Eye Spy

In a cage made of smiling faces

Of polite salutations

Of tense undertones

In this cage of smiling faces

I sit in fear of eyes.

Eyes.

Meaning that if you find some you must react

Eye.

I.

Eyes are the window of the soul, I've heard tell--

It’s true.

The eyes that seek to look away,

The eyes that boldly go

Where no man has gone before

All these eyes and so many more

Are windows of the soul.

It rapidly becomes clear

That Eyes are dangerous things,

For the one who smiles and yet shrinks

At the thing that eyes mean.

If Eyes were rarer than the gems of the earth

Or were merely pretty pieces of glass

Then we might look more boldly into their frightening depths

But still we fear the simple clause

Cause and Effect

Look and React

Smile, then talk.

Eyes are the window of the soul.

You know what I mean. There is nothing more frustrating than polite conversation (cage of smiling faces) and Eye contact is more scary than the threat of rain on a beach day. You know.

Time

The Man with clocks in his eyes came to me

He streamed tears of blood and smiled at me

“Time!” He sobbed, “no time to play.”

The man with clocks in his eyes staggered down the street

Unaware that his body was dying and couldn’t carry on.

He looked straight ahead and didn’t stop to smile

And the people with sunshine in their eyes recoiled

for the man with clocks in his eyes couldn't see the passing time.

The Man with clocks in his eyes

Heard the bells of a new age dawning

Heard them tolling into his ears.

The man with clocks in his eyes heard the bells tolling

And the man--

Just a man, after all,

Curled up in the gutter.

The man with clocks in his eyes cried out for help

He sobbed tears of blood that marked his cheeks with helplessness.

The man with clocks in his eyes

Cried into his suit

The perfect black tie

And shiny black shoes.

The man with clocks in his eyes finally knew

His eyes, so perfect, he thought,

Couldn’t

See

Time.

What If

It's the end. Again. 

Fancy that! 

Sometimes I think...

I think...

Think I, 

That it never ends.

That I have wasted half my life

In comfort and complacency.

I worry that,

Think I,

That I will not rise to the challenge,

When the time comes.

Think I, these things. 

I, a worrier, will never restful be, 

Unless the peace of God

Be in me. 

What if!

What if, 

Think I,

What if!

What if the earth comes crashing down!

What if I shame myself!

What if I did something wrong!

What if, if, if,

IF the sky were to fall, could I hold it by thought?

IF I a mistake did make,

Could I then, by turning my thoughts backward,

Change the past?

IF I had done differently, Think I. 

What if is a disease

That preys on the roiling mind

That preys on my joy.

What if,

What if I, 

Think I,

Chose to 

What if the if away?

What if I,

Stopped iffing and put

the f on faith instead?

What if?

What if I stopped iffing and listened to the truth around me. 

Think I, these things. 

Midas Touch

The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But no heart is left in them.
The Midas touch lies over this land
And has left the people heartless.

The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But the crude and base
Have not suffered.

Instead, like Jason hunting the Fleece,
The glitter is what draws us
Stalks us
Kills us.

Your other master is left in the dust

And all you have is dust.

With airy smiles
That charm ad beguile,
We ignore the world before us.
Our minds are clouded,
Filled up with lies,
We miss the truth before us.

That Midas dream
Would be filling,
It seems,
But all that is left
Are streets and roads
Paved with gold
With no heart left in them.

Greater

      In a world of prejudice and spite

In a world of pain and horror

In this place of beauty vs. ugly

Kindness vs. cruelty

man against man

woman against woman

Child against child

Where is the place of rest?

Is it found in the trees, the beautiful trees?

Or maybe in the rushing streams along the forest floor?

Could it be--are peace and rest found--

In laughter of other people,

In the presence of other souls,

In the touch of a loved one?

Turn to the child who says

“Mother I love you”

Turn to the dog who barks in happiness

Turn to the joys of something greater,

Of a presence we can’t ignore.

