something
vicarious
whispers
them;
stay,
gravity
shall return
when safety
forsakes fear
and shakes
delirium
between fragmented
thought
and naive reason;
this them
they see
shall change,
resistant
to fiction,
lived once,
lost twice,
beneath
realities
faithful to hope
while hoping for faith,
that this them shall remain
when all else
shall
change.
what is love?
how dare you
understand its
immortalized
understanding
of yours;
the whys
inside;
hugged
away from
pain;
mortality;
themselves-
these never meant to-
couldn't help moments,
alone
in the dark,
disappeared,
in cold thought,
completely missing
the point,
of purgatory;
the is of this
what-
coping
with knowing not
what to ask
or how to accept
the answer
in question.
They know,
no better
than experience,
but believe
in experiences
which have yet
to be;
born of
believing
wholeheartedly,
that these could
should or would
maybes
hold purpose
in this present
disbelief,
certainly they know
that then was when
is gone
the comfort
of sheets snug
and moons warm
of ignorant
understanding,
and innocence
who never felt
the dissonant
relationships
of soul
and spirit;
better them that
never learn,
than never live,
or live
without experiencing
the love,
of something
vicarious.
~Deus fortuno
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
be
she
doesn't get it,
the whole of
this nothing;
her purpose
within each word,
the sounds she heard
haunting
each breathless slur
of her
she questions,
how absurd,
that sense
should spawn of
nothing but his
absent presence;
dwelling,
where answers wait
beyond now yet
before then,
when his
present absence
first became nothing
but his memory
of her
she knows,
the sights
he sees
in search
of her
how rivers
flow
when he lives
these days
and survives
those nights
drown them;
save them all,
in ships
and sands
above this place
of complacent
existence.
she feels,
emotion-
distress, yet
knows she is
no damsel.
He is
no prince.
This is when
pain was named;
when neither hers
nor his served
any deference;
these faithful games
which loved for years
to play
would lust no more for seconds
She believes,
that belief in her is
Here,
beneath covers
tucked in,
ready,
his courage
waiting
to carry them where
found was safe
and lost no longer cared to lose her.
where madness meets method-
who said
they could not be-
should they
depend upon
perception or make
their own bed
for those weary few
who defy gravity
and live
themselves to
death.
How dare fate
be so cruel yet,
too kind,
to thieve what she
graciously sacrifices,
in faith blind;
that she shall breath;
hope,
in this apnea,
resting only
in daydreams
of her.
she holds,
that moment
close to her memory,
when his absence
meant that world
forgot to
feel; to be,
before he forgets
to live,
she visits
to give
a kiss,
to return this world,
to his lips;
that he may hope
to hold
some semblance
of her.
~Deus fortuno
doesn't get it,
the whole of
this nothing;
her purpose
within each word,
the sounds she heard
haunting
each breathless slur
of her
she questions,
how absurd,
that sense
should spawn of
nothing but his
absent presence;
dwelling,
where answers wait
beyond now yet
before then,
when his
present absence
first became nothing
but his memory
of her
she knows,
the sights
he sees
in search
of her
how rivers
flow
when he lives
these days
and survives
those nights
drown them;
save them all,
in ships
and sands
above this place
of complacent
existence.
she feels,
emotion-
distress, yet
knows she is
no damsel.
He is
no prince.
This is when
pain was named;
when neither hers
nor his served
any deference;
these faithful games
which loved for years
to play
would lust no more for seconds
She believes,
that belief in her is
Here,
beneath covers
tucked in,
ready,
his courage
waiting
to carry them where
found was safe
and lost no longer cared to lose her.
where madness meets method-
who said
they could not be-
should they
depend upon
perception or make
their own bed
for those weary few
who defy gravity
and live
themselves to
death.
