storm as my tempo

I love the

thunder beat

underground rumble

charred roads running.

The mellow light

under the door

Footsteps

thumpthumping

on the cherry wooden floor.

I like the long black

crop circles

staining underneath your

star-ridden eyes.

The deep green

sleeping dreams

that always make you cry.

I listen to the

bass drum

tempered thrum

raindrops on the roof.

The red strings

the violin sings

echo into empty rooms.

We’ve got warms sheets

tangled feet

bodies in-between,

Reading under yellow lamps

and guitar amps

leave music on the screen.

Crackling sky

breaks beams of light

Fractals of plasma

scattered in your eyes.

The world is tipping, only

under broken borders

are we still here at all.

And while the music’s still

going

And my heartbeat’s throwing

The thunder,

meanwhile,

calls.

 

Morning

We have blinked

and in the dusk behind our eyes

we have glimpsed the future

in the most untouched form;

before reality has materialized

and chipped away imperfections

to let you know

that life is not a dream.

There we met, in the early morning;

our voices soft and warm

while the shaky hands of the wind

played piano on the panes.

There was no touch of corporeality

—but the feeling of timelessness was

not spiritual or grand.

It was soft, the texture of a

deep dream.

Together we sat in the outskirts

of tragedy;

No, not the outskirts—

We lay in another world

where nothing ever happens

except a freedom of mind

and the blessing of a hand in another hand.

We are old here,

We have lived our lives and now

we sit in a knowing silence.

We are so pleased with our elderly peacefulness

that we can hardly bend our lips out of

a smile to speak.

A roll of steam from a mug,

a soft word–spoken but without importance–

and we are here.

 

Golden Hour

It was the golden hour. The time of day when the light was yellow and gentle, and all the colors of dawn mingled in the air just before they darkened into dusk. The land was gilded; growth was willing itself into the wilted and slumbering grasses that covered the hillside.  

The clouds, at this time, were soft nimbuses of billowing light blues and yellows, each lined with burning sunlight that was fading into candlewick. The roadside was given to the rush of tires approaching, coming into earshot with growing in speed and clutter of noise, fading into a distant whir, then silence; and then the twittering of birds grew back into the trees. Here, there, sparrows sang into sunset before night snatched their melodies. Their swooping bodies darted in and out of trees, finding the proper nesting spot before the sun sank too low.

I walked along the road, in the softened dirt that hadn’t yielded many weeds yet. I strode in the easeful ruts of tire tracks, wide and imprinted with crosshatches and diamonds. They swerved off the road and then back again, no doubt for some critter scrambling across the road—even rednecks have a soft side for rodents—and then resuming the drive, back to the soothing curvature of the country. The roads dipped and turned, drowsily swinging themselves from left to right, a drunken dance in the half-light. Heel, toe, heel, toe.

A field, framed in the golden light, drew breath from the air in its quintessential stillness. Rolling hills overspread with long, stiff dead grasses; swaying cattails in the quiet latitude of it. What could this field be for? Its land wild and calm, with a quiet hymn that could only be murmured by the countryside. There, in the pale blue sky, was the round ghost of the moon. It was a shadow of autumn, in a sky ripening into summer.

Back up the road, past the farm houses; did they dream of moving to the countryside, or did they resent it? There was the pond, risen from its murky and unflattering state of half-filled, half-frozen over. Now summer beckoned glow back into its waters and it sat in an undisturbed reflection, filled with sky; and a single loon sat placidly upon it. As I came back down the familiar dip of road, I could hear it calling its forlorn cry— it was darker now. There was the lean body of a magnolia, crisp buds still white in the falling dusk. Soon the air would be perfumed with its deep summer scent, and the night would be rich and filled with the symphony of frogs.

But now the buds remained tightly clasped against the chill of the night, and there was silence– gentle, thin silence—in the air.

Languor

She had lost track of how long it had been. Days, she knew. And she could see the numbers blinking and reopening on the clock, noting minutes and pressing the day forward. But she had lost the feeling of time in her body. Every hour seemed elusive, every passing cloud seemed to suspend her thoughts.

She was aimless. Even as her hands moved with purpose, her mind was unclosed and her thoughts circulated like running water. How many times had she thought the same thing? Sitting on the couch in a bleary moment of hesitation, her eyes paused on the window, seeing everything and nothing at all.

“Languorous.”

She repeated the word to herself. Whispered it. Brushed the meaning of it across her skin in small, cold licks of a paintbrush. The grey texture of the word seemed to comfort her, understand her. She had first read it in a book, describing the way a cat rolled over. Not knowing its meaning, she had later looked it up–out of respect for the cat–and had felt so threaded to it that it now lived inside her, cupped in her thoughts with a deep patience.

