...

it seems in truth i’ve found hope

a reason to the rhymes

dollars in those nickels and dimes

wings in the birdcages

warmth in the heat hazes

cause to smile was initially a sin

a celestial dance in the wind

talk this out while i’m singing

wake up though i'm still dreaming

consecutive

the seasons are changing

slight shifts in the wind

paint those windows shut

insulate the frames

prepare for the cold

buttoned up embedded with warmth

portraits hung delicately on the walls

familiar faces, talismans of heat

now, i’m

inking swans on my left arm

for resilience and grace

phoenixes on my right

for rebirth and strength

i won’t need the porcelain dolls

dancing around Taj Mahal

reunion

there are answers

pinnacles of all the winters that i’ve faced

all of those harsh frosts realized in one wind

leaving me in stone,

gazing at the evidence

peering at the puzzle finally completed

observing riddles i had written as a child

then read only to be confused

now i’m breaking down doors that were once barred

translated the poetry i scratched into trees

every blessing and sin

seems to have warrant

a reason to the rhymes in my skin

true merit expressed in these pains

salt in these tears

now and again

there are some moments

when my vision gets blurred

irksome little daisies in my eyes

ivies gripping weakly at my ankles

a few days out of the week

my legs get a little shaky

frail arms tensed with effort

holding on to that cigarette full force

a few months out of the year

i can barely hold myself up

iron and steel welded to my bones

weighing me downstream

it’s been decades

since i could see in front of my face

years since i’ve felt something real

the incandescence from that candle long gone

only groping and stumbling around in the dark

searching for

wells full of fresh water

forests bathing in leaves

or maybe, another pair of friendly hands

looking for something familiar

the usual

a crowded street of strangers

framed in unflattering light and weather.

they will never look better

individual epitomes of perfection

physical embodiments of my prescription

angelic or damaged, saint or sinner,

yet another antibiotic for this sickness

see, i have these demons

that enflame your flaws

irritate your skin and tighten your throat

leaving you with stuttered responses

voids, gaping holes in your body

a highlighter of negativity

moments later there are no strangers

simply rain clouds dissipating

raining tears falling short of their targets

the next morning there’s

a chilling comfort in being alone

when it’s all you’ve ever known

tiny feathers

with candles lit

the music low

it’s all covered in snow.

momentarily it’s easier to breathe

with the walls expanding graciously

those tsunamis leading the assault on my bones

have calmed to swells

and Katrina’s sighs aren’t so earthshaking

just a little depressing

the seasons are changing

and i’m limbo’d between heat hazes and morning frosts

wearing heavy boots with a light head

an infant weightlessness

hopeful flutters coupled with moments of panic

slivers of faith that break off in splinters

leaving scars, memories, testimonials

and, sometimes,

i think i’m getting better

little wings erupting under my arms

resenting my eternally stone feet.

General Arts & Science

When I initially looked at the General Arts and Science programs, I was intrigued, and a little unsure of the choices and routes available to me. I spoke to some students who had experiences with the GAS programs, and I hadn’t heard any negative comments. I went on to learn that the opportunity within the GAS programs, was specific to the particular branch of GAS. I later discovered that these programs are specifically geared towards those who aren’t entirely decided on what field they would like to enter after the colleges experience. The GAS programs are exceptionally adept at helping the student narrow down their options and interests, in order to continue with further studies after the one year minimum has gone by - or even before that.

Accordingly, the professors within the GAS system are all very knowledgable as well. They have no issues offering students guidance, perspective, and whatever knowledge they may have about different career paths branching from a variety of programs. For students who are being rehabilitated into the post-secondary system, this is also an excellent opportunity to sharpen study skills and habits, in preparation for more specific programs later on, or the work field itself.

In addition to the friendly staff and some of the benefits to the ‘general’ look at the GAS programs, the branches themselves are also very well organized themselves. On a more personal level, entering my own branch of the GAS courses (media and communications), my interest in language and media was vague and undefined.

Throughout the first semester I’ve been able to associate myself with a fair amount of other media-minded people, whom I’m able to share some common interests with. In addition to meeting some engaging people, I’ve also been able to observe their many different senses of directions. I feel as though I’ve matured just by forming these relationships. It’s nice to feel a little more sage, wise. Keeping these new friendships and paths in mind,I’ve been able to develop and shape my interests a little further. For example, the field of Journalism itself has piqued my interest, and I think that’s where I’m going to focus my efforts next year.

busses

now i’m one of the those dim lights
shooting across the freeway
my breathing only another negligible instrument
blended in the symphony of mechanical sighs of the bus
shipping me somewhere unfamiliar but friendly

a place where i’ve cried rivers
pounded earthquakes,
and sighed tornadoes.

now a chilly irony in a black waistcoat
sits comfortably beside me,
and i’m not even shocked,
it seems almost necessary.
now that i’ve got these sunken eyes,
my body an unhealthy tinge of grey.

i’m coming home,
painting the parallels of my journey,
illustrating the interlude of my first year alive.

i’ve arrived, there are quires serenading my return
crowds gathered to see my feet touch the soil

but i found a backdoor, a way out.
and before i find my company,
i find myself alone.
kneeling, with snow in my hands,
crushed glass and paper tears at my feet,
hoping, praying this place has answers for me.

awake

these reputable sins were continuous
something familiar that flitted by unnoticed
sleek within its journey,
like the nicotine silhouetting linens
the fingerprints clinging to the walls

it took a little more than honesty to abolish it
but i think the stain has finally gone

washed away when i was sheet white in october
though i woke up green on november morning
the frost beckoned me closer to the window,
and i gazed hungrily at the shroud covering the street

struck in awe and finally dazed
i found those weary roads had been paved,
the icicles formed frail railings for the elderly
traditional snowflake gowns were being resown
into crisp carnation crops,
where the most beautiful winter blossoms were grown

and i’m feeling exonerated by the cold
the harsh wind on my face has snapped my eyes open
leaving the birdcage of obscurity and questionable purpose open and vacant,
its hangings abandoned and solemn

the wind will continue to chime
and for now, the ringing in my ears will be enough
until the church bells ring,
until i can hear those angels sing.

