Thursday, March 31, 2016
j.s.b.
nothing can stop this symphony inside my chest
it tugs at the strings decidedly
pulling me deeply
kissing me as if I were living for the first time.
it's loud
and gentle
thrumming and thriving
weaving a tapestry from my bones
and hair
and skin.
so personally pulling me apart and knitting me back together again.
it's incredible.
how can music be so beautiful
without even trying?
it's so blissfully unaware of itself
it inspires me to
try to be exactly the same way.
I try.
but somehow I always fall short.
that's okay.
music will always be beautiful to those
who stop and listen,
and as far as I see it I will always be doing that.
I simply cannot live without a beautiful symphony inside of me
without music the world
hardly sings for anyone.
listen.
do you hear the tears falling?
can you feel the world tearing itself apart
one note
one melody at a time?
isn't it riveting?
-k.p.b.
11:43AM Thursday March 31, 2016
it tugs at the strings decidedly
pulling me deeply
kissing me as if I were living for the first time.
it's loud
and gentle
thrumming and thriving
weaving a tapestry from my bones
and hair
and skin.
so personally pulling me apart and knitting me back together again.
it's incredible.
how can music be so beautiful
without even trying?
it's so blissfully unaware of itself
it inspires me to
try to be exactly the same way.
I try.
but somehow I always fall short.
that's okay.
music will always be beautiful to those
who stop and listen,
and as far as I see it I will always be doing that.
I simply cannot live without a beautiful symphony inside of me
without music the world
hardly sings for anyone.
listen.
do you hear the tears falling?
can you feel the world tearing itself apart
one note
one melody at a time?
isn't it riveting?
-k.p.b.
11:43AM Thursday March 31, 2016
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
earth bending
a calm stirring in my chest
a gentle hum that threatens to escape
where does it come from i wonder
does it echo off the chambers of my heart
or does it sing
it indefinitely thrums
of that i am certain
but does it live
it feels alive
i can imagine my hand resting on it feeling a vibration of life
therefore it has a spirit
it thrives within me
and i confess like a dying poet
bleeding from his emptying heart,
i love it
i'm in love with this sensation
whatever it is.
-k.p.b.
a gentle hum that threatens to escape
where does it come from i wonder
does it echo off the chambers of my heart
or does it sing
it indefinitely thrums
of that i am certain
but does it live
it feels alive
i can imagine my hand resting on it feeling a vibration of life
therefore it has a spirit
it thrives within me
and i confess like a dying poet
bleeding from his emptying heart,
i love it
i'm in love with this sensation
whatever it is.
-k.p.b.
"Adieux"
"Adieux"
Kiersten P. Benson
(1997--)
Without a mask
my face is plain.
It isn't blank or boring or exhausted
it is merely exposed
devoid of any disturbing element that endeavors to distort it.
Try it must to cover me up
to smear some disgusting element across it
to erase whatever is left
of the face someone once made for me.
It's like unearthing something once lost
and though it has come back to you, it isn't the same as it once was before.
Perhaps it is covered in mud
in damp earth with leaves poking out and soft rain sticking to it.
Is it an abandoned love letter you once wrote yourself?
Or perhaps it is a lost toy long forgotten in the dirt
swallowed by memory and inevitable time.
Something tells me it is something different.
Something small
with two eyes
and one nose
and rosy lips. It looks familiar.
Perhaps you have to fix it, just a little.
A small wash in mirth and merriment. That's all.
Look in the mirror.
Talk to yourself. Remind yourself why you look alive today
and not dead.
"You know what doesn't scare me?" I think I ask this to the small girl in the mirror often (the reflection of yourself often tells more about your soul than you think).
I watch her.
In retrospect, she looks terrified.
But now.
She smiles.
"You. You don't scare me at all."
Then I think.
Nature is what scares me.
Not time,
not my naked face exposed to the world
but formidable dominance,
wonderful power,
strength that I will never be as beautiful,
as orderly, as balanced and dominant
and selfless as.
So what will I be today? Many ask this question every morning.
What face shall I wear,
as if it is a choice of color
or wood
or shoes.
Secretly there is a truth few discuss
upon the matter of masks.
Many believe you make your own from some element you may have gathered from the woods
or stumbled upon from the sea.
They say you can paint it yourself
with crushed seashells and plush berries,
the loud colours soaking in the wood like "beautiful elements",
they say. They seem to only drip to me.
But that is not what I have discovered nor believe to be true.
The secret is more simple than that.
Imagine the most beautiful face you have ever beheld
ever dreamed about
or wondered about its structure and
effortless form.
Perhaps you've given hours staring at it,
climbing the hills and valleys it is made from.
Maybe it was only a glance.
Is it real?
Do you know this face you think of?
Can you touch it? What does it taste like in your eyes? You can smell it, can't you?
It is beyond beautiful.
It's the face of someone you know.
I'm certain of it.
Today it is raining.
It is soft
and sounds enchanting.
My hair is down and tangles itself with this inseperable world delightfully.
My hands did not touch my face
or most importantly
my eyes.
They are there with innocent childhood and gigantic curiosity brimming from within them.
They are open today,
even if they look like they might possibly be sleeping.
I sigh peacefully and say,
to no one in particular,
"This is my face today.
Isn't it lovely?"
The snow falls quietly now.
It catches on every element,
and I think it quite agrees.
-k.p.b.
March 29, 2016 12:25PM
Tuesday (a wonderful day to be alive with wondrous music and soft falling snow mixed with rain)
Kiersten P. Benson
(1997--)
Without a mask
my face is plain.
It isn't blank or boring or exhausted
it is merely exposed
devoid of any disturbing element that endeavors to distort it.
Try it must to cover me up
to smear some disgusting element across it
to erase whatever is left
of the face someone once made for me.
It's like unearthing something once lost
and though it has come back to you, it isn't the same as it once was before.
Perhaps it is covered in mud
in damp earth with leaves poking out and soft rain sticking to it.
Is it an abandoned love letter you once wrote yourself?
Or perhaps it is a lost toy long forgotten in the dirt
swallowed by memory and inevitable time.
Something tells me it is something different.
Something small
with two eyes
and one nose
and rosy lips. It looks familiar.
Perhaps you have to fix it, just a little.
A small wash in mirth and merriment. That's all.
Look in the mirror.
Talk to yourself. Remind yourself why you look alive today
and not dead.
"You know what doesn't scare me?" I think I ask this to the small girl in the mirror often (the reflection of yourself often tells more about your soul than you think).
I watch her.
In retrospect, she looks terrified.
But now.
She smiles.
"You. You don't scare me at all."
Then I think.
Nature is what scares me.
Not time,
not my naked face exposed to the world
but formidable dominance,
wonderful power,
strength that I will never be as beautiful,
as orderly, as balanced and dominant
and selfless as.
So what will I be today? Many ask this question every morning.
What face shall I wear,
as if it is a choice of color
or wood
or shoes.
Secretly there is a truth few discuss
upon the matter of masks.
Many believe you make your own from some element you may have gathered from the woods
or stumbled upon from the sea.
They say you can paint it yourself
with crushed seashells and plush berries,
the loud colours soaking in the wood like "beautiful elements",
they say. They seem to only drip to me.
But that is not what I have discovered nor believe to be true.
The secret is more simple than that.
