[Poetry]

The light danced on the calm blue waters

As the woman dressed in white slowly saunters

To her nearby chair as all eyes turn to stare.

My heaving heart strains my chest more than I can bear

For one look at her and it is there, plain for all to see,

She is a woman at a ball of girls so very ripe with jealousy.

But those stares, those stares! All set with rage

For she not an heiress nor governess, but a simple page.

Perhaps it is the dress she wears that earns the unjust glare.

The flowing gown of fresh fallen snow a prompt

Of their honor tattered and purity swamped

With the lusts of youth. How they hate her

And spurn her for being lowly cur.

For only wearing what she should

I would pull away there unkind looks if I could

For here I sit with my future wife to be

And only hope that she takes a look me.

[i'll try

writing like this

because

i've never really

gotten the hang

of this yet...]

______________________________________________________________

one action speaks

a thousand words

a requiem of war

can be declared

but if the guns

are never fired

then

there might as well

be no war

at all

but the guns

were fired

and your action

spoke a thousand words

toy soldiers

marching across

the bloodstained field

let my people go

you took away

my freedom

and i want it back

to this very day

so

i will fight

for what is mine

tonight

i will swim

in a sea of sharks

and one day

i will triumph

i will triumph

i will

triumph

“...be one of those people that dumps mine on somebody else.”

If only.

Beer before liquor, never sicker? Well, sometimes you don't have anything else on hand to fucking drink, you asshole.

I fucking suck at writing stories. I've tried to tell them over and over and maybe only ever written one that I would be comfortable signing my name to. But fuck it; sentence-structure-be-damned, here I go.

Today was monotonous. Unimportant. Mundane. Ubiqui-fucking-tous.

Today was just that:

today.

Well, I guess what made it somewhat different is that it was my first week going back to school after spending a good two months doing nothing. And no, that is not an exaggeration or some artful metaphor. I did absolutely, fucking, nothing.

And god, was it great.

But now here I was, having to go back to being a human being that was at least somewhat-worthy of the air he so he happened to breathe. Yet, though it was what I would call "the correct decision," apparently the world thought otherwise! It hand-picked these past few days to throw everything it could at me, including a bit of sodomization with the kitchen sink, and then went on to horribly teabag me with every ounce of responsibility I had been trying so hard to keep up with.

My classes were shit.

I dropped them so I could at least find ones where I would learn something but nah, fuck that. Everyone else was doing that too; something I should have expected really.

My computer was shit.

Now that I actually needed it to do work? My internet and everything from TCP/IP to the fucking letter "c" on my keyboard broke. Of course, this was ALL within the span of two days. Wonderful.

So I was in a mood, you could say. I was riding on the rag (as much as was possible for a guy at least,) and I needed a good drink.

I had no money. I had either lost my last bottle of whiskey or gotten so drunk I had finished it without even remembering I suppose, hah! I had recently sworn off recreational drugs, so that was an obvious no-no. I decided to head downstairs to ask my sister if I could once again mooch whiskey off of her.

And when I stepped foot downstairs it sort of all hit me at once. Like a boxer faking a jab when really giving you a hook that would put roofies to shame. Like god giving Sodom a bitch-slap so hard it simultaneously brought Gomorrah to its knees.

It was nothing really. Subtle like nothing else. But it was there. Maybe I was odd to even notice it (I doubt anyone else would have, really.) I have no idea if it was maybe a tiny crinkle in her forehead I had never seen before. I don't know if it was just a small difference in the gaps between each of her words.But something inside me told me just what I had coming to me, and oh man, I've had it coming for far too long.

"Dude, get a fucking grip. And some perspective you dick."

Of course, she said none of this, or even remotely happened to be thinking it, but I heard the message loud and clear.

What the fuck was I even thinking. Problems? Shit. What problems?

Here was my sister. She was going through a bitch of a divorce (not that there are ever really any beautiful, unicorny-ones, but it was still quite horrid.)

Here was a woman trying so fucking hard, not just for her but for for her entire family, just to hold her shit together; while NOPE! Here was love on one side and life on the other both doing their damnedest to her tear her ass to shreds.

