Showing posts with label Turtle Shell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Turtle Shell. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
by Turtle Shell
It takes a courageous person
to turn a train around.
The weight of sunk costs
builds a momentum quite profound.
It's a rare leader who
can turn to their followers and say:
"This course we've now been on so long
isn't the correct way."
They won't want to believe.
They'll rationalize and cleave.
No one wants to admit to being wrong.
But when truth confronts conviction,
then you'll see
either integrity,
or a need to be right that borders on addiction.
--------------------
This was our submission to The Commuter this week. I don't know whether or not they'll be publishing any more issues this year though, so this may well not be getting published.
It takes a courageous person
to turn a train around.
The weight of sunk costs
builds a momentum quite profound.
It's a rare leader who
can turn to their followers and say:
"This course we've now been on so long
isn't the correct way."
They won't want to believe.
They'll rationalize and cleave.
No one wants to admit to being wrong.
But when truth confronts conviction,
then you'll see
either integrity,
or a need to be right that borders on addiction.
--------------------
This was our submission to The Commuter this week. I don't know whether or not they'll be publishing any more issues this year though, so this may well not be getting published.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
by Turtle Shell
First and last
on every list
every day
is sleep.
You can kill yourself without dying
Cast your spirit into an unliving stupor
Too tired to focus, too depressed to care
Too desperate for any meager drops
of fun, or feeling,
to go to bed when you should.
Sleep deprivation
self-perpetuates.
For seven weeks
Winter term
Junior year
I was my own zombie horror flick
A stumbling, despondent parody of life
I am horrified that it took me so long to wake up.
I will never forget
I will never reprise
those dolorous delirious days.
So here is my second lesson:
First and last
on every list
every day
is sleep.
First and last
on every list
every day
is sleep.
You can kill yourself without dying
Cast your spirit into an unliving stupor
Too tired to focus, too depressed to care
Too desperate for any meager drops
of fun, or feeling,
to go to bed when you should.
Sleep deprivation
self-perpetuates.
For seven weeks
Winter term
Junior year
I was my own zombie horror flick
A stumbling, despondent parody of life
I am horrified that it took me so long to wake up.
I will never forget
I will never reprise
those dolorous delirious days.
So here is my second lesson:
First and last
on every list
every day
is sleep.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
by Turtle Shell
Where do dreams come from?
And where do they go?
It's hard work, dreaming.
More than wishing or wanting,
A dream is an intention, a belief.
Amidst the hard lessons life teaches
It's difficult to hold faith
That a distant desire can actually be had.
It's harder still to make one come true.
To dream is to sacrifice, to persist,
Inch ever forward, practicing and learning.
Keep betting on it,
Keep rolling the dice,
Keep paying the price,
Until they finally roll right.
Not every dream gets chased.
Mutually exclusive dreams will rip a person in half.
Impossible dreams must be let go, or fail.
There is a catacomb of once living dreams
Starved withered husks clutter a psyche's dusty alcoves;
Curios, nostalgics
Don't stare too long, you'll only make yourself sad.
And be warned,
Some aren't as dead as they appear.
Where do dreams come from?
And where do they go?
It's hard work, dreaming.
More than wishing or wanting,
A dream is an intention, a belief.
Amidst the hard lessons life teaches
It's difficult to hold faith
That a distant desire can actually be had.
It's harder still to make one come true.
To dream is to sacrifice, to persist,
Inch ever forward, practicing and learning.
Keep betting on it,
Keep rolling the dice,
Keep paying the price,
Until they finally roll right.
Not every dream gets chased.
Mutually exclusive dreams will rip a person in half.
Impossible dreams must be let go, or fail.
There is a catacomb of once living dreams
Starved withered husks clutter a psyche's dusty alcoves;
Curios, nostalgics
Don't stare too long, you'll only make yourself sad.
And be warned,
Some aren't as dead as they appear.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
A Nathan is a name that claims the bearer is a gift from god.
As if that were more true for them than any other random clod.
While pompous parents gasconade their divine honorarium,
The apostate child conceives an autonomic planetarium.
Now to be named a Knight implies a certain measure of command,
Of horses, weapons, armor, plus a duty to the sovereign hand.
The prudent, pious, gallant man must vow to serve the polity,
And demonstrate a creed of polished gender inequality.
The baggage of a storied name is not that which I long to bear.
Though knights are fun and 'gift from god' yet has a charming ancient air.
Tav is the name that I go by and means just what I want to be,
It connotes naught and no-one else, it's wholly, solely, only me.