Imagine the most beautiful face you have ever beheld
ever dreamed about
or wondered about its structure and
effortless form.
Perhaps you've given hours staring at it,
climbing the hills and valleys it is made from.
Maybe it was only a glance.
Is it real?
Do you know this face you think of?
Can you touch it? What does it taste like in your eyes? You can smell it, can't you?
It is beyond beautiful.
It's the face of someone you know.
I'm certain of it.
Today it is raining.
It is soft
and sounds enchanting.
My hair is down and tangles itself with this inseperable world delightfully.
My hands did not touch my face
or most importantly
my eyes.
They are there with innocent childhood and gigantic curiosity brimming from within them.
They are open today,
even if they look like they might possibly be sleeping.
I sigh peacefully and say,
to no one in particular,
"This is my face today.
Isn't it lovely?"
The snow falls quietly now.
It catches on every element,
and I think it quite agrees.
-k.p.b.
March 29, 2016 12:25PM
Tuesday (a wonderful day to be alive with wondrous music and soft falling snow mixed with rain)
i forget people travel in the rain
i forget people travel in the rain
i forget to think about breathing and my heart beating
and the spaces
between my ribs
(where possible flowers grow).
i forget about the italian seashells
laying about
on my dusty window seal
thinking about life and love too much,
and the way a dog runs in the middle of summer
as if he has no where and
everywhere to go.
i forget about crisp skate blades on ice when
the nights are thick and warm
full of flowers
and long conversations.
my mind runs from the stars when i am sleeping (you can understand why i do it so little)
and i often forget
about the sound your heart makes when i am near it.
but I never forget a few precious things,
like the sound of rain against glass
the potpourri of autumn scent from the trees
book pages
(their feel, their scent)
the sensation of cool grass and dewy flowers in my fingers
favorite songs, favorite lines
the chilled nostalgia of missing you always.
there are few things i rarely remember,
the sunrise perhaps,
sometimes the quietly singing moon,
yet you
dear one
are one of them.
don't you know?
-k.p.b
i forget to think about breathing and my heart beating
and the spaces
between my ribs
(where possible flowers grow).
i forget about the italian seashells
laying about
on my dusty window seal
thinking about life and love too much,
and the way a dog runs in the middle of summer
as if he has no where and
everywhere to go.
i forget about crisp skate blades on ice when
the nights are thick and warm
full of flowers
and long conversations.
my mind runs from the stars when i am sleeping (you can understand why i do it so little)
and i often forget
about the sound your heart makes when i am near it.
but I never forget a few precious things,
like the sound of rain against glass
the potpourri of autumn scent from the trees
book pages
(their feel, their scent)
the sensation of cool grass and dewy flowers in my fingers
favorite songs, favorite lines
the chilled nostalgia of missing you always.
there are few things i rarely remember,
the sunrise perhaps,
sometimes the quietly singing moon,
yet you
dear one
are one of them.
don't you know?
-k.p.b
Saturday, March 26, 2016
page 992, one a.m., with weary eyes
James Thomson
The Bridge
"O, what are you waiting for here,
young man?
What are you looking for over the bridge?"
A little straw hat with the streaming
blue ribbons
Is soon to come dancing over the
bridge.
Her heart beats the measure that keeps
her feet dancing,
Her heart pours the sunshine with
which her eyes glancing
Light up strange faces in looking for
me.
The strange faces brighten in meeting
her glances;
The strangers all bless her, pure,
lovely, and free:
She fancies she walks, but her walk
skips and dances,
Her heart makes such music in com-
ing to me.
O, thousands and thousands of happy
young maidens
Are tripping this morning their
sweethearts to see;
But none whose heart beats to a sweeter
love-cadence
Than hers who will brighten the sun-
shine for me.
"O, what are you waiting for here,
young man?
What are you looking for over the
bridge?"
A little straw hat with the streaming
blue ribbons;
--And here it comes dancing over
the bridge!
The Bridge
"O, what are you waiting for here,
young man?
What are you looking for over the bridge?"
A little straw hat with the streaming
blue ribbons
Is soon to come dancing over the
bridge.
Her heart beats the measure that keeps
her feet dancing,
Her heart pours the sunshine with
which her eyes glancing
Light up strange faces in looking for
me.
The strange faces brighten in meeting
her glances;
The strangers all bless her, pure,
lovely, and free:
She fancies she walks, but her walk
skips and dances,
Her heart makes such music in com-
ing to me.
O, thousands and thousands of happy
young maidens
Are tripping this morning their
sweethearts to see;
But none whose heart beats to a sweeter
love-cadence
Than hers who will brighten the sun-
shine for me.
"O, what are you waiting for here,
young man?
What are you looking for over the
bridge?"
A little straw hat with the streaming
blue ribbons;
--And here it comes dancing over
the bridge!
Friday, March 25, 2016
these days
I can't sleep these nights anymore.
My mind runs reckless through the air stopping for nothing but heartache and madness.
No more, I beg. Kneeling at the precipice of my bed and licking the edge of a cliff I cannot name.
I am driven mad by wet wanting.
The devouring of simple thoughts has become my catharsis, these days.
These days, I don't even see the sun for hours. It sleeps on the other side of the earth while I lay awake tossing the thoughts of you from my mind like fragile seashells. I am gutting the ocean, I guess.
My music drowns only after midnight.
I can feel the cold air cutting on my fingertips as I fall deeper and deeper in the intoxicating pool of nothingness and yet, so much substance does the sleepless night bring to me.
Tell me, dear ones above the earth, sweet stars above me, when did the night ever become so cold? When did sleeping become the dance of the dead and not the pleasure of the living? I feel so cold.
I am so alone.
I don't want to be sad anymore.
The sting of sickly warm tears has plagued me long enough, but something tells me it is just the beginning.
These days, I don't know what to do with myself.
I am so happy most of the time, but then I'm so elegiac.
I am drowning, I feel.
I feel so much.
I feel nothing at all.
Why is my constant companion...especially right now, here. At night. In the bitter darkness.
Why don't you want me? Why can't we try? Why am I not good enough? Why not? Why must everyone I love leave me? Why? Why?
Do I feel pathetic.
There is the crumbled body of a broken child crying itself to sleep inside my heart right now.
I don't mean to be sad. There are such lovely threads of light inside of me, I promise. There is much to be thankful for. My words ache to uplift, only my heart is a little broken.
Don't run from yourself. It whispers to me.
My room, I assume, is quiet along with the rest of my empty house. I wish it wasn't so deafeningly quiet. Can't my books sing?
The plants used to dance to the song of warm sunlight and riveting moonlight.
Why don't they dance?
They used to dance.
I need to sleep.
I'm so tired of thinking about you.
I'm so tired.
I'm so tired.
Please, just let me sleep.
I'm so tired.
-k.p.b.
1:48AM
My mind runs reckless through the air stopping for nothing but heartache and madness.
No more, I beg. Kneeling at the precipice of my bed and licking the edge of a cliff I cannot name.
I am driven mad by wet wanting.
The devouring of simple thoughts has become my catharsis, these days.
These days, I don't even see the sun for hours. It sleeps on the other side of the earth while I lay awake tossing the thoughts of you from my mind like fragile seashells. I am gutting the ocean, I guess.
My music drowns only after midnight.