If the trumpeted cry of the mountains,

The pleading voice of the eagle,

The pounding feet of the deer in autumn

Were not passed by,

Perhaps we’d find the Greater Rest,

The presence we can’t ignore.

Music.

Standin' in the rain

With his head hung low

Couldn't get a ticket,

It was a sold out show.

Heard the roar of the crowd

He could picture the scene

Put his head to the wall

And like a distant scream

He heard one guitar

Just blew him away

Saw stars in his eyes

And the very next day

He bought a beat up six string

In a secondhand store.

Didn't know how to play it

But he knew for sure

 That one guitar

Felt good in his hands.

--Jukebox Hero, by Foreigner.  

That one guitar. The roar of metal and noise and vibration that reached to the man's heart. Stars in his eyes. That one guitar, like a distant scream. Just blew him away.

Absolutely spectacular. 

 Jukebox Hero makes me remember how music reaches to the very soul of the person listening. It makes me remember how the fierce, aggressive, passionate style of rock is an amazing work of art. The power of one sound changed the man's life--his whole life. That is awe-inspiring. Music brings me such joy--often I'll listen and that one guitar will suddenly penetrate my heart. My head will go back and I'll laugh in pure ecstasy. Music. 

What a gift. 

When I am down, and Oh, my soul's so weary;

When troubles come, and my heart burdened be

Then I am still and sit here in the silence,

Until you come and sit awhile with me. 

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains

You raise me up, to stand of stormy seas

I am strong, when I am on your shoulders

You raise me up...to more than I can be. 

--You Raise Me Up, hymn

I don't understand it. How mere sounds have the power to make people laugh, cry, dance--it will always be a mystery. I just know what is. And I see a stunning tableau of light fighting dark, joy conquering sadness, and the human heart bursting. Someday, someday, this battle called life will be over. Then we'll see what true joy looks like, and it will resonate in our very souls like the notes of fire we call music. 

I guess I was feeling philosophic. Hope y'all don't mind. 

What next?

       In reality, I am a little girl wearing pigtails that clings to her mother's hand in fright. I pretend to be mature, strong, independant, but...some things have to be a pretense before they become reality. I won't say I'm unable.
       This whole college deal makes me feel like a twelve-year-old who walks into a bar and orders a drink. Very small, on that barstool of life. But I can't pretend--I just have to believe in myself. And that (for me, at least) is akin to climbing mount Everest. With no oxygen tank. But...I won't have to do it alone.
       I fell out of my mother's nest rather suddenly a few weeks ago and began to enter a stage in my life with absolutely no supervision. "FFREEDOOMMM!!"
That was the jist of my thoughts. Heh. I squeaked it with eyes wide with fright, as I boarded the bus headed towards independent education. Frankly, I'm scared. The responsibilities and experiences of adulthood are in view...just not at hand.
       So. What next? I have so many dreams piled up in my heart, and yet I know most of them will be thought of fondly and then put aside for later. I have already had to chose between dreams, and I have come to terms with it. But...I still dream of being able to follow all my dreams. What's going to happen? Where will the Lord take me? I can say with an excited whisper, "I...don't...know." I'm just a fledgling, with wings not yet tried, still clinging to a branch and looking out onto the most beautiful thing--the world spread beneath my feet. But soon, very soon, I'll feel the wind on my face, lifting under my wings, and I'll fly to places I've never dreamed of. With a guiding hand in my own, loving family gathered around me, and friends to share in my escapades, I sit on that branch. Turns out, it holds more scrapes and adventures that I thought.
       What Next. 
     
     

No title for this one--spoilers.

       I walked in the door sweaty, tired, sunburnt, with sand in my shoes. Usually you could guess what I had been doing--mowing the lawn perhaps, or helping Dad with one of his projects. But I forgot to mention the idiotically huge grin plastering itself over my face.  Mowing the lawn doesn't usually go hand-in-hand with that expression. There is only one thing on earth that could make me that happy. Yup. Horses.
       I know, I know,  its so darn cliche! About fifty-five percent of the world's female population will say that their favorite animal is the horse. I still fit in with the majority. Every little girl gets a bug in her brain about horses at some point in her life. most of them grow out of it. ...I never did.  Every person who has been around me long enough to have a conversation that goes somewhere along the line of "what do you like to do" knows this about me. So I proudly hold up my head and say that, yes, my favorite animal is the horse.

