Description

::imaginative introspection::

Imagine that all life is an illusion. All that exists is this moment. No past, no future, each memory, every plan, a part of the illusion. Life, in a photograph.

Do you like the image of yourself?

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Poetry I Love: Emily Dickinson "The Daisy Follows Soft The Sun"

THE DAISY FOLLOWS SOFT THE SUN

THE daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"
"Because, sir, love is sweet!"

We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee,--
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night's possibility!

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Dear Friends

There is much going on in life, the past few months have been quite busy, and the next few promise to be just as fast-paced and action packed!  I hope to keep up with my writing.  My not-poetry blog will likely be updated a bit more often, feel free to check it out!

There isn't time.

There isn't time to fall down now,
no time to just lie still,
no time to ponder quiet truths,
no time to restore ruins.

There isn't time to hope or pray,
no time to just endure,
no time to pity circumstance,
no time to cry despair.

No,
all the time has disappeared,
spent on a leap of faith,
not held in place by hopes and dreams,
but solid confidence.

All the time is taken now,
building this new world,
where quiet moments can exist,
with just a bit of time to spare.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

(At least it isn't raining.)

I know no word,
no word, for this feeling--
a bit lost
a bit sad
a bit hopeful
as if you see the light at the end of the tunnel,
but it's the sky, and you're falling into a well.

And when you land its cold, deep,
but you can swim.

(At least it isn't raining.)

And you realize you can just barely grip the sides,
to pull yourself up, out of the water.

So you begin, hand over hand, pulling your own weight up, towards that light.
And even at night, its brighter above.
And sometimes you slip, caught on algae (and lichens alike) falling back to the cold below.
But slowly, slowly, you pull yourself up,
and once on solid ground you begin to walk
towards the rising sun.

Monday, August 22, 2011

(history)

papa.
don't run.
don't cry.
don't lose yourself behind your eyes.

History
dredged from the deep
vaults buried long ago
hold memories, time sealed
cracked open and relived (revealed)
as penance for some
sin
you won't forgive (of yourself)


I'm here.

and

I'll stand in the way,
fighting your demons day to day.

Sure, time goes by,
and I'm sure in your eyes
I'm still your child,
dancing barefoot at sunrise,
not scarred by life


still.


I'll  carry you, this time.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Poetry I Love: Walt Whitman "O Captain! My Captain!"

O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Monday, August 15, 2011

spiteful indeed

It breaks my heart to watch as you struggle with yourself.  

What is it that I’ve done that can possibly make you feel such hatred?   You say I am a spiteful creature.  How can this be?  Is looking to find a place where I feel at home, where I feel loved and safe and accepted a spiteful act?  

Is it spiteful, to wake up one morning feeling happy for the first time in years, all because you know you’ve found a place where you can be yourself and NOT have to apologize for it?  It’s true: I DON’T know who I am yet.  

At twenty one I still feel as misplaced and insecure as I did at thirteen.  And I’m tired.  I have been battling my own demons, you see.  I’ve been fighting with depression for at least five years now.  

Obsessive compulsive is, apparently, the ‘label’ for my habit of anxiously replaying every detail of a social reaction in my head, and wondering if somehow something I said was imperfect, offensive or just plain stupid.  I’m also dealing with hormone and metabolic imbalances due to a disease only caused by faulty genetics.  To this you simply say it’s another case of ‘wandering womb.’  

You  are certainly no doctor, sir.  You offend me, with your refusal to at least acknowledge the pain and worry I’ve had to work through on my own.  Your dismissal of this as just the result of a ‘poor mind’ has hurt me.  

Does a poor mind excel in academics?  Does a poor mind actively work to overcome any mental blockages that have occurred?  I’ve been actively working for a year now to fix my poor self image, to become more conscious of my own mental health and to work towards living a healthy, active and intelligent lifestyle.  

Is that spiteful?   I think not, but who am I to say?  

I’m just another one of those lost women, what with my poor mind.   

Sure, it hurts.

Descending into this mind, 
Struggling to mend fractured bits of memory, 
long buried beneath shame. 

Armed only resilience, the battle begins. 

Fear pushes, in an attempt to overrun determination, 
Doubt pulls, in a tug of war with against quiet conviction.  

(These demons got nothin on me. Sure, it hurts.)

Love holds on, still.  
Past long buried memories wrought with fear,
despite the evidence laid before tired eyes.  

Love holds on, still.  
There were good days, 
spent laughing in green cathedrals, 
sunshine blinding any hindsight.  

And now?
My heart breaks, for you.  

Friday, August 12, 2011

Poetry I Love: William Blake "A Poison Tree"

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Poetry I Love: Shel Siverstien "Where the Sidewalk Ends"

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Poetry I Love: Emily Dickinson "I've got an arrow here"

I've got an arrow here


I've got an arrow here;
   Loving the hand that sent it,
I the dart revere.
 
