the point where he could make the candle burn slowly and as strong as possible.

The candle’s wax settled and the wick lay ashen. He took a thin metal carving tool and meticulously trimmed the wax back, exposing the wick. He cut the singed end off before weaving the new wick onto the old. He used wax to help hold the knotted and intertwined pieces together. He reworked the fading wax, adding more and more until he was satisfied. His days repeated for far too many years.

Arthur did not leave his house for months at a time. Living slightly in the country was his only reassurance in this world. He began to wonder, like he often did, what it would be like to have done something great in life. He wanted to travel the world, and see the great monuments, but he was too old for that now. Too much of his time was spent caring for the candle, worrying about the fuel that filled his soul. He knew he didn't need to spend as much time working the candle. It took care of itself, burning strongly without him. It would last a long time before he needed to rework it, but it comforted him to watch the flame flicker and play out the story of his life. 

Today he planned to put the candle out and walk away, but like always he remained seated. The sun rose and he knew it was morning. He strained mentally, trying to force his body to move. He needed to at least try to put the candle out and let it go, but his mind wouldn’t let him.

 He remembered the day he received the candle, and part of him wished he never had, but then he said to himself, “It gave me so much potential in life.” That was the moment his body worked for him. He stood grabbed the newly worked candle and blew it gently out. He walked to town and stood back in an alley watching the crowd. He saw many young people, but no one stood out, then he saw him. A young handsome man, who walked around casually and upright. He knew the young man had the world at his feet. Arthur grabbed the ardent boy and whispered “How would you like to live forever?”

He explained the significance of the candle and how to care for it, and as he was about to leave he called back “don’t forget to live your life well!” 

The Yellow Zoo

A yellow balloon began to float away.

The little boy said “Mom grab it!”

The Mom turned. She saw yellow. She jumped, and the string slide through her fingers. It sunk and tipped violently before floating off and dancing its way up into the sky.

“I hate the zoo.” The boy said watching the balloon drift away.

“We can get another one.” The mom assured.

“It isn't the same.” Since that day the boy had yet to go back to the zoo, but it had only been a week.

Of Little Dreamers

Hope is fleeting

Especially in dreams.

They come, they go.

Sometimes never to come again.

What causes us to dream?

Or wake?

Especially when the dream is nicer.

Little babies dream like us.

Maybe even the same dreams.

They must,

Because they smile while asleep.

Fighting Death

In the darkest of her widowed light.

The shadows plunge with all their might

At her child sick in heart

To strike his brow and drag him off.

The shadows laugh as they go saying

“It is late. It is fate. Never to be changed.”

Harsh in sound and demonic in style they end.

She chases into that laughter

Casting down the devil and his knights.

Her childs hers and hers alone.

Not fate. Not anything, will change her will.

She'll have her son - forever, always.

The Red Planes

In the air, oh so far away

Little red planes had flown our way.

When they were close we could see

the little dark crosses on their wings.                    

If we knew then what we know now

we would have hid quicker, better

but as life has it, we stood.

Waiting.

When the planes were close, we knew

LIFE was all. But close at hand.

Craters caused from little bombs

as black as death and murderers.

Crumpled farms and crumpled walls.

Our little village in the hills

not even safe.

-Children trembled in their future nights.

Under rubble lied belongings.

Piled higher than the wreck.

Buried there were dreams and hopes,

some to be recovered,

but never peace of mind.

Children still played,

but not as rambunctiously.

Taking such innocence in life

not just from the wounded,

but those who have caused harm.

Trained in youth to wound

and then coerced to kill!

Life is but a fragile thing.

It can be shattered, broken,

it can collapse in all at once

to suffocate and take away.

Breathe!

Childhood has long gone,

no longer do the flowers smell.

No longer can our feet feel grass.

Painless, painful.

How to be redeemed?

From depths to far

so very much unknown.

To feel once more like before.

When loud noises are heard

the adults go running.

They hide before their children,

so they might live and still be with them.

The only worry is, 
what if their children don’t make it?

Who would they live for then?

When the little red planes left,

after dropping their bombs,

they left heavier.

Carrying dreams,

hopes and aspiration.

Leaving behind 
the weightless
remnants of fear.
That is what war is, 
endless loosing.