--------------------
I think this one is only half as long as it deserves to be, but it was hard to write and I don't feel like spending hours more coaxing words into tight verses just to make the flow feel less abrupt. Sorry if it sends you scurrying to find a dictionary, thesauruses are just a little bit too fun sometimes. And speaking of having too much fun while writing poetry, in case you didn't notice reading it through the first time, this poem has a verse structure (and implicit background music) ganked from a well-known song called The Elements by Tom Lehrer.
...hee-hee, just kidding, I know it's actually originally from The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan. Though you should click here if you want to see the version of the tune that got glued to the inside of my skull in my formative years.
As if that were more true for them than any other random clod.
While pompous parents gasconade their divine honorarium,
The apostate child conceives an autonomic planetarium.
Now to be named a Knight implies a certain measure of command,
Of horses, weapons, armor, plus a duty to the sovereign hand.
The prudent, pious, gallant man must vow to serve the polity,
And demonstrate a creed of polished gender inequality.
The baggage of a storied name is not that which I long to bear.
Though knights are fun and 'gift from god' yet has a charming ancient air.
Tav is the name that I go by and means just what I want to be,
It connotes naught and no-one else, it's wholly, solely, only me.
--------------------
I think this one is only half as long as it deserves to be, but it was hard to write and I don't feel like spending hours more coaxing words into tight verses just to make the flow feel less abrupt. Sorry if it sends you scurrying to find a dictionary, thesauruses are just a little bit too fun sometimes. And speaking of having too much fun while writing poetry, in case you didn't notice reading it through the first time, this poem has a verse structure (and implicit background music) ganked from a well-known song called The Elements by Tom Lehrer.
...hee-hee, just kidding, I know it's actually originally from The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan. Though you should click here if you want to see the version of the tune that got glued to the inside of my skull in my formative years.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
click - click - click - clunk
then... nothing
It broke again.
An inventor peers in.
What went wrong this time?
tinkering - tinkering
adjusting - fixing
try again
click - clunk
then... nothing
An inventor peers in.
The theory is sound,
Right?
There are only so many times you can re-check the same math
and still officially be considered sane.
The theory is sound.
The flaw's in the execution.
Where is it?
tinkering - tinkering
replacing - tweaking
try again?
whirrrrr...
no smoke
no ozone
no unexpected snaps
it runs
An inventor looks on
in silent glee.
It will never again be as ugly as it is now
a hodge-podge of repurposed parts.
Rolling off assembly lines
it will be smaller
sleeker.
It will never again be as beautiful as it is now
taking its first step into the world
breathing its first whisper
pleased to finally work.
-Turtle Shell
then... nothing
It broke again.
An inventor peers in.
What went wrong this time?
tinkering - tinkering
adjusting - fixing
try again
click - clunk
then... nothing
An inventor peers in.
The theory is sound,
Right?
There are only so many times you can re-check the same math
and still officially be considered sane.
The theory is sound.
The flaw's in the execution.
Where is it?
tinkering - tinkering
replacing - tweaking
try again?
whirrrrr...
no smoke
no ozone
no unexpected snaps
it runs
An inventor looks on
in silent glee.
It will never again be as ugly as it is now
a hodge-podge of repurposed parts.
Rolling off assembly lines
it will be smaller
sleeker.
It will never again be as beautiful as it is now
taking its first step into the world
breathing its first whisper
pleased to finally work.
-Turtle Shell
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
by Turtle Shell
"Look at this, this brilliant kid
Made a masterwork, our genius did."
A perfect grade, brings pride galore.
You hunger now, you want some more.
An endless mission, bring home the A's
To hear you're smart, the greatest praise.
"But wait, what's this, did you get a B?
Sit down, let's talk, I want you to see
A B isn't terrible, this imperfect letter
I think we both know though, that you can do better."
So that's how it is, those words that now weighed
Only dullards could be content, with an imperfect grade.
Do or do not, there is no "try"
Become risk-averse, become failure-shy!
The easiest path, is the only one to take
Be careful, do it right, never risk a mistake!
A mistake's an indictment, a proof of stupidity
But you NEED to be smart, an ego's cupidity.
Studies have shown, that when praising a child
Praising mere talent, only leaves them beguiled.
Being proud of what they are, but not how they act
Encourages stagnation, is motivationally cracked.
"You're so smart" sounds nice, but it's such a dangerous phrase
One message to avoid, among the hundred ways to praise.
"Look at this, this brilliant kid
Made a masterwork, our genius did."
A perfect grade, brings pride galore.
You hunger now, you want some more.
An endless mission, bring home the A's
To hear you're smart, the greatest praise.
"But wait, what's this, did you get a B?
