Lonely Porch

I sat on the front porch in that creaking hammock-chair. It swings. The ropes protest. The antique tea cup and saucer - the gold and white one, with the saucer that looks like lace - rattles and chatters. A sweet stickiness is left in my mouth from the tea; the kind of aftertaste that makes you want more of whatever gave it to you in the first place. I sighed, adding to the persistant sound-sequence that was already dominating the porch: creak rattle rattle creak rattle rattle creak...
I looked up. I watched the ropes, metal and wood interacting above me as I swung. Creak rattle rattle creak. The sound of the distressed china should have put me on edge. There should have been an instinct to protect the fragile pair in my lap. But the ropes around me molded to my shape oh so perfectly...
I looked ahead, at the dry creek bed. It looked white-silver by the light of the dying sun. By the late afternoon, the sun is always fed up with the individual colors who refuse to swear by night or day - he told me so, once upon a time. As he bleeds to death each night, the sun demands that they all declare their loyalty to him or to his sister, the moon. Greens, reds, warm browns take up the golden sheild. White, blue, grey-browns ralley around a silver sheen.
Creak rattle rattle creak rattle rattle creak...
It is decision-making time.
I rise from the hammock-chair, silencing the creaking and the rattling instantly. The only sound is my bare-feet on the porch-wood. I notice that my feet, too, have taken a side - gold, in honor of the sun who gives them color in the first place. One last creak and a slam! as the doors opens and closes behind me. I pause.
Silence is silver-golden on the lonely porch.

Winter Friends

It was the soft swirls
that got me:
the gentle, fragile tendrils
of hope and vulnerability.
I couldn't pull away
from that.
The beautiful
possibilities
were blossoming with our laughter.
So many futures
were alive with us.

So much time
to watch the stars
before we die.
Do you think if we stare
at them for long enough,
we will be kidnapped
by the beauty?
I hope so.
For, then, what else could
we
be, but beautiful?

The golden grass bows at the feet
of the naked, silver trees.
Such majesty,
in such cold
and deadness.
The colors contrast
and highlight one another.
Just like our differences
light up our
lives.

Silver Light

And I'm a pool of
silver light:
shining and
sparkling and
reflecting faces and dreams.

I'm swelling with joy,
expanding my borders.
I'm touching you
with my gentle color.

Elegant and soft,
the moon faces me,
and I glow
seductively.
I watch your eyes,
drinking in details
- shape, hue, motion -
as the moment stretches on,
tattooing our memories.

It's swallowing you whole:
this strange silver light.
It has soaked through your eyes,
permiated your hair, lips,
your hands, skin,
your voice, texture.

I smile at a pool of red
that clings to you,
beneath your left collar bone.
It's pulsing softly.

There's life
inside this silver mist.

There is a fine line
between what is
and what could be.
So hazy.
So tempting.
The glass case
of time
is cracked and
fogged over.

Beautiful sunlight
on a rainy day.
It is truly worth it
to stop and smell the
roses.
What has bloomed today
will be withered tomorrow.
Remember to keep things
in perspective.

I am wet and
cold,
but I feel so beautiful.
I want to glitter
in your eyes,
while your lips are heavy
with my name.
I sigh and blow a kiss to you.



Out of sight
out of mind
is a lie.

Solar-Powered

I love to lay in bed
when the sun is up
and pouring through my
window.
Little shards of sunlight
are caught in my lashes
and I can't help but
smile:
I feel like I am golden.
The whispers that make
bubbles
- bubbles blown by laughing children
on hot summer days -
are gathering,
clinging to my skin,
blessing my day.
I drink in the warmth,
the comfort,
and I know that if I
fall asleep now,
I can only have
good
dreams.
Dreams that show me:
I am beautiful.
Dreams that tell me:
I am powerful.
Dreams that promise me:
I can have adventure.


Perhaps
I am solar-powered.