  Normally, this would be a perfect place for a rant about the beauty, grace, strength, and freedom of horses. But even if your brain is the size of a hummingbird's, you don't need me to tell you that. Suffice to say that no animal will ever, ever compare to a horse. That's why I came home that day with a gigantic grin on my face. 

     
     
                                    

Hunting Tales

      Ever felt the stillness of the before dawn air? I'm sure most of you have: riding the bus, perhaps, or driving to some place you must get to at some ridiculous hour in the morning. But I mean really felt it. 
       I remember feeling a rather removed excitement when I ate my scrambled eggs in the dark that morning. Dad was far more fidgety than me--he could barely keep from jumping up and down. My breath steamed as we loaded the guns into the truck. The stars were out, twinkling at us. 
       It was still dark an hour later when we pulled down a winding driveway and set up shop in a little fringe of scrubby trees on the edge of an empty strawberry field. Greg, Dad, Jerry, Joe, and I simply sat, waiting for the sun to come up. The air was so dark, and so peaceful, it felt as though nothing could ever disturb that odd calm. Imagine trying to argue with a tree. Eventually, though, the peace faded away and up came the sun, long heralded by birds singing their morning songs. 
      With the sun came the geese. I'm sure you've guessed it by now--we weren't there just to enjoy the six 'o clock air--we were there for population control. Or to make it sound a little nicer, we were there to bring home the bacon. In feathered, winged form. Eight or nine birds flew in from our right. Greg didn't call the shot, so we let them land among the decoys. Then another flock flew from our right, making an odd picture of stupidity. They came level with us. For a moment, all that happened was the thump-thump of my heart. 
       Greg whipped his gun to his shoulder and fired. Everything Dad had told me flew out of my mind like those birds would if I didn't fire--so I pointed my gun at the flock and twitched my finger. The gun recoiled against my shoulder and a goose crumpled out of the sky with the shot--a hit! I watched the rest of the scene unfold like an awestruck ninny, still jumpy with adrenaline. The guns roared and shot little dots of death into the sky--and plop-plop-plop-plop fell down dinner. The guys did their best to get the whole flock down, but the birds caught on quickly. They were out of sight in a matter of a few frightened flaps.  
       Silence. 
       I felt like bobbing up and down and shouting, "That was awesome!", but of course, I didn't. I didn't fancy being laughed at. Someone said, "Go get 'em," and I walked out with Joe to go retrieve our spoils. But I wasn't quite sure if you picked them up my the feet or the neck, so I dawdled until I could see what Joe would do. Their necks were surprisingly slender. We piled the geese--five in all--in a little heap, and I sat back on my little stool, eyes sparkling. All drowsiness had been long forgotten. In all my life, I will never forget the shock of the gun against my shoulder. 
       Later that day, after we had made our weary way home, and told the same stories over several times, Jerry asked me how many shells I had used on the flock. I gave a little laugh because I wasn't sure what the questions was for, and said, "One."
       "One!" Jerry shouted. "You can keep shootin'. Yeah, definitely use more 'n one shell." He laughed more. I just saw the bird go down and figured that was enough. 
         
