Thursday, October 28, 2010
Lazy as a leaf whose adventure is not his own
Ambitious as a vine whose sight soar always up
Simple as a yes whose answer does condone
Optimistic as a kid who’s as full as his cup
Today marks the start of it all
Time passes yet moments linger with hope
Hearts gather to honor their call
Dreams flirt, dance, cuddle and elope
You and me and her and him
A group unruly related only in time
Without the other the world fashions grim
Fight back and love claims a witty rhyme
One, two…three four seven
Gaggles, herds, schools, flocks
Artistically adding to get eleven
The movement of the grandfather as it tocks
Green enough to grow with ease
The wind carries feelings of home
Dirt covered blue jeans from working bent knees
Explorers unite to where their roots will sew.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I got in a staring contest with a dog today. I was walking. He was sitting. I say he only because I believe his name was Aaron. And a better description than sitting would be staying put. I contemplate freedom only when I see someone that lacks it. Aaron lacks it. So I thought about being able to go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I like freedom.
Aaron was probably thinking the opposite. If Aaron were a human being he would be that old gray haired man with spectacles on the tip of his nose. He would only wear wool; on his upper body and his feet. People would say things like “that Aaron can really tell a story” and “ Aaron is so smart.” But Aaron is a dog.
Aaron has lost his bite. Or at least I think he has. He did not bark at me. He did not run about disregarding the leash around his neck. Aaron stays put. “Has he lost his excitement for being alive or is he tired of being a dog?”
With a sigh, which I saw with my eyes rather than hearing with my ears, Aaron reached out to me. Aaron must have had one of those mornings. I have had a lot of those. Or maybe one of those weeks. Or maybe one of those doggie years. Dogs think way more than we think they do. Dogs are way smarter than cats. But not as smart as horses. Horses are really smart.
I stare. He stares back. I keep walking. He stays put. I keep staring. He keeps staring back. I feel sorry for Aaron. He stares back. He has a gray goatee. I keep walking and staring. He stares back. Aaron is the best at this game. I am playing a game. I do not think Aaron is playing.
I wander what Aaron is doing right now. Probably staying put. Probably just staring. Aaron is a dog.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
I sit. I kneel. I wait here.
I listen. I pause. I listen more.
I see. I wonder. I make believe.
I repeat. I rehearse. I give thanks.
I ask. I wish. I hope for.
I wrestle with.
I am. I waver. I am not?
I read. I think. I draw thoughtlessly.
I breathe. I smell. I sigh deeply.
I acknowledge. I slow. I reflect upon.
I swear. I praise. I live aware.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Words of advice, “that is not a tanning bed”
I am a Pop Tart. My name is Brody. And today I want to tell you a tale about time travel and truth filled omens.
So there I was ,shooting dice behind the Wheat Thin families’ house with my best friend Chad, he’s a Pop Tart as well a ginger, when a flash of light filled our Cupboard. The two dice added up to seven yet were not celebrated due to the lack of witnesses. Chad and I had already hopped Spaghetti’s waist high fence and were on full tilt toward the unknown before the die had a chance to stop their dance. Stopping only to wink at the coed cupcake twins, Rachel and Stacy, our pursuit was swift and determined. Nothing this exciting had happened since Brian’s dad, Stu, sang in the hit “Blue Box Blues” and brought honor to his now famous Macaroni family.
Chad was the first to spot the one we deemed responsible for the flash. Even from first glance, the man seemed oddly familiar to me. As we bravely moved in without hesitation, I was knocked off my feet in boredom when I realized it was just another Pop Tart like any other. As I dusted myself off, a crowd had gathered with copycat curiosity. Sighs of mundane awareness bellowed forth as all understood the excitement was for naught.
