shachia

Old poetry I dug out from high school. How I've changed. I'm more critical of myself. More quiet (if that's possible), more loud (if that's possible). I laugh more, but make jokes less. I'm happier, but I'm surrounded by more regrets, and more sadness. I'm quite content I think. Calm at the skin, but somewhere underneath it all, I'm full of love, joy, pain, sadness. like an ocean, calm(er) at the surface, with currents underneath. Hmm...

Water. I meditate, hold thee in my hand, within my spirit. Drink thee into my body and consume myself full of thee. Thy nature passes through me exits my pores, continues. I am a vessel, neither beginning nor end. My time passes, you are one with me, and without me. My definition is hazy. For each piece of me is made from other pieces, other selves, other wholenesses. My "Am" my "to be" is an "Are" as in we. Consumption brings within everything. I do not end, I do not begin.

but. On to old poetry.

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Not from me. I hope he doesn't mind me quoting. The coolest person I've ever met. Jeff A.

Ode to the Onion

The towers of the Kremlin
stand proudly over Moscow
their tips pointing
emphatically upward
Peracles, and Athenian Statesman
hides his deformed head
beneath a helmet
to escape the
hurtful name-calling
Infinite, contiguous, concentric
spheres of zero width
compose space itself.
Thus is the Onion.

Union, Unity,
Pearl, Onion:
These words mix and meld
in the Roman tongue
whilst the onion's flavor itself
stabs into it with an
acid tang.

Although pleasantly punishing
when eaten directly,
the Onion graces any meat
to which it is applied
Its powerful taste lingers,
pleasing the palate long
after the meal is through.
It forces its killer
to mourn its death
by demanding tears
of he who dares cut it.
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by me: chosen only for the month I mention

Oh tragedy, my heart, such beauty lost
of wit and manner to leave me with naught
but wistful pain a December morn's frost
covers my soul and Love which truly wrought
passioned words, now with chill, there does bite
and tear that life apart, where once nothing ought
have struck for pain And so I throw in spite
a curse upon Love's ragged shore Bonded
be Love held, to ne'er see the morning light.

Me:

What a quiet time is night
source of more perfection
than any other I know
Such soft velvet black
a color inviting my soul upwards
to join in quiet communion
with the sky
That pearl moon
whose beauty compares greater
than the precious I give it name by
For so clean and pure that beauty
surely the divine itself
shines the like
bestill my heart
that I may not despoil
this infinite perfection
Let this night instead
soak into my very veins
and let it run my blood
and take me soft into
the arms of the gentle night
and let her instead
be the very depth and breadth
of my very existence

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