And then there was my niece. A recent attendee of that wonderful existential crisis we like to call the state of being a teenager. She was in a shit-colored-world like all teenagers are, and on top of it all her mother was splitting up with her ("step", but i don't really think that part of the story matters much, i.e. deadbeat-real-dad-isn't important-at-all-in-my-not-so-humble-opinion-etc)-dad which just made the whole thing just a disaster really.

And not only that, I mean don't want to say too much about it because it's not my place really, but I'll just say she sometimes sees a therapist like I do, yet I feel like I am the only one who actually is trying to completely support her on this incredibly tenuous front. It's a tightrope really, it's just spending your days trying to tread that line between maybe being ok for once.

My sister has way too much to deal with already to give this the attention I feel it warrants, so I could hardly blame her for that, but the rest of my family seemed to think therapy was only really useful for murderers and sex offenders.

I mean shit; god-forbid maybe some of us a just need a little help, but apparently you are either fine or bat-shit-crazy. Fuck ambiguity, huh? Damn those money-hungry headshrinkers to hell!

So yeah, here I was, having this fucking pretentious-ass soliloquy write itself in my head. Yeah, I felt guilty for caring so much about my problems when really, they weren't shit. Yeah, I was a having a bad day, but it was still one that so many other people would call the best day of their lives. Yet, fuck it, I was human. So I asked, I drank, and I existed. Thus, here I am writing.

Yeah, maybe I'm an unappreciative shit for still trying to drown myself in numb when other have it so much worse. Maybe I'm just a regular, run-of-the-mill shit, really. But fuck it. I'm human after all.

I'm here at 5:41 AM, drunk.

I'm here at 5:42 AM, with class in five hours.

I'm here at 5:43 AM, drunk

I'm here at 5:44 AM, with problems so big I don't even remember what they were anymore.

I'm here at 5:45 AM, drunk.

I'm here at fuck-o-clock AM, human.

So here's to you, the unappreciated.

Here's to you; the people who unflinchingly carry problems that would make Atlas cry himself to sleep.

Oh, and here's to sleep of, course. Mostly to that sleep that stands you up on the nights you need him the very most.

Here's to another night, morning, day, afternoon, and night once more.

Here's to god; asleep through it all.

But most of all, here's to you guys that someone, inhumanly, own your burdens like I never could.

Everyone has burdens, and maybe I'm not strong enough yet to be someone that can carry them alone, but you are.

Everyone has their burdens.

And I wish for nothing more than to be like you, the ones who know this.

The ones who, because of this fact, decide they don't want to lump them on everyone else. Because everyone has weak moments. Everyone feels that weight at some point, no matter how strong you are.

Everyone wants someone to lean on. Yet, believe me when I say, not many are the ones willing to be the leaned on. So thank you, sincerely,

for owning your burdens.

Hopefully, maybe one day I'll be able to as well.

“I think owning your burdens is half the battle. Still, it’s not that daunting if you look around and see what other people have to deal with.”

[fiction]

CHAPTER 1

I was excited to start cleaning this house, it was a new customer. He was a police officer and widower. I always enjoy being a blessing to people who serve to protect our American freedoms and especially people who have suffered tragedies. I was looking over my list of things he wanted done, but one thing kept resonating in my mind about our conversation. When we asked about his wife, he politely said she had passed away earlier that year. He talked about how they built that house and he would never suggest it to anyone, said it almost destroyed their marriage. When he was showing us the gun cabinet he boasted and bragged about how much bigger it was compared to the china cabinet; then laughed, sneered and scorned the smaller china cabinet he built for his wife. When he spoke of these contrasts there was bitterness in his voice. I have never heard a widow or widower talk about their deceased spouse in such a resentful manner, it was odd to hear.

