By Candlelight

I know what makes us more
or less
Beautiful.
I know that you hold
a smile,
even in the dead
of night.

And our heroes
are singing
tonight,
as we risk
the entirety
of ourselves.


We struggle to hold the candle's flame. They whispered in my ears, do not falter. You carry the histories and memories of generations. I struggle to hold the wax-encased wick- perpendicular to the ground. So the wax won't spill out. So it won't drip down its sides, leaving luke-warm trails, across fingers, solidifying on skin, dripping to the ground.

It is present,
sting of heat across
our skin.
But some days
it reminds me of
all the distant memories
of places I've never been.


I find strength in myself. I find that we all hold it, within.
I choose, and you choose. We all choose to find this, find that, find us.
I hope some day you will find us in the depths of our imaginations, and walk with us for a while. Our paths are different, our minds are different. Take a moment and feel what we feel, take a moment and become a little bit of who we are. We pace and we ponder and we paint pictures of what life should be, or should have been, or should never be. We are you and you are us and me.


















Again I find myself in a field of golden-brown dreams. The words repeat. And yet the gestures hold something. You are more than your defeat. I reach my hands to cup the water, hold this liquid to your parched lips. We taste it. We waste it. We drink, we are refreshed, we drink again. We share in this and laugh with that. in mind.

As though we knew
to save this.

I am the Pyromaniac

http://writingisart2.deviantart.com/art/Memory-98495814

We Settle into Ourselves,
like grains of sand into the
stomach of the hourglass.
The days wash over us,
as tsunamis in the dead of winter.
So quick, and yet so slow.
We change pace,
syncopate-
drill tired feet onto firm trodden pebble ground.
Pacing, glaring, swearing.
I wait
for the glass to fill
-and spill.
As if it should take a million years
to realize who we are.


And yet it is so easy
to Settle into you.
Pulse rate mistake,
the dredges of my mind
spill out into
your lap.
My memory's contents scatter
like strings of Swarovski crystals
in the palms of our open hands.



Curse of Mankind.
We follow paths,
Chase dreams,
Fabricate lies.
Who stole
you from
yourself?

I remembered it
in the Depths of a lost December.
It called me back to the lines
scrawled across our pages,
mingled with denial and disguise.
It has been saved and rewritten.
But reviewed less often,
buried in the banks of our river.
I broke the replay buttons.
Found and forced-quit stat.
Sat atop the pile of tattered belongings
and secretly, sinfully, cried.
Such a Task. I found
Daunting.
Such choices I find
in the steel trap
of my mind.

I've kissed Them, tried to embrace Them. Denied Them, scattered Them, charred Them in my own pyromanic way. I dance in the flowing tide, and know They are watching me from backs of eroding dunes. Patiently Impatient, They will stick like bagolie, They will suck like leeches, never satisfied. And so THEY are Mine. I must come to terms with Them. Hold long-drawn conversations, even argue, yet They rarely truthfully reply.

What are we forgetting to remember. What are we trying to forget to remember.

They are Mine. And I Love Them. But I scatter Them like ashes, afraid to see the black upon my hands.

Things Accumulate.

Suddenly the world feels like the days when I caught raindrops on my extended tongue. Each experience so intensely inviting, and yet spread apart like new life in every beat. I have collected my raindrops in a mason jar, folded into the creases of vibrant magazine stars. Accumulations of silly fears, sweat and tears. When will I allow myself to to unfold them?


Our apologies mean
so much less
if they are
accumulations of
our Fears.

It always surprises me
to find Desperation
in your eyes.

I refuse to uphold
the centuries of
little white lies.
We avoid the truth,
just to keep the beauty
in the moment.
To convince ourselves
that we can feel
and taste
the happiness of
our lives.

Just Thoughts, Quickly Conveyed.

The voices of the past call me into the present. I begin to wonder what I was so determined to leave behind. Why would I hide the truth of who I am; it's all I have. And as I come upon the blessing of the return to my true home, I must accept what I find.

We lived our lives
In colors and scents
Conversations we wished would never end
Streets I've walked a thousand times
Don't seem so familiar any more

You look different my dear
What happened this year?
Cheeks flushed
Your mind Closed

Where are you headed, old friend?
Do you remember what you said to me last?
How the days come and only memories last.
Do you remember the lake and trees?
The photograph I snapped
And filed away

I hear your voice
And smile
Like a hurricane in my mind.

Oh the places we've been
The secrets we know
Sometimes I cringe
And the world knows
For a moment I am removed

Where are you going old friend?
Can I accompany you there?
Will you still want my words
The laughter and tears
Do you need me now
In the separation of years?

And what do I expect to find, gently drifting back to the place I once knew so well.
As we pass through our lives, we gather a list of places and events... memories kept deep inside. A part of who we become, a part of where we will go. But what leaves the greatest impression ? The friendly face across the table, cup in hand. The smile behind the camera, waiting to catch those who fall. The hand that's offered and held.. and held and held and held. The hands through hair, the powerful embrace. The knowing look. The laughter shared day after day. The motivation. The endless seas of inspiration. The fence quickly jumped. The swings that flowed in tandem. The eyes that knew. The words so loaded. The comprises. The moments spent reflecting. The love, the hate, the ecstacy. The trust. The evenings.

Evenings remind me of myself the most. Of the places I've been. Sun setting on a land so flat , seas of asphalt. Phrases said a thousand times. The stripmall horizon. That hill I slide down time after time. The lamp-post against the vibrant skies, a setting sun. Slow and quit songs. Loud and unforgettable memories.

Where are you headed, old friend?

____________________________________________________


"The past and present wilt-I have fill'd them, emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)"

-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself.


____________________________________________________

May your path be long and winding.

पास
Mandy

Simple

Sometimes we Smile
for the
lens
poised and waiting

sequence of memories
Captured
yet remembered?

I saw the photographs on your wall. And I wondered, were these some of the greatest moments of your life, created and captured with a simple contraption that has become the icon of memories? Do you see beyond the lens, and acquire the understanding of a new kind of beauty, forever your own? Each image tells a story. Moments we missed, cherished, shared, forgot. There's something so personal about photography, and the universe exposes itself to the hands of the practiced eye. Inconsequentially captured, these are the images that rot under our beds and fill our hard-drives. We try desperately to package that feeling and store it in our banks forever, to be called upon on days distant and unknown. Will it matter if we smiled?
I saw the photograph on my wall, and realized it was pouring that day.




Chicago, ice rink in Millenium Park, a few years ago.


flakes accumulate on sleeves
crunching footsteps
fall in
Ineffable silences

Repairable
The Cuff
of the sleeve
torn long ago

And so is true
for the heart
found in the
chill
of night


पास
Mandy