Fell, they will say, in “skirmish”!
   Vanquished, my soul will know,        
By but a simple arrow
   Sped by an archer’s bow.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Kyle DeForrest Does a Radio Show

Last night, listen to it here.  It was awesome.

Find him on facebook here.

(research)

Breath escapes,
lungs struggle to pull it back,
and I work to calm my mind.
(Working against a deadline)
Sweat drips, slow,
flesh quivers under stress
and I press on one more time.
(Remember my own aim? This mission is all mine)
Duty calls me
Love supports
my mission simple, pure
These secrets for the taking,
if only we look with an unbiased eye
the patterns of an insect's wing,
its motions, place, and time.
These hint at what the future holds,
what places may become,
how resilient is this planet,
the place that we call home.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Stealing Time

I am a time bandit,
snatching moments where I can,
forcing minutes into hours,
creating some semblance of calm amid chaos.

You'll see me, peripherally
as time passes on a lazy afternoon.
While you're reading, lounging
in the garden's sunshine.

I'm snatching your time,
for my own timeline,
that I might patch a few more hours
into my all too brief days.


::work in progress::

Monday, June 6, 2011

Poetry I Love: Robert Burns: To A Mouse "On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough"

Robert Burns: "To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough"

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Sunday, June 5, 2011

What May Come

in a world that changes between  breaths?
Where a future (so uncertain)
Suddenly is here, now -- and
all we can do is wonder      what
trials, gifts, heartbreaks, and joys
are yet to arrive

Uncertainty clouds plans
while determination
and sheer will to survive
carry us through the next   *moment*

With hopes that our predictions are
at least accurate,
                      and we can be warned of the coming storm.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Instinct: Gabrielle

Gabrielle
Gabrielle shouted, from underneath the most bizarre contraption Ryker had seen her create yet.  “Its called the Summoner!  Guess what it does!!”
“Um. . .summons?”  Ryker laughed at his mud streaked sister, as she climbed through the contraption, until she reached the top.  She looked down, grinned at him, grabbed a rope and jumped-- swinging down towards him and landing, neatly on her feet a mere foot in front of him. 
Ryker never flinched.  Disappointed, Gabrielle wiped her muddy hands on her pants, “So.  What’d you bring me for lunch?”  Flashing her best “feed me” grin, she laughed, and gave her brother a hug—while reaching around to pull an apple from his pack.”
“Hey!  That was dessert!”  Ryker laughed at his sister, and followed her down a path to the front of her home, a tower of gadgets and contraptions that reached up above the canopy. 
“The Summoner.  It summons.  I can use it to send messages to Simon.  You know how he wanders . . . He gets this-- 
She handed him something tiny, on a leather cord, it was shaped like a beetle, shining metallic green, Ryker placed it around his neck.  Ryker thought of his four year old nephew, Simon had an affinity for discovering the tiniest critters.  He would rescue them from the strangest places—although Ryker suspected the forest was placing them for Simon to find—and would carry them with him for a few days, before finding a suitable home. 
“All I have to do is open mine”, she held a metallic blue beetle in her hand, which was otherwise identical to the green one, and opened its wings, “and rub its belly, and. . ..” 
The green beetle opened its wings, turned around a few times in his hand, flew directly into his chest three times, and then turned and flew towards Gabrielle, pulling him forwards a bit.
Ryker was astonished.  “This is BRILLIANT!”  He walked around her in a circle, watching the gadget adjust its path as he moved.  “How’s it work?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”  Gabrielle laughed, then continued:  “The tower sends a signal that links the two bugs, he can summon me, I can summon him, and we will always be able to find each other.” 
Ryker’s face darkened now, he had serious business to discuss.
“Elisesofia is awake.”

conquest earth

I am
a wilderness warrior

Face mud streaked
Sweat falls to mark
         the path
I choose. 

Every niche is
          new
   territory
claimed for a kingdom
                     all my own

Every track, sound, motion
        speaks of history -  -  
             what was here__
     and gives a glimpse of 
what may come.  

Monday, May 30, 2011

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Things I'm Reading

Matt @ Shadow of Iris writes
yesterday’s tomorrow isn’t today, a poem
An old dusty book
with yellowed pages
and crusty corners
opened to the middle
where curious eyes spy . . . .




Francis @ Caught In the Stream writes
We fall away from the forest

The man, somewhat less than 

environmentally leaning,
falls down, making a definite
sound in protest.  . . . .




Alcoholic Poet @ Sad Poems writes
chase. devour. decide. 
on the limits of deception is where the freedom lies.  . . .