Eager to get busy, I walked into the house. It was a “Deep Clean” day as usual; we entered the house with all our cleaning products and utensils. Normally when we do a deep clean we go room to room together, but for some reason we separated today. I went to start in the Master bathroom while my partner started in the clients Great Room. After about an hour of scrubbing the tub, shower, toilet and sink I started my way scrubbing walls in the small hall-way that separated the bathroom from the bedroom. There were tiny, dark splatter marks all over the walls. The Splats were only visible to a cleaner who pays attention to detail. While on my hands and knees I kept having reoccurring thoughts and impressions. “Something violent happened here”. I ignored it and pushed the thoughts aside. “Something violent happened here”. I ignored it again, but didn’t push it completely aside. I thought maybe I am thinking this way only because he is a police officer and I've watched too many movies. So I kept scrubbing tiny little splats here and there. “Something violent happened here”. I looked more closely at the tiny brown splats. As I wipe them away they would turn red with the dampness of the rag, appearing to be tiny blood splatters. “Something violent happened here”. I sat back and looked at the where the splats once were, the ones I scrubbed clean. Looking down at the carpet between my feet, I

realized the golden shag carpet was fresh and new. Yeah, but this house isn’t that old, and their children are grown, I eyed the wall again and questioned, what could have made those splatter marks? A dog? Maybe a flea ridden dog jumped out of the bathtub and shook his fur and slung wet flea dung all over the wall? I was searching for an excuse. “Something violent happened here”. Maybe someone tried to break in. I couldn’t shake the repetitive thoughts as I continued my cleaning routine.

After finishing up the house I returned for one more inspection of the Master bedroom and bathroom. “Something violent happened here”. I gazed at the small hall-way and tucked the thoughts in the back of her mind. I was learning about intuition, and was no longer closed minded to it. I would always had “gut feelings” and was ready to explore them. My encounter that day left me questioning myself and my thoughts.

[Story]

This is an excerpt from a chapter I have been working on for quite a while. First real shot at story telling from a different character's perspective. Part of a greater piece, which is about a city called the "Seven Holy Stations", which are really 7 different cities, governed by an aristocratic ruling class and a "holy church". This excerpt follows Father Crispin, a young "priest" of the holy order who is being introduced in this segment. Crispin, originally from the 7th and lowest of the stations, and an antagonist in this story, is an ambitious youth who has climbed quickly through the ranks of the Holy Mother Church, and shows a promising career in the world of governing the Seven Holy Stations through "holy law".

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 2:

Crispin looked up at the brilliant white star that hung above the bright green marble altar. He looked at each one of it 12 dazzling points, their glittering grandeur reflected in the dark, black pools of his eyes. His hands were clasped tightly under his chin, his thin and ragged knees resting on the cold marble flow below.

Crispin came here often to the Seventh Station chapel. He liked to come early in the mornings, as the sun was just beginning to rise over the sparkling gold tips of the great dome, long before the scratchings and noises of the common rabble during their morning commutes to the Plaisin mines. Crispin like the stillness and the quite of the chapel in these early moments. A large marble structure, centered around the large crystal rendering of the sacred Holy Star, this church was a place of comfort and safety to him now. He liked to come here in those earliest hours and stare with reverence at that star, feeling its power and its grace wash over him; it was the only thing in this world that made sense to him.

Crispin’s mother had loved coming here. He could remember walking down the dirty and crowded streets of the Seventh Station, his tiny hand folding gently into the soft, thick folds of his mother’s. She had come to the chapel everyday, no matter what was happening in the life around them. She had told him that the only thing in this life that mattered was the word of their most Holy Lord, and their willingness to do his will. She had promised him that as long as he always paid his attentions to the Holy Lord, his life would always be blessed with greatness and prosperity; that all his troubles would cease to exist as long as he gave himself fully to their great Lord above.

She had told him all the stories. All the great sweeping epics of their Holy Father that had landed here, along what was now the Seven Holy Stations, all those many years ago. As he had set in her lap, head pressed gently into that warm and heaving breast, she had told him how their Holy Father had come to land among the Seven Holy Stations after the great Battle of the Fall, and had been taken in by the gentle and loving plains-people that had lived there for a time beyond memory. She had told him the tales of how the The Great God had revealed himself to their Holy Father, and of all the great miracles he had performed with the blessing of their generous Lord.

