Rosancranz

I prayed with all the tears I bled, that you’d come back from the dead

You stayed, despite the tears you bled, so I’ll come back from the dead

Drops so heavy they could have been rain

That night, I saw everything

I know what you were doing to you

Did you know, what you were doing to me?

A kiss, so false it had to be true

A kiss leaving me in agony

That night it all started

Something wicked in the garden

No thing slices like Apathy

No weight crushes like hostility

Seeing you and I so far apart

And watching how you stumbled

were hooks that ripped my heart

and the rest of me crumbled

That morning it had dared

Something wicked in the square

Please don’t hide behind your shame

And know, I’ve endured the same

Pressure penetrates your skull

All those hands stripping you naked

Alone and exposed before all

And wondering how you’ll make it

That day it had shadowed me

Something wicked in the city

If you would just allow

For me to help you now

Don’t fret that I’m carrying you

On this road to eternity

I had once needed help too

And he does not demand alacrity

That noon on the trail

Something wicked was doomed to fail

You tied me up

You nailed me down

You pierced me through

You jeered

And I fell silent

And I fell

Through that abyss

So I could rise

And bring you with me

Nothing wicked can stop me

I prayed with all the tears I bled, 
that you’d come back from the dead

You stayed, despite the tears you bled, 
so I’ll come back from the dead

The Speaker

The following is an excerpt from my YA manuscript that I've been working on since forever. I happen to like this passage, but I'm not sure why.

“You mustn’t try to prepare yourself for it,” her mother had said instead. “Know that this is not a test and there is no danger. Dispel your worries.”

            Akari was still rolling her eyes in memory of that answer as they followed the trail around a bend and down into a crevasse. A creek rippled at the bottom, feeding a large, drooping tree with bulbous knots. Its thick trunk was like a strongman holding up a world of branches, but as it had grown tired the leafless branches slipped from its grip and bent toward the ground.

            It looked sad, or so Akari thought. How could it not be when most of the trees around had long since dried up?

            “My daughter, this is the Speaker. We transplanted it here so that it might survive, but we do not think it is long for this world.” Arie took Akari’s hand and guided her to the base of the tree. “The Speaker speaks for Seele. When you’ve heard the Speaker, you’ve heard Seele, and that cements the bond.”

            Akari protested, “But I don’t have a bond to cement. I don’t know anything about this Seele. And I’m not full elf. Won’t that have an effect?”

            Eithne, the female elf who had loaned Akari the dress replied, “There is good reason why we did not answer your questions on the rite. You must partake as you are, and not as who you think you should be. Leave your concerns behind you and calm your thoughts.”

            Akari stared at the tree. Was it staring right back?

            Arie motioned for Akari to position herself on her knees, an arm’s length from the trunk. The elves surrounded the Speaker and muttered in the beautiful language Arie had spoken when she aided Mace. The words were in a lax cadence, with a rhythmic inflection strung throughout. Akari watched them and wished she understood what they were saying.

            “No,” her mother whispered. She took Akari’s hand and placed it on one of the knots. “Don’t mind them.” Arie drew some of the Speaker’s sap onto her thumb and smeared it across Akari’s forehead. “Do not mind anything.” Arie kissed her daughter on the head before joining the circle of elves around Akari and the Speaker.

            Akari swallowed. She had a dark feeling that they would be sitting there all night if they expected her to perform some sort of magic. They knew full well that she had not been raised an elf, that she still had no concept of Seele. It was not fair, and their reluctance to answer her questions only annoyed her.

            She grew impatient, tempted by the notion to just run for it, when the sap on her forehead began to warm, drawing her thoughts away from escape. The heat became almost uncomfortable when she smelled a fragrant earthiness. The smell filled her lungs, and when the air reached her brain, her body fell forward against the knot, her hand barely saving her face from the bark. She tried to push herself up, but couldn’t. She couldn’t move.

            After the paralysis came numbness, save for the burning on her forehead. She could not feel her lungs inhaling, and she panicked, but she could not even feel her heart race. A tiny bug crawling across the ancient bark of the Speaker was the last thing she saw before blindness set in.

            Akari cursed the elves in her mind. This was not the unconsciousness of sleep, but it was the helplessness that had plagued her her entire life. Her thoughts were frantic, wondering if all this were normal, or if she were an anomaly. The absence of her senses, of not being able to move—she knew no thing more terrifying. But soon, her thoughts were deafened by the absolute silence, and it beckoned her to be the same.

            Silent. Like she wasn’t there.

            Akari allowed herself to disappear. 

