The Creative Act

In the heat of the sun I was pacing around, searching for something to dullen the sound of the one who had kept me the one who I am and who I’ll always call on when patience runs thin in the dark, dwindling hours of the grass where I stand with an outlook of karma to fall on the land; and though I am the keeper of that which I hide, there’s little to come of these words that I write.

The divisions and pressence of spirt and flesh are at ease in the comfort of my shallowness as espoused by the way that I hollowly stare through the faces around me surrounded by fair and wholehearted dimples to warm one’s cold stone of a heart in the body of one who has died, so often, so often upon this long ride; and the key to the way that he’s come to survive is his willing acceptance of all of the lies bestowed upon him when he longed to undo the injustice around him, escaped by so few of the strong and resilient who still soldier on in pursuit of the gods whom they call their own.

And the challenge of finding the way to return to the truths, now forgotten, by one who has earned so little of that which he’s stumbled upon, is the premise that he has become so far gone that the altar upon which he longed to be placed has risen above the constraints of his taste; and the timing of running from where he once lay is but only a function of his will to say that the things that he said were not born out of harm, but of pain he was feeling within his slim arm; and the virtues of seeing the fog in the air are the answers inside his dispasionate stare.

The Fix is in.
I’ve not a chance.
I’ll rot away before I dance.
The Sphinx, she’s there
Upon the hill,
On top of which resides my Will.

I’ll make my way
Much further on,
Until I fail
To greet the gun.

And then I’ll know
That what I said
Was what I’d meant
When all was Bent.

And Bent I am,
Though straight she goes—
Depart from me,
Thy troubled woes.

And speaking now, inside myself
I’ve stifled what had held my wealth
Within the tongs
Upon the hearth,
Where Burning was
My frail Earth.

My Sumi-e holiday card  &  haiku – with best wishes.  May the New Year bring health, happiness and continued creativity to all.  Sincerely, Heather

The talking walls—
snicker friendly faces
behind the talking walls.

The moonlight ball;
liquor in the basement:
come hither one and all.

A desert squall.
Blind to where we run to
from where the answers fall.

A distant call:
Mind the words of those who
remind the talking walls.

I’m rolling through the winding streets
Where all I’ve come to know has died.
The powers of your poignant touch
Have ruined what I’ve tried to do.
And nothing matters to the one
Who came to be the one I was
When I was what I longed to be—
When I was all I’d ever sought.

The rapture of the breaking wind
Is bearing down upon my chest.
The one I’ve been through all these years
Has come to know the truths that he
Forgot before he fell upon
His broken knees and battered face,
Then rose to find the howling wind
Upon him in a whirl of waste.

I’m learning of the things I’ve done.
I’m finding ways to rise again.
I’m searching for the lore of old
That keeps me bound to all I know.
And what becomes of one who is
The keeper of the gates beyond
The realm of which we only dream
When all is lost and all is wrong?

It could be said, he’d rise again
And find himself upon the tide,
At peace within his realm of frost—
Forever strong as oak or ash—
Forever at your calling for
The taking and the giving of
The bits of life that once he lost—
The trials of his sinking pride.

Climbing hills of molten metal;
The fragrance of a rose petal;
The way I hold you late at night:
These things are on my mind tonight.

The quiet of your beating heart
Is breaking all my fears apart.
I’m set to wake upon the morn’
When all my hopes will be reborn.

The cracking of their wanton whips
Cannot outdo your crimson lips.
The look upon your seemly face
Becomes your ever comely grace.

The day I part from you will come
When all I’ll ever sing is sung;
When all I’ve ever known is dead;
When nothing’s left inside this head.

But never do I dare to fear
That dreadful day when doom is near—
For all I know right now, tonight,
Is that our future’s burning bright.

So here is the most recent revision of the poem, I took some ideas from what people gave me and what they thought didn’t work all that well and here’s the result, tell me what you think and I’ll see what revisions I can make for another revision. Personally I’m quite happy with the result and it shows how valuable this site can be, but don’t let my happiness with the product thus far influence your harshness in criticism, ultimately I wanna dig some good poetry. So here it is…

Alas

there’s a lass who wears

all the right masks

whose heart is

 lined with crimes,

like blood stained

 glass

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Purple crocus

in the wake of your absence-

Spring arrives

Okay, so here are some revisions, tell me what you think, one stanza is in red and that is the stanza which I’m really disliking especially because I consider it to be the point of the poem. So tell me what you all think about it, I’d love to hear your ideas for working it, they reall help! So, without further ado:

Alas, there’s a lass

who wears all the right masks

whose heart is pink, I think,

like blood stained glass

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