        Of course, we got up and did it again the next morning. It was a fiasco, that day was, let me tell you. We got one flock the whole morning and I still felt like laughing. We sat in the little stand of trees until ten or so, just waiting and enjoying the free air. It was so boring, even Dad was up for leaving before noon. Then we heard the honking. Everybody tensed. It grew nearer. Then we saw them--straight over the trees they flew, and then wheeled. Greg had harnessed them with his goosecall. They headed straight for us like little dive-bombers. I held my breath. Just as the nearest two began to land, Greg snapped, "take 'em!" 
       We took 'em, all right. Boom boom ba boom! Noise exploded and so did the flock. Birds fell, some backpedaled furiously, feathers flew. boom! I struggled to reload my now empty gun, feverishly snapping the breach closed. Several of the geese were taking flight. Dad jumped up, complete with some swearing, gun roaring. I scrambled to my feet and fired, the shock knocking my back into my chair. I will never, ever forget that feeling. 
      I will never understand why I enjoy discharging objects by explosion at very high speeds. Perhaps it's in my blood. Perhaps we have a hereditary love of conquest. Or maybe I'm just crazy. My only comfort for that thought is if that's the case, than alot of other people are just as crazy as me. Dad. 
     

Notes of Fire

     Music comes in so many, many ways. This world is wrapped in song. The birds have it, the wind has it, the road has it, the rain, the trees, the city. People make music in hate, love, passion, anger, joy, and in an absence of reality. We listen to music and it makes music inside of us. It brings people close together.
     My favorite part of a race is when the people stand to sing. Whether it be the National Anthem or "My Old Kentucky Home", for those few moments we are one. Thousands of people are brought together because they are all thinking of the same thing. If all those thoughts could be made into a song, it would be more beautiful than anything ever heard, because it would be unison and thoughts that have no malice, no greed, and no superficiality.
     In some ways, music has been twisted and desecrated. But really, all that it is is emotion. Whether those emotions be worthy or not, they are there. And those emotions are passed to the listener. A song that was made with a hearty dose of desperation makes you feel desperate. A song created with joy will pass joy on to you. Music is powerful. Remember that.
    If I could somehow soar to the past and bring back one thing, it would be gatherings where people come together to dance and sing. I wish I had a giant eraser that I could lift it up and wipe away all self-consciousness, so people wouldn't feel scared or awkward to just life up their voices and sing. Together. Oh, what joy that would be.

A sentimental moment

       I sometimes think my pointshoes are my best friends.  Think about it--they've witnessed every blister, every bloodstain, every tear, every hour where I've counted the long minutes to the end of rehearsal so I can run on them to plunge my sweaty face in an icy stream of water. Something in me seems to wilt when we're apart. I worry about them, because if they fail, I fall.
 

       I believe I've heard it said that a woman's shoes were her best friend. This might be more true than many of us realize. However, I tend to be skeptical that any article of footwear could be as intimate as a pointeshoe. Just saying. They are the only kinds of friends that were made to be destroyed every few weeks.

       Well, I'll be glad to have them back. We've been separated for far too long. 

Throb

The throb of a heartbeat

How to describe it?

Throb. Throb. Throb. Throb.

Like the love of a thing is ripping

Ripping out your heart for love of--

Motion. A throb of

Pain.

Silence.

Standing in the wings of fate--

The curtain rises.

Pressed against black velvet

It’s a feeling I’ll never forget.

The lights blind me across the stage,

No one moves as dancers move slowly forward.

The music swells in mounting rage--

I set my feet before me

Prepare. Wait.

Go.

Tuel swirls around my knees,

Cool air--the kind

only found in large places--

Brushes my bare arms

My feet move me through spaces

Move me to other places

I dance the stage into submission.

Shock after shock shakes me

I feel muscle--my muscle

struggling, striving, racing, diving--

My feet hit the ground time and time again

Shock. After. Shock.

Only after the dance is finished

I realize my lungs are heaving

My breathing ran out of control

Sweat breaks on my cheeks

But what do I care?

I smile--I’m so happy!

We’ve succeeded--we’ve done it!

I join hands with the others

And set my foot behind the other

Letting the applause wash over me,

Grinning like a fool, but not caring.  

My hands go up,

We bow-- more applause

Then...the curtain closes--

All is over.

Silence.

We try to fill the sudden void,

But the emptiness we cannot avoid.

I walk off the stage, making my way

To feel my heart throb another day

To make room for the next set

To stand in the wings of fate.