Phoenix's Prose

We pulled into the onyx driveway, which was hinted with pools of the old father Winter, right after we stopped at the local Irving down the road. The clouds were wisps of spookingly genial gossamer that filtered the light of the moon and turned it into a crystal glow. The garage light was on while the chopping sound of wood directed us to your untailored company. Softy in the background, old “70s” music refreshed the usual beauty of Fellini and Brahms with the spark of Queen and “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie.” Never has that music felt so real.
We gather the twigs and logs and make a bird’s nest for the newly born phoenix that would become a scorching memory in the fireplace. This phoenix was maturing in front of our eyes; it started with an intense blaze that conducted us to dance the Swing and Jive like frogs hopping across a campground road. Then, it started to slowly turn to embers that were like pieces of luminously crimson gold.
The burning emotion inside me that climaxed in cause of the flames wholeness and fresh nostalgia made me realize that the fire of true compassion is the hottest, yet most resolving. I think of those pieces of gold in front of us: that wasn’t my real treasure. As I looked into each of their eyes dotingly and felt the wistfulness of those caring hearts, my soul became so much richer.

Villanelle of Snowy Stone

The snow never seemed so lifeless,
until the day they left me alone.
To whom can I redress?

I have so many regrets.
My body is stiff as stone
The snow never seemed so lifeless.

My granite neck becomes nerveless
as I drift from friends and home.
To whom can I redress?

I crumble in my loneliness,
and I turn to sand and bone.
The snow never felt so lifeless.
To whom can the lonely redress?

Fortunes of Failure

“Do not fear failure.”

Yeah, sure, that’s a nice
piece of advice,
but what do you do when the pressure
for perfection becomes a vice
that squeezes your thoughts into irrationality
and muffles your breath
into a raspy gasp.
The feeling of you knowing
you could have touched the stars
makes your insides collapse.
All the drive to be the best
breaks my want to even try.
Slowly, like someone fading
away into cancer,
my ambition seems to die.

Yet, I know that if I lose
my passion for goals
my life will become
a torn rag full of dust and holes.
Maybe by not caring about rankings,
hierarchy, or all the rest.
This fortune will come true,

“Your ability for accomplishment
will be followed by success.”

The Flock of Bronze Parrots

What a long day! yuk! Tomorrow I have the St. Kieran Dinner Dance and then a ardent weekend of work.

It was at the age of three
when a bronze parrot decided
to perch on his shoulder.

At the time he broke
his mother’s vase: a priceless treasure,
and he started to run and eschew her.

The parrot would pierce his body
with it’s grotesque talons,
and would squawk over and over.

In the night the parrot would feed
him musty crackers of remembrance
which were stale, yet bitter.

The more he would run,
hide, and cause mischief
as he grew older and older.

More of these demon parrots
would feast on his body
and his whole life became heavier.

One landed on his head
when he broke a window,
another when he became a cheater.

Until, he became stolid,
while a flock of birds would,
in his continuous guilt, make him suffer.

The Remainder

Today was a half-day in school. I thought it would be nice to just talk about my life, since I haven't really been giving a lot of intros lately in my blogs.

The thing that is ruling my life right now is school. This being my junior year, I have the toughest courses in the school: Chemistry and U.S. History. Both require a multitude of work and time. Although, I am learning a lot in school, and plus, I have some cool classes like Songwriting and Poetry. Next year, along with some other wicked sweet courses, I am taking Shakespeare and Drama classes! O fuckin yea! Sorry, that not really like me.

Play rehearsals for Once Upon a Mattress is starting to expedite. Along with the multi-stress environment comes incompetent workers and lack of focus. It is directing; what else is directing like in the midst of a show but stress?

Friends, let me say that I have a few that are wonderful. All of my friends input some level of happiness in my life. Most of my friends though have their vices, or I don't see them all the time (yes, I know I need to call you more Maddi, and I love ya). Some of my other friends are moving on. Isn't it strange how one day you are telling someone that you never want to stop being their best friend, and then the next watching them across the hall while in the process of changing. I feel that I have only a few people that are truly their for me no matter what: my parents and a few of my relatives, Tim, and the few of my friends who don't change personalities.

First, I want to say that my mother and father are truly Gods. No matter how wonderful, or unruly I can be, they always try their hardest to love, provide, and nurture me. I will admit, sometimes I don't give them enough credit. Being a teenager, innately I just sometimes don't understand them, but afterwards their start to make more sense. I love them so much; I know they have sinned and have some idiosyncrasies, both funny and vexing, but I would do anything in the world for them. Also, some of my relatives, like my Aunt Patti, give me this unconditional love. Some of my relatives I don't get along with because they are either to caught up in their fighting, hubris, or have different interests than me. Anyways, I want to thank my relatives that have given me so much, even though I might be most of the time busy.

