Full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.
Formerly "Closer To The Truth"|
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on...
Trying make sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit. Flailing about in mediocrity, hoping to bust out.
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You can put a face with a name. Fiction is what you write, not who you are.
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|The pressure is off our math genius who tested in the 95th percentile for ACT Math. He takes his AP Stats test today, knowing he won't have to return to it after spring break term. Grades kept slipping since being in honors math freshman year. Struggles with teachers who don't speak his language, too proud to ask for help and one parent who couldn't figure out how to help him absorb the material we're just some of the obstacles to succeeding. He was getting so far behind, he just needed to shut it down rather than face that uphill climb to catching up and get that passing grade.
We met with his guidance counselor yesterday and got him on a new math path that will keep him out of AP courses (yet still honors) and work him into his best ACT-tested subject...English! AP English next fall and dad is fired up to work with hm...if he'll let me. That's where we struggle: his ego. He's so smart, stuff comes to him easily, and then he doesn't put in the best work to study and learn more. And, you can't talk to him or coach him up without offending him. I was like that until it started clicking for me in college, although I would take any help.
There's still hope for his future in science and math, but English...I got a chuckle driving home after dropping him at school thinking I could Tweet my newest thought on Twitter, but it was too long (but something he'd appreciate as a Star Wars fan):
"Welcome to the rebel alliance my son where we fight for freedom of tyranny, get a good education without any hope of a decent paying job. You're one of us now. The struggle is real."
"Burning light inside my dreams
I wake up in the dark
The light is outside my door..."
This song is so truncated and whistfully sweet. What do you suppose she means?
We can dream but reality is dark? Yet, if we look outside we'll see what's inside ourselves? I'm composing now in my head hoping I can come up with a worthy poem to relate to this song. I caught up on my sleep and I'm burning with this dream-like energy that wants to spill forth on this page...
Dream another time
On the rising plane
Heat penetrates, warms all.
Separating from forces
Holding our feet
To thawing ground,
Truth spills forth
From our dark.
Brilliance of white drifts
Left gleaming glints.
Clasped hands moisten.
Life waits for us
Before that star
Comes crashing down,
That surrounds just two.
To explain the obvious would spoil the mystery of discovery.
Yeah. I came up with that, too. Just leave me now to my dark.
|I spent the last ten years resculpting my body. Will 2017 be the finishing touches? No way I can rebuild this thing to what I had at 21. But, my body is moving so well I can play basketball three days a week. I run three hours on those days, burning over 2,000 calories. Thanks to my Fitbit I can track my activity and fine tune some more.
More to add later, I'm sure....
|I know what it's like to be alone in this world.
So, I write ...
Cheating On The Wall
You're the first thing I see in the morning
Long shadows obscure true beauty
You're the last to be lulled by my voice each night
I long for you to echo my murmured words
Maybe, tomorrow, I'll give you a fresh coat of paint
But, dream now of casting a look out the window
|Words beg to be written down. So, when I finally finished brushing my teeth, I turned to my iPad. I know the idea behind this. The execution needs work and I just want to sleep. Fresh eyes another time, or maybe never.
Can I come home?
Delusion pounds the sand,
echo in negligent ear
Long shadows, elusive,
again clamber aboard,
shrink beneath sound
Fifty-five years beating,
breathing, chasing with
heavy arms to row
Damaged sails wrap
a warped pole, flutter
no more. Hope drifts
a creaky hull to sea,
searching an impatient sunset
I flee to night
It escapes me
Each morning brings promise
Waves crest, return me
to this place
I cannot go, yet
I wait for the tide
to change its mind
cast me on endless glass
To the yellow incinerator
love savors a bite,
warmed by our nearing star;
masked in violet hues,
still, waiting, maybe,
for one small soul,
but, bleeds dry
dull in the ink,
long shadows sacked
A fading voice cries
Can I come home?
|Making eggs at midnight and this comes to me? It started as a list. How average can we be when we love and how comfortable it is knowing it is typical. I'm going to eat now, fix this later, or not.
As ordinary as oatmeal,
the collared dog that must walk,
like sunshine that was there
when you first got up
still burning behind the mask...
As free as that bird builds
a nest in the garage gutter,
like leaves, gentle, obey the winds
falling, falling, falling down
to your ground
Our lips embrace
Two twigs low,
once swayed in soaring tree,
grows a canopy above,
for two children, three cats,
those hamsters content
chittering like raindrops
in our hearts.
Small hands, tender,
calling, calling, calling
Know innocence, true beauty,
how we heal them
in the night
from bad dreams,
unjustly pained by sickness
where we are safe
to dream. We,
a typical love,
we share our stories together
so others know
how ordinary as oatmeal.
I take inspiration where I can find it. Shine it. Hold it up for you to see it glowing, still growing. Thanks, to thee.
|For LuAnne, who never understood our fate...
I witnessed you a thousand feet higher
Blue waters purged blue sky
And your eyes
You lifted me higher
on Sugarloaf mountain
It was not the ore docks,
great steel ships, coasting seagulls
or fall colors that you described
that memory fails to recall,
but your song
on a chill, sunny day
where we paused amid
restless leaves decaying
You cleansed me,
freed me from ignorance,
solitude, gave me hope
that I could love better
someone like you.
|Posting for posterity...raw...
Piano Needs Tuning
No rest for a beset mind
Scanning a dim-lit screen
In the adjacent kitchen
Each discordant key echoes
Off bay windows
into the open area Shared
rests between the keenly measured notes
Plodding along a spectrum of sound
sagging strings resonate inside
an upright Baldwin.
Once rich mahogany, faded by sunlight,
Stained by coffee, marred by the talons
Of unrepentant felines, sturdily depresses
The carpet, not seen in 12 years.
Rolled away once for an errant plane,
The boys favorite when he was four.
Dust bunnies act like mortar beneath
The tarnished pedals now showing their wear.
Music sheets land like his forgotten plaything
Stick out from bench and beneath stacks
Of forgotten melodies since his first lesson.
Markings on the pages more sophisticated
Hinges on bands of notes more erratic
Pages taped together like paper doll cutouts
Dance along the edge, daringly stare at the ground
From the edge of their cliff, never falling.
Their master deftly pushes back each teetering truant
With free hand Without missing those white levers
attached to hammers percussing rhapsodic
rhythms Begging still the piano tuner to tighten lines
For the daring, high-wire act.
How Donald Trump became President
https://briankeithcompton.wordpress.com/2016/11/09/how-donald-trump-became-presi... via @wordpressdotcom
the longer I pause
nearing an even tide
I'm prompted to choose
when to push forward
into that good night
It won't matter
what road I travel.
Everything beautiful we yearn has already been perfected...and lost.
|These are the prompts that inspire me. BTW, not a good poem, but love pushing around those words to see what I can do with dreamlike subject...
Eye of God,
In your death throes,
trillion-mile-long tunnel of glowing gases,
A journey I long
Alone, where I belong
Let me penetrate
Your aquarian realm,
Swim in a blue sea of telescopic light,
Disintegrate my limbs
Together, grow strong
Five billion years
Is too long to wait
The final, evolutionary state
Send my heart on arrow
To mythical heaven
Earth rots my organs
Promises death only
Your faint nebula plugs a constellation
Fill an empty container
With unwished dreams.
The image Intrigued and article peaked my longing to know more.