I can feel the cold air cutting on my fingertips as I fall deeper and deeper in the intoxicating pool of nothingness and yet, so much substance does the sleepless night bring to me.
Tell me, dear ones above the earth, sweet stars above me, when did the night ever become so cold? When did sleeping become the dance of the dead and not the pleasure of the living? I feel so cold.
I am so alone.
I don't want to be sad anymore.
The sting of sickly warm tears has plagued me long enough, but something tells me it is just the beginning.
These days, I don't know what to do with myself.
I am so happy most of the time, but then I'm so elegiac.
I am drowning, I feel.
I feel so much.
I feel nothing at all.
Why is my constant companion...especially right now, here. At night. In the bitter darkness.
Why don't you want me? Why can't we try? Why am I not good enough? Why not? Why must everyone I love leave me? Why? Why?
Do I feel pathetic.
There is the crumbled body of a broken child crying itself to sleep inside my heart right now.
I don't mean to be sad. There are such lovely threads of light inside of me, I promise. There is much to be thankful for. My words ache to uplift, only my heart is a little broken.
Don't run from yourself. It whispers to me.
My room, I assume, is quiet along with the rest of my empty house. I wish it wasn't so deafeningly quiet. Can't my books sing?
The plants used to dance to the song of warm sunlight and riveting moonlight.
Why don't they dance?
They used to dance.
I need to sleep.
I'm so tired of thinking about you.
I'm so tired.
I'm so tired.
Please, just let me sleep.
I'm so tired.
-k.p.b.
1:48AM
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
yellow and blue
Rolling clouds of grey were my glorious sunrise this morning.
How one can have a sunrise at eleven o'clock in the morning is beyond me, but it happened and I assure you it was marvelous.
Last night I slept with sweet music cradling my senses and awoke to the most comfy feeling in the world. The blankets were thickly pillowing my body, my small foot nearly poking out of it and I daresay I felt like a small child again, awaking from a wondrous night of sleep from a night this is not cold, but gentle and sweet. It was beautiful.
And then my body, somehow quieter than it has ever been, crept out of my sister's room without a sound, and followed the baking smell of food to the kitchen downstairs. It was a mystery. A thought began to stir within me and I realized it was a beautiful thought, from a beautiful movie (as many of them are). I gently made my way over to my oldest brother and gave him a long and thoughtful hug and whispered, "I love you" as my lips kissed his sweet red hair. Then I spotted another older brother and wrapped my arms around him too. I discovered the baking smell had come from lovely little ginger snap cookies my brother had made (gluten free just for me!) and suddenly decided there was no better way to start the morning than with good cookies. My fingers wrapped around one as the others searched for my yellow mug and suddenly another cookie was dangling from my mouth as I poured a splash of milk in my mug and a little in my cheerios and delighted myself to a breakfast outside on the porch.
It looked cold.
But it was lovely.
The clouds were layered in every shade of grey imaginable and the cool air rattled my bones into delightful consciousness. I was purely awakened by the sound of sweet chirping birds, of which I am now just a little bit more familiar with since dear Jackie allowed me to listen to her bird finding app, but I'll have you know I still can't name a single one of them. Their songs inspire me like a symphony from a composer whose name has escaped me or chef that ran from the kitchen before I could even kiss his hand in gratitude. But that's okay. I'm more than content just listening to a nameless bird for now when the promise of learning their name someday follows that contentment.
The cement was cold against my blue and white flower pajamas that went missing for a while. I'm so happy they returned to me. They are really lovely pajamas. The clink of my yellow mug sitting perfectly next to my right knee, the cookie dunking itself in the remains of my cheerio milk and the rolling clouds combined to make a lovely moment of peacefulness. I recall pulling my long curled air of amber, or brown, or red (whatever people call it these days) but I did it twice for good reason. The first time I pulled it too fast and so allowed myself to try again and allow the teeth to run through my hair for a moment like fingers and pull it softly like a lover. I allowed the teeth to feel my hair and hold it gently.
I've begun to understand these days that respecting the elements that make up this pretty world is the first way we can give back to it. Enjoying what it gives you is appreciating, but allowing those elements to enjoy what you can give it is understanding. It's giving back and letting it love you too. So I let the clip swallow my hair in a beautiful devour and allowed room for it to feel satisfaction the way it constantly allows me to.
My hands found their way over my chest again, as they always do when I feel something too beautiful to ignore. My legs were folded like a child. The birds began to chirp delightfully and then all at once this world was singing and it was too marvelous to walk away from. After all, when the opera reaches its ending, do you simply walk away or do you stay and watch in marvel and astonishment? Do you leave or do you clap until your hands understand just a little bit more what real beauty is?
You know, I have discovered many things today and here are just a few:
I wake up an hour earlier to live an hour longer. This life is too wonderful not to.
I sit outside and eat my breakfast with the earth and sky and sun so that they can teach more and more every day. I sit there to learn patience. To understand. To be better than I was yesterday.
I embraced my brothers this morning because a movie I recently watched hasn't left me and it taught me to live everyday as if you could live it twice and do all the things you didn't do the first time, like observe others, love people, making time for the things that truly, truly matter.
One last thing, I learned today that I deserve love very much. True love. Romantic love. Compelling and riveting love. My heart is undeserving of nothing love can and will give me and I'm so happy to know that someday someone will take care of me every moment. I know I say this quite a bit, but I can't wait for the time when someone can't take their eyes off of me and can't get enough of me. Loving someone used to be a mystery to me, but not so much these days. I won't ever say I understand the secrets of love but I do know that it is kind and giving and powerful. Whatever love you elect yourself is the love you think you deserve and I'll tell you now so you don't get the wrong idea about what I am trying to say, I am through with chasing a shadow of love that may not ever love me back. I am too good, too precious of a daughter of God to be treated in a way that I am not deserving or lovely or worth it. I think a person can fall in love with almost anybody if they really took the time to get to know their story, but it's the moment of understanding one another before words are even necessary that I belief real love starts to grow.
Angels are truly with me this glorious morning and they are real even if they are not always easy to see. They teach me so much.
This world is truly riveting and all it takes to seeing that is stopping and listening.
This morning I sat criss-cross on a cold cement porch and fell softly in love with the beautiful contrast of yellow and blue from my glass mug and pretty pajamas and I realize now as I write these words that that is enough for me to be happy for now. Appreciating. Observing. Listening. Loving. Yes, for now. life is wonderful.
-k.p.b,
March 23, 2016 Wednesday 11:46am
How one can have a sunrise at eleven o'clock in the morning is beyond me, but it happened and I assure you it was marvelous.
Last night I slept with sweet music cradling my senses and awoke to the most comfy feeling in the world. The blankets were thickly pillowing my body, my small foot nearly poking out of it and I daresay I felt like a small child again, awaking from a wondrous night of sleep from a night this is not cold, but gentle and sweet. It was beautiful.
And then my body, somehow quieter than it has ever been, crept out of my sister's room without a sound, and followed the baking smell of food to the kitchen downstairs. It was a mystery. A thought began to stir within me and I realized it was a beautiful thought, from a beautiful movie (as many of them are). I gently made my way over to my oldest brother and gave him a long and thoughtful hug and whispered, "I love you" as my lips kissed his sweet red hair. Then I spotted another older brother and wrapped my arms around him too. I discovered the baking smell had come from lovely little ginger snap cookies my brother had made (gluten free just for me!) and suddenly decided there was no better way to start the morning than with good cookies. My fingers wrapped around one as the others searched for my yellow mug and suddenly another cookie was dangling from my mouth as I poured a splash of milk in my mug and a little in my cheerios and delighted myself to a breakfast outside on the porch.