How dare fate
be so cruel yet,
too kind,
to thieve what she
graciously sacrifices,
in faith blind;
that she shall breath;
hope,
in this apnea,
resting only
in daydreams
of her.
she holds,
that moment
close to her memory,
when his absence
meant that world
forgot to
feel; to be,
before he forgets
to live,
she visits
to give
a kiss,
to return this world,
to his lips;
that he may hope
to hold
some semblance
of her.
~Deus fortuno
Monday, October 12, 2009
enough.
She seeks something;
the what inside,
but where to find
time, to seek
the will
she hears things;
sounds,
rings,
sweet nothings,
stripping her sanity
oh, so slowly,
enough
she feels;
how she feels,
when she feels like it;
with love
this above ,
below depths unknown,
by those
nearly-close
enough,
to know
she is emotion;
a thought,
the word,
holding
its breath enough,
being as she does,
doing as she believes
she is time;
still,
moving,
always
and never
enough,
the same
she
she was before,
nor shall be,
the foreshadowed
memory
of eves that ever were
and never shall be
in time;
she shall feel
as she has never,
and ever
believed;
the something
she seeks,
the what
to find;
inside
of time,
she is,
and shall ever be
~Deus fortuno
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
she
Who is she
that saving be her need,
though these streets she sees,
heed nothing of her;
she'll die,
to save them;
the curious,
who question,
then abuse
the chastity she so freely gives
but fail to believe,
who she is.
what irony,
this identity crisis,
that a savior need saving;
what noble ignorance
guides the blind,
persistent to ignore who for what,
in distress but why
is known by them that know
as they abandon life
for hope
of her.
~Deus fortuno
that saving be her need,
though these streets she sees,
heed nothing of her;
she'll die,
to save them;
the curious,
who question,
then abuse
the chastity she so freely gives
but fail to believe,
who she is.
what irony,
this identity crisis,
that a savior need saving;
what noble ignorance
guides the blind,
persistent to ignore who for what,
in distress but why
is known by them that know
as they abandon life
for hope
of her.
~Deus fortuno
Monday, October 13, 2008
if
If she is to glance at you by grace, she may
If she is to vanish at no trace, she might
If she is to strip herself of hope at no regard for modesty
as bare before barren beggars, she can
If she is to lie with liars, purity to embrace, whose to say,
for such things must be that any wish exist
If she is to believe her being
then being is her belief
that she is she
and no other she could be
surely this she is
yet only if.
~Deus fortuno
If she is to vanish at no trace, she might
If she is to strip herself of hope at no regard for modesty
as bare before barren beggars, she can
If she is to lie with liars, purity to embrace, whose to say,
for such things must be that any wish exist
If she is to believe her being
then being is her belief
that she is she
and no other she could be
surely this she is
yet only if.
~Deus fortuno
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Light the Fire
Please forgive any hindrance in updated posts. The atmosphere of life has internalized many moments of public expression, instead replacing candid blogging with the ever portable on-the-go journal entry or thought fragment.
Recently, the fourth of July lit ablaze the tranquil evening skies with brilliance as patriotism burst open the countryside. Families and friends reunited to enjoy communities of love, grilled to perfection, well rung in the annual clatter of horse shoes. A bashful sun retreats from the playful banter of homemade karaoke proclaiming "God Bless the USA", echoing the stoops into further celebration.
In the realm of Mr. Rogers, twas a "beautiful day in the neighborhood."
Upon the conclusion of a recent Cincinnati field trip, seated aboard the magic school bus sponsored by Rochester college and piloted by two characters whose wit of humor rival that of Mrs. Frizzle, a friend from the fine institute graciously offered a paper plate toward his kins Olympian feast. With food and friends in abundance, lawn chairs concreted securely just beyond the front door, and an impromptu adventure around the world in basketball safely posted behind the gated backyard, the cast nested cozily in the front freshly trimmed lawn now a deep shade of forest green due to a settling of shadow.