Minutes passed and Chad and I deep in disappointment became aware of two things. One, we were now alone with the kill joy and secondly that upon further inspection, the Pop Tart that created such a fuss looked exactly like my dad who left my mom and I when I was three. Chad, always at a loss for words, stared with a stereotypical glance of confusion. “I…I… who are you,” I mumbled. Stepping into the light out from beneath the shade of the top shelf I heard the words “my name is Pete. I am from the future.”
A different intro to a short story
Hello. My name is Pete and I live in a refrigerator. I know what you all are thinking, wondering and dying to find out... the answer is no, actually rent is really cheap and yes, the light does go on by magic. But, back to the “what” and “why”. Like I just told you, my name is Pete. My mom calls me P. K.; you can call me Pete. And this is the story about how I became a real life hero, ended a civil war and met the apple of my dreams.
Oh yeah... I'm an apple.
To set the scene please make an effort to throw out all preconceived notions of my kind and let the tale speak for itself. Background information needed for those not familiar with our history is as follows, so listen up. Just like your history is plagued by intolerance and prejudice for being different, so to have our eras been settling for below average morality and humility. The age old feud between reds and greens dates back way before your famous Johnny Appleseed discovered what we had known for centuries, apples cant fly.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
As I sit to write at my computer I must admit two things; first, is that my feet are cold but the feeling is unique to the season and so I resist an unnatural desire for wool protection, secondly the tie-dye T I sport is not my own design yet I have been known to claim its splendor as my handiwork.
I yearn today to paint a picture of an hour of my day that took place at the “lazy daze” coffee shop in Irvington, Indiana. My media will be mixed so I hope, with a full heart, that words, rhymes and imagery will produce justice of atmosphere and the regality of its spirit.
Outside, sit patrons whose inviting nods, lend part ownership and part comfort to the unknown. Beards are in season as well as conversations drowning amidst binding worn novels whose pages turn as quick, if not with more pace than the protagonist’s sword and the lyrist’s quill that dreamt them up. This is a haven where leaves fall and are given the proper attention, kids roam in exploration of the familiar, and the concept of name tags seems to be as foreign as it is unnecessary. Rust takes on a new role of chic and tables, whose legs have been unleveled in wake of coffee dates, eager pooches enslaved to the spot and an uncanny attention to people and not details, promote connections of shape. Circles to be exact.
Enter the rectangle, not square, door and your eyes go on vacation to a place that is the norm to so many of those who walk amongst us with 4 rather than 2. Art can be described as a new answer to an old question. I am not sure what the question originally was but I know the answer was found somewhere between life and creativity. Couches hug the right angle to the left of the entrance and appear to be molting. The vision of the original hue has long since shed, denim and corduroy being the catalyst of change. To sit is to give into temptation. I indulged. The wrapper, in which this comfort is judged by, is perfect in its interpretation. Here, time moves at a different pace. Here, books have been finished and ideas different than most, have been thought. Here, I am.
And there Joanie is. Behind a booth, antiqued with flavor and history, stands a overtly jovial female toting what appears to be the softest shirt ever made and hair thrown together in her style not yours. A smile that plays with your optimism ensures that customer service is not clearly followed or defined. A quick attempt for my order and my wallet escapes without acknowledgement. Banter begins and the verbal jousting that ensued between my roomy and Joanie was beautifully simple. Man. Woman. Joke. Laughter. Smile. Smile.
Orders morph into friendly requests as interaction glues three hearts to the moment. Art tickles the properly aged walls with jokes of paint and lines of poetry. Machines are just that, machines; glistening is not what they do best. This statement of truth is appreciated and materialized into twelve ounces of blissful relief. Grab the flimsy yet effective foam like cup of liquid joy and hold off on reverting back to making the tough life choices that are now surrounding the shop.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Fall of Summer
The fall chill blew threw only weeks before, which at the time merely hinted at what was to come. Clues battled not to be taken lightly. The slow ruthless killing of leaves guised in hues unfamiliar to the now trained eyes of the many, furthered the plan of winter’s wrath. Now, it was not always this way. Fall, many many years ago, acted as cohort to summer’s annual celebration. The relationship was beautiful in mutuality and simple in its existence. Freedom was felt year round by months smitten with warm hearts and days long. What was is no longer what is. If only in those days, being aware were to have accompanied being present; then and only then would things have turned out differently? Not as cold. Not as short. Not as dark.