She said that the Lord had brought them all here, and sent Dragutin as a great prophet to cleanse them all and create a new world for them, a world in which everyone could be happy and safe - a new world of the holy and faithful. She had always showed this great faith in the Holy Lord, and even in her darkest days among the tumble-down dreams and broken hearts of the Seventh Station, her faith had rarely wavered.

Crispin hadn’t been there when his mother had left him. He hadn't been there to hold her hand or give her peace. Crispin thought of her often, and as he knelt here in the silence and the coolness of the chapel, her image and her presence was with him again. He looked up into the light of that dazzling twelve-point star, and was spellbound as his eyes looked upon all the tiny fragments of light that shattered against it and burst into a million shining pieces that raced and flickered along the walls of the tiny chapel. He wondered what it had been like for his mother in the end.

In his childhood innocence, he had not even known she was sick. He wondered if she had felt pain or fear as the dark walls of death had steadily closed in upon her; if she had called out his name in that darkness. But those were things not to be thought of, those were things that were far down the path that led you from the light of the Holy Lord. He supposed he would never know, how she had met her end, and what's more, he supposed that it did not even matter in the great mechanism that was his life. But still the question gnawed at him; had she kept her faith in the end? Had she seen the face of their great Lord and Keeper as she had slipped away into that subtle darkness? Or had she fallen, far and away into oblivion?

His knees ached below him as he knelt on the cold white marble of the floor. His red flesh was irritated and raw from hours upon hours of faithful devotion, long nights and mornings knelt before the altar of their Holy Father and the Great God. They rubbed against the rough krelaway wool of his dark and modest habit, the thin white flesh growing thick and swollen with his prayers.

(Dialogue)

"What does the elemental mean?!"

The young sprite paused and fidgeted with her necklace.

"One day,all the stories are of forlorn loneliness and harsh winds blowing through the land..."

She continued with her hands exaggerating the wind,

"...then by the next moon,they are full of calm and lake ladies."

As the sprite's face squashed her father tutted,"No faces,use words."

"Well,I don't trust him.

That's all."

He spoke gently,"The elemental is

a creature of moods. One prone to making up his mind as he sees fit."

The sprite raised an eyebrow.

"It doesn't suit me."

"It doesn't have to suit you,that's not how it works. I will say I wouldn't trust him either."

"Not yet."

"Has he done any harm?"

"Intentionally no,but as I said he is moody. It is best to form opinions of elementals slowly and carefully."

The sprite sighed,"Fine."

"I'll still listen to his tales."

"That's good."

She sighed again and went to leave.

"Elementals are so...elemental."

[free verse]

The task of “free verse” stops this Poet dead.

How shall I compare thee to anything but

the antithesis of Art?

Iambic meter much more pleases me

than your unruly form, or more accurately,

lack of.

“What’s a time signature?”

free verse would say, or

“What’s rhythm?”

By now, what matter the notes or the pitch?

The freedom of free verse is truly a bitch.

I shouldn’t complain. I just hate admitting that

I’m set in the tried and the true, and that maybe

I’m not as skilled as I’d like to think I am.

I forget sometimes

that others think him beautiful,

to me, he is not a face,

but a feeling,

a certain slant of light

on the kitchen floor

in early morning.

[free-verse poetry]

I can make up my own poetry

With rules of syllables equal to pie

and only 42 words

in sets of prime numbers

because it amuses me

and paint a whole painting in 15 minutes

because I had extra paint to spare

photograph a moment

I didn't know would happen

because I got one of my notions

to point my camera in a specific direction

like creativity is an instinct

same as survival

but writing a poem of verses

that don't rhyme at all

but tells a story

from beginning to end

in such a way as to compel a reader

to keep on reading

to get to the punch-line...

er, wait, do free-verse poems have to have a punch line?

Fuck it, I do what I want

and free verse isn't free if I loose brownie points:

it's really hard for me not to re-read this

before I post it, and make it rhyme...

-M.E.