Regain Control

Be the blank page with a blindfold on
Set high a pedestal
On display in front of an art school.

Sail gently
Over the ocean of change
Find calamity underneath each wave

Feel the sun beating rays of purpose onto your skin
Let it exonerate you of all your sins

Soar freely, through air that you can call your own
Sprout wings, let it carry you,
And breathe.

out there

It’s one of those days,
Everything is slightly illuminated,
A portable incandescence .

That gust of debris and leaves,
Turns into a refreshing breeze

Cities framed into building blocks.
A litany of reservations for playgrounds.

The dull roar of baseline street
Is sounding more like an array winged creatures,
Serenading the morning.

The icicle in my lungs
Is shedding layers, melting
Amidst all the warmth.

The shallow pool of my eyes,
A film of sage, judgement brown
Has turned forest green,
A radiant and welcome jungle.

The fortress that was my chest
Painted and turned into canvas,
The graffiti from one thousand strangers,
And one million old friends,
Is finally deteriorating,
Crumbling like ashes and falling to the earth
Rising like flames, the dawn of a grand rebirth.

old but somehow new

It’s now that I see it
Even when that soft piano riff has faded
And that nostalgic taste has expired

That this loneliness is portable
And like a virus
A disease
It will adapt

In the harshest of climates
In the most desperate changes of environment

A plague that will follow me
Haunt me
Taunt me

But it wasn’t in vain
This is something more defined
A step forwards on a backwards track

Something that was missing
Is now strewn about
And I can see it
In fantastically unfamiliar skies

And under foreign stars,
Dimly lit like a smile
A candle in my skull
The light bulb of the sky
The apple of my eye

Something old,
But somehow new

my own

A dynasty at my fingertips
A foreign country around the corner
Ten thousand constellations revealing themselves at my glance
At my leisure.

That stale barley nostalgic taste
With soft serenades in the background,
A lament on the horizon.
And nicotine to steady my hands.

Now there are smiles, the ones we talked about before.

There are little demons lurking the corners
Undefined and territorial
New, terrifying and lovely.

Something I can call my own.

one of the last nights before moving

Now there are ghosts.
Tiny silver lights,
Dancing in front of my eyes.

They leave a silhouette ,
Something like fog on the windows,
Writing messages for me to see in the winter.

Little codes that can only be deciphered
By frost and ivory.

Miniature regrets I’d only want to read
When feeling sentimental.

Negligible truths that escape the ink and the paper.
Only to reveal themselves late at night
In the arms of familiar strangers.

And they spell out symphonies
Of all the things I should have done
I see the reason of it all
Painted on these faces;
Only to be revealed to me now.

Now that there is so little time.

written august 1st

I've only recently noticed the connection between this poem, and the blog below. Thought it'd be interesting to have them both on here...

-
File away every moment,
Keep tabs on the severity of the bruises per cheekbone,
Of the stretched skin around those pursed lips.
Document that one, lopsided ‘cool guy, who deserves a punch in the face’ smile.
File away the full length extension, that ‘lip-to-cheek, cheek-to-ear’ jackass grin.

In case of a brown haired beauty walking meekly sometime this fall,
Keep that little black book on hand in case you need it to preserve
The first leaf to fall on the scenery of your meeting.
Present it to her years later as the orchid signifying faith and consistency.
Chase her down the street screaming that you are not, in fact, crazy.

Freeze that potential, but not yet determined candle wax. The stuff from a hopefully frosty November night. If you‘re lucky enough to have a power outage, situate yourself with a stranger with silver eyes.

Stock up on birdcages. Trap and photograph every flutter from the waist up.
Nurture the sparrow of independence, teach it respectable virtues that will define it
Into the fastest falcon post-secondary education has ever seen.

Buy an aquarium, fill it with water, memories, and miscellanea.
Have a session with your metaphorical problems once a week in their prison like fish tank.
Do not encumber yourself with perfidious and trivial disputes. Save that for the birdcages.

Record the effectiveness of pretending to be insane, in order to become insane.

Blog 1, from March

I’ve just finished reading chapter 30 of About a Boy, by Nick Hornby. Will, one of the protagonists, has just had sex with Rachel, a girl whose redefined the way Will’s been able to look not only at female companionship, but also at his own life and the way he’s been living it before meeting her.

Will’s only experiencing a sense of natural euphoria now, in his mid 30’s; I’m not even sure if he realizes this. I’m not really sure if it matters.

What’s astounding though, is the moment. Will was so tethered to his first moment genuine happiness, that he was nearly tearful. I think that’s where the recognition of “the moment” started to settle in my mind like fog.

It’s these moments we have to cherish, it’s because of this moment I’m not going to finish this book just yet. I want to relish not only Will’s happiness, but my recognition in his happiness. I want to identify, shape, and express that recognition properly, before it slips away.

I’m not reading anymore because this is more than likely the climax of the book; it’s not just that though - it’s tangible. I can readily stretch out and grab the feelings emanating from Will. They don’t have a reason or an explanation to disappear yet, and I like it this way for now.

These are the moments I would like to put down the book of my life at, take a break to think over everything that’s just transpired. I wish it was possible to place a book mark carefully in there, nestle it lightly between the pages of euphoria and any disasters to follow; take a nice little break. It’d be nice to look at the book resting on an oak table, maybe light up a cigarette and inhale the time gratefully; like taking a healthy breather just before diving back into the novel of your life.