Wine With Words @ Quiet Commotion writes

Feeling

Emotions line the block in colorful lawn chairs
anticipation rising in incremental volume
for this psychological thriller is opening right this very moment!. . . .



Sunday, May 22, 2011

Poetry I Love: Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"


Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
though as for that, the passing there
had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
in leaves no feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less travelled by,
and that has made all the difference


Tuesday, May 17, 2011

[TIME] from the never ending days

[TIME]
            slows
to a soft
       drip
like tipped

                                      m
                                        o
                                           l
                                            a
                                              s
                                                s
                                                 e
                                                   s

viscus
and
clinging

resistant to
any efforts at
speeding
up
time

Defeated,
Instead, now
I beat my head
against a wall
biding --
             Each jolt of pain a reminder              that ....

I'm still alive.

(still)
        (somehow)

Friday, May 13, 2011

(watch in wonder as the world rumbles)

Today finds me dreaming of summer nights and stargazing.


Petrichor: the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a dry spell.
[From petro- (rock), from Greek petros (stone) + ichor (the fluid that is supposed to flow in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology). Coined by researchers I.J. Bear and R.G. Thomas.]

"Petrichor, the name for the smell of rain on dry ground, is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed onto neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain." Matthew Bettelheim; Nature's Laboratory; Shasta Parent (Mt Shasta, California); Jan 2002.

"But, even in the other pieces, her prose breaks into passages of lyrical beauty that come as a sorely needed revivifying petrichor amid the pitiless glare of callousness and cruelty." Pradip Bhattacharya; Forest Interludes; Indianest.com; Jul 29, 2001.  



Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Deflection

He jokes about the struggle,
his self deprecating humor a transparent veil, 
attempting to cover the hurt behind the memory.  





Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Choice.

Love only hurts if you let it.  

I won't. 

Watch me walk away.  

I'm not sorry to leave you, and your venom, behind.  

Watch me walk away.  
I won't look back.
I won't give in.
I won't allow my world to dim. 
I won't waste my tears. 
I won't spend my years
rationalizing actions caused your fears.

I gave you my heart
and you threw it away
I'm picking it up,
and leaving today. 

Thursday, April 28, 2011

GIS

my head spins
I struggle to grasp
the ideas I need
A bacteriophage (virus)
for these god. damn. maps.

the trouble is my sources
have become infected
(A virus slipped past
my strongest protection)

the data's corrupted
the files aren't where
I placed them last night,
with so. much. care.

So I've called up a friend
affectionately known
as my favorite nerd
who may have a code
that works magic to resurrect
files lost
to viral defects.




(School today was frustrating.)

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

strength

scream.  go ahead.
no one will hear you.
its all in your head,
so just. . .
let them kill you.

scream. go ahead.
no one will hear your.
its all in your head.
don't let them defeat you.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

MINDSEYEONLYMINE

LIFELIFELIFELIFELIFE
it CUTS like a knife
[Today, with surgical precision.]
the choices we make
(chances we take)
shape the scars, which are placed
(early on, like roots) at the base
until we run out of days
(scars intricate in so many ways)

in time the shallow scars fade, 
but today
[today I placed this scar]
cutting out tissue knotted
with
(pastpastpastpastpastpast) whispers
with one,
clean, 
sharp, 
line
(barely a wrinkle)

I turn, scalpel in hand, 
and beckon the world. 

[Bring it.]

Friday, April 22, 2011

Happy Earth Day!

Happy Earth Day!  

It seems so very sad that we only have ONE day of the year to celebrate the Earth.  
Do something good for the Earth today, and every day after!  

Love, 
Klaire


Don't know how to get started? Click here!

Friday, April 8, 2011

Journey

I am young, still.

At times I feel old, as if I have lived long enough to know all, as if I carry wisdom in the dust on my feet.

I am a fool.

I know some things of the world.  I have so much more to see, to learn.  I must remember that knowledge is not understanding, experience is not wisdom.  I have only just opened my eyes to the world, my life thus far only a glimpse -- and blurred as in the first moments of waking.  I have learned that the world will not hand over its secrets to me calmly.  I must fight, determined to make my way against the surge of those who bet against me.  Sometimes it is only a battle to stay afloat, in other moments I seem to speed ahead, leaping and diving forward into life head first.

Sometimes I find myself sinking.

Yet, I have been blessed enough to be loved.  Those who love me have come and pulled me back towards the surface countless times.  I must remind myself to remain calm, so I do not drown them in my panic, or force them to let me go.  This lesson has been hard to learn, and certainly not one I have mastered.

One thing I have learned: 
Trust is such a delicate creature.  In one foolish, panicked moment it be shattered, crushed, suffocated -- and it cannot be resurrected, there is no 'breath of life' or miracle technology that can heal those wounds.  If you are lucky, bits of trust might be found buried in love (as love cannot die, only languish), and from those remnants you can begin to rebuild.