What's in a name

In French it’s agnelet—its Latin root is where you get the name Agnes from. It was one of the first livestock animals to be domesticated, and it has been integral to civilization ever since. The origins are thought to be the mouflon from Europe and Asia. Though its husbandry has been present the world over, today it is most closely associated with Australia, New Zealand, the British Isles, and South America. In Spanish they say “el cordero.” The ruminant not only provides meat, but fleece as well. The significance of fleece, of course, goes back to ancient times, as in “Jason and the Golden Fleece.” In Greek, the word is arni. Additionally, the arni, or probabato as the adult is called, has been used to forward science, most notably as a cloned specimen. The scientific name is Ovis Aries.

In the United States the raising of this livestock isn’t terribly common, and its existence is largely detached from secular society. In the church, the animal has special significance, since the son of God is given the title of Agnus Dei. This goes back to the Hebrew tradition of sacrificing the young animal to atone for sins. In Hebrew it’s called Rachel.

Hero of Agape

We had to write a love sonnet back in high school. I chose to write about a certain saint. Happy all saints!

Few times has our world beheld a hero,
when how crimson man’s heart can be is known.
Our blessing, a sister of Loreto,
graced the earth with a heart to melt cold stone.

A good hero does not, will not, rescue,
with the idea of rich future gain.
Our hero helped the ragged no one knew,
she helped heal the soul and calmed hunger’s bane.

But is her red heart enough, to follow
a will, that in this world offers nothing;
can her soul take the lives deeply hollow
and show that a smile means something?

What did she have, this sister, now mother,
which she gave full when she helped another?

Painting of the Silver Fox

“Wooweee, aren’t you a tall one?” my grandpa surely must have said when the 6’7” Indian walked through the door. He showed up at the Silver Fox to play some pool with his Yakama friends.
My grandpa owned the place. Most of his customers came from the bowling alley next door. When the alley closed up shop, so did my grandpa, and he moved on to other things. But this is still during the good years, somewhere in the seventies.
The Silver Fox had the works: bar, taps, pool tables, stools. Neon lights welcomed visitors and frequenters alike. The place wasn’t big, it wasn’t fancy. It’s just the stop the working man would make before getting home to his Lazy Boy. Not like there was anything else to do in Yakima, nor would anyone in Yakima want to do anything else.
The Indian picked up a pool cue, to which my grandpa must have said, “Don’t you go breaking that. I have a wife and two kids to feed.”
The Indian laughed. Everybody laughed at my grandpa’s jokes, his teasing, and his jolliness. When we went out in public with him –no joke –he knew everyone. And if he didn’t, he soon would.
So it really doesn’t come as any surprise that not only did he get to know this particular Indian, but that the Indian came to like him and his place enough to decorate it.
“You know what, Ernie,” the Indian must have said. “Taverns like this…they could use a touch of art, don’t you think?” Maybe he went on to share what significance the fox had in Native American mythology. He surely told my grandpa how he was an artist. It was how he made ends meet.
“Well, if you’re offering, I sure won’t say ‘no’.” My grandpa probably eyed the wall opposite the bar. “Yeah, right there. We could use a silver fox right there.”
The Indian would have followed his gaze. “Hmm, a big space, but I’ll fill it.”
“What? No, you don’t have to fill that whole thing. Just sketch me something out and I’ll frame it.”
The Indian would have set down his glass, his palm flat on the bar. “Not a sketch. A full, big painting. A gift for you, my friend. Next time I’m in town, I’ll bring it by.”
“I’ll finally be able to set my stools back up! Where’re you headin’ off to?”
The Indian took a drink, savoring it. “There was a casting call for a big, ugly Indian. Needless to say, I got the part.”
Then he must have slapped the table and started toward the door. “I don’t remember the exact title…something about a cuckoo’s nest. See you, Ernie.”

You need me. You hate the sound of my voice, but deep down, you want me all the same. There’s no one else you can imagine by your side, night after night. You count on me to be more accurate with my numerals than you are with your checkbook. Heed me, and your day will go as planned. Ignore me, fight me, throw me against the wall, and your hedonism will enact its own punishment.

I see it in your heavy lidded eyes how much you wish to destroy me, but you should know, that if but one of my brethren failed to perform, then it could mean lives. As for you, my failure could mean your livelihood. It could mean a black cloud above your head for days or weeks. But as for me, success could mean a dented wall and a broken LED display, and then, where would you be?

Sympathy for an alarm clock.