It looked cold.
But it was lovely.
The clouds were layered in every shade of grey imaginable and the cool air rattled my bones into delightful consciousness. I was purely awakened by the sound of sweet chirping birds, of which I am now just a little bit more familiar with since dear Jackie allowed me to listen to her bird finding app, but I'll have you know I still can't name a single one of them. Their songs inspire me like a symphony from a composer whose name has escaped me or chef that ran from the kitchen before I could even kiss his hand in gratitude. But that's okay. I'm more than content just listening to a nameless bird for now when the promise of learning their name someday follows that contentment.
The cement was cold against my blue and white flower pajamas that went missing for a while. I'm so happy they returned to me. They are really lovely pajamas. The clink of my yellow mug sitting perfectly next to my right knee, the cookie dunking itself in the remains of my cheerio milk and the rolling clouds combined to make a lovely moment of peacefulness. I recall pulling my long curled air of amber, or brown, or red (whatever people call it these days) but I did it twice for good reason. The first time I pulled it too fast and so allowed myself to try again and allow the teeth to run through my hair for a moment like fingers and pull it softly like a lover. I allowed the teeth to feel my hair and hold it gently.
I've begun to understand these days that respecting the elements that make up this pretty world is the first way we can give back to it. Enjoying what it gives you is appreciating, but allowing those elements to enjoy what you can give it is understanding. It's giving back and letting it love you too. So I let the clip swallow my hair in a beautiful devour and allowed room for it to feel satisfaction the way it constantly allows me to.
My hands found their way over my chest again, as they always do when I feel something too beautiful to ignore. My legs were folded like a child. The birds began to chirp delightfully and then all at once this world was singing and it was too marvelous to walk away from. After all, when the opera reaches its ending, do you simply walk away or do you stay and watch in marvel and astonishment? Do you leave or do you clap until your hands understand just a little bit more what real beauty is?
You know, I have discovered many things today and here are just a few:
I wake up an hour earlier to live an hour longer. This life is too wonderful not to.
I sit outside and eat my breakfast with the earth and sky and sun so that they can teach more and more every day. I sit there to learn patience. To understand. To be better than I was yesterday.
I embraced my brothers this morning because a movie I recently watched hasn't left me and it taught me to live everyday as if you could live it twice and do all the things you didn't do the first time, like observe others, love people, making time for the things that truly, truly matter.
One last thing, I learned today that I deserve love very much. True love. Romantic love. Compelling and riveting love. My heart is undeserving of nothing love can and will give me and I'm so happy to know that someday someone will take care of me every moment. I know I say this quite a bit, but I can't wait for the time when someone can't take their eyes off of me and can't get enough of me. Loving someone used to be a mystery to me, but not so much these days. I won't ever say I understand the secrets of love but I do know that it is kind and giving and powerful. Whatever love you elect yourself is the love you think you deserve and I'll tell you now so you don't get the wrong idea about what I am trying to say, I am through with chasing a shadow of love that may not ever love me back. I am too good, too precious of a daughter of God to be treated in a way that I am not deserving or lovely or worth it. I think a person can fall in love with almost anybody if they really took the time to get to know their story, but it's the moment of understanding one another before words are even necessary that I belief real love starts to grow.
Angels are truly with me this glorious morning and they are real even if they are not always easy to see. They teach me so much.
This world is truly riveting and all it takes to seeing that is stopping and listening.
This morning I sat criss-cross on a cold cement porch and fell softly in love with the beautiful contrast of yellow and blue from my glass mug and pretty pajamas and I realize now as I write these words that that is enough for me to be happy for now. Appreciating. Observing. Listening. Loving. Yes, for now. life is wonderful.
-k.p.b,
March 23, 2016 Wednesday 11:46am
Monday, March 21, 2016
the girl is gone
There she was
a bundle of joy
swaddled in happiness.
The light was soft after an exhausting night.
The room flowing with many people that care
so much
for a new creature of this world.
Why the tears came,
I wasn't entirely sure.
They stung my eyes with joy
and sadness.
It was awakening
and drowsy.
Why was there sorrow when this new life brings nothing but joy?
I did not know.
I think it's something you learn on your own.
When your own tiny happiness latches on to you,
and looks at you for the first time
stopping time in its tracks for
just one moment.
But I knew this baby,
this child of light,
this tiny human
that wasn't even mine,
would mean more to me than any other.
Little Clair.
Sweet Clair de Lune.
Sitting outside on a grey cushion,
the soft tingle of her song falling from the cushion of my headphones
and into my ears,
was delightful.
I wish I could've seen her come,
tumble from the small catacomb
from where she lived for nine months.
But she is here,
and wishing for things that are past is
like stealing pennies from a fountain.
You get nothing from wishes that are not your own.
She is lovely.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Cold.
Beautiful.
My little St. Clair.
My arms ache to hold her
but I already feel blessed beyond reason to see her mother
lose the girl, the childish spirit that was once inside of her
and all at once
see a mother.
The girl she was is gone.
All at once she is a mother.
She latches on perfectly,
the tiny one,
and watch how suddenly the world,
her world, has begun.
Watch how her glittering eyes will open more every day
and watch how her family,
her father,
her mother,
will never let go, too.
Just watch.
This world will teach you more than you will teach it.
Of that I am certain.
-k.p.b.
a bundle of joy
swaddled in happiness.
The light was soft after an exhausting night.
The room flowing with many people that care
so much
for a new creature of this world.
Why the tears came,
I wasn't entirely sure.
They stung my eyes with joy
and sadness.
It was awakening
and drowsy.
Why was there sorrow when this new life brings nothing but joy?
I did not know.
I think it's something you learn on your own.
When your own tiny happiness latches on to you,
and looks at you for the first time
stopping time in its tracks for
just one moment.
But I knew this baby,
this child of light,
this tiny human
that wasn't even mine,
would mean more to me than any other.
Little Clair.
Sweet Clair de Lune.
Sitting outside on a grey cushion,
the soft tingle of her song falling from the cushion of my headphones
and into my ears,
was delightful.
I wish I could've seen her come,
tumble from the small catacomb
from where she lived for nine months.
But she is here,
and wishing for things that are past is
like stealing pennies from a fountain.
You get nothing from wishes that are not your own.
She is lovely.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Cold.
Beautiful.
My little St. Clair.
My arms ache to hold her
but I already feel blessed beyond reason to see her mother
lose the girl, the childish spirit that was once inside of her
and all at once
see a mother.
The girl she was is gone.
All at once she is a mother.
She latches on perfectly,
the tiny one,
and watch how suddenly the world,
her world, has begun.
Watch how her glittering eyes will open more every day
and watch how her family,
her father,
her mother,
will never let go, too.
Just watch.
This world will teach you more than you will teach it.
Of that I am certain.
-k.p.b.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
"songbird"
Birds chirping outside my window reminds me of summer. The cool nights. The long days weary with sun. The plump smell of deep pillows of green grass and wet flowers. It's all found in that simple song.