Red Lace

Life-drops are dripping
from my broken
fingertips.
Sliding off.
Splattering.
How unlucky
that I need those ribbons
of beautiful scarlet
that are piling up
on the floor.

Perhaps it isn't true.
Perhaps its like all the other lies
they always tell me...
All I can know for sure
is that my
beautiful color
is filling up the space
on the floor,
and I am hiding
under all this lace.

Lace....
So delicate
as it strangles me.
So silent
as it covers me.
It is surly
stained
by now:

Pure white
has been violated.

Long Way

I can see my dreams
from way up here.
It's a long way down.
Its a long way
from you
to me.

I hate the loneliness
the exclusiveness
the lines.
I want to leave
but I can't get away.
I want to be claimed
but I can't find the means.
I want to speak
but I can't use words.

I can see my breath
float up to the stars.
It's a long way up.
It's a long way
from there
to here.

I hate the distance
the separation
the boundaries.
I have ideas
that I can't realize.
I have beauty
that can't be shown.
I have wishes
that can't come true.



I can see
from way up here.
And its
such
a long way.....

Of an Unnamed Girl

She looked right at me as she cracked her window. Thought I did not know her, though I had never seen her before, I was suddenly sure she was about to tell me some important secret. but the feeling passed as instantaneously as is came when she looked away; our worlds fell apart, away from each other. She looked down and fumbled with something in her lap - I could only just see her by the light between our cars, a beacon in the dark parking lot. I held my breath, but didn't know why. Her face was lit up quite unexpectedly by a violent orange glow. A cigarette lighter. I could see all the curves and plains and flaws of her face in that moment. She inhaled and put the lighter away. I was vaguely aware that I was staring, but she seemed not to notice. It was cold. She exhaled and a mixture of steam and smoke curled lazily out her window, disbanding in the frigid night air. At last she glanced back at me. I had not moved. I would have smiled but her eyes were empty - she had not seen me. She started her car, put it in reverse, and drove away. I watched her tail lights in the distance until they became lost among all the other little red lights. Realizing I was still half-way out of my car, I swung my bag over my shoulder, slammed the locked door shut, and strode away quickly, aware as well of just how cold I had become. I shook my head as I crossed the parking lot, thinking of all the other similar memories that had already faded to nothing....

That Face

I gasped when I saw you.

You! That face! I've seen you. In my dreams. Pieces of moments from your life flashed through my brain. If you were real, were all those memories real? Memories that were leftover images from my sleep.

I gasped when I saw you. And then I felt dirty.

All those nights - weeks and weeks of them! I had somehow been spying on you in my sleep. All those personal conversations I had sat in on. All those moments of weakness I had witnessed. I was an intruder. You couldn't possibly know me.

I gasped when Isaw you. And then I felt dirty. I opened my mouth and then closed it, like a fish.

What could I say? 'Hi, I know everything'? I knew your name, knew your family, knew your friends, knew your room, knew your life. But I didn't mean to! They were only dreams!

I gasped when I saw you. And then I felt dirty. I opened my mouth and then closed it, like a fish. I settled on a shy smile - maybe you would walk away?

Noise

Through this sort of death, find life.
It is opposite thinking.
Become the rain.
Open up. Give away.
Vulnerability is beautiful,
like a person of color in a world of grey.
Release yourself.
You are hiding in the darkness.
Come out of the quiet. Live,
and hear others' voices.
Quietness shows that you only
hear on voice: yours.
Be free of that, and
listen.

The sun blushes at such passionate beginnings.








For my poetry class, we had to write a 'response to a poem'. Weird, right? Well I picked Rumi's 'Quietness', which you can read in the blog right before this one. =) I really liked this poem -- and so did my teacher!

Random Works of Rumi

Quietness
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an ax to the prison wall.
Escape. Walk out
like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest
sign that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full mood comes out now.







[Untitled]

You've so distracted me,
your absence fans my love.
Don't ask how.

Then you come near.
"Do not..." I say, and
"Do not..." you answer.

