Seen Through Silence

Dustin in the chilled night air

writtensilent — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 19:11:55 +0000

Dust in the chilled night air;
Under the harvest moon
Sit a silent, queer pair.
Together since the autumn noon,
In a warm, stilled embrace,
Now twined in lover’s lace.

Stars light up the night
And shine upon the two.
May, that in their sight
Unseen, they say adieu.
Ever does their young love
Leave the world behind,

Climb up with turtledove,
And within heaven they resign.
Rare is a love like this,
That few ever had before,
Envied for their every kiss;
Real love ne’er saw the more.

Shuffling

writtensilent — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 03:24:29 +0000

Two Cups on a table, stand
And I reach out for one,
But swept off by an ivory hand
So I am left with none.

A shrouded, twisted figure
On dark horse rises o’er,
And with a brush of banner
I’m found upon the floor.
“Please do not harm me, kill me,”
I ask this of the wraith.
It replied, with little mercy,
“Why, thou hast no faith?”

Now with Weights I ride to night,
No Sun, nor Moon, nor Starry light.

Your Love for a Silent Voice

writtensilent — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 02:14:47 +0000

     I lay in bed unable to sleep. It is far too late to be awake at this hour. Even the moon and the stars aren’t up. And yet here I am. Certainly I am not unwilling, and I can attest to trying every method of falling asleep. Still, I look out my window into the dark, cold night and find no comfort there. Nothing is out there but a reminder of whatever distance is between what I cannot have. Within my room, though, is a similar emptiness. One more pronounced than the lack of comfort found outside my filth-covered window. Though the digital clock sheds only the slightest blue glimmer, the problem is apparent.
     You are not here.
     And when you left earlier in the day you took more than the keys to your car, you took a piece of me. A little piece surely—we only have been together for a short time. But as I lay under the covers, pulling them close to my face I can smell you. A soft touch of mint and a scent that is less smell and more a piece of your personality, caress my memory. I smile despite myself, and laugh at the childish glee that comes over me simply from your lingering aroma. I find myself longing for you more, as I lose that scent within the folds of my sheets and pillows.
     Not three hours ago you had curled up in my bed, saying you were feeling tired from our long day. You suggested putting on a movie, and when I asked which you told me to make it a surprise. So I took out a particular movie, one that I knew would do just that. Yesterday I had gone out and found a special movie, one not only your favorite, but the movie we had seen on our first date. And as I turned it on and the first scene began to play, I could see the last six months float across your memories. You looked at me with your sparkling green eyes, smiled, and I almost swore I saw a tear form in the corner of your eye.
     I stood up, after a moment, and turned off the lights so that we could enjoy the movie together. Lying down on top of the covers I moved beside you and placed one arm around you holding you against my chest. Slowly you placed your gentle hand in mine and brought it to your lips, tenderly kissing it before resting it on your heart. As we lay there enjoying the movie, I felt the characters play out their lives to the rhythm of your heartbeat against my palm. Soon our breathing flowed together, and you fell asleep in my arms.
     Opening my eyes once more to the lonely room, it is you I want to be holding again. Not the formless pillow I try to replace your warmth. Pushing the pillow aside angrily, I think of the first time we met. You were screaming in my face about being rude and inconsiderate of others. And I wondered why bumping into you, as the subway came to a sudden stop, was rude. Yet you continued to yell, until you were red in the face, and had to catch your breath. When you stopped, I put a hand on your shoulder looked you straight in the eye and asked you what was wrong.
     You broke down crying right there in public. Resting your head on my shoulder, I held you and rubbed your back until you calmed down. Between dry sobs you explained how your boyfriend had left you ten minutes ago. The jerk had asked you out to dinner, but before even getting to the restaurant he told you it was over on the subway platform. He decided he would take a taxi back to his place, and left you alone. And finally as you tried to compose yourself, you laughed at the scene you were making and apologized. Wiping your tears off with my sleeve I told you not to worry about any of it.
     I asked you if you wanted to get something to eat. When you looked unsure I reassured you it was not a date, but that I insisted no one should be alone at a time like this. So we did. You talked for most of the night. Telling me everything about how your boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, never cared. A lot of that dinner was spent trashing John. But through it all I sat there smiling, listening to your every word. You were passionate, and strong. Even though you were just left, literally in a hole, by your boyfriend, you ended that night with a smile.
     It was that strength that made me fall in love with you, I think. I stare up at the ceiling and wonder if you’re fast asleep now. My eyes begin tracing the panels above me, trying to clear my mind so I can sleep. I see faces and objects as I look beside me at the wood grain in the walls. Of course, later on you would tell me that courage came from me. That if it were not for meeting me on the train, you may have never gotten over John. Still I know you had it in you all along. I see that strength in your eyes every day, and fall in love with you more each time I do.
     I turn over on to my side and close my eyes one more time. Your emerald eyes look back at me in a misty dream as I fall asleep. My last thoughts trail over the last six months spent together. You always felt guilty about how we met, and refused to yell at me again. Even on those days when you probably should. You promised me you weren’t the same person you were with John. That you changed. But you certainly weren’t the only one. It is from you that I am a different person. Not because you asked me to be, but because you loved me enough not to. It’s because of your love that I lay here, unable to sleep. Without it I’d be left alone without a smile from the smell of mint in my pillow, without it the blue tint would be a reminder of the time slowly moving past me, without it I would have never known your strength. My room may be lonely tonight, but I am not.