It's moments like this with my window slid open, the view of the whole sky beyond my pale seashells and potted plants resting on my window seal, the soft waft of subtle spring drifting innocently into my hair, that I am reminded of something stirring from my childhood.
Childhood...
Today my mother called me her Songbird. It's been a good while since I've heard that name from her, or anyone really. My mother has always called me her Songbird. Ever since I could catch a tune I've been singing and she's been calling me that. Today she talked about the way I'd sing alone in the big living room swallowed up in a flowery couch until I couldn't anymore. I'd just sing. So tiny, but so full of song. The sun would set and a song would still be escaping me. The innocent satisfaction softly (and sometimes not so softly) singing brings me is simply astonishing. Especially when you can feel it humming inside of your chest, like you're heart is singing along with you.
I've been thinking a lot lately.
I do that.
But these days I'm doing more than thinking about the songs birds sing or the dance trees move with. The simple pleasure of mindlessly thinking whilst embracing the world around me has disappeared since I haven't physically written in a book for months. I used to sit outside, even when it was crisp or cold and I would wrap myself up in writing. Mindless writing, too. The kind that spills on the crisp pages and drips into the seams. I miss writing so much.
That's really why I'm here right now, typing in a thoughtful manner, not like I used to write.
I think too much, these days. Just minutes ago I was slipping black pants over my legs when the feverish impulse of writing overcame me. The thought of Vincent was in my mind, his words about always "striking the iron while it's hot" ran through me. I stopped. I dragged my laptop to my desk. I sat in my pink IKEA chair and I breathed.
I exhaled.
Think about it, I told myself.
You cannot let inspiration go when it catches you--it has a lot to do and you might as well help it along! What could it hurt? You only regret the glimpse of inspiration you didn't pay attention to in this riveting world we often forget.
Inspiration is compelling beyond reason, isn't it?
But on another note, there is an unspecified ticking in my close vicinity and I am unsure where it is coming from, what it is, and, of course, what it means. My suspicions tell me it is my laptop, but my soul whispers it is my heart popping for who knows why. I search high and search low, my right ear resting on the warm bed of letters, then my left and lastly my eyes linger on my chest.
Is it the delectable wind rattling inside my lungs right now?
Perhaps it is a song unearthing itself from my defining childhood habits.
Is it dangerous? I wonder.
I am constantly caught between aching to hear music, the same songs I listen to every week, and merely listening to the beautiful sounds nature provides me with. They are far prettier songs to hear, but much harder to sing, I admit.
Do you see what I mean by thinking too much?
I wept today.
I weep quite a bit these days.
But today was a little different. It wasn't about anyone really, but it was about me. I think it was an unearthing of sorts, a catharsis of the potpourri of emotions bursting from within me. It was almost like I couldn't help it. The tears simply slid from some patch within me that was ripping at the seams for quite some time and I didn't really care that people were beside me. I wept in the chapel with a lovely temple dedication bringing such comfort and truth to my aching soul. A clean white handkerchief was clenched in my hands resting properly on my lap, but I could not use it to wipe my warm tears. It was too pure. Again and again my hands smeared the flowing tears from the corners of my big eyes and soft cheeks. It was exhausting. And riveting. Cleansing, more like it.
I strangely miss crying.
The secrets my tears could tell you about my soul if they would only talk. But they won't, for now. For now they know there isn't a soul present that wishes to truly hear the secrets festering the typhoon I call my soul.
I think the tears that fell today did tell me something. It wasn't a secret, per say, but it was devastatingly truthful.
I am waiting.
For what you may ask? Well, that is the glorious part.
My best friend.
Not the one I already have, the one I call my sister, or my books, or my entire family for that matter.
No, this person is different.
He is the one I'm waiting to spend every day with, the one reminding me every day why he is my best friend and why he stays by me when so many others never wanted to.
I'm waiting for the moment when I can stop by him, our hands dangerously close and as I look into his eyes and discover something I've never felt before--I'll look at him the way I've always wanted to be looked at and then I'll say, "What is it you see in me? Why don't you keep walking the way you were before you met me? What made you stop and say hello forever?"
And then the words that follow, not from my lips, but his will change so much about the world I though I knew before.
I am not afraid of walking alone, you know. I've done it my whole life and even though it's young and I hardly know what life really tastes like, there is a deep penetration, a rooted substance within my soul that tells me I have waited longer than most people to feel even the tiniest taste of real love, life that is scintillating without lonely sunrises. It is there whispering to me every moment of the day and night.
I am not confessing that this life does not already surprise and uplift me.
I am not forsaking the song that is already stirring within.
I am merely putting it down on paper that I am not afraid for the life that is waiting for me as anxiously and preciously as I wait for it. There are simply songs I have not yet heard or sung, dances I do not know exist yet. But, they are there waiting for me.
The tears didn't tell me what I already knew--they gave to me a song that I needed more than anything.
A soft song. A quiet and gentle melody.
Hope.
-k.p.b.
"Suite Bergamasque L 75: Clair de Lune" Finghin Collins (Composed by: Claude Debussy) A song that does not disturb nature, but rather softly and gently runs through it as if it was begged to belong there.
It's moments like this with my window slid open, the view of the whole sky beyond my pale seashells and potted plants resting on my window seal, the soft waft of subtle spring drifting innocently into my hair, that I am reminded of something stirring from my childhood.
Childhood...
Today my mother called me her Songbird. It's been a good while since I've heard that name from her, or anyone really. My mother has always called me her Songbird. Ever since I could catch a tune I've been singing and she's been calling me that. Today she talked about the way I'd sing alone in the big living room swallowed up in a flowery couch until I couldn't anymore. I'd just sing. So tiny, but so full of song. The sun would set and a song would still be escaping me. The innocent satisfaction softly (and sometimes not so softly) singing brings me is simply astonishing. Especially when you can feel it humming inside of your chest, like you're heart is singing along with you.
I've been thinking a lot lately.
I do that.
But these days I'm doing more than thinking about the songs birds sing or the dance trees move with. The simple pleasure of mindlessly thinking whilst embracing the world around me has disappeared since I haven't physically written in a book for months. I used to sit outside, even when it was crisp or cold and I would wrap myself up in writing. Mindless writing, too. The kind that spills on the crisp pages and drips into the seams. I miss writing so much.
That's really why I'm here right now, typing in a thoughtful manner, not like I used to write.
I think too much, these days. Just minutes ago I was slipping black pants over my legs when the feverish impulse of writing overcame me. The thought of Vincent was in my mind, his words about always "striking the iron while it's hot" ran through me. I stopped. I dragged my laptop to my desk. I sat in my pink IKEA chair and I breathed.
I exhaled.
Think about it, I told myself.
You cannot let inspiration go when it catches you--it has a lot to do and you might as well help it along! What could it hurt? You only regret the glimpse of inspiration you didn't pay attention to in this riveting world we often forget.
Inspiration is compelling beyond reason, isn't it?
But on another note, there is an unspecified ticking in my close vicinity and I am unsure where it is coming from, what it is, and, of course, what it means. My suspicions tell me it is my laptop, but my soul whispers it is my heart popping for who knows why. I search high and search low, my right ear resting on the warm bed of letters, then my left and lastly my eyes linger on my chest.
Is it the delectable wind rattling inside my lungs right now?
Perhaps it is a song unearthing itself from my defining childhood habits.