Don't ask why
this delights me.








This Market
Can you find another market like this?
Where, with your one rose

you can buy hundreds of rose gardens?
Where, for one see you get

a whole wilderness? For one weak
breath, the divine wind?








[Untitled]
I hear nothing in my ear but your voice.
Heart has plundered mind of its eloquence.

Love writes a transparent calligraphy, so on
the empty page my soul can read and recollect.







[Untitled]
Pale sunlight,
pale the wall.

Love moves away.
The light changes.

I need more grace
than I thought.










Rumi is an amazing 13th-century Persian-born [present-day Afghanistan] poet. I love his poems!! He is famous for writing love poems, which I am typically not a fan of. But I love his stuff.

Good to Eat

I feel the grinding
of my bones
in my bones.

I know it will
reduce me
to a stumpy
bloody
core.

That's always how
it goes.
Grind my bones
- like fee fie fo fum -
and I am left
motionless.

-

-

-

-

-

Things are eating away at me.
Nibble.
Nibble.
Nibble.
CHOMP

I can't help it if
I look good to eat.

Difference

Sometimes I
feel
-and I hate it.

Sometimes I
recognize
-and it eats away at me.

Sometimes I am beyond
sick
of myself and all that I am,
all the damage I have caused
-and lived through.



Sometimes I am
overwhelmed
-and it swallows me.

Sometimes I am
alone
-and its suffocating.

Sometimes I become
aware
of how unlike everyone else I am,
how different and disconnected
-and it brings further isolation.



Sometimes I
reach
-and you miss it.

Sometimes I
scream
-and you aren't listening.

Sometimes I clearly
understand
that I am from a different world and
I am not a part of you or your world
-and it hurts me.

Ghazal

When I'm with you, I am who I am.
You see through the nonsense and grasp who I am.


The essence of Me is thick. It's hanging in the air:
I'm breathing in and breathing out suspicions of who and what I am.


Suggestions of what to be and where to go accumulate above me.
The rain of possibilities falls on all that I already am.

My whole life is reflected in your eyes. You peel away the
falseness with your bare hands. You effortlessly uncover who I truly am.

Classifications - of future, past, and present - are obsolete with you here.
Together we explore, and I am not afraid of what I am.

You say my name: 'Courtney' - it is so beautiful in your voice!
I wanted to be what you made me, but you have chosen to love me as I am.


















I'm taking a poetry class this semester and we are writing ghazals. I really love them! Here are the rules:
>The verses are written in couplets.
>The refrain, a repeated word, ends every couplet and ends the first and second lines in the first couplet [in this poem, the refrain is the word am]
>The couplets must make sense alone and end with a period. They don't have to be related.
>There must be at least 5 couplets.
>The lines are long - not one or two words like some of my work
>The last couplet must include the poet's own name.

Shelf Life

Day after day you.
Invade my space you.
Stick your hands in and.
Press your face close and.
Fog up the glass.

Am I really so.
Entertaining I.
Just lay here and.
Take care of my.
Life-needs but you.
Seem to find that.
Far too interesting for.
Me to be.
At ease.

I don't understand you.
You flat-faced captor you.
Hand that feeds me and.
Thinks yourself great while.
Exposing my life for.
Your own amusement.

Just because I.
Have no words or.
Legs or vote and.
Can't get out does.
Not mean I.
Enjoy it here.

How about we.
Switch roles just for.
One day so you.
Can see the need I have.
To bury myself in.
Wood chips to.
Ensure that I.
Can't be seen.




So in my poetry class we had to write a 'Research Poem'. I was like 'What the crap is a research poem???' Somehow, writing from a different perspective fit in. Anyway, it's nearly 11pm, and I realized at about... idk... 10pm that my research poem is due at midnight. So I feverishly grabbed a notebook, and this poem about a pessamistic* snake just kinda fell out. Weird. But I really liked it and now I just don't wanna go to bed so I'm rambling.... sighhhh.... Somehow I became 8 years old again. Idk how I managed it, but I did.