The sun outside the window seemed opaque. It was stranded, embarrassed, behind the feathers of outstretched clouds. Seasons could have passed and she would not have known. She asked herself, again, how long had it been? She had done things. Floated between rooms accomplishing small tasks, here and there. But her mind seemed dedicated to a longer, strenuous project of neglecting the world around her.

Grey moments dove, proliferated, and swam under grey moments. Arms extending, pushing against the gentle resistance, twirling underwater. Like a smooth, soundless sonata.

Noon drifted by as she placed the kitchen back in order. Dipped dishes into warm water, swept the floors. The clouds began to uncoalesce; unravel with wooly assurance. The sun, ripening from its boyish timidity, startled the kitchen windows with brilliance. The world outside glittered with light that gave off a sweet residue like the gentle brush of wind chimes. A patch of grass buried beneath pools of snow drew color back into its blades.

She looked to the yellow yolk of the sun that cracked and spilled its contents over her house. Its steady light filled her chest. She drew close to the window, feeling the sun brush against her skin like gentle kisses on her neck. 

She closed her eyes and heard the twitter of a bird sound from a tree. An immense relief bled into her. Happiness stitched itself, quietly, into her heart. She did not know how many days it had been.

But today was the first.

Seasonal Disorder and Maybe Something Else

We all struggle with winter months and getting a little down when the nights are long and the days are short and brutal. But I can say one thing, and that is; when summer starts to roll around, I explode with happiness.

For winter; I had sunken eyes and black sleeves; the cereal in my bowl seemed limp and damp and sunken with drear. Every movement was a fight against sleep and the cold hard awakening of shame kept me afraid and curled in on myself trying to conserve warmth. Every breath was slow, every pace was heavy, my feet dragged. Sometimes my eyes were rimmed with red and when I caught a look of myself in the mirror I could see empty landscapes behind them.
For spring; something happened. Something stirred in the ground and began rooting tendrils of happiness hidden in the icy dirt. Something began to shift the cliffs in my chest and the barren wastelands grew lush with forests and tinkling bluebells and bursting sunflowers, all petals strewn with white fire in their veins. And like spring, my heart thawed and dripped a tiny smile into my lips, and a little movement into my blood, and a little quick to my step. Suddenly the music around me grew louder and my heart beat faster. My smiles grew like flowers and my eyes opened with cornflower blue, sky pouring in like paint. And every now and again, a little song would squeeze from my chest to my lungs and leave my lips like breath and sigh out. I rose early on a spring morning, just like this, my chest tightened with the compression of my excitement; and I went to brush my teeth and caught myself in the mirror. Smiling I noticed the lightness in my eyes, the freckles on my face.  Happiness is a good look for me.

Always Time

I always write about time. Let’s just be honest here, folks. I am constantly lamenting some comical attempt of philosophy about time and its little perfections and imperfections and memories and blahblahblah. We grow old with time, we forget with time, we learn with time, we heal with time. I’m sick of it. But this piece is yet another short about time and its ups and downs. Enjoy.

 

It was not the first time she had sat here, silent, reflection sitting simply in the window across from her. It was not the first time she had taken off her socks, her shoes, and sat on a chair in this little blue room. It was not the first time she had drawn the curtains back and gazed down on the street, with its humming little vehicles and audacious blinking lights. It was not the first time she had heard her neighbors cooking upstairs, banging pots and pans and arguing about something—something regarding cumin, or the lack thereof. They were screaming and she could hear their pretentious voices bellowing.
“Why didn’t you buy the cumin?” she mouthed to herself, every so quietly.  It was not the first time she had traced her finger on the window pane, on the leg of her jeans, on the little indents on her knuckles. It was not the first time she had sat down and breathed deep into her belly, letting out the sound freely because nobody else was around to criticize the loudness of her breath.  It was not the first time for any of these things, and yet she had not done them in what seemed days, months, years. She had not given herself the liberty to simply sit, her eyes quiet but observant, in this little blue room on this chair next to the draw curtains and the window pane. It wasn’t the first time, but it just as well could have been.

PUBLICATION AT LAST!

DEAR WORLD:

I have just been informed that my poem, “Doorways of Dust” has been selected for Canvas Literary Magazine’s 2014 Spring issue!! TALK ABOUT SHOCKER!

I am so excited! It was totally unexpected, as well. Here is the poem that has been selected:

The Doorways of Dust

written by Riley M

The sturdy dust of morning
Settles itself on the brink of my shoe

Curling itself around the looping ties

Hugging the sides of my shoe together.