Next, I want to mention Tim. I have no blood relation to this person, yet he is like a second father to me. ever since I have met Tim, I have grown as a person, inquired a wonderful skill, been imbued with a love for aesthetics, and obtained another true friend. No matter what foibles I have, Tim doesn't care. He is the perfect person to symbolize rectitude. Thank you so much Tim, you have made dreams come true!

Finally, I want to talk about those friends who no matter how much time or pain has passed, never change and really care. Madeline this definitely includes you; even though we hardly see each other, you still trust me with some deep things and never change the way you feel about me. You are one of my best friends because you don't change, ever. I have some friends that have promised to always be faithful, yet a year latter they are flaunting themselves around other peoples presences. My friend Aly is another friend that no matter that it has been 3 years since we started to be friends, she still care so much for me. We all have or vices, yet these friends I will love them past all of those evils.

If I could change anything right now, I think I would want to have people take me more seriously. I feel sometimes that people think just because I am clumsy and blond, that nothing bothers me or that I am someone who can be used. I wish that more people would get real to realize that I am a person too. Okay, enough introduction: here's a poem.

What was it like the first
time I met you?
Did we laugh, cry, talk—
I can’t remember.
Was it your striking kindness
and similarity what made you true.
Try to solve this puzzle:
Why am I now a remainder?

You decided that our promises
had no value.
You haven’t made the will
to call in four days.
So much for a best friend
to be there beside you.
I am oblivious and confused
by your ways.

Does he have the courage that I don’t?
Does he have just more to give?
Does he have that factor you were looking for?
I’m past the point where I can forgive.

When was the last time we talked?
De we laugh, cry, scream—
I can’t remember.
The weirdest thing since
you have walked.
I guess I don’t mind
being the remainder.

The Player and the Hoar

Tonight, I am going to a play rehersal for Theatre North, for they are having trouble with the set. My own play, Once Upon a Matress, is coming along. It has just been a very weird life lately.

The phone rings
like a siren destroying my hope.
They’re calling me away
because he was such a dope.
I start to get up from trueness:
a bed with a friend.
I take the last sip of water
when it turns to alcohol again.
The steps lead down to him:
the perfect user to use.
I want to forget; it is not that I love.
It is more that I amuse.
I walk into the mud room:
the final beat of regret.
Blood whispers to me to live,
and I just want to forget.
You give me a hug:
a catalyst to the thoughts I obtain.
I turn the doorknob slowly―
nothing I haven’t given.

Sit down in the truck
and take a deep breath.
I want to stare at you all night;
my heart hopes in darkness.
I just want to be whole.
I want to know what is real.
Darkness seems to dissolve light
along with everything that I feel.

Then, I think of her; I cringe―
How much I want to yell
at the top of my lungs,
“Come on, we can all tell!”
One thing I have learned
that you should not count
your eggs, even after they hatch.
I close the truck door.
Why is it I can’t cry?
Maybe, there really is no more,
like a puppet, I grow banal.
I’m sick of the player and hoar.

Shine your love on me.
I need a beacon to beseech.
I need to become whole.
It is always out of reach.
I now sit, questioning,
should I really dial the phone
to call her like a siren―
I really don’t want to be alone.

Don't Take it Away

Wrapped up in a web of the ties,
I stay clung to you; you’re breaking me.
The sticky string of old connections
don’t tell me lies; you’re hurting me.
All of the pressure to soothe your pain
blinds my wisdom like a foggy rain.
You can call me names; tell me that I’m wrong.
Just please, don’t take away my love.

I want nothing more than to rip
these strings from me; you’re vexing me.
They bind my veins. Why can’t
I break this grip; you’re deceiving me.
Everyone wants the time to rewind.
They are all moral, but they are blind.
They can think me false or myopic minded.
Just please don’t let them lose my love.

I will lose everything in this constriction.
You will gain everyone and their attention.
I know that mourning is a solemn phase,
but why must I grieve with you?

Do I sound selfish in this cage?
I can’t breathe; you’re beating me.
How can I finally free myself
from your outrage; you’re devouring me.
Please, you can keep me here.
I’m trapped without sight, and I won’t hear.
You can bring me down into your sins,
but just please, don’t take away my love.

A Small Babble Of My Thoughts

Emotion. Good.
Worry. Not.

Not Knowing, Doing, Seeing, Living.

Where is the air to breathe.