Most beautiful word

I think serenity is the most beautiful word in the English language. Maybe I’m cheating because it’s actually Latinate in origin, but really, if I chose a word that went so far back on the timeline that it’s definably Germanic, then I’d be stuck between cow and swine, and come on, those aren’t beautiful even you were in love with beef patties slapped between two slices of pig butt. But, you know, I may be partial because I know serenity means peace and just hearing it gives me peace of mind. I’d love to share this piece of my mind and spread the supreme song that is serenity to other solemn souls because to say it you practically have to sing. Yes, practically. It’s a practical word so not only is it beautiful but it serves a purpose. I like purpose.

Magic Spiral Part Two

Pendleton hands out worksheets for us to detail Simba’s “heroic journey” as we watch The Lion King. As quick as I can, I fill in the blanks so that I can zone out once the movie starts. A quick survey of the class reveals I’m not the only one with the idea. Pendleton probably should have chosen a movie that most kids our age didn’t already know by heart. I lean my chin on my left fist while my right plays with the spine of my spiral.
         

Magic Spiral Part One

Note: In case you frequent my blog, this is a later incarnation of "Magic Notebook."

“Kim, we gotta go!" someone says right before they hook my backpack in the direction of History.
            "Thanks," I reply sarcastically before I turn to my friend, wiping my mouth.  I had been trying to get a drink from the fountain, and now it was all down my shirt and notebook. I see that it's Becca: dirty blonde, curly hair, and a sundress so bright you easily overlook her gray eyes.
            She speaks as if continuing a conversation, "-and why is it so far away? Why is it on the other freakin’ side of this frickin' building?" I smile, knowing that by “freaking” she means “stupid” and by “frigging” she means yet another F word. "I have to have the skills of a NASCAR pit crew to relieve myself and be on time."

Talk to me, he said.

I told him nothing was wrong

He was silent.

I failed my test. I’m dissatisfied with myself.

He waited for me.

I competed poorly. I’m disappointed in myself.

He remained patient.

My efforts were fruitless. I’m angry with myself.

Talk to me, he said.  

I’ve sinned. My God, I’ve sinned.

My love, then sin no more. There is healing in myself.




I don't think my poem does the talk any justice, but it was inspired by something Sister Miriam James said while she was in Bellingham for Faith on Fire. It was along the lines that Jesus didn't come to save us from our personal failures, from lost games and jobs, but to save us from sin. And, I thought that was beautiful and provides perspective on what our priorities should be. She also said something that I've been thinking for a long time, something the world will probably never acknowledge: suffering is not the worst thing, sin is. 


Anyway, I don't know who all reads my blog, but please consider watching this:

A Day

Rachael tends to wake up at 7am on weekdays. Some days it’s for Young Adult Literature, and on others it’s for a fiction writing class. One class asks her to read books geared toward the enigmatic “young adult”, while the other asks her to read stories written by college students who stumble their way through trying to sound “adult” so that they’re no longer confined by the “young” modifier. Occasionally Rachael raises an eyebrow at the inclusion of certain four letter words in otherwise G rated stories. She half-suspects, however, that maybe she’s the one who has it all wrong between the “young” and “adult” and “young adult.” She would think back to her time as an adolescent, but she’s not entirely sure that that time ever ended.

Understanding her as an adolescent could explain a lot of things—her moments of arrogance, pride, carelessness, and lapse of punctuality—if only she hadn’t found out that adults, too, fall victim to such vices and perhaps far more often than with teenagers. Her professors and classmates habitually show up late to class, angry men on the television speak with conviction but refuse to listen even politely, her apartment’s on-site manager can’t refund her dollar from when the washer broke because she lost the key to its cashbox, it goes on. Maybe Rachael really needed those four quarters to run the load of laundry she dearly wanted to do, maybe she takes deep breaths to ensure that she is respectful of others while they share their opposing views, and maybe Rachael ran in her jeans and Converse to make it to class on time.

But the day goes on. After the early morning class, Rachael bikes home, eats lunch, wastes time on the internet, and then, if she has pulled together a behemoth-like strength of will, she will do some homework. Twice a week, she has a 2PM class where she’s constantly faced with the question of what “nonfiction” is. She’s still not sure, but every day she has a different idea, and every day she thinks about something new. She goes to practice at 3PM.

At practice, Rachael runs around. With as much “practice” as she’s done, you’d think she’d be really good, but it doesn’t quite work that way. She knows she can go so far and so fast, but the truth is that any running without injury is good. In reality, she’s only better than every injured person out there. She and her teammates, more often than not, don’t even think about running while they’re on the trails, because when something is good, we don’t usually think about it.