I only hope that as I discover the world, I become less a fool, stepping carefully and remaining calm, so that I can pull those who are sinking up with me.

Maybe, some day, we'll fly.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Instinct: Waking (Meet Kitra)

(More to come! I'm still working on the middle part, will post when I'm satisfied with it.)


Ryker crouched close, watching his charge as she slept.  Her body barely moved, her breath slow and even.  The sunlight crept into the room, her dark hair gleaming with hints of red he hadn’t noticed before.  Kitra had been clear: do not wake her, do not touch her, do not question her, do not let anyone in.  She had been sleeping for two days already, the village waiting for her to wake—even the children sensed the importance of this stranger, and kept silent, lined up outside Kitra’s home, waiting. 

He had heard whispers, of course.  Since her arrival the elders had been silent, holed up in their chambers, waiting like everyone else. Was she truly Nadari’s child?  Did this mean the others were coming?  If so, why weren’t they preparing the archers? 


Ryker stood, silent, waiting for her to speak.  The intrigue surrounding her was almost tangible, as if light itself bent around her protectively. 

“Yes. Nadari was my mother. The others awoke and found me in thecity, gilled my guardians there – all except Everest.” 

She spoke quietly, while staring through the window, not looking, her eyes simply set forward.  He wanted to ask about the others – he had only heard stories, and even those were vague, folklore and old wives tales told to dissuade mischiefvous children.


“They are powerful” – as if she could hear his thoughts – she looked directly at him now, her eyes aflame with hatred, sadness and pain – so much pain, Ryker gasped with the power of it.  Shocked, he stepped back, working to push her mind away.


“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were Chimaeric.  Your eyes. . .”


“They change as I wish. “  This he demonstrated, his eyes flashing from brown to blue to violet. 


“Impressive” She smiled, just slightly. Her new protector was a powerful Chimaera.  She would need to be more careful with her emotions. 


“Please, excuse me.”  Ryker spoke quietly, stepping out of the room to regain his composure.  Where did this. . .creature. . come from?  And why did he want to save her?


Kitra


Kitra stood waist deep in the river, laughing as the children splashed and swam around her. As Ryker approached she stood tall, her face growing serious. 


“You were not to leave her.” 


Ryker bowed his head, ashamed. How could he protect Elisesofia when she possessed more power than any being Ryker had ever encountered?


Kitra’s face softened—“She is incredible, isn’t she? I must tell you . . .”


Ryker interrupted his leader, “We were bonded as children, weren’t we?  You thought she 
was human.  The infant I kept.” 


All Chimaera, at age 5, are given a human infant, often taken in from orphanages.  Occasionally the chimaeric child wanders into the forest, and returns with an infant whose origin is unknown – it is believed that the forest senses the power of the Chimaera and provides the infant.  The chimaeric child must protect and nurture the infant until it begins to speak.  Usually about a year, sometimes less as the Chimaera assist the child and provide superior development. 


Kitra smiled, most Chimaera do not remember this bond.  “Everest saw that she was weakened, biven the trauma of her short life.  We decided that your power may be strong enough to repair the damage.  When she began to speak you were enchanted with her.  We had a difficult time removing her from your care.”


This Ryker remembered. He had packed up the infant and headed out into the forest, his six year old self certain she would be safer kept away from any and all people.  

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Real Life

I usually keep this blog mostly creative works, but since there are several people reading this, I wanted to spread the word.  

One of my students has applied for a scholarship.  Please vote for her HERE.

The prompt:   Who has been most important tutor, teacher or coach in my life and why?

This is her essay:

I just started my education at Cleveland State University in the fall of 2010. I believe the tutoring program (TASC) at Cleveland State is a very successful program in which students (mostly graduate students) help undergraduates with their classes. I have been very successful with my tutor, Klaire, for my fall and spring semesters. In my fall semester Klaire helped me with study skills and learning how to deal with a teacher that has a thick accent for my Anatomy and Physiology class. Klaire has also been very great to me. Other than a tutor, Klaire is a friend, and a peer mentor to me. She is always keeping me in a great mood and wanting to study. In my spring semester, Klaire is helping me out with two classes which include Anatomy & Physiology 2 and Microbiology. Two sciences are very hard and if there was not anyone to reinforce how much i needed to do to accomplish my goals i would be struggling. Klaire has taught me many things about college. She has taught me how to study, manage my time, have fun, make friends, and deal with roommates. I look up to Klaire so much. She has a great personality which is caring, humorous, and energetic. Klaire also is very determined, strong willed, successful and awesome. I know I could sit here and write more about Klaire and how she has affected my life, but I would just stress how spectacular she is. Klaire has made my college experience much better, and I will take everything she has taught me about time management, team work, personalities, roommates, and goals with me for the rest of my life.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Quieted.