A Perilous Undertaking

writtensilent — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 16:13:25 +0000

He anxiously cradles the flowers in hand:
Nails digging into lilly stems, white
Petals scattered behind,
Shaken from their enamel loft.
A gravel road lies behind him;
Left for russet grass and
Fallen leaves.

Perusing across the clotted ground,
He searches for a whisper’s evidence to some
Deadened wish, a
Chorused plea that this night
Would soon be over.

His eyes call out to a
Shadowed friend;
One for which care was placed upon the
Date–the time–and not the man:
Disheveled, nervous, irate at the
Prospect of the rejection that may
Ensue.

Stopping short, dust scratching at his
Legs, he stands before her
Reaching his hand out to
Present the bouquet,
But without acceptance they fall
Dead from his hands to
Sprawl unceremonious upon her fresh
Earthen bed.

A harsh wind blows

writtensilent — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 18:49:31 +0000

A harsh wind blows
And bends the tree,
I start to doze
From what will be.

“I’ve been thinking
‘Bout me and you.”

One car goes by
To bring me back;
The question “Why?
What could I lack?”

Then I was sinking,
Heard, “I have too.”

It’s how I felt,
How could I change?
The cards were dealt,
Albeit, strange.

Without blinking,
“I love you.”

Chimes ring out,
Shudders beat,
And none about:
A vacant street.

Still I was sinking;
You always knew.

The morning dew
Shines awfully bright
As morning new
Clears the night.

You sat thinking—
“I don’t love you.”

A harsh wind blows
And bends the tree.
I sit here posed,
For what will be:
Only heaven knows,
If you’ll come to me.

Night Angel Trilogy

writtensilent — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 19:09:30 +0000

I want to stray from my usual plugging my writing to plug someone else’s:

The Night Angel Trilogy is quite possibly one of my favorite fantasy series that i’ve ever read. And though i could, i’m not going to sit here and write out a basic synopsis while trying not to deal with spoiler alerts. Mainly cause you can click on any of the three pics and it’ll take you to Brent Weeks’ blog and read all about them. But i will say that the detail Weeks puts into these books is really amazing. Not only is it a book about an assassin (or wetboy) it’s got everything you would want in a book. Love (cheesy and dramatic, or dirty and painful), action and murder, magic, and oh so much more. But what i think i like most about the book is the depth in which Weeks writes his characters. From describing why the main character becomes the protagonist, to the motivation for redemption so many characters feel, to the depravity of men raping women and children. I don’t think i have yet to read another book that does not attempt to hide from what the real world is like, but lets us get lost in the wonder of a fantasy world. Hopefully i did the book JUSTICE (theme of the book…couldn’t help myself) haha and you’ll go out and read it.