Passion. Beauty.
Smite me as I Fall.

Forgetting it All....

......................................Becoming so small...

An Aubade Against Reality

This vacation weeks has been capricous and crazy, and it is only a little past half done. I have hung out with some of my friends and I have gotten some of my homework done (I wish I had done more). I am definately dreading the first week back to school for I feel it is going to be an extremely rough week.

The sun gleans the dust in the air
as I slowly lift my hand to my hair.
My mind is floating without a care
as this intense warmth cradles my core.

Feeling this warmth from a blanket,
a charmed stone, or shimmering anklet―
I have no fears; I have contentment.
Everything seems to be pure.

This euphoria slowly fades
for the world returns in reds and jades―
back to stress, work, and grades.
All beautiful moments have to close,

yet I try to lasso the feeling with hope.
This sublime feeling helps me cope
with reality, and I am no dope.
The only reality I want now is my room.

Take Care

What can I do?
You’re flying right now.
All the strife, hate, despair,
doesn’t matter so how.
This shouldn’t be how.

You don’t even know
that she went above.
Two seconds too late—
the flight of a dove
Ending the love

I know they will give
you attention and praise.
Usually, I would tremble
at that pathetic gaze,
but now my mind is in a haze.

You let lust take control.
You have made some mistakes,
but why do I want her
to come back, no matter the stakes.
Such a thing only takes.

The only real victim
is her with the defect:
fighting a tumor,
losing her respect.
Now all I can do is reflect.

He will give you the world;
the other his heart.
The confusion and sorrow
are not even the start.
For you lost some of your heart.

What do I feel,
remorse or disease?
Did I once hope that you would feel pain?
How could that appease?
It doesn’t appease.

No one deserves
to lose that much more
when the terms and environment
weren’t that good before.
You exit the door.

I really feel sympathy.
I give you some hope.
No, I don’t want to forget.
I will still say, “nope.”
Just, here is some hope.

She’s still in your heart.
She will always be there.
Even when you have moved on,
she will still even care.
Good luck…take care.

The Sequence

Eyes wandering. Can’t hide.
Anticipation. The restless side.
The time. The place.
The time to go.
Unknowing.
The unknown.

Arrival. “Hellos.” Words of embrace.
Slight Awkwardness, then the definite face.
That first pulsation.
The feeling inside.
Doubting.
No place to hide.

Comedy. Tragedy.
Everything, yet tranquility.
Quick glances. The heat.
Hearts ignite.
Beginning.
That sight.

Flowing blood. Perfect grace.
No other wants. No other face.
Hands. Neck.
The growing passion.
Determination.
My only reaction.

The after party. New “highs” and “lows.”
Staleness. Haunting “no’s.”
Wishing. Regretting.
Staying alive…
Hopeless love.
Not really alive.

The Summer of Venus

With the beauty of your body
you transported me to Venus:
A constant Sunday afternoon
to share between the two of us.
You sledded into my heart
on a translucent, snowy day.
I started to curdle like milk
as my mind went astray.
Like purple colored jello,
I want to wiggle in your embrace.
I want to dive into your eyes
and live inside your face.
To be able to fly
throughout your flowing hair
I want to rap you with my arms,
and bite down on a succulent pear.
Crackling like a firework,
I become a finale of reason.
This love is a halcyon summer
and I don’t want a change in season.

Open Grandeur

This morning was lovely. I had to take an extremely challenging chemistry quiz from my eccentric teacher, but other than that it went by pretty smoothly. This week's schedule is actually flexible so I excited about that. We might have a snow day in Berlin tomorrow so I could be able to....sleep!

On that August afternoon
we walked from the car
as the conversations of the trip
disappeared into the air.
The path was very nostalgic
with roots and leaves scattered
over it, making little areas of growth.

We appear out into the open
as my eyes open up and
take in all of the ocean, rocks, and mist.
The waves smashed against the
World’s jagged foibles
and took the power I once
thought I had.

Then you placed your arm
around my stricken body
as if you were showing
me the universal grandness
of the world, yet
you held me there to make
sure I would not dive in.

All those times including this one
you were showing me the world—
from when we painted the flats
to look like Victorian style porches
to when you gave me
a documentary on art and
life.

Now as I look out and
smell the salt cleansing my mind,
I understand something about
I, we, the whole world,
and yet, like the sea, it is too
big for me…
…to grasp it.

The Story

Sitting down at a desk
with the pen of time—
the ink seeps onto the paper
and stays permanent in fabric.

Infancy: a preamble of fogginess
because so many window wipers
have wiped the slate anew
Starting to discover the nouns of
the new exciting world

Childhood: where the story is
a constant adventure and
you are one of a group of
monkeys causing mayhem and
discovering the verbs you own.