Ramifications

Connection.
Of something small.
Faling to.
Make me feel.
Alive.
Again.

Breathing.
The fresh air is.
Suffocating me I.
Try to swallow the.
Sunshine but it.
Burns my throat.

Point.
We used to have.
One of those.
It was either your.
Fault or my.
Fault but I.
Cannot seem to.
Stomach either option.
For the blame.

Changing.
There seems to be.
A lot of that these.
Days and I.
Have yet to decide how.
I feel about the.
Ramifications of.
Our actions.

Wonder

Oh the broken-hearted
spinning and mutation
of dreams:
Trampled.

Boxed in and boxed
OUT
with red tape
and raised eyebrows:
Disconnected.

Reaching outside myself
with gentle tendrils
of fragile, vulnerable:
Hope.

They are squashed
hacked off
beaten back
surgecally removed:
Disappointment.

Why oh why
all this
soul-less wandering:
Misery.

Retreating for miles
- and possibly an outcast -
I dive into my old selves
and return with something valuable:
Basics.







I have always felt a little.... estranged. Like if most of humanity is 'on the same page', I am in another book written in a different language. I have been blessed with many gifts and talents and I have a curiosity and imagination that had remained thus far unriveled - even the children I have spent time with are loosing their ability to pretend and be in wonder. It makes me sad.

I have found that I cannot live on to-do lists and assignments and expectations - even when I supplement with going to church and doing Bible studies regularly and I am growing in God. I have a need to return to the basics. If I don't, I drown. I need to take walks and go on hikes and marvel at the outdoors. I need to plant things and watch them grow. I need to pull away from technology and write with a quill by candlelight. I need to turn off the music and spend time alone in the quiet and rest. I need to have a deam that I am preparing for. I need to drink hot tea instead of energy drinks and dance in the rain instead of hide under an umbrella. I need to wonder about things and go look up the answers. These are the things that keep me alive.

Not the breathing kind of alive, but the kind of alive that sparkles. The kind of alive that makes me laugh when nothing is particularly funny, but I am just so happy that I NEED to laugh out loud. The kind of alive that inspires me to change myself. The kind of alive that causes me to create. The kind of alive that draws me back to love.

People have been telling me that this is the part of my life where I have to grow up and act like an adult. Hmmm. Adults... They don't smile much. Have you noticed that? I mean, besides that polite little smile that they have been trained to give, andthat tired smile that says 'I've had a loooooong day', and that smirk when they hear the latest gossip. I mean a REAL smile. The kind that people have when they fall in love, or are ridiculously happy. The kind of smile that says "Hey you: I'm alive!" They rub their forheads, temples, and faces - always a headache. And they gray hair they say comes for from where? Stress. No thank you.

I am a child of God. I am His beloved, His daughter, His warrior princess. I find my identity in Christ, and I am satisfied. I want to grow in His grace and under his refinement - I promise He knows what He's doing. I want to become more and more His child; not more and more an adult of this world.

This is not to say in any way that I want to shirk all responsibilities and just 'love' all the time, like the hippies suggest, and worry about the here and the now. I have plans. I have a future. I take things seriously - sometimes TOO seriously! - and I know how to think things through and make good choices.

I simply miss the days when child-like wonder was acceptable, and I am scrambling to get back to that state.

Shredded

It is that
SHREDDING
of that
thing
inside of me.
What is it?
I feel it running.
All the time.
Something
is being ground to bits.
What if I need that
later?
The sound of it is
horrifying.
It never stops.
It invades my dreams.
I gives me a prickely
feeling
of unease.
What is happening?
What part of me is being
eaten away at?
Oh I wish it would
stop
- at least until I
found out
what it was.
I might need to
intervene.
What if it is important?
What could constantly be
SHREDDED
but I have failed to notice
it has gone?
What if I
disappear
too?
I have a sneaking suspicion
that when the
SHREDDING
stops,
so do I.
For I have
narrowed it down:
is what is being
SHREDDED
time?