Impulsive explosions had skirted the day periodically yet nothing in comparison with what was yet to be unleashed. While still a little tyke, sudden noises would commonly cause me to startle. Twas fairly common to witness hand-made earplugs emerge from sheathing closed eyes in many monster movies when jumpy moments were to be expected. This was not to say the term 'fraidy cat' necessarily applied. For some 'men', the only kitty experienced while maturing is found in euchre, but here and then, I was yet a boy. Now, as fire scorched the twilight anew, recoiling was far from instinctive. Though expecting remains inequivalent with experience, the two salute one finite moment, the bang. Benched upon a slightly moist snow white summer seat, the saltless breeze brought waves of oceanic imaginings reflecting eons of tradition and vibrant culture. Anticipation accumulated in sparks whirling aimlessly away from the patch of earth from whence were sent. Frantic and fierce, spraying glimmers of twinkling gems into the translucent heavens. The captivating aroma of familiarity encouraged a whiff of fresh air, suddenly followed by a pinch from a long lost mosquito destined for a sliver of euphoria or at least to share a uniform bloodline with this less flightful host.
The dazzling array of Roman candles could barely hold torch to the brilliance displayed by a once barren culdesac now emanating the glow of innocence. Bottle rockets popped as planned, screeching praise enough to unsettle the black cats into frenzy. Snappers danced between the crowds, gawking mystically but for a second before withering to littered shavings of time.
Such rousing began to ignite a wick much less than safe within my playful perspective.
To what purpose is such an event with no strength in memory other than radioed coos of the star spangled banner or the dawns ensuing release from such shadowed enlightenment?
(With more passion, and less gibberish)
What are we commemorating?
The standard retort is designed to pay tribute a country valiantly prevailing through such shadowed night. Stories of victory surging the mires of defeat, inspiring a nation to cast colored flame into shaded azure blue wells, saturating the stiff westerly wind with warmth and firelight in this illumination of hope.
In the childish questioning of reality, I mentally erupted the thought of 'Why.' Why am I not a firework? Strange derailment from the mature 'oohs' and 'ahhs' gathering around my earthen location but, once again, tinkering with ideas created its own fascinations.
The story of creation, as iterated within the biblical sense yields Adam and Eve spawning from dust and dude respectively. God constructs man from grains of sand beneath his feet and later models eve from Adam's rib. Eventually, sin separates potter from clay, releasing these mortals to wrestle such issues as prescribed today. If a more intimate relationship with our creator is on the to-do-list of Christians, why were we not created as lesser beings, unable to stray, perse fireworks.
Questioning purpose abstains from bias. Culturally, as well as historically, mankind has scoured the galaxy of thought and daydream in search of a greater being. If God created us, or humans merely evolved from Darwin principles, what were we created to do? What is purpose, in the mortal sense? The recent holiday renowned as "the fourth of July", celebrates the memory of America obtaining freedom. Groovy. Dig it. Fireworks have become an established trademark of the event, rightfully so given the aw instilled within onlookers. For some estranged reason, my glazed eyes caught an ember sluggishly fading before breathing its last. The environment fountained jubilation across every syllable of the term, yet the lost ash spurred further contemplation, bordering mourning.
Christianity embraces symbolism, the cross, the Eucharist (the Lord's supper), baptism etc. The list is quite extensive, yet purpose remains chambered, having done as such for centuries. Luke 22:19 quotes Jesus before his disciples in preparation for the 'Last Supper.' Tis fairly common to hear recounted during communion ceremonies to revisit these moments. "Do this in remembrance of me." It seemed rather curious to parallel the symbols. While America smoke bombs, and flares its way through tradition, Christian's subtly nibble crackers and wine due respect given to both parties. Though toward Christ's continuity, upon first bestowing miracles, Jesus embodied a more discrete persona, purpose lacing each breath.
Anywho...
To accompany such a rant, a story deserves spinning having occurred at a recently adventured camp. The moonlit fire pit offset campers swimming warmly back and forth between the epic tale breathing from a friend's passion and the flames inspiring stare. Lessons of life revealed that which may have been aware yet much less known. A social club to which he selflessly pledged had reputably fashioned a t-shirt for each member's memory. As nightfall began devouring nearby trees rooted amidst the gathered, the garment was tossed to a gluttonous flame echoing a voice "When the symbol becomes an idol, it has exceeded its worth."
