And so we have come to the final day of November, a day never to repeat again. My eyes are dry.
I think Tom Waits said it best:
"No shadow, no stars,
there's no moon and no cars--November
it only believes in a pile of dead leaves,
and a moon that's the color of bone.
No prayers for November to linger longer ... November."
Friday, November 30, 2007
Maybe - a Poem
This is one of my fovorite poems from a former blog of mine. I wonder if you can tell what it's about?
Maybe?
Lonely in this room,
The open window makes the rain an indoor shower.
Thought like the knife,
The blade cuts my soul with the emptiness of laughter.
Memory floods this floor,
Far deeper than all the sweetness of the water.
A drop that never falls,
A single tear that holds in my heart now till forever.
Maybe all that I know and all that I am, may be all that I see and all that I breathe.
Maybe all that I’ve known and all I’ve lived, may be all I can be yet nothing here is me.
Lonely in this room,
The open window lets the rain come in and touch me.
I long to hear her song,
A simple kiss upon her hand to show I love her.
She becomes the tear,
That single drop that holds in my heart now till forever.
Maybe I’m too young, maybe I’m too tall, maybe I’m too old, too fragile to risk a fall.
Maybe I’m not here, maybe I can’t see, maybe I can’t write; it may be I’m not me.
Lonely in this room,
The bed is made to keep me out from sleeping.
Rain has risen high,
A liquid salve for me who never heard her laughter.
Maybe I can’t win, maybe it’s too late, maybe I have lost, lost time on twisting fate.
Maybe I can’t do, maybe I’m not right, maybe I can’t create, maybe I can’t fight.
Lonely in this room,
The rain my grave and she who never knew I loved her.
Maybe?
Lonely in this room,
The open window makes the rain an indoor shower.
Thought like the knife,
The blade cuts my soul with the emptiness of laughter.
Memory floods this floor,
Far deeper than all the sweetness of the water.
A drop that never falls,
A single tear that holds in my heart now till forever.
Maybe all that I know and all that I am, may be all that I see and all that I breathe.
Maybe all that I’ve known and all I’ve lived, may be all I can be yet nothing here is me.
Lonely in this room,
The open window lets the rain come in and touch me.
I long to hear her song,
A simple kiss upon her hand to show I love her.
She becomes the tear,
That single drop that holds in my heart now till forever.
Maybe I’m too young, maybe I’m too tall, maybe I’m too old, too fragile to risk a fall.
Maybe I’m not here, maybe I can’t see, maybe I can’t write; it may be I’m not me.
Lonely in this room,
The bed is made to keep me out from sleeping.
Rain has risen high,
A liquid salve for me who never heard her laughter.
Maybe I can’t win, maybe it’s too late, maybe I have lost, lost time on twisting fate.
Maybe I can’t do, maybe I’m not right, maybe I can’t create, maybe I can’t fight.
Lonely in this room,
The rain my grave and she who never knew I loved her.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Bubbles
Have you ever watched a bubble, like a soap bubble or a bubble blown from a tiny plastic wand, as it flies and glitters in the air?
A bit of breath, the essence of life itself, breathed into something so fragile and beautiful. Translucent colors, every color of the rainbow, wash over the round surface and sparkle like crystals in the sun.
The bubble moves about on a breeze, blown back and forth at the will of the wind and bursts the moment it comes into contact with something rougher than itself. If it meets another bubble it either absorbs the other, bounces away, or the strength of the other absorbs it, partially if not in whole. Any way you look at it, the bubble is changed by its contact with another.
A lone bubble, however, floats in the air, spinning its globe of color for its entire existence--a matter of several seconds. It turns and spins and floats and alters nothing of itself or anything around it but the air in which it hangs. It fades. The breath within it longs to rejoin the breeze from wince it was birthed. It presses ever harder against the translucent flesh until it fades entirely.
It does not burst, does not pop. It merely fades into the very air it once contained, which rejoins the breeze.
It disappears, stops existing.
And all around it remains as though the bubble never was.
A bit of breath, the essence of life itself, breathed into something so fragile and beautiful. Translucent colors, every color of the rainbow, wash over the round surface and sparkle like crystals in the sun.
The bubble moves about on a breeze, blown back and forth at the will of the wind and bursts the moment it comes into contact with something rougher than itself. If it meets another bubble it either absorbs the other, bounces away, or the strength of the other absorbs it, partially if not in whole. Any way you look at it, the bubble is changed by its contact with another.
A lone bubble, however, floats in the air, spinning its globe of color for its entire existence--a matter of several seconds. It turns and spins and floats and alters nothing of itself or anything around it but the air in which it hangs. It fades. The breath within it longs to rejoin the breeze from wince it was birthed. It presses ever harder against the translucent flesh until it fades entirely.
It does not burst, does not pop. It merely fades into the very air it once contained, which rejoins the breeze.
It disappears, stops existing.
And all around it remains as though the bubble never was.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
First Thoughts
Hello. I doubt I know who you are and it's hardly possible you know who I am, but I'd like to be polite. My name is Jacob and you can call me Jacob, or Jake--I get that a lot too.
I'm a large man--which is usually the cause for the word "big" to appear before the nickname Jake--at 6'3", 265 lbs. I'm slowly working myself down to 225 lbs ... hopefully by May.
I have a beautiful wife, two beautiful daughters, and two "interesting" cockatiels, or however that's spelled. One's albino and barely makes a sound. The other's normal looking and loves to whistle his own off-key version of the Andy Griffith Show theme. He loves to do this especially as I try to play the Chopin nocturne I've been teaching myself on the piano without stopping. I don't think he means any harm ... but he might just be out to sabotage me. We'll see as time progresses.
I also have a plaster bust of a human skull covered in Celtic symbols. His name is Leal. I'm writing a book about him. We'll see how it goes.
Anyway, I must get going. Later days.
I'm a large man--which is usually the cause for the word "big" to appear before the nickname Jake--at 6'3", 265 lbs. I'm slowly working myself down to 225 lbs ... hopefully by May.
I have a beautiful wife, two beautiful daughters, and two "interesting" cockatiels, or however that's spelled. One's albino and barely makes a sound. The other's normal looking and loves to whistle his own off-key version of the Andy Griffith Show theme. He loves to do this especially as I try to play the Chopin nocturne I've been teaching myself on the piano without stopping. I don't think he means any harm ... but he might just be out to sabotage me. We'll see as time progresses.
I also have a plaster bust of a human skull covered in Celtic symbols. His name is Leal. I'm writing a book about him. We'll see how it goes.
Anyway, I must get going. Later days.
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