This soul, 
so often frantic, 
finds calm amid 
such chaos.  

This mind 
overcomes, 
quieting its soul 
with willpower,
its poise brings 
such authority.  

This heart, 
while aching,
continues to beat, 
the mind reassuring,
the soul calmed.  


Friday, March 18, 2011

The Act

the magician stood silent,
waiting for quiet
before he began the show.

he sang and he danced,
he spoke of romance,
flashy smile, all bright lights and promises.

oh, he did quite well,
fooling crowds with his spells,
the illusions all formed from science.

but physics,
you see,
is no child's plaything.

and miscalculations
occur.

some say he planned it.
some say he fell.

those who were there, oh they said they could tell.

midway through the act,
he stepped on a tack,
caught himself on a lever,
which wasn't so clever,
and he hung from the rafters,
loose rope now tight round his neck.

The audience gasped,
then burst into claps,
thinking, of course, this was part of his act.

But their praise was cut short,
as they saw his effort,
ending, as his face amort

then

he hit the stage--limp body bowing as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer.

So they cut him down,
and all gathered 'round,
half expecting him to jump up alive.

The magician was silent,
for one final show,
a slow vanishing act.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

heartbreak

For the loud, dangerous, beautiful world that is -- a world torn asunder.





For those who would like to donate: American Red Cross

Seeker.

I seek out knowledge,
like some old-world gypsy,
wandering within the confines of this earth. 

I am a seeker.

Unlocking secrets, cloaked in science 
               --my own alchemy overturning riches of a new kind.  
               --my own captivated curiosity an enchantment, 
                 enticing the most delicate creatures to divulge the intricate details of their existence.  

And I piece together the world, from the bottom up.

Fairy Fly (Mymaridae Wasp) Photo Credit: Mr. Spike Walker


Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Instinct: Old Forest

Old Forest
She knew, as she approached the clearing, what would happen next, some memories never fade.  Pausing at the edge of the forest Elisesofia braced herself, before stepping into the bright light that fell amid the wildflowers.  Still shrouded in her cloak, she slowly moved towards the center, head down, silent, listening. 

“What is your purpose?”  The voice came out from directly in front of her, smooth and flowing, like the music made by the flowing of an isolated brook, high in the mountains.  It was not threatening, but serious, with a slight inflection that gave away curiosity. 
“I must speak to Kitra.”  This was all she knew.  Kitra could help. 
“What is your name?” This voice, identical to the other, came slowly, on her right. 
“Elisesofia.”  This she whispered.  She had not spoken her own, true name in years. 

There was no response.

Elisesofia waited.  Then looking up for the first time since she had entered the clearing, began to speak, telling beginning of her story:
dim light illuminates her,
standing naked once more, proud.
shivering as cool air
passes over pale skin
that now swells to reveal new growth
the last remnant of Love.

she shakes away the single tear and stands, strong.
to walks back into the deep comfort of the forest.

rain falls quietly in the night, again
and she runs, wildly in the dark
carrying the child born to destiny,
with spite following just behind

crossing through the waters
she hands the child to the trees
and turns, facing spite
from the trees emerge the few
who still believe in Love's remnant,
and without a word they stand to fight.


Upon these last words Elisesofia Petlykov sank to the ground where her mother fought, her legs unwilling to bear the burden.  Around her form stood the elves, tall and thin, like wisps of fog.  Their skin was pale, glowing delicately with a soft light.  Their heads bent low, long hair well past their hips, in pale shades of green, shrouding their faces.  In silence, the elves gathered her, carrying her through the forest, to Kitra.  

Sunday, February 27, 2011

fungi

fungi.
miniscule.
drawing from the earth,
the bits and pieces we cast away.
a tiny world, 
under feet.
known 
to those 
attentive 
enough 
to notice
cautious
enough 
 to care.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Holding Magic (Finished)

here we are,
all pretendin
that love is not
our intention

but I can see
that underneath
we're only looking
for some peace

here we are,
in an era,
full of pain,
reigned by terror,

we each hold on
to what we can,
and those who know love
hold magic

in their hands

Those who fancy themselves magicians
must practice a careful art, one mistake,
one hint at the secret behind the illusions
and they suddenly lose their intrigue.

Those who master magic, those who know
 the hardship that sneaks into the moments
 before the curtain rises, understand that it
 can dazzle, but it can scar.

Yet, still, they continue, dazzling away, for those who just want to be entertained.

In the moments before the show the magician examines the scars on the palms of his hands.  He may hold magic within them, loving the world, but a spark like that can burn.

Monday, February 21, 2011

First Hike 2011

snow pushed across a frozen lake,
like sand across a desert,
bright white light blinds,
wind sends shivers down our spines,
and still we trek across this crystallized world,

all for the love of science.

