Friday, November 14, 2008

Something I threw in my memoir


"Yammering"


Yes. It's 3 a.m. and I'm yammering.
I have nothing to write or say, but just feel a dire need to secrete my hyroglyphic juices everywhere.
Huh. Actually, it's only 11:30 p.m.
But to me, it's 3:00 in the a.m.
Anytime that it's nighttime
and the house is quiet
and there is no one awake but me
It must always be 3 in the morning.
So there.
There has been so much taking place in my life in the past few weeks that I feel as though life is speeding right past me
and I have not yet the time to embrace each moment
to caress and savour it's wonderful taste
in my metaphorical mouth
long enough to remember it
and store it in my memory for future use
I feel as though I'm on the shoulder of the interstate
some State Road out there
with a thousand times upon a thousand
of cars
vehicles
in their transience
they see me only for a moment
and then passing me by as the sun's early rays
hit the street's rough and blackened pavement
leading back to the sun's horizon to the east
where darkness and unknowing await
for me
they beckon like blankets
fluffy white blankets
that envelop you in dreary slumber,
that sweet 6 a.m airport morning slumber
that only the scent of coffee grounds could subdue
so you wink away the early blue hints of sunlight
and plop you're slumber-drunken head down
you know all too well what sleep will do
yet you succumb
because it's simple
it offers a complication that you don't have to be responsible to
and in dreaming
you don't have to dream
you can just be
a sunbeam of light
forever floating
amongst the waves of the Pacific
floating in and out of harmoniac conscience
and so these blankets of unawares
call out to me
I resist stronger each day
and they are dissapointed
but they know one day
that soon I will return
even if just for a "holiday"
but there they are
that unabated feeling of always being there
I don't want them to always be there
I want them to grow tired of me and leave me
like all else who have attempted to climb my difficult peaks
they realize the beauty that awaits them is unattainable
so they turn around and climb back down
there is no point in climbing to the top
if that's not where my beauty can be found
No
it has been tucked away
in a cave
far south from here
only to be seen
on special occasion
when you'd least expect
maybe on some dreary day
when the rains have flooded the gorge
and seduced the raging rivers
with pressures umimaginable
then, maybe then
you might spot it
floating it's way up north
past the orchards
yes, that was never my true beauty
it's not the kind of beauty
that most will find beautiful
it is one of appreciation
one to have grown on another
it's not outrightly discovered
at first glance
and claimed and staked
it has to reveal itself time and time again
only to be devalued by most
and the only I treasure
are the precious few
whom can spot my beauty
from straightaway
and forever encapsulate it
in the palm of their hands
so that they cannot and will not
let me go
because I am exotic to them
but not to all
and to all a good night
otherwise
it hides
protects itself
in a deep little realm
all it's own
where beauty is no longer beauty
night no longer night,
and day no longer day
life
is now death
what was once considered repulsive to the outside law
is held as treasure here
worth it's weight in silver
because gold is no longer valuable in this kingdom
This is where I play
this is my realm
of dying beauty
where each event held tragic
has a ticket
all it's own
that none could so ever afford
The price you ask?
"You could never afford me",
replies my blackened darkness
My blackened trees I do water
with the tears of my anguish
they are nurtured
in my torture
they grow night by night
and the creatures
come out with prowess
ravenous lavenders
light up the nocturne
making for themselves
an impure glow
they feast upon the pure
and digest it's harvest
leaving behind an emptiness
as it mushrooms into sorrow
an eternity of endurance
stretched far beyond the limits of any imagination
the moon chats with me
each night
we bench ourselves
in the midnight
sitting idly
in our park
the hills are our slides
the hills of life
the "ups"
and the "downs"
make us say "wee"
our swing
the mood swing
with each push of destiny
we gain considerable altitude
only to come sailing downward
into a threshold of ire
and keep on the downstroke
downtrodden
until life itself
has pushed us back up
just to wait again
for the incessantly necessary need
to downward spiral
into the abyss
of depression
and repression
preparing me
for my plight
but I revel
in this treasure
I take delight
in the dark affairs
who else to care so?
God is the moon and the raven-trees
He is in the very air I breathe
each word I speak
I have spaken unto thee
he caresses me even in my dark place
He takes my hand with joy
and secretly tells me
that he "wishes they were all more like me"
this IS my dark place, mind you!
and where dark realms reside
you have your way
with words
even if it is in playtime with God
So I take his giant hand in mine
stripened by my artistic fancy
and plant for him one of my own
he smiles at me
his God-smile
his nod of approval
as I nudge him further
down my path
and walk amongst my garden of black sunflowers
which I have named Moonflowers
we walk the pathway
of hooves and death
he giggles at my gothic fleet
pawing at my shoulder,
"Good riddance"
but yet, I witness his grin once more
I show him a thing or two
about how he could have done this on earth had he had the chance
I remind him of me
and what I was named on his earth
and you know what he says to me?
he shows me my name in his heaven
not on earth
but here in heaven
my prowess no longer needed
for I am a star
shining darkly
and I hear in my ears
clearly resounding
"Blessed are the meek.....
......for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"
andso
therein
I am
shining darkly
for him to see
and that's all that ever matters
for me
for eternity
I have been given my place
and I am not sad about my place
nor bothered
nor uncomfortable
for he knows me
and puts forth those very desires in the first place
even if he IS a purple and black striped Minotaur wearing nothing but an iron black sceptre and a green leafy loincloth.

4 comments:

Billy said...

This is a really great prose poem (even if you didn't intend it as such. What flow! Marvelous syllables rolling around like those cars on the interstate.

... and anyone who uses the phrase "hyroglyphic juices" is definitely a writer :)

In the middle of the night, I love to hear an old mantel clock tick. It's very reassuring. TImes passing, but not so fast that it seems to be slipping out my fingers!

Great post.

Realmcovet said...

Thank you Billy. It's nice to get positive feedback. It was indeed meant as a "prose poem". Didn't start off that way, but that's what it turned into. I have a chapter in my memoir solely dedicated to this blather.

There is something very reassuring to the human soul when we think we are somehow defying the laws of physics. It's as if we've secretly figured out something none could ever know. And I think that is "playtime with God". :)

kathulhu said...

You sure do know a lot of big words.

Realmcovet said...

I stole them all from your "staying in character" blog.