Snow for a Silent Voice

writtensilent — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 18:10:07 +0000

My desk faces out a second-story window of the wood paneled room, looking toward a yard with a large oak and the road past it. I run my hands through my hair in annoyance. I need something. A writer with no story is a sad sight. Searching for anything, my eyes roam outside the window. There’s the oak tree I used to play in as a kid, but how many broken arm stories are out there? The road leads to all sorts of places in my life, but not every road is worthwhile. Sometimes a road is a road.
I try to pierce the horizon, focusing on the haze between the blue sky and the green on top of the trees. Trying to distinguish something usefully visible. But as my eyes adjust further and further away, they suddenly become blurred. On the window a snowflake shines against the sun, before it quickly melts into a small water drop. Soon another falls, and I look closely at its varying edges. Mirrored against it’s self, each side is a masterpiece of individuality.
Resting my head down against the cool desk, I close my eyes smiling. A few years back my friend Jen and I went to see a movie late at night. Leaving the theatre we step out to see it had started snowing. The streets are dusted with a feint white cover, tree limbs shine with glistening weight, and on the edges of buildings, budding icicles grow. I look over at Jen and see her staring up at the night’s sky. No stars shine down; no deep blue swells above us. Instead are enormous grey clouds, so close it feels as if you could reach up and touch them. They call down to the wintered floor below, as if to say their goodbyes to the glimmering children they let go for us.
As I’m lost in the sky above, Jen grabs my hand and pulls me after her. We run and eventually stop before a large open field, untouched by cars or feet. Here the snow is pure, laid silken across the ground. Jen hesitates, which I’m sure is her unwillingness to taint the perfection of the field. But after a moment she tugs my hand once more and we run across the field, tossing snow at one another, until eventually I pull her down beside me on the ground. We lay there for a while, staring up at the sky, watching the clouds drift by. I try and pick a single snowflake to watch fall, and catch one that slowly floats down to land on Jen’s forehead.
Jen catches me looking at her and smiles squeezing my hand. Returning the smile, I think of the snowflakes falling around us. As individuals each are different. None are alike, or so everyone says. And as a chill runs up my spine, I think of how cold it must be for a single snowflake to form. Yet when they come together, there’s a warmth; a comfort. Together the snowflakes wrap around us, softening the ground for Jen and me to lay for a time.
I raise my head from the desk and look back out the window. Outside the snow is quickly forming on the ground. Already the branches of the oak sparkle in the evening light. The window begins to fog, forming circular squares in each section of glass. Snow piles up on the ledge outside, covering the swelled and cracked wood. As a car slowly drives down the road, I am forced to look at the filth of the modern world. The snow on the side of the road is already brown and dirtied. I tighten my fist, lightly punching the desk, and frown at the sight.
Stepping into the old rancher we used to live in years ago, I am covered in snow. Dripping on the linoleum entryway, I can hear raised voices from the kitchen. I easily pick out my father’s voice rising above my mom’s sobbing protests. Quickly I move into the kitchen just in time to see my father raise his hand back as he slaps it across my mom’s face. Both seem shocked at what happened, but I stand there confused. My father looks at me, fearful, like he expects me to slap him next. But what is a ten-year old going to do to his father?
My mom refuses to look at me. She acts as if it were her fault she has a red mark across her cheek. Without a word, my father shoves me aside and leaves the house. I run out after him into the blinding snow as the morning sun reflects against the white ground. Before my eyes can adjust I hear the car start and my father move down the driveway. Without thinking I run out after him towards the street. But as I reach his car he turns quickly onto the road. The dark blue station wagon drives past me and I am thrown to the ground, hitting my head against the curb.
Slowly I stand up, shaking the dirty snow off me that my father’s car had sprayed, pushing me to the ground. I rub the back of my head, attempting to focus my eyes down the street. But I can’t see the blue station wagon. My father turned down some street out of view, so I walk back to the house. This time I stand dripping muddy snow on the linoleum entryway, listening to nothing. My mother has moved into the room with me, and stands staring out the door. She doesn’t seem to see me shivering, dripping in her house. I’m not sure what she sees, but it’s not the blue station wagon.
That was the last time I saw my father. He never came back, and never even contacted us. Looking down at my desk, I notice I had been clenching my hands tight. Releasing them, I feel the cool air brush against my sweaty palms. I rub them against my pants as I look through the window to see nothing but white. Everything is covered in snow. The large oak flings snow back and forth in the wind, as if playing with a friend. Even the road is filled high with snow. No car will be able to drive past and dirty the snow until the road is cleared.
Running my hand through my hair, I finally know I have something. With pen in hand I begin to write. Looking out my window, layers upon layers of snow lay on the ground. As each snowflake falls, it holds a different design; a different story. And together they collect to create something far bigger.

