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.

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::

happy birthday to me!

:) birthday love

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!

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.

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.  

Kyle DeForrest: To America

My brother Kyle's newest song. I love this.

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

Balsam Models

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!. . . .