The Moment

Everyone is asleep
but me.
Shhh:
It can be our
secret.
Come here and listen;
I will tell you all my
tresure and dreams
and everything I have been hiding.
I am vulnerable
in the middle of the night,
you see.
Lonliness kidnaps
me:
just sitting here,
in my mis-matched pajamas.
I feel compelled to
WHISPER.
To pour it all out.
Everything.
Right now.
But you aren't really here.
No one is.
You are simply reading -
You have already missed
The Moment.

The Contaminated Jar

I suppose it matters not

whether there are little bits of paper in the bottom

when nothing that will touch them

shall be eaten.

Or perhaps I have grown lazy,

or I am not awake yet.

Either way,

I am still thinking about them.

Those little tiny bits of paper,

I mean.

They are still in the bottom of the jar.

I left them.

What a terrible scandle!

I have left teensy shreds of paper

in the bottom of the sweet-n-low jar!

Which no one really uses,

but me...

I am far from the kitchen,

now;

I certainly cannot see the pantry door

or the rack that hangs upon it

and gives shelter to the jar.

What nonsense!

Why should I make such a fuss

over not cleaning it?

Because no one knows?

Because no one will care as much as I?

Because it would have been so easy to manage this insane

obsession

over smaller-than-scraps of pale pink paper?

I am loosing my mind.

I can think of nothing else.

I have decided that I will not

go back downstairs and clean it out.

I have plenty of other things to do

and this will surely bother no one but me

so severely.

Still....

I squirm.

I sigh and attempt to be amused

at how foolish I am.

But those little intruders

- that I failed to remove -

are still nagging.

And paper really ought not to nag....

Secrets

Secrets.
Used to be
so good at them.
Cover up.
Now you think you know me -
now you know you don't.
That smile could mean
anything.
Or more importantly
everything.
Who am I,
really?

But now I am
no good at those.
Let me lay it out.
I am
exposed.
Open.
I burned my mask.
You talk to me,
you talk to ME.
You know me.








I'm not crazy about this poem. It just sort of slipped out the other day. It's not one of my best, but it was sore of an epiphany of how much I have changed in the last year or two.

I'm not who I was.

My body flitted about
while my mind remained elsewhere;
my muscles were overly-accustomed to this routine.
I was totally absorbed in my thoughts
in the beauty of what I had seen
in the imagines engrained in my head
in the dreams that were awakening within me once more
in the passionate silence of my heart -
all it could do was mourn the lack of opportunity.

I sighed,
dramatically.
A waste of time –
no one was present to capture the sadness
of the moment.
My actions led me to the table.
It was already set.
Lunch was already prepared.
I was hungry.

And yet….

Words swirling in my head
made it impossible to think
impossible to breathe
impossible to eat.
So down I sat
and began:

My body flitted about
while my mind remained elsewhere….

Blowing Bubbles

I am sure you are thinking ''Blowing Bubbles'?? What in the world...? Why that name?' I'm so glad you asked. =) You see, as I was staring around my room and thinking up a name for this blog, I spotted two bottles on my desk with the soap stuff in it that you blow bubbles with. Being, well, me, I let my mind wander.
I began comparing bubbles to different things: people's lives, emotions, situations, and thoughts. Bubbles are a lot like thoughts. Sometimes there are a lot of them with one blow, and sometimes not very many. They are shiny and sparkley and when you watch them, the irredescent surface changes and shifts until - POP! It's gone. I decided that for me, writing a blog is a lot like blowing bubbles.
Please refrain from expectations. I don't really like those. This blog will be, I'm sure, a hodge-podge of things running through me that are lucky enough to escape via hand with pen and paper. There will be all sorts of things presented. Don't feel obligated to read them all or to attempt to make sense of them - some of them don't even make sense to me.

<3