The above mentioned servant spent the fourth seated in a neighboring chair.
To salvage anything from the ashes of this post, let alone the evening, may be begging more than is worthy. God created humanity is his image, which, through scientific safety goggles, would truly depict God as the 'Big Bang' if such explosives were his nature or he willed his children to be as such; yet if we are to be a "light to this world" perhaps life as a firework would serve as unfulfilled comparatively with the service these present vessels offer in meager recompense.
Maybe we over think life.
[How curious the thoughts of men, flickering but to fade lest they be saved from inevitable burnout by the extinguish of death itself.]
"When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life."
:: John 8:12 ::
~Deus fortuno
Recently, the fourth of July lit ablaze the tranquil evening skies with brilliance as patriotism burst open the countryside. Families and friends reunited to enjoy communities of love, grilled to perfection, well rung in the annual clatter of horse shoes. A bashful sun retreats from the playful banter of homemade karaoke proclaiming "God Bless the USA", echoing the stoops into further celebration.
In the realm of Mr. Rogers, twas a "beautiful day in the neighborhood."
Upon the conclusion of a recent Cincinnati field trip, seated aboard the magic school bus sponsored by Rochester college and piloted by two characters whose wit of humor rival that of Mrs. Frizzle, a friend from the fine institute graciously offered a paper plate toward his kins Olympian feast. With food and friends in abundance, lawn chairs concreted securely just beyond the front door, and an impromptu adventure around the world in basketball safely posted behind the gated backyard, the cast nested cozily in the front freshly trimmed lawn now a deep shade of forest green due to a settling of shadow.
Impulsive explosions had skirted the day periodically yet nothing in comparison with what was yet to be unleashed. While still a little tyke, sudden noises would commonly cause me to startle. Twas fairly common to witness hand-made earplugs emerge from sheathing closed eyes in many monster movies when jumpy moments were to be expected. This was not to say the term 'fraidy cat' necessarily applied. For some 'men', the only kitty experienced while maturing is found in euchre, but here and then, I was yet a boy. Now, as fire scorched the twilight anew, recoiling was far from instinctive. Though expecting remains inequivalent with experience, the two salute one finite moment, the bang. Benched upon a slightly moist snow white summer seat, the saltless breeze brought waves of oceanic imaginings reflecting eons of tradition and vibrant culture. Anticipation accumulated in sparks whirling aimlessly away from the patch of earth from whence were sent. Frantic and fierce, spraying glimmers of twinkling gems into the translucent heavens. The captivating aroma of familiarity encouraged a whiff of fresh air, suddenly followed by a pinch from a long lost mosquito destined for a sliver of euphoria or at least to share a uniform bloodline with this less flightful host.
The dazzling array of Roman candles could barely hold torch to the brilliance displayed by a once barren culdesac now emanating the glow of innocence. Bottle rockets popped as planned, screeching praise enough to unsettle the black cats into frenzy. Snappers danced between the crowds, gawking mystically but for a second before withering to littered shavings of time.
Such rousing began to ignite a wick much less than safe within my playful perspective.
To what purpose is such an event with no strength in memory other than radioed coos of the star spangled banner or the dawns ensuing release from such shadowed enlightenment?
(With more passion, and less gibberish)
What are we commemorating?
The standard retort is designed to pay tribute a country valiantly prevailing through such shadowed night. Stories of victory surging the mires of defeat, inspiring a nation to cast colored flame into shaded azure blue wells, saturating the stiff westerly wind with warmth and firelight in this illumination of hope.
In the childish questioning of reality, I mentally erupted the thought of 'Why.' Why am I not a firework? Strange derailment from the mature 'oohs' and 'ahhs' gathering around my earthen location but, once again, tinkering with ideas created its own fascinations.