We
set out to crack the ice,
used an ekman dredge device
and pulled up some cold macrophytes.

We
analyze samples and we may find,
with carbon dating, keep in mind,
this sediment may be quite senescent,
its history likely reminiscent
of slowly melting glaciers.


Friday, February 11, 2011

oh so happy, ukulele, oh so happy, ukulele me (Fragment)

pick up the ukulele and start to strum,
sing a song for happiness, sing a song for love,
smile with the memory, shed a silent tear,
toss back another shot, for courage,
and sing out with out fear.

love it aint so easy
life it aint so hard
just got to look for beauty
in each and every shard






There's more, in my head, still putting the pieces together.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Instinct- On the Run.

I'm still working on this, who knows, maybe it'll become something.  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elisesofia Petlykov stopped to splash cool water on her face, flush from running, streaked with mud, scratched from brambles.  She was three days of running, hiking and hiding, into the forest.  She paused to listen for a minute, hearing only the calls and scuffling of the critters in the forest.  Stepping into the cool water she waded into a small pool, about waist deep on her small frame.  Her dark hair hung in a tight braid over her shoulder, and she slowly untwisted it, laying back to rinse it in the calm, clear water.   This was the first time she had truly stopped in three days. 

The message had been simple and clear.  “Travel West.  Find Kitra.  She will help you.”  It was thrust into her hand as she was pushed onto a horse, pointed west and told, by one angry, serious Everest, “Run, child, RUN!”  Scribbled on a scrap of paper that was likely older than she was, torn from some ancient map, with the edge of a vast forest shown only in a hint of green along one of the torn edges. 
She had been in the forest for three days now, setting out each morning, away from the sun, and ending each day by following it.  At night she climbed high into the canopy, listening for those who hunted her and waiting for the first glimpse of light. 


Kitra.  She knew Kitra as Everest’s mother, who had helped her, and her parents long ago.  But Everest was an old, old man now, surely Kitra was no longer alive? Perhaps the name was passed down?  Or was this a glimpse of the magic she knew the forest held?  

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Stumbling.

The moment arises,
as moments sometimes tend to do,
from a place full of beauty,
rich like chocolate truffles,
fragile as a dragonfly's wing...


into a place of general shabbiness,
comfortable enough for our needs,
a perfectly ordinary place,

late, late into the night.


and takes me by surprise, of all things.


"I love you, you know."

and,  almost startled by the revelation I struggle to find words, when I do they spill quietly, jumbled and incoherent --as if stuck together with peanut butter and honey-- from my lips

I tried to say it.

Of course, you already knew, know, my opinion on the subject.  The words were screaming in my mind-- I love you too, I always have, I always will -- and all I could manage was a feeble, mumbled, near to silent whisper,

oh.

As if this was something I had known for ages, accepted as fact and even, somehow, expected.

Of course, my eyes spoke volumes that night, although I'm not certain the message was properly transmitted.  My eyes sang of adoration, trust, and at moments awe in the beauty you could create, the passion you carried.



Nothing every came of it.  Words uttered in late night establishments are rarely, if ever, remembered.



But these, these words.   I had waited so long to hear them.  Part of me was furious that you chose to do so at this place.  Most of me was delighted.  They were not uttered as some drunken afterthought, not a ploy to lure me back to your bed, not a game.  It was simple truth.  You did not elaborate.  I didn't push the subject.  Instead I committed the moment to memory, where I could play it over and over in my head.  You took a drink.  Turned you head.  Looked at me.  Smiled for a few seconds.  I love you, you know.  And without waiting for a reaction of any sort, turned your head away and went back to your drink.

Of course, I sat there for what seemed like eternity, perhaps only one minute, if that.  Stumbling.

Oh.

And that was ok.

Still.  I haven't heard it again.  I don't expect to.  I no longer wonder, but I dream.

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Not sure what I like more, so I'll keep both.



The moment arises by surprise, of all things.
"I love you, you know."

startled, I struggle and my words, they. . .. 
they spill quietly, 
jumbled and incoherent from my lips
I tried.  

Of course, you already knew.  
And, just a feeble, mumbled, near to silent whisper,
oh.

As if this was long known, accepted, fact--somehow, expected.
My eyes spoke volumes, but the message did not translate.  
They sang of adoration, trust, awe.
The beauty you could create, the passion you carried.
Nothing every came of it.  

But these, these words.   
After such aching.  Furious, yet delighted.  
No sloppy utterance, no ploy, no game.  
Truth without elaboration.  

I sat.  Stumbling.

Oh.

And that was ok.

Still.  I dream.