Is it dangerous? I wonder.
I am constantly caught between aching to hear music, the same songs I listen to every week, and merely listening to the beautiful sounds nature provides me with. They are far prettier songs to hear, but much harder to sing, I admit.
Do you see what I mean by thinking too much?
I wept today.
I weep quite a bit these days.
But today was a little different. It wasn't about anyone really, but it was about me. I think it was an unearthing of sorts, a catharsis of the potpourri of emotions bursting from within me. It was almost like I couldn't help it. The tears simply slid from some patch within me that was ripping at the seams for quite some time and I didn't really care that people were beside me. I wept in the chapel with a lovely temple dedication bringing such comfort and truth to my aching soul. A clean white handkerchief was clenched in my hands resting properly on my lap, but I could not use it to wipe my warm tears. It was too pure. Again and again my hands smeared the flowing tears from the corners of my big eyes and soft cheeks. It was exhausting. And riveting. Cleansing, more like it.
I strangely miss crying.
The secrets my tears could tell you about my soul if they would only talk. But they won't, for now. For now they know there isn't a soul present that wishes to truly hear the secrets festering the typhoon I call my soul.
I think the tears that fell today did tell me something. It wasn't a secret, per say, but it was devastatingly truthful.
I am waiting.
For what you may ask? Well, that is the glorious part.
My best friend.
Not the one I already have, the one I call my sister, or my books, or my entire family for that matter.
No, this person is different.
He is the one I'm waiting to spend every day with, the one reminding me every day why he is my best friend and why he stays by me when so many others never wanted to.
I'm waiting for the moment when I can stop by him, our hands dangerously close and as I look into his eyes and discover something I've never felt before--I'll look at him the way I've always wanted to be looked at and then I'll say, "What is it you see in me? Why don't you keep walking the way you were before you met me? What made you stop and say hello forever?"
And then the words that follow, not from my lips, but his will change so much about the world I though I knew before.
I am not afraid of walking alone, you know. I've done it my whole life and even though it's young and I hardly know what life really tastes like, there is a deep penetration, a rooted substance within my soul that tells me I have waited longer than most people to feel even the tiniest taste of real love, life that is scintillating without lonely sunrises. It is there whispering to me every moment of the day and night.
I am not confessing that this life does not already surprise and uplift me.
I am not forsaking the song that is already stirring within.
I am merely putting it down on paper that I am not afraid for the life that is waiting for me as anxiously and preciously as I wait for it. There are simply songs I have not yet heard or sung, dances I do not know exist yet. But, they are there waiting for me.
The tears didn't tell me what I already knew--they gave to me a song that I needed more than anything.
A soft song. A quiet and gentle melody.
Hope.
-k.p.b.
"Suite Bergamasque L 75: Clair de Lune" Finghin Collins (Composed by: Claude Debussy) A song that does not disturb nature, but rather softly and gently runs through it as if it was begged to belong there.
Friday, March 18, 2016
All Things Denote There is a God {30:44}
Alma 30
40 And now what evidence have ye that there is no God, or that Christ cometh not? I say unto you that ye have none, save it be your word only.
41 But, behold, I have all things as a testimony that these things are true; and ye also have all things as a testimony unto you that they are true; and will ye deny them? Believest thou that these things are true?
42 Behold, I know that thou believest, but thou art possessed with a lying spirit, and ye have put off the Spirit of God that it may have no place in you; but the devil has power over you, and he doth carry you about, working devices that he may destroy the children of God.
43 And now Korihor said unto Alma: If thou wilt show me a sign, that I may be convinced that there is a God, yea, show unto me that he hath power, and then will I be convinced of the truth of thy words.
44 But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.
-The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, Alma 30:40-44
40 And now what evidence have ye that there is no God, or that Christ cometh not? I say unto you that ye have none, save it be your word only.
41 But, behold, I have all things as a testimony that these things are true; and ye also have all things as a testimony unto you that they are true; and will ye deny them? Believest thou that these things are true?
42 Behold, I know that thou believest, but thou art possessed with a lying spirit, and ye have put off the Spirit of God that it may have no place in you; but the devil has power over you, and he doth carry you about, working devices that he may destroy the children of God.
43 And now Korihor said unto Alma: If thou wilt show me a sign, that I may be convinced that there is a God, yea, show unto me that he hath power, and then will I be convinced of the truth of thy words.
44 But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.
-The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, Alma 30:40-44
Thursday, March 17, 2016
The first night I got my succulent
The first night I got my succulent
he witnessed an array of emotion very few people have seen from me before.
He's lucky.
All Oliver, as I felt his name whispered in my heart, has to do it watch.
No tears.
No exhaustion,
Just two eyes searching a new room, new world
new creation of life.
He's lucky.
-k.p.b.
he witnessed an array of emotion very few people have seen from me before.
He's lucky.
All Oliver, as I felt his name whispered in my heart, has to do it watch.
No tears.
No exhaustion,
Just two eyes searching a new room, new world
new creation of life.
He's lucky.
-k.p.b.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Song for James Dean
There is a song that pangs inside my heart
it sounds just like a heartbeat
pumping
thrumming
thumping
threading words that echo off the earth.
It is beautiful and tragic at once.
After all, are those not the very same thing?
I am sitting here above the earth on my cold black roof
snuggled in a worn out blanket that has been a dear companion of mine for more tear soaked nights, more breathless awestruck glances at the stars, more sleepless nights than I could name
and it is wonderful this feeling of seeing the sky blushing an innocent pink,
holding itself against a soft blue
like a pure embrace.
The moon's teeth smiling too.
This song is exactly how I would describe the sound of kissing someone, imagining two pounding hearts a space between each other, of falling blissfully in love, this song is exactly the sound a heart makes when it is loving someone.
It pumps.
It threads.
It lives.
...
It reminds me of someone
someone I'm still confused about, as I probably always will be.
There are lyrics in this song that frighten me because they are not the words of the singer but the words of you.
(You can always tell when words within a song come from the singer and not yourself.
Always).
Words like, "I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free"
because you could.
With one look from those electrifying eyes
you could penetrate my soft heart, you could grasp it strong enough
to kill me.
But I'm thinking too much again.
Why do I think of you always?
I went on a trip this weekend for three days
and convinced myself I was not in love with you at all.
For days we were all together and
it worked for most of the time
because, like always, it didn't seem like you wanted me too.
Then the car ride home existed.
The looks.
The smiles.
The silent whispers.
What is this world anyway without the confusion of loving you and possibly hating everything about you?
I tried to drown it all away beneath the soft push of my headphones in my small ears
but even those are too soft to choke the thought of you out.
Call me crazy,
most people do,
but I think I love you even more because I truly stopped loving you for a moment.
Then I missed you.
I always miss you, kid.
It isn't fair.
You thought I couldn't hear you,
but I heard a few things you said while the music pulled me outside the car window.
You only speak about life when I'm not listening, it seems.
There was a soft feeling of nostalgia that is impossible to describe because this nostalgia came from no where.
It rested within me
heavy
and light
and grey.
It was delightful and gentle
and peculiar too.
It was the nostalgia of having you
and that is for certain an impossible nostalgia I have never had.
Will I ever?
I wonder.
7:49PM Wednesday
March 16, 2016
Written in the first crisp spring sunset my skin has touched.
it sounds just like a heartbeat
pumping
thrumming
thumping
threading words that echo off the earth.