Sunshine, bright and strong enough to cure any ailment, presided as doctor over the fair lands ripe with laughter and songs of those in flight. Banks gathered hugs, smiles and dancing and stored then in unkempt huts full of holes through which rays and gusts of play ran. January spent the majority of her hours flirting with the appropriately prideful October. Under pillows, referred to as clouds only by the glasses wearing, pocket protecting September, the two spun in circles with hands as free as July and feet as fleet and jovial as Decembers yearly birthday bash. Festivals were not special occasions but simply the way to interact with the day. All, it seemed was right and alive cloaked beneath entrenched optimism. Even August could be seen studying in the bright exposure with a book in one hand and a smirk hung on his mug.
Seconds and minutes hid undetected, neglected by all but one. November, drenched in bitterness and envy from nothing in particular, slumped in the shade of a darkened fruit-bearing tree, counting down. Envy was not as much the chemical clouding his heart as neglect was. One of the youngest of the months, hand-me-downs and practical jokes followed him like a pesky fly. One bad thought of cold quietly curled up in his depth awaiting and calling out for other similar ideas to join. Centuries of yellows and bright reds don’t have many dull blues. However when left to ferment, hatred needs only a few to twist truth into folly. The shade became an escape while each laugh poked at the already fated chord.
Had June only have noticed his brother’s face full of loneliness? Had October only have stopped his feasts? Or invited him? Had the twins, March and April, built a fort big enough for three? Had sexy February done anything other than admiring herself in the mirror? Had any of them reach out a hand?
This is a story of hadn’t s however. Questions were not answered or even asked until it was too cold, too short, and too dark.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Forests are to be.
Forests are to be.
Community has been on my lips and in my heart for what seems to be an eternity and a day. This moment, I see it before me, as the depth I swim in and the openness I soar towards. The feeling or recognition of such a coveted possession, state and natural ideal, steals dreams, redirects footsteps and grows love rooted in conversations and laughter. Tribe, family, group and team dare to dip into the complex realities of true community, true life and true love. As fleeting as an echo and as firmly grounded as the oldest oak; hearts dripping of verbal cues ranging from “we” to “ours” fill with the hope of a garden filled with rose buds blanketed by raw sunshine. Warmth is only surpassed by depth, giving way to the potential of further desires of knowledge.
Living delights my hunger and those who surround me begin to acknowledge my thirst. A constant conversation is a mere ripple in the wake of a bigger splash. Images seen before distort into truth. Reflections of what “were” morph, beneath a force stronger than the wind and bigger than the skies. Make believe claims undeniable truth in a world where up is east and the broken can fixedly lead a nation towards redemption.
Water rains down and gathers; drops flirt and become one. A source of life wet with anticipation and moist in participation delivers energetic hope if those few would only draw courage to drink. A seed bolder than most yet invariably weak stumbles to a place where maps are wrong and weeds are overgrown. Parched from the imposed reality, the lost grasps for understanding; unconsciously choosing the mysterious glimmer whose texture is foreign. A sip. A drop. A drink. A gulp. A bath. A swim. More is never enough. An inexhaustible moment of growth, in the midst of confusion, averts focus from acreages of monotony towards an ever-lasting catalyst of unique provision and identity.
(written in response to hanging out with friends at a coffee shop)
(written in response to hanging out with friends at a coffee shop)
Creative enough to be me and free enough to fail.
I am back. I am not sure whether anyone is going to read this but I am going to write non-the-less.
My roommates and I are doing 21 day challenges to make ourselves better. 21 days is said to be the brink of habit forming and so we are undertaking 21 day journeys towards holistic being.
The following 21 days will be what they are.