Arbitrary Fame is based on my personal concept of definition. Definition is innate. It is a silhouette on the horizon. Definition comes in many different ways. Some are personal and only we, ourselves, understand them. Other forms of definition are dependant on our interactions and relationships with the people around us. I am a brother, a son, a friend, and a writer. These are my writings. This is me.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Give and Take
“He who giveth can also taketh away”
I gave my heart. It had only been a look.
A look was all it took.
I had to take a breadth
just to make sure I could.
When I looked away, you walked the other way.
My heart, well,
it remained.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Considerate Feelings of Nothingness
Descending from above, not unlike the creator of a dove. A multi
The string pulls at the puppets arm; raising and then lowering it. Another string moves the leg. One step, then another, then another. Quizzically the puppets head turns, pulled by yet another string. The puppet lurches forward. a string is pulling at its chest. Panic enters his eyes. All these strings, pulling every which way. Where was his control? The string attached to his arm became taught, his arm began to rise. He tried to resist, he tried to pull down, but his arm still rose. Then his other arm followed suit. He spun around. These strings controlled him, pulling every which way. His only hope of freedom was to break them.
The puppet breaks the strings that control him. Just to realize they were not controlling, they were moving him.
Jumbled in a lifeless, wooden heap, the puppet realized his mistake. The strings were keeping him awake?.
The string pulls at the puppets arm; raising and then lowering it. Another string moves the leg. One step, then another, then another. Quizzically the puppets head turns, pulled by yet another string. The puppet lurches forward. a string is pulling at its chest. Panic enters his eyes. All these strings, pulling every which way. Where was his control? The string attached to his arm became taught, his arm began to rise. He tried to resist, he tried to pull down, but his arm still rose. Then his other arm followed suit. He spun around. These strings controlled him, pulling every which way. His only hope of freedom was to break them.
The puppet breaks the strings that control him. Just to realize they were not controlling, they were moving him.
Jumbled in a lifeless, wooden heap, the puppet realized his mistake. The strings were keeping him awake?.
Loyal as a Dog
What makes a truly great friend? From my experiences, being able to trust someone is the key ingredient to true friendship. When you are in a bind these friends will always be right beside you. Unfortunately this caliber of friendship is rare to come by. Most people are inherently good, but when it comes down to it they look out for themselves first. A truly great friendship is one in which you know the guy beside you would sacrifice everything for you. It isn't easy to become this kind of friend. I find it all too natural to serve my needs first.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Like A Stream
Nymphs and naiads sang, but not out loud, and not to me,
They sang under the stream.
Into the nooks and crannies, eddies and vales of aspen trees.
They sang of leaves changing colors in the sun.
From green
To yellow, with a little bit of auburn red.
Then their song continued to pass through.
I passed through too, but not entirely through.
The echo of their song stopped me.
Plus my feet were stuck in the stream.
Smoothed by the black, rolling rocks, and rooted like a tree.
I wanted to follow the stream, floating like a piece of green
Grass. Half submerged, struggling to stay above the red.
Instead I was well below the red.
Half drowned by the water siphoning through
My stringy, clinging toes, I could hear their echoes calling to me.
I just couldn’t break free and sidle down the stream
Past the quakies and evergreen trees,
That dance a dance in hues of green.
Still the nymphs sang. They sang a sad song called ‘goodbye green”,
About the fish listing in the stream. They also sang about a red
Autumn and a brisk dawn. They sang through
The setting sun. They sang through me.
The naiads sang too. But they sang from the stream
To the forests of aspen trees.
As I listened I felt myself bend like a poplar tree.
And I felt the trees, in all of their green,
Bend like me. My fingers reached out and touched their red
Leaves. Igniting the forest of fallen leaves through-
Out the valley, and the bend in me.
Until the fire reached the cool, darkening stream.
Then rocks began to roll down stream,
Rollicking to the beat of the whispering trees.
And the forest, still green,
Blazed red
And yellow, in the evening’s fading light. Through
This change, the nymphs and naiads sang, but not to me.
The light faded to night and the singing stopped me
From listening to the steam still streaming,
And the creaking of a thousand trees.
They sang under the stream.
Into the nooks and crannies, eddies and vales of aspen trees.
They sang of leaves changing colors in the sun.
From green
To yellow, with a little bit of auburn red.
Then their song continued to pass through.
I passed through too, but not entirely through.
The echo of their song stopped me.
Plus my feet were stuck in the stream.
Smoothed by the black, rolling rocks, and rooted like a tree.
I wanted to follow the stream, floating like a piece of green
Grass. Half submerged, struggling to stay above the red.
Instead I was well below the red.
Half drowned by the water siphoning through
My stringy, clinging toes, I could hear their echoes calling to me.
I just couldn’t break free and sidle down the stream
Past the quakies and evergreen trees,
That dance a dance in hues of green.
Still the nymphs sang. They sang a sad song called ‘goodbye green”,
About the fish listing in the stream. They also sang about a red
Autumn and a brisk dawn. They sang through
The setting sun. They sang through me.
The naiads sang too. But they sang from the stream
To the forests of aspen trees.
As I listened I felt myself bend like a poplar tree.
And I felt the trees, in all of their green,
Bend like me. My fingers reached out and touched their red
Leaves. Igniting the forest of fallen leaves through-
Out the valley, and the bend in me.
Until the fire reached the cool, darkening stream.
Then rocks began to roll down stream,
Rollicking to the beat of the whispering trees.
And the forest, still green,
Blazed red
And yellow, in the evening’s fading light. Through
This change, the nymphs and naiads sang, but not to me.
The light faded to night and the singing stopped me
From listening to the steam still streaming,
And the creaking of a thousand trees.
Weaver Girl
With a caress of your hands, the spinning jenny whirled a vibrant tune. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see you weave us two.” You smiled a sincere, but concentrated smile. And your hands kept plying and your feet kept pumping, the threads kept flying, and I watched. A majestic pattern of yellows and blues grew. Amazed by the colors, and the hues, I watched. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see your weaving.” Again you smiled that brief and concentrated smile. Leaving wonder to tickle my sighing. Still you kept weaving. Until finally those different hues, filled with yellows and blues, came together to paint a picture so clear and so perfect I couldn’t move. Then I realized it was just you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)