The story of creation, as iterated within the biblical sense yields Adam and Eve spawning from dust and dude respectively. God constructs man from grains of sand beneath his feet and later models eve from Adam's rib. Eventually, sin separates potter from clay, releasing these mortals to wrestle such issues as prescribed today. If a more intimate relationship with our creator is on the to-do-list of Christians, why were we not created as lesser beings, unable to stray, perse fireworks.
Questioning purpose abstains from bias. Culturally, as well as historically, mankind has scoured the galaxy of thought and daydream in search of a greater being. If God created us, or humans merely evolved from Darwin principles, what were we created to do? What is purpose, in the mortal sense? The recent holiday renowned as "the fourth of July", celebrates the memory of America obtaining freedom. Groovy. Dig it. Fireworks have become an established trademark of the event, rightfully so given the aw instilled within onlookers. For some estranged reason, my glazed eyes caught an ember sluggishly fading before breathing its last. The environment fountained jubilation across every syllable of the term, yet the lost ash spurred further contemplation, bordering mourning.
Christianity embraces symbolism, the cross, the Eucharist (the Lord's supper), baptism etc. The list is quite extensive, yet purpose remains chambered, having done as such for centuries. Luke 22:19 quotes Jesus before his disciples in preparation for the 'Last Supper.' Tis fairly common to hear recounted during communion ceremonies to revisit these moments. "Do this in remembrance of me." It seemed rather curious to parallel the symbols. While America smoke bombs, and flares its way through tradition, Christian's subtly nibble crackers and wine due respect given to both parties. Though toward Christ's continuity, upon first bestowing miracles, Jesus embodied a more discrete persona, purpose lacing each breath.
Anywho...
To accompany such a rant, a story deserves spinning having occurred at a recently adventured camp. The moonlit fire pit offset campers swimming warmly back and forth between the epic tale breathing from a friend's passion and the flames inspiring stare. Lessons of life revealed that which may have been aware yet much less known. A social club to which he selflessly pledged had reputably fashioned a t-shirt for each member's memory. As nightfall began devouring nearby trees rooted amidst the gathered, the garment was tossed to a gluttonous flame echoing a voice "When the symbol becomes an idol, it has exceeded its worth."
The above mentioned servant spent the fourth seated in a neighboring chair.
To salvage anything from the ashes of this post, let alone the evening, may be begging more than is worthy. God created humanity is his image, which, through scientific safety goggles, would truly depict God as the 'Big Bang' if such explosives were his nature or he willed his children to be as such; yet if we are to be a "light to this world" perhaps life as a firework would serve as unfulfilled comparatively with the service these present vessels offer in meager recompense.
Maybe we over think life.
[How curious the thoughts of men, flickering but to fade lest they be saved from inevitable burnout by the extinguish of death itself.]
"When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life."
:: John 8:12 ::
~Deus fortuno
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Wave
The sun, being tired on all accounts, has retired and is feining to rise, not wishing to shake off the warmth of it's bed. I on the other hand have risen. My bed consisting of the carpet, a white squishy pillow, and a blanket have since jostled me into this awakened state hence I feel inspired to write.
My brother is home for the Holidays, along with other college students according to their households, and we decided to attend a basketball tournament that our former High School would be participating in. Being alumni of not only the school but the team, we found humor and a very subtle source of accomplishment reinjected as we stumbled into the stands. We were never the greatest, posting up enough points not to lose every game conceivable, but we were decent. My brother was the star and my friend his bionic machine. My job on the team was to find some way to teleport the ball to Jared, which was never very difficult given our twin telepathy (it does exist...).
It was only a murmur ago that we were standing upon the hardwood, blue jersey squished into our color coordinated trousers, high-top shoes laced until they hugged the ankle. The sound brought back every inescapable memory as if trapped in never ending overtime. Whistles blew the game to life as a mega horn from the scoreboard traveled across the bleachers. Parents adament of their child's future glory or at least hopeful of their safe enjoyment, lined the stands, sitting despite the notion given by their seats.