Seeing as it is snowing like crazy outside i figure it’s a good time to put this short story up haha another in my Silent Voice series i wrote it similar to the Fall for a Silent Voice that i have up on here from before. hope you like it

It’s those so often held behind

writtensilent — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 18:52:29 +0000

It’s those so often held behind,
While searching ever on,
That keep you always in their mind
As you become withdrawn.

One day the momentary view
Will yield it’s lust’s liqueur,
And if you turn then to pursue
Expect a curt deter.

For though they stand to give their aid,
Not ever will they be
To offer up their selves delayed:
A friend expectedly.

Therefore, keep those with given heart,
Before you lose anon,
The one that might today impart
What nigh may be foregone.

Unfinished poem

writtensilent — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 18:37:09 +0000

In horrid wood a rode I took
That would me through such travesty.
There I found a few men–three:
A Poor Man, Carpenter, and Cook.
Each gave some help, a sum their own
In which they would partake;
To aid a man, for their own sake,
That walks his rode alone.

First met, the Chef, with renown skill
Was heard to have insatiable taste,
The better seen through enlarged waist;
Which left his back sore and still.
In greeting, “Good friend,” I called the Cook,
Whose look replied some fear and fright
For which he recalled upon my sight,
“As frail a breeze, as weak a rook.”
‘Twas at that moment my hunger burst,
The snide remark cut to the quick,
As my sight resembled that of a stick;
And it was then I feared the worst.
“Surely, thou canst survive as such–
With stomach chambers’ echoed growl.
If’t were I, a wailing howl
To get a slice of bread as much.”
Thus food bestowed, he gave to me
Some dark bread, beans, and smoked meats.
The last, a bag of sweetened treats,
“With these I help upon your journey,
And give to thee my only aid.
If thinkst, thou, in need of more
I give-, now, all that be in store;
Save that which must needs paid.”

Next on my path, that leafy trail,
I happened upon a river wide,
Greater than any large man’s stride;
Ne’er over which I could prevail.
So, long I sat with naught to do
But ponder where all waters flow,
Or stare to sides I could not go.
When suddenly there came in twos
A sound of workman’s steady hand.
With trained details in every swing,
Measured beats that makes wood sing;
That only kinsmen understand.
I followed, with ease, the rhythmic sound,
Then saw a man clad all in leather
With calloused hands, hard and weathered,
Which struck that which I heard rebound.

Without a glance my way, he spoke,
“‘Tis long the trails that lead you here,
And though mayhaps, design unclear.
But weary traveler take off thou cloak,
Please sit awhile, and stay for now.
At the moment thou quest hast ended
Though my door was not intended.”
Confused the only word was “How?”
Smiling, then, with childish glee,
He began a deep and hearty laugh,
“Ye mus’ forgive; on my behalf
I find the joke was too easy.”

This is a poem i began years ago, that all it does is sit in a folder on my computer and stagnate. I continually look at it and edit it and try and make it better, but that’s all. I cannot ever seem to add anymore, and obviously the store has yet to be finished haha. I’m hoping one day that it’ll get done and will be one of my best works but for right now i’ll let all you faceless readers read it so far.

Next Stanza

writtensilent — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 18:33:36 +0000

The simple few does love embraced detest:
A shallow eye, cold heart, and thoughtless fear
To which, Apollo’s laurel lusts attest,
Love equals gods to men; from rich, austere.

As sordid love negates virtue kept chaste;
So often known, too well, the Swan’s harsh theft.
Although a honeyed word has luscious taste,
‘Tis better stilled a flitting tongue bereft.

Finished the second stanza of my latest sonnet, though i’m not sure how happy i am yet with this one. Tell me what you think =)