It is beautiful and tragic at once.
After all, are those not the very same thing?
I am sitting here above the earth on my cold black roof
snuggled in a worn out blanket that has been a dear companion of mine for more tear soaked nights, more breathless awestruck glances at the stars, more sleepless nights than I could name
and it is wonderful this feeling of seeing the sky blushing an innocent pink,
holding itself against a soft blue
like a pure embrace.
The moon's teeth smiling too.
This song is exactly how I would describe the sound of kissing someone, imagining two pounding hearts a space between each other, of falling blissfully in love, this song is exactly the sound a heart makes when it is loving someone.
It pumps.
It threads.
It lives.
...
It reminds me of someone
someone I'm still confused about, as I probably always will be.
There are lyrics in this song that frighten me because they are not the words of the singer but the words of you.
(You can always tell when words within a song come from the singer and not yourself.
Always).
Words like, "I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free"
because you could.
With one look from those electrifying eyes
you could penetrate my soft heart, you could grasp it strong enough
to kill me.
But I'm thinking too much again.
Why do I think of you always?
I went on a trip this weekend for three days
and convinced myself I was not in love with you at all.
For days we were all together and
it worked for most of the time
because, like always, it didn't seem like you wanted me too.
Then the car ride home existed.
The looks.
The smiles.
The silent whispers.
What is this world anyway without the confusion of loving you and possibly hating everything about you?
I tried to drown it all away beneath the soft push of my headphones in my small ears
but even those are too soft to choke the thought of you out.
Call me crazy,
most people do,
but I think I love you even more because I truly stopped loving you for a moment.
Then I missed you.
I always miss you, kid.
It isn't fair.
You thought I couldn't hear you,
but I heard a few things you said while the music pulled me outside the car window.
You only speak about life when I'm not listening, it seems.
There was a soft feeling of nostalgia that is impossible to describe because this nostalgia came from no where.
It rested within me
heavy
and light
and grey.
It was delightful and gentle
and peculiar too.
It was the nostalgia of having you
and that is for certain an impossible nostalgia I have never had.
Will I ever?
I wonder.
-k.p.b.
7:49PM Wednesday
March 16, 2016
Written in the first crisp spring sunset my skin has touched.
The song goes like this:
"Song for Zula"
by: Phosphorescent
Some say love is a burning thing
That it makes a fiery ring
Oh but I know love as a fading thing
Just as fickle as a feather in a stream
See, honey, I saw love,
You see it came to me
It puts its face up to my face so I could see
Yeah then I saw love disfigure me
Into something I am not recognizing
See the cage, it called. I said, come on in
I will not open myself up this way again
Nor lay my face to the soil, nor my teeth to the sand
I will not lay like this for days now upon end
You will not see me fall, nor see me struggle to stand
To be acknowledged by some touch from his gnarled hands
You see the cage it called. I said, come on in
I will not open myself this way again.
You see the moon is bright in that treetop night
I see the shadows that we cast in the cold clean light
I might fear I go and my heart is white
And we race right out on the desert plains all night
So honey I am now, some broken thing
I do not lay in the dark waiting for day here
Now my heart is gold, my feet are right
And I'm racing out on the desert plains all night
So some say love is a burning thing
That it makes a fiery ring
All that I know love as a caging thing
Just a killer come to call from some awful dream
And all you folks, you come to see
You just to stand there in the glass looking at me
But my heart is wild, and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free
*I waited three days to download this song on my "Seclusion - J.D." playlist on Spotify and the moment of finally finding service to hear it--what a magical moment of a pounding heartbeat that was. I would give anything to have a human be the cause of that pounding, merely because they looked at me the way I always look at them. Anything at all.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Love Songs
At first...
Little Lord Love
Mary Oliver
Little Lord Love, he with the arrows,
has definitely shot the last one
with my name on it
straight to the heart
now, when I'm no longer young
and it's easy to stay up half the night
talking, and so on
Little Lord, frolicsome boy,
why did you wait until now?
And then...
Little Crazy Love Song
Mary Oliver
I don't want eventual,
I want soon.
It's 5 a.m. It's noon.
It's dusk falling into dark.
I listen to music.
I eat up a few wild poems
while time creeps along
as though it's got all day.
This is what I have.
The dull hangover of waiting,
the blush of my heart on the damp grass
the flower-faced moon.
A gull broods on the shore
where a moment ago there were two.
Softly my right hand fondles my left hand
as though it were you.
I am ignited.
...
She caught my soul once more.
It's 4 a.m. and I am awake when the poets are.
These poems are for me, I think.
I always think too much.
...
Feel.
She tells me much.
But this, this is something no one can teach me.
I am infinitely alive in a moment
no other human is awake.
Feel.
...
It means too much not to.
...
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
conviction
{7 July, 1888}
504
I should warn you that everyone is going to think that I'm working too fast. But don't believe a word of it.
Isn't it emotion, sincerity of feeling for nature, that guides us, and if these emotions are sometimes so strong that one works without feeling that one is working, when there are times when each touch of paint leads to the next and the relationship between them is like words in a speech or a letter, then one has to remember that is hasn't always been like this and that in the future there will also be difficult days, empty of inspiration.
So it's important to strike while the iron is hot and stack up the bars one has forged.
-Vincent van Gogh
504
I should warn you that everyone is going to think that I'm working too fast. But don't believe a word of it.
Isn't it emotion, sincerity of feeling for nature, that guides us, and if these emotions are sometimes so strong that one works without feeling that one is working, when there are times when each touch of paint leads to the next and the relationship between them is like words in a speech or a letter, then one has to remember that is hasn't always been like this and that in the future there will also be difficult days, empty of inspiration.
So it's important to strike while the iron is hot and stack up the bars one has forged.
-Vincent van Gogh
 |
| Pink Peach Tree // Vincent van Gogh |
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Three Books Deep
I wake up and look for cloudy skies.
My heart has exhaled this thought a thousand times over
a river running through its rivets quite possibly like sunlight in a cathedral flooding me with
small arrays of color that cling
on my skin like a
new dress.
It leaves me breathless for a moment.
The breeze grasps it gently and allows it to run softly through its
fingers in a twirl.
I think it's quite splendid.
Every thought grows in a garden
begging to be beautiful,
much more beautiful and technicolor than I could ever dare to be.
Every flower is inspiring to me
beauty pulls me in a way like I can't even help it.
There is a sweet sickness inseparably connected like tree roots searching for a purpose
to my heart
and they call it night.
They call it fire.
They call it love.
There are many names
this sickness has adopted,
the letters written about it revealed like spilled milk on
the surface of the moon.
It is quieting and riveting all at once reminding the earth
that quells unquestionably below it
there is adventure and danger there,
a braid of pale pink petals leading to the center of its electric voltage.
"Do not touch it."
The whispers echo off the spaces between my ribs,
reminding me
as so many things in this riveting world do
that I am tragically human.
I am a little bit lost without you.
My eyes close like pale suns against hard mountains covering themselves behind rose-colored lenses.
This world is much prettier when you forget you're in it
when you are no longer the world but
forgotten inside it.
Hide behind that rose-colored glass. It's easier that way.
Forget everything you've ever heard about it.