The court was great and all, but my story this morning will dribble us from the gymnasium across the street to the local Wendy's. I suppose the above paragraph could have been juked in the first place, but I admittedly have been enjoying these strange basketball adjectives. Now for the cross-over.
Wendy's was decently deserted, given the frosty is pretty much the tastiest ice cream available besides Cornerstone. I enjoy dipping my fries into the ambrosian soft serve and hence was able to sway a small car of hungy men into dining within the bricked facility. The line swirved through that black metal fencing, the kind created specifically for those of us who haven't made up our minds yet and might still need a sluggish moment to turn the thought over. Being on a decent, post Christmas income, the dollar menu seemed rather tasty. Wendy must have been a great cook though her math is somewhat scary. The priced num nums were faintly reminsicent of Canada's tagging though the staff at this late of an hour seemed of better temperment. (Yes, I did reference the fantastic country of Canada. Being neighbors to the nation, my brother and I have ventured across the border to experience KFC. Terrible reason if searching for food, but since we were roused by adventure, a cousin's graduation from the local High School in Grimsby, and the love of accents we mosied over the great divide. Gotta love the Canadians eh?).
Tonight, post ordering, we gathered around conjoined tables with my friend Colten whom also was a former star of the Globe Trotters (at least in our quaint hometown). The fry and frosty combo surpassed its glorious reputation and as my eyes began to wander, as they are so prone to in any place with available scenery, I noticed a couple placing an order at the counter.
This may be my air ball moment of eternity. Any time I witness someone waving my hand instinctively returns the gesture. They may be a complete stranger, and I am not expecting to be in acquaintences with everyone upon this ball of fascinating creation but it only seems fair to be friendly. Unfortunately, 9 of 10 times, I find that they are indeed not motioning to me but one of their relations; as the true recipient emerges from nearby my post. This generally will cause my cheeks to flush a more brilliant shade of red than the painted LARGE container of fries I am devouring or even Wendy's pigtailed innocence. This was to be the case this evening as well, my attempts to friendship were stuffed and it tasted no where near as good as Wendy's baked potato.
As I was recalling, a couple was ordering at the counter. Their 5 year old girl with deep blond locks was circling her 7 year old brother in a strangely awkward game of duck-duck-goose. The parents were completely directed towards the menu and the fidgeting cashier decked with green possibly in honor of the recent holiday. For a moment, I wondered what a Christmas dinner sponsored by Wendy's would be like. Probably brilliant, being reminded of "The Christmas Story" excursion to the Chinese restaraunt. (If you ever have the opportunity, the film is a real marksman when it comes to entertainment and the warm feeling of growing up so much so that you could "shoot your eye out" if you are not careful.)
Anywho, the couple turned in my general direction towards the opposite corner of the building where my friends and I were feasting. Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers, frosties and fries...the dinner of Champions (props to Wheaties for starting our day right). Their glance diverted as I met their sights. Finishing my yummies, I looked back to double check whether their eyes were seeking mine. A wave appeared in the distance, and as in the stands of an exciting game, I am hard pressed not to continue the motion. My hand began to rise but then, the buzzer. A small child cradled by a oaken booster seat intercepted my joy, cherrypicking the goodness. She was only about a year of so old with locks as blond as the vanilla frosty I did not favor (being a chocolate fan). This would have been just another blooper but what gave the play a certain instant replay feel was what happened post kodak moment.
As the girl's hand receeded back into her mouth, the parents eyes lifted only to find my hand still in the air. A look of horror spread across their face as if they were munching a burned fry or stale soda. My hand returned back it's cave in my large container of fries and the family returned to their table.
I washed down my dignity with the remnants of ice cream and hustled back to the match which ended in our losing from simple mistakes. But as for me, after the Wendy's Wave mishap, it was game over.
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