Monday, January 24, 2011

finding elegance: micro

an entire world
         moves
             and grows
                   and fights without conciousness,
 each moment,
         each motion a response to instinct,
                                                     programming alone

eat. grow. divide.
eat. grow. divide.

where competition abounds, with enemies swarming all around
                                            and change a constant, chaotic force.


survive. survive. survive. 
survive. survive. survive. 


where in mere days,
                      sometimes hours,
one species becomes two, and so on. 


eat. grow. divide.
eat. grow. divide.



where chemistry reigns supreme,
          and physics underlies all forms,
                            in motion, structure,
                                                 sometime random and spasmotic,
                                                 often smooth and elegant.



all contained in a drop of pond water.




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Sometimes my days are full of studying, figures, memorization and I forget to look for the beauty in everything.  Sometimes the beauty comes screaming from the pages of my textbook and I sit up and gaze around in wonder at this world.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Simplicity (Just an Idea I'm working on)

is lovely.
is easy.
is elegant.
is free.

Delighting in the little pleasures and surprises.
Going without.
Choosing to fill life with experience instead of things.
Sharing with those in need.

Simplicity.

Even the most complex secrets of the universe can be explained by many simple steps.
Love.
War.
Dance.
Life.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Cold.

Light, bright and glaring, prompts tears as I step out into a world of harsh cold, biting winds, and striking beauty.

Bright white light, reflected from every angle, illuminates a landscape defined by shifting shadows.  

Screaming winds sweep up ice crystals that tear the skin and block the sun and all falls dark
                     ---only cold and the harsh wind, with hope to guide the way. 

Winter, fiercely delicate, a force that simultaneously makes one want to weep for the beauty, run for the terror.  

Friday, January 14, 2011

1.22.04 Journal Entry

"Try not to become a person of success but rather a person of value." -Einstein

First, I really like Einstein because he was not afraid to be different.  Second, I love this quote! It is basically saying this: you can be successful but that doesn't mean that you are valuable.  If you are not valuable than tell me, what is the point of success?  Value is so much more important!

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Oh lil Klaire.  Trying so hard to understand when you barely knew yourself.

Ideally society would define the successful as those who have made contributions to mankind.  Far too often they define success (and value) in terms of dollars.  One of the topics I touch on with my environmental science students now is the idea of instrumental and intrinsic value.  How different cultures and societies value things shapes the environment surrounding those communities.

Those who believe that THINGS are more important than people will surround them selves -- with the latest technology, the hottest new fashion, the shiniest car, the newest awesome thing that they must absolutely have before everyone else! And they build up all this junk around them until it collapses on top of them-- society fills landfills with discarded THINGS that were used once and thrown away.

How can a person learn to value themselves, understand that success is not based solely on dollar signs, in a society where everything is disposable?  For shame.

I only hope we learn before we bury ourselves in our own disposable lives.

Monday, January 10, 2011

From the Past (November 2005)

ice crystals form overnight
making windowglass sparkle
in morning light
waking warm, smell of cobbler
is such a sight a simple pleasure
a child's delight

(11/06/2005)

Sunday, January 9, 2011

From the Past (March 2005)

The night is alive with
sound as I drift to sleep
Its constant serenade
better than counting sheep
I hear the sirens blare,
the planes fly overhead,
the shouts of drunken men
and I smile in my bed
snuggled deep under the covers
I hear a pair of fighting lovers
and know that all is right
in this place so full of life.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

From the Past

Dusty broken eye piece
forgotten on my desk
I see the world through broken eyes
which tear in loud protest
Dusty broken eye piece
waiting for repair
when eyes determined not to see
will see again quite clear

(1.10.2005)

Friday, January 7, 2011

05.12.04 Journal Entry

I recently found a stash of old poetry and reflections from high school.  I have an entire collection of journal entries of a quote and my interpretation or response to it.  I'll share some of these-- it's funny how looking back gives a such a clear picture.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
05.12.04 Journal Entry

"What a grand thing to be loved! What a grander thing, still, to love!" -Victor Hugo

Grand?  No.  Love is not always easy, nor is it always beautiful.  Love can be these thing at times, but usually it is not.  When we love someone we expect them to love us back -- which is simply unfair.  It is unfair to expect a person to "give back."  Such a thing happens -when it is sincere- quite spontaneously.  To be loved and to love -these things are difficult.  To love and receive love in return -true, pure love- is a miracle.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well.  I had the concept right.  Looking back at this quote I think I'll agree with it.  Love is grand.  I've loved a few in the few years since high school.   Love is complicated.  You can love someone with your entire being-- where all you want in life is to make that person happy, keep them safe, and spend as much time with them as possible.  


Funny, how life can change things so quickly.  







Monday, January 3, 2011

Instinct (Character Development: Everest)

I've been working on this for awhile.  I'm not sure I like where it's going quite yet, still trying to shape the characters a bit, feedback would be greatly appreciated! 