I study them carefully

My head bent forward in concentration.

I engage myself in purposeful oblivion to the surroundings

That turn my heart inside out

And read me like a book.

I protect my canary heart

With a fearsome metal cage

That wraps around me

Sometimes so heavy it pulls me down.

This business, this bobbing barely above the surface
Is merely a structure

A key

To keep the contents of the cage hidden.

To keep promises and tears

Memories and terrors

Locked away.

The doorway is a friend of mine.

It promises to hide me away while I escape.

To hide the imagery of this dust

Swirling lazily in the beams of light
Each planets and worlds in their own galaxy

Orbiting around in utter nothing

With no doorways or keys

To hide their meticulous carved beauty.

 

 

My New Mantra

There is a time for sadness, a time for happiness, and a time for peace.

Story Book

WARNING: THIS IS A LONG BLOG POST. BUT PLEASE STICK WITH ME AND READ IT BECAUSE I PROMISE YOU IT IS WORTH IT.

Okay, so I started this book a long time ago and it begins in the natural format “blah blah blah was not a regular blah blah blah”. I was going to change that but I enjoyed the way it reflected the main character, Claritin (don’t judge, it goes with the character.) The main character is definitely on my favorite-character list that I have created.

Others on that list include Victoir, Azami, Acheron, Gabriel, and of course the beloved Rebecca Rosen. These are characters I hope you will get to know and love, too. (Or hate. Ha.)

This book was inspired by a dream. Here’s the plot: Guy goes on adventure chapter by chapter (in a story book). If he stumbles upon something that kinda-sort reveals what happens a few chapters ahead and he thinks too much about it, the happening occurs right then and there and screws up the story. So the ending comes out different. And all he’s trying to do is get through the story without any trouble….

Some background on Claritin Hubert. He is a funny kid. I absolutely love this character.  (In a way he reminds me of a snarky Peter Pan.) He loves reading and adventures and overall he is very old fashioned.  I think I intended this book to be set in the “olden days”, but I think I’d want to throw in something kind of crazy like cell phones. I’m weird like that.

Next, you hear a fragment about a girl named Metallica. OH jeez, I love her to death but I never did much character development. She was supposed to be this defiant, super cool girl that Claritin was gonna have a wee bit of a crush on. When I picked the name “Metallica”, I envisioned a teenage girl with short black hair, maybe in spikes or something kinda funky like that, with heavy eye liner and lots of  jewelry, fishnet arm warmers and crazy goth stuff like that. But no: I wanted Metallica to be a toned-down version of goth. Instead, I’m thinkin’ some crazy black hair, eye liner, maybe, but a regular jeans and a cut-up T-shirt. Leave a comment if you have some other visions for Metallica.

OK, now I’m sorry for putting you through that endless crap, FINALLY you can read the tiny bit that I’ve actually written. I need some inspiration dudes and I think that character development helped a lot. Later a character Alex comes into the story, maybe brother of Metallica, and I need some cool ideas for him so let me know if you have any ideas!

DRUM ROLL PLEASE:

Chapter 1: A wish, a deal, and a transformation

Ok, if you’re going to read this, you’re going to have to learn something right away.

Claritin Hubert was not a regular boy. Sure, he had regular brown hair and regular green eyes. Regular favorite subjects and regular favorite colors (blue and green.) Regular grades and regular favorite sports.

    But he was not a regular boy.

Why isn’t he regular? You’re asking. Get on with it, you’re complaining. Well shut up and listen because I’m going to tell you.

    See, Claritin made a wish. He made a wish that if he could get his dreams, he would do anything. Cuz ya know? He was bored. Really bored. Everyday he went to the same old school with the same old people. Learned the same old thing and ate the same old lunch. Went home to the same old house and had the same old dinner.
Sure, you’re thinking. Everyone gets bored. But why doesn’t he pack himself a different lunch? Or read a darn book?

Because Claritin (though he loved books) sought adventure. And nothing (and I mean nothing) would console him, even a good book. It’s true.
So Claritin’s dream was a life full of adventure. And one night, he stayed up late enough to see a meteor shower for some excitement.

“Make a wish,” urged his father, a husky-voiced man with a frank little debonair beard.
So Claritin obeyed. So he closed his eyes and wished on a very bright shooting star. (What’s his wish?) His wish was that someone would hear his wish: He would do anything in order to get his dream.
Well someone did  hear his wish. Someone called Metallica heard it. And she was ready to offer him a deal.

NOW: here’s your treat if you paid attention throughout the whole thing. Try this website out it you’re a writer: soyouwriter.swankivy.com.

Its so funny and it’s true ❤