Adolescence: the dark plot-changer,
where those monkeys turn to savages
and fervor of reputation is
expelled into the air.
This ambient gas creates
an unidentifiable definition.

High School: where the flow of
the story starts to become dynamic
Adjectives of who we are and
what we are going to become
make the writing gain
complexity and depth.

The future: what will you
write with your pen?
Just remember that the
dark, regrettable ink can
be blue with achievement,
or red with fault.
For now I will write an ellipse…

Jeers Me Ever So

Tomorrow I am pump[ed for my first play rehearsal of Once Upon A Mattress as co-director. I am really excited for this play to get underway. This weekend is our Key Club scrap booking party! I am really excited for that also...ok enough from my world, here is a poem.

Your counterfeit face
is not welcome in this place.
It jeers me ever so.

Cleanliness, you have none.
You hold to my heart a gun.
Your face bleeds in me ever so.

Let the promises come down
against my skeptical frown.
The mystery confuses me ever so.

The promises are like rain
on your face, so vain;
these promises give opulence so.

To me it is like acid.
I am definitely not passive.
The rain corrodes my soul ever so.

What will it take
to exile your face, so fake:
the picture that nightmares so?

The sludge of your disgust—
bathe in it I must.
It burns my skin ever so.

You infect like a virus.
It is all quite preposterous.
You have lied to me ever so.

Now you have forced out your wants.
You smile still haunts.
I want to forget ever so…

“One, Two, and Three”

This is for the three people who opened up my self-confidence

Remembering now as the sun starts to rise
on every watershed to this day.
I know the sins have drew us apart,
but my memory will still stay.

The first day I met number “One”
was truly a sunny March.
The kindness and propinquity I found
brought me through all that was harsh.

The air that day was as sharp as
an inhaler going in my self-confidence.
This story will continue
and my current position will make sense.

I went to number “One’s” abode
with creatures eating my hope.
That is when I entered the house of Aggravain.
It deeply smelled like laundry soap.

The connection was made
and then I met “Two” and “Three.”
These two were obviously familiar
with the world I just began to see.

We played video games, watched movies,
and walked outside.
Our friendship became a knot:
the incandescent glow which no one could hide.

Late nights were when
the polishing of our knot occurred.
I can’t believe that I once
thought of this as absurd.

We all had different personalities
this is but only accepted,
so here is how our vices
brought along our separation.

Pride named ranks and
started a monarchy.
“Two” and “Three” both had this
and they both are clear to see.

I will admit envy was my vice
that would make me irrational.
I tried too much to make a connection with one;
I lost that same exact pal.

Avarice and wrath: the final crowbars that ripped our knot apart
The broken hemp and rope
mixed together with my insecure heart.

Is this only if that now
we go our separate ways?
I have grudges with “Three,”
and I have “One’s” acidic May.

Now I have new friends,
new goals and a new passion.
I still see some of you
throughout your change in fashion.

I know someday you will
look back at what I am now.
Maybe we can fix our knot
still to acknowledgement somehow?

All I know is that, like
three handprints on my soul,
you all have made me who I am;
that part of me is now whole.

Once Stained, Then Fade

I don’t understand where you have gone.
The friend I once knew seems to be following a different song.
Your interests seem to have changed from kindness to physical gain.
Did the microchip of others’ influence finally make its mark or stain?
That deep stain of the hubris of one;
when all the people are gone is the show really done?
Is this eyeliner guilt, security, or shade?
All I know is that your memory seems to fade.

A Couple Quotes

" 'It was January, and the weather was beautiful; the beautiful sunny winter weather that has more charm than in the summer-time, because it is unexpectied, and crisp, and you know it won't, it can't, last long. It's like a windfall, like a godsend, like an unexpected piece of luck.'" (Conrad 101) Youth

" 'It was not my strength that needed nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing." Heart of Darkness

The Stoid Will Be Uprooted

How does it feel to be replaced?
It happens so fast and without notice,
but a foul wind can come any minute
and uproot you from the stolid
make your heart become solid.
Why do things have to be replaced?

Aren't your friends supposed to stick up for you?
Are the promises you make to one another just a game,
because no matter what you may say,
we all seem to go back on your promises at one point or another,
We really aren't real in front of one another,
Why does your best friend have the best opportunity to hurt you?

When does this feeling heal?
How do we ameliorate what others scar,
people seem to blindly or viciously hurt others,
they are ruthlessly faithful,
There heart may be wonderful.
In the eye who denies to heal?