Then there’s dinner, which should come as quickly after practice as possible. Then homework, because she probably didn’t do it while she was researching the upcoming superhero movies. To finish her day, Rachael might drink some sleepy-time tea, though she doesn’t need it, and she’ll nestle into her bed sheets printed with sleeping cows. After she checks to see that her alarm is correct, but before sleep has come to reset her day, she’ll cling to her stuffed dog and whisper to it “goodnight.”

Wolke und Teich

Eine Wolke treibt vorbei,
Hoch in den blauen Himmel,
Getrieben; auf den Wind
Hält sie nie an.


Sie sieht den Teich,
Der, fest auf der Erde,
Still und unbewegend flöge
Über Land und Wasser gern.

Nobody's Home

One day you have a home and the next you don’t, but I’m not going to tell you my particular reasons for being homeless. Oh, alright, if you insist. You see, I used to have a house.

I bought the land. I bought the materials. I built the house myself. A modest two-story, painted white with a blue trim. It had its own garden and patio. The stepping stones were cement, which I mixed myself, and decorated with colorful rock mosaics, which I set myself. I chopped, sawed, and sanded the wood that became my picked fence, which I painted white. Inside was furniture that I got from Ikea.

But above the fireplace was a painting which I painted in my younger days. It was a stormy sea, but on the horizon was a tiny sun trying its best to bring clear skies with it.

I even cooked and cleaned for myself. I lived with myself.

But one day, I threw myself out. If you had seen the way I was acting, you would have done it, too. To get back at myself for throwing me out, I sold everything to a nice family. Then, I gave away the money so that my cheating self wouldn’t get it.

I Did Not Invite that Man

I did not invite that man--

Who now stood before me--

Nor did I welcome him

Anywhere near me.

Persistent, with an open hand;

Insistent, his tempting bare Palm;

I did not want him to have it--

My still strong, beating Heart.

I held it in my hands

As my legs carried me away--

But he would only follow--

Forever calm and patient

So many of my strides

Would equal only one of his--

As my legs sped along

With my beating Heart.

It became harder to hold--

Why was it struggling?

It was called to that beautiful man--

To his tempting bare Palm.

I tired and turned to face him.

He reached for my hands.

My fingers relaxed and he took

My no longer beating Heart.

Phoenix

A stream of expletives make up your sub-conscious, but you try to quell it. You don't swear. Not swearing has always been your small form of rebellion, an action that keeps you in solidarity with your younger self, but your younger self never went through this, so the four letter words continue to provide accompaniment to your scared shootless thoughts.

Your shoes are properly tied, double knotted and form fitting like a corset. Your racing singlet might be a corset also, for how well you're able to breathe. The involuntary act of inhaling gets stopped somewhere in the traffic jam of your nerves. You have to force it to happen, and if you don't, the reduced oxygen blood will be pumped all throughout your body, making your muscles twitchy and you stomach nauseous, like it is now. You're terrified that you'll hurl at the starting line. Careful! That was a gag. You better not swallow. You better not open your mouth.

So you don't-- you instead breathe through your nose as they lead you to the starting line. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, which is both dry and on the verge of being flooded with bile. You look around. The others look around. None seem too happy, but you know the expressions on their faces can't be as sour as your own, not with your mouth shut in such a tight grimace.

This is your "scary" face, you know, but you couldn't care less because you are more afraid of what brings it on than others are of you. You could wonder what the runner sharing your lane is thinking, whether or not they'll try to edge you out of the inside within the first turn. But you don't. You have to focus on breathing forcefully through your nose so you don't vomit. You have to keep your emotions in line so you don't just break down crying.

If someone held a gun to your head, would you cry then? You don't know, and you don't care, because the only thing that matters is getting through this. You believe in that because your life depends on it. The gun is raised, not at your head, of course, but in the air. But the shot punches through your chest. You don't fall forward in your death. Your body, quite apart from you and your expletives, springs forth into life.

Alistair was alone with Emil. Even the air racing by him bemoaned this reality. The sides of the copper canyon rose above on either side, trying, but failing in their towering presence, to comfort him. They multiplied the sounds of their footsteps, but not even that illusion was enough to distract Alistair from the truth: he was alone, and what’s worse, he was alone with Emil.

Alistair stared into the back of Emil’s head as his chafed feet trudged on. Emil’s hair looked like a kindergartner had cut it, with lengths of hair varying and locks stuck at odd, inexplicable angles. Alistair hated it, and he hated that Emil knew he had done a terrible job.

“Why?” he had asked Emil. “Why not just shave it?”