A note if anyone is keeping tabs on the story-- I changed Matthew's name to Everest--- for now.  Still figuring things out, slowly.  



IN THE FOREST—Everest’s Story

“Well, the forest once told me a story, though I didn’t know it at the time.  A story of the rest of my life.  I walked down a path in the woods, weaving my way through the trees, breathing in the clean, fresh, earthy air you find only in a forest nowadays.  Birds darted among the trees around me, singing their song and hoping to find a mate, critters shuffled in the underbrush, scampering around as I made my way deeper into the forest, slowly working my way home.
Oberon was making his way behind me.  Now, had we been anywhere else the bear would have been right at my side, even in front of me, checking constantly for threats.  But we were home,  in the deep forest, where the trees are ancient, towering, their trunks creaking, as if they were whispering,  they swayed, pushed by the wind coming off the great sea.  The goof had lagged behind, off chasing butterflies and had to run to catch up when I shouted for him . . . .”
Elisesofia sat, transfixed by Everest’s story—she knew the old man had some magic in him, and could feel it pulling her in—suddenly she was standing in the forest, and a GRIZZLY BEAR was running towards her.  Barely stifling a scream she stepped out of the bear’s way, seeing a much younger version of Everest standing a few feet away she shakes her head – did that bear just wink at her?—and steps closer to Everest and his bear, listening to--is the bear talking?--No, thinking.  Listening to the bear think to Everest. 
Now what’s all the fuss about?  I was just about to catch this giant --oh.  Is that what I think it is? 
On the ground, pooling at Everest’s feet, is a dark green liquid.  Everest picks a twig from the nearest tree and drops it, carefully, into the liquid.  As the twig lands on the liquid it sprouts, leaves leaping out, roots digging into the earth and branches reaching higher and higher--- In a matter of seconds the pool is replaced with a massive tree. 
            “Something killed a wood nymph.” 
Everest reached his arms around the new tree, measuring its growth—the trunk continuing to expand even as he shouts numbers to Oberon, who scratches them into the dirt. 
            “It must be one meter—no, two—no, three” 
The tree shakes and Everest is knocked backward into Oberon—and then, somehow, it turns, twisting its trunk around, and stops--- the tree is. . .looking? Looking at Everest.  Slowly a knot forms under what must be eyes.  It opens. . . it. . speaks:
“Thank you, son of Kitra.”  It waits a moment, nods at Oberon, who is lying flat on his stomach, terrified.  Everest glances over at his companion—some protector—and looks up at the tree. 
“What happened to you, spirit?”
“I was killed.  Surely that much is clear?  Oh.  How was I killed, you mean?   Horrid men, with weapons I have never seen.  They got into the deep forest, invaded my home, killed my sisters--- I fought.  I killed eight of them, but there were too many and I was injured.  I ran, calling on the forest to protect me, but somehow they found me, hurt me….I landed here.  They tried to take my body but the forest wouldn’t allow them—the trees reached out and lifted me high above, where THEY could not reach.  When you found me the forest used your magic to transfigure my spirit, so I could warn you.” 
            “Warn me?  Warn me of what?”
Everest was now keenly aware of how close to his home they were—sure, it was protected by ancient magic, but if these humans could kill a wood nymph surely they were working with some other ancient race.  The tree spirit ignored him, instead reaching up with its branches, retrieving its body from the forest.  Elisesofia gasped—the nymph looked strikingly similar to her.  Except that its skin was a light green and its hair had somehow sprouted flowers.  The tree spirit cradled its body for a moment before opening a knot on yet another side.  It deposited the body into the knot, which sealed up and disappeared. 
            “The humans are working with an ancient evil.  I do not yet know what evil this is, but it is growing strong.  It was able to walk through the ancient seal surrounding my home, bringing its men with it.  It was looking for something.  It picked up each child, examined them, destroyed them…
Here the spirit paused, its leaves seemed to shiver, the forest silent and the wind still. 
            “In my new form I have a message for you.  There are two humans and a child running from this evil.  You will encounter them before you reach your home.  They will ask your help.  You must help them.  The child must be protected.  Humans, before they became the greedy, slovenly beings they are now, once walked the forest with the ancients, and some possessed different skills in magic.  This child, it seems, holds the key to that magic.  She is a remarkable little thing.  You MUST help them.” 
Everest looked at the tree spirit.  He had heard the story of the humans before.  He had even seen and worked with humans in his travels.  But why him?  His magic was only minor, healing, vanishing, his ability to understand and speak with Oberon. . . how could he help this child?  Still, here he was, standing before the spirit of a wood nymph, one of the more powerful forest creatures, and it was asking for his help. 
            “I will do all I can.” He offered.