The only music to listen to is the one resolutely beating against your bones,
your fragile barricade of flesh, your memories;
let the poem within you flourish in an instant
and live on forever or
as long as you can stand it.
A sick thumping within my chest speaks to me finally,
telling me all the fears I never should have loved,
all the moments it plunged and dove and danced just for you.
I will always miss you.
After all,
how does the sun forget to miss the sky
when the mountains will devour it?
-k.p.b
Three Books Deep:
"chasers of the light: poems from the typewriter series" by: Tyler Knott Gregson
"Blue Horses" by: Mary Oliver
"Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems" by: Billy Collins
My heart has exhaled this thought a thousand times over
a river running through its rivets quite possibly like sunlight in a cathedral flooding me with
small arrays of color that cling
on my skin like a
new dress.
It leaves me breathless for a moment.
The breeze grasps it gently and allows it to run softly through its
fingers in a twirl.
I think it's quite splendid.
Every thought grows in a garden
begging to be beautiful,
much more beautiful and technicolor than I could ever dare to be.
Every flower is inspiring to me
beauty pulls me in a way like I can't even help it.
There is a sweet sickness inseparably connected like tree roots searching for a purpose
to my heart
and they call it night.
They call it fire.
They call it love.
There are many names
this sickness has adopted,
the letters written about it revealed like spilled milk on
the surface of the moon.
It is quieting and riveting all at once reminding the earth
that quells unquestionably below it
there is adventure and danger there,
a braid of pale pink petals leading to the center of its electric voltage.
"Do not touch it."
The whispers echo off the spaces between my ribs,
reminding me
as so many things in this riveting world do
that I am tragically human.
I am a little bit lost without you.
My eyes close like pale suns against hard mountains covering themselves behind rose-colored lenses.
This world is much prettier when you forget you're in it
when you are no longer the world but
forgotten inside it.
Hide behind that rose-colored glass. It's easier that way.
Forget everything you've ever heard about it.
The only music to listen to is the one resolutely beating against your bones,
your fragile barricade of flesh, your memories;
let the poem within you flourish in an instant
and live on forever or
as long as you can stand it.
A sick thumping within my chest speaks to me finally,
telling me all the fears I never should have loved,
all the moments it plunged and dove and danced just for you.
I will always miss you.
After all,
how does the sun forget to miss the sky
when the mountains will devour it?
-k.p.b
Three Books Deep:
"chasers of the light: poems from the typewriter series" by: Tyler Knott Gregson
"Blue Horses" by: Mary Oliver
"Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems" by: Billy Collins
Thursday, March 3, 2016
M.O.
I've never understood how one could be so full-heartedly and inseparably connected to someone they feel they know so deeply, so perfectly understanding one another, but in reality have never met each other.
I am, of course, speaking of my dearly beloved poet (or as she likes to refer to herself as a "mere observer") who expresses the quintessential beauty life holds for anyone with a pair of eyes and a supple heart yearning to discover more than first meets the human eye.
I'm never been the human to swoon over just anybody--with the exception of James Dean, of course--but there is simply some element to her that is stupefying, her words penetrate more than any other's I've read before (and I've read quite a few handfuls of words I thought understood my soul perfectly, like Vincent Van Gogh and so many others). But Mary Oliver. How do you do it?
I often find myself drifting to the mere thought of her words, the gentle matte of her perpetually satisfying books, the smell of their pages like the musk of all my life compressed sweetly together. There was a period in my young life with (which I am still apart of) where the only book I would accompany myself with (as I almost always carry a book with me everywhere I go) was her prepossessing copy of "New and Selected Poems: Volume One" with which I did basically anything and everything except sleep with (and even that's questionable). There were times I recall being so deeply affected by a poem or two of hers and the only thing that I could do to keep my skin from running away from the fiery passion radiating from within my heart, was press that dear lightly purple book against my chest and let it rest there until the composure of being so ignited, so alive by another human's words seep into my soul calmly overtake me. I always think about that clever, that gentle and most beautiful human I've yet to read from their heart, Mary Oliver.
There are few people I want to meet that are still living, and though I would love to run into dear Mary for just a moment, perhaps on a jumbled street or a seaside dock where we never thought we'd meet, just to see that soft spark of understanding in her eyes. I would never wish to meet her in an arranged manner, as I know she would never want that and neither do I. She is too beautiful of a creature to be forced into a world, an urban jungle with which her heart could never be gently cared for and for that, among so many other reasons, I love her endearingly.
I know I may never get to meet her.
But just to know she's lived and touched my life and many others is enough for me.
I accept that we are kindred spirits without a real bridge, but that's okay (just because it is happening inside my head doesn't mean it isn't real, right?). I love her and her beautiful words anyway.
Always and always.
-Kiersten B.
March 3, 2016
Thursday
12:43PM
I am, of course, speaking of my dearly beloved poet (or as she likes to refer to herself as a "mere observer") who expresses the quintessential beauty life holds for anyone with a pair of eyes and a supple heart yearning to discover more than first meets the human eye.
I'm never been the human to swoon over just anybody--with the exception of James Dean, of course--but there is simply some element to her that is stupefying, her words penetrate more than any other's I've read before (and I've read quite a few handfuls of words I thought understood my soul perfectly, like Vincent Van Gogh and so many others). But Mary Oliver. How do you do it?
I often find myself drifting to the mere thought of her words, the gentle matte of her perpetually satisfying books, the smell of their pages like the musk of all my life compressed sweetly together. There was a period in my young life with (which I am still apart of) where the only book I would accompany myself with (as I almost always carry a book with me everywhere I go) was her prepossessing copy of "New and Selected Poems: Volume One" with which I did basically anything and everything except sleep with (and even that's questionable). There were times I recall being so deeply affected by a poem or two of hers and the only thing that I could do to keep my skin from running away from the fiery passion radiating from within my heart, was press that dear lightly purple book against my chest and let it rest there until the composure of being so ignited, so alive by another human's words seep into my soul calmly overtake me. I always think about that clever, that gentle and most beautiful human I've yet to read from their heart, Mary Oliver.
There are few people I want to meet that are still living, and though I would love to run into dear Mary for just a moment, perhaps on a jumbled street or a seaside dock where we never thought we'd meet, just to see that soft spark of understanding in her eyes. I would never wish to meet her in an arranged manner, as I know she would never want that and neither do I. She is too beautiful of a creature to be forced into a world, an urban jungle with which her heart could never be gently cared for and for that, among so many other reasons, I love her endearingly.
I know I may never get to meet her.
But just to know she's lived and touched my life and many others is enough for me.
I accept that we are kindred spirits without a real bridge, but that's okay (just because it is happening inside my head doesn't mean it isn't real, right?). I love her and her beautiful words anyway.
Always and always.
-Kiersten B.
March 3, 2016
Thursday
12:43PM
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
ticking {like a heartbeat}
I hear my watch ticking in the quiet
and I don't know whether it is a good ticking or a bad ticking.
but then I think
this life isn't split into
good things
and bad things
now is it?
It is divided by moments we cherish
and the rest we forget.
-k.p.b.
5:08PM
2/14/16
and I don't know whether it is a good ticking or a bad ticking.
but then I think
this life isn't split into
good things
and bad things
now is it?
It is divided by moments we cherish
and the rest we forget.
-k.p.b.
5:08PM
2/14/16
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)