Emil had smiled a little wider—he was always smiling since it happened –and answered, “Because, it’s the second best haircut in the world. The grand title I leave for you, my dear brother.” 

This is what you wanted?!
    The words reverberated around them, throbbing in their minds like a bad headache. Alistair clutched his orange locks in exasperation. Emil observed the neglected buildings below him, his eyes squinting against the wind.
    He cleared his dry throat. "We need to get moving."
    Alistair finally lowered his hands from his head and faced his kin. He bit his lip, his eyes wide and excreting tears. Emil placed a hand on his companion's shoulder, his voice warm and understanding. "The roads of Zion are in mourning."

Stallion

Leave your wheels, leave your heels, because we're going toe to toe. Stop sticking out that butt, roll your hips slightly in. Don't hold your wrists like a cat on nip, don't wave your arms like a dinosaur.

Wipe that grimace off your mouth. This is battle. If you show your pain, you lose. It lets the others know how close to death you are. Your face is a shield. Smooth, unchanging, unbreakable.

Hear that panting? No, it's not a war cry. They're failing, they're falling. Control your breath, it's the only thing between you and oblivion. If your air runs free, you'll be left behind.

Lose that shuffle. Learn to fly. Only your toes should grace the earth beneath you. Yes, run like you're on top of the earth. Charge like you're the fastest, the strongest, the bravest.

Disastrous

It's about time we got disastrous
I’m tellin you to make a mess a this
cause you know it just aint serious--

yet.
 because we’re up to no good
can’t bring the bread, can't earn the food
overbearing and over-steering
they got us leashed
too tight too tight
because we can’t
do it right do it right
so do something wrong
do something serious
make a huge mess of it
I’m saying get disastrous

It's about time we got disastrous
I’m tellin you to make a mess a this
cause you know it just aint serious--

enough.
Break free of the monotonous
don’t lose your consciousness
fight for the humorous
laugh for agressiveness
and turn the table
once you’re able
if they are right
you better be wrong
stand out from the throng
go ahead cause strife
that is the life
you tried to make
they tried to break
fake no more
and take it back

Someone should

Why is there a puddle at the top of the stairs?
Someone is laughing at me.
      Why is the sky only clear at night?
      Someone is mocking me.
              Why do I start to look forward to something already past?
               Someone is belittling me.
               Someone should consider me.
              Why do I feel so small?
       Someone should respect me.
       Why do I feel so insignificant?
Someone should smile at me.
Why do I feel so sad?
Someone should

Itinerary

I took a train to Seattle.
I took a bus to the market.
I took the crosswalk to you.
I took a word to your ears.
I took an idea to your thoughts.
I took a gesture to your heart.
I took your hand in mine.

Let me pour my soul for you
this porcelain cup will have to do
I have no gold
I have no silver
Porcelain will have to do

Shall I cut up my heart for you?
one lump, or maybe two
I have no cream
I have no sugar
My heart will have to do

Witness

Disclaimer: The following is lengthy and experimental. But if you do read it, do let me know what you think.

"So, before the aliens actually get there, they send a telepathic message to everyone on earth that they're coming. That is, except for me.

"I don't really remember why they came. Even at the end, I wasn't sure if they were helping us or planning to use us. They weren't hauling us away to eat us, or anything. I think maybe the planet was going to be destroyed, so that's why they were coming to pick us up. Anyway, they told us they were coming, they came, and we all got onto their ship, which was massive. I remember being on this bio-deck with a full-sized waterfall.

Weary Servant

Leave home weary servant
you have a new master now
no longer will you milk cows
no longer in the fields work

Your job is much different
but in essence the same
not to cure sick or lame
but to labor among others

You have helpers on this quest
to give good news to everyone
to help them see the rising sun
so that it touches their dark hearts

Your new master you know
is the bright Morning Star
whose light will travel far
through you, weary servant

A few things: In the fifth grade, I received a hardback Wonder Woman journal. It's amazing. I tried keeping it as a journal, but only did that for so long. Then I wrote poetry in it. For those who have known me for a while, know that I like rhyming, and this journal was no exception. Unfortunately. But there's something else. When I was younger, I of course knew it was good to pray, but I understandably wasn't always interested in being inert. Thus, sometimes I would simply draw pictures or write poems instead. Most of the rhymes in this journal are from the heart, a form of my prayer, a result from thinking about God and Christ, but some are so...cheesy that I will never feel comfortable showing them to other people. Even some of the journal entries... why in the heck was I such a melodramatic grade schooler?

Oh well, don't expect too much personal divulging on this blog. I just thought I'd share something I wrote a long time ago (circa seventh grade).