Who are you really?

What have you really felt?

Why don't I know?.....anymore???

Hierarchy

Humans; are they inherently good
Friends; are they a myth

I reflect on life now and I look at all the friends in my life. Most of these friends have ether moved away, became untrustworthy, or found some other person in life that they felt was more important and started to ignore me. Why is it that humans go through this constant path of friends. Why can I see to find anyone that can be my friend and no leave me in the cold? I am sick of this freezing cold. I hate this cold, and every time I get out of it, the temperature drops lower with a obstacle of some sort.

The worst thing a friend can do to someone is ignore them over someone else.

....Selfishness.....Uncontrolled......Hurtful......Ostrasizing.....Mean Spirited......Blind.....

Why can people seem to have a group of friends without defining their friendship in a hierarchy?

Life seems to just be a rise and fall of kings and queens; why?.....simply WHY?

Who is Tim

" ' ...Yet the moment is here to fly again. Not just home, not just yet; but fly into the storm.' " (Maguire 298), Liir, Son of A Witch

This week school has been same old, same old. I have Tim's birthday party to go to tomorrow and here is a poem I wrote for his birthday card.
P.S. Please bear with me for they're some inside jokes :)

Tim is a man of many different trades.
Tim is a man whose spirit never fades.
Tim is an architect who dreams in the night.
Tim is someone one would cal eccentric at first sight.
Tim is an artist whose paintings inspire.
Tim will eat cheese balls, no matter when they expire.
Tim is a set designer whose set blows people away.
Tim sometimes dreams of having a Mi Thai at a café.
Tim can be a genius of structural integrity and design.
Tim can be blond and can mess up some of the time.
Tim loves to cook French meals and deserts.
Tim is the one with paint on most his shirts.
Tim has a goal which is simple, yet unique throughout this land.
Tim doesn’t share this dream with “the Shaw’s announcer” or Joan Chamberland.
Tim’s dream is to make other people smile,
to look at his work and forget life for awhile.
By teaching me so much, even though he may not see
Tim has made his dream reality for me.

Happy Birthday Tim and remember to keep dreaming. Your dreams are what has gotten me so into art; thank you!

~Richard

Boulevard Hate

" 'Memory is part of the present. It builds us up inside; it knits our bones to our muscles and keeps our heart pumping.It is memory that reminds our bodies to work, and memory that reminds our spirits to work, too: it keeps us who we are.It is the influence that keeps us from frying off into separate pieces...' " ~Candle Son of a Witch

Life goes on! This past week has been full of homework, key club, painting, and connection. It has also redefined the known.

Where are you?
Are you inside a forest in the mist,
or in a office on Avenue B?
Why do all these images don't perfectly represent,
what I need to see?

Should I save myself?
What good will that do
if when I save myself there is nowhere else to go.
I still answer the questions
that I really do not know.

Should life be so desperate.
No one can usurp my self;
and still I feel I must defend with all I have,
which isn't anything but a glass of insecurity.
What is there really to save?

Insignificance and ignorance must be bliss
because being on the outside is
rewarding with loneliness.
I don't know what my true intentions are;
can you guess?

On my fifth stanza
and yet I feel no less or more.
When I find you I will emancipate.
When I find you...
First path to follow: Boulevard Hate.

A Grudge Lost In The Ties

"The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected all the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood." ~Emerson

The quote above is a quote I took from a passage we read in English today; I found connection with its meanings. Life has been a roller coaster of ups and downs lately from all of Christmas vacation to back to school. Everything is everywhere, yet I can't seem to get nowhere. All in all I have a lot of art to do, and a lot of homework so I am just going to continue with the poem.

What is a grudge,
but a memory of the pain,
forgiveness is lost,
all that is left is a stain,
Should people part,
when they don't want to converse,
should they be able to totally separate,
from connection, from this verse,
Why do you involve yourself,
when he only uses you,
yet you are so innocent,
you forgive, you are true,
I probably should forgive,
I just can't seem to forget,
about all the times I forgave,
all the time that I spent,
hurt, anger, forgiveness, repeat,
I did that for so long,
I can not express this any more,
through thesis or through song,
I just want to disconnect,
from the need to forgive,
so I don't have to follow,
the "repeat" direction again; I relive,
you are so innocent
you are so true,
you have given me so much,
what does he have to give you,
I don't want to cut your ties,
I just don't understand,
why after all he has done,
why do you still give him your hand?
What is the difference between being right and a grudge,
why must our past have ties,
what should I do forgive and repeat,
our continue to get these phantom-filthy eyes.
What will happen if I cut these lost ties.