Sit down, let's talk, I want you to see
A B isn't terrible, this imperfect letter
I think we both know though, that you can do better."
So that's how it is, those words that now weighed
Only dullards could be content, with an imperfect grade.
Do or do not, there is no "try"
Become risk-averse, become failure-shy!
The easiest path, is the only one to take
Be careful, do it right, never risk a mistake!
A mistake's an indictment, a proof of stupidity
But you NEED to be smart, an ego's cupidity.
Studies have shown, that when praising a child
Praising mere talent, only leaves them beguiled.
Being proud of what they are, but not how they act
Encourages stagnation, is motivationally cracked.
"You're so smart" sounds nice, but it's such a dangerous phrase
One message to avoid, among the hundred ways to praise.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Have a happy Final's Week everybody! The Poetry Club will be taking two weeks off, meeting next on Tuesday, March 29, in the first week of spring term. The prompt for writing for that meeting is no prompt at all, just write on whatever topic strikes your fancy.
In other news, the Choir Concert was last night (pics here), and four of our poets read their works to the sold out auditorium (500 or so people; the fire-mashal's certificate by the door certified a capacity of 524, but I spotted a couple rows of mostly empty seats over in the crappy corner where the piano would have blocked people's view of half the stage). The so honored poets were John, Teagan, Whitney, and Tav (in that order (chronologically, not in that order in the picture below)).
In other news, the Choir Concert was last night (pics here), and four of our poets read their works to the sold out auditorium (500 or so people; the fire-mashal's certificate by the door certified a capacity of 524, but I spotted a couple rows of mostly empty seats over in the crappy corner where the piano would have blocked people's view of half the stage). The so honored poets were John, Teagan, Whitney, and Tav (in that order (chronologically, not in that order in the picture below)).
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
I entered this world questioning, and wanting to know,
and met a bright auric fog, with a warm golden glow.
Each radiant dot a new thought, a new place to begin?
So much to absorb, I leapt, and dove in.
Now I wonder, 'who am I, to think myself so good,
if that's all I've been taught, and ever understood?'
When there's light all around, from the sky and the sea,
how can I tell, if any light, comes from me?
It floors me that Newton, so great among all those who search,
wrote that what wonders HE saw, was only thanks to the perch,
he found on the shoulders, of those giants before.
If that's so then, could any of us claim even a little bit more?
Could I write half as well, without all the great authors I've read?
Could I sing any songs, without others' songs in my head?
The light all around me, that dazzles and warms,
I see now, I think, its source and its forms.
A billion dim dots, make an awestriking whole,
each person not yet forgotten, beams rays on my soul.
Even those deep in the past, and lost to antiquity,
their lights still refract, in an anonymous ubiquity.
It seems a culture is built, a speck at a time,
added to through the ages, by lights of minds much like mine.
Philosophy and science, technology and art,
everything advances, by piece and by part.
And so it must be, that in our every endeavor,
the great things that we make, we make working together.
Thus all ambitions I plan, and any craft I might try,
like everyone else, I'll be aided, by the billion lights in the sky.
By Turtle Shell
--------------------
This is one of the poems written for submission to perhaps be read during the choir concert. Whether or not it will be one of the ones chosen has not yet been decided.
and met a bright auric fog, with a warm golden glow.
Each radiant dot a new thought, a new place to begin?
So much to absorb, I leapt, and dove in.
Now I wonder, 'who am I, to think myself so good,
if that's all I've been taught, and ever understood?'
When there's light all around, from the sky and the sea,
how can I tell, if any light, comes from me?
It floors me that Newton, so great among all those who search,
wrote that what wonders HE saw, was only thanks to the perch,
he found on the shoulders, of those giants before.
If that's so then, could any of us claim even a little bit more?
Could I write half as well, without all the great authors I've read?
Could I sing any songs, without others' songs in my head?
The light all around me, that dazzles and warms,
I see now, I think, its source and its forms.
A billion dim dots, make an awestriking whole,
each person not yet forgotten, beams rays on my soul.
Even those deep in the past, and lost to antiquity,
their lights still refract, in an anonymous ubiquity.
It seems a culture is built, a speck at a time,
added to through the ages, by lights of minds much like mine.
Philosophy and science, technology and art,
everything advances, by piece and by part.
And so it must be, that in our every endeavor,
the great things that we make, we make working together.
Thus all ambitions I plan, and any craft I might try,
like everyone else, I'll be aided, by the billion lights in the sky.
By Turtle Shell
--------------------
This is one of the poems written for submission to perhaps be read during the choir concert. Whether or not it will be one of the ones chosen has not yet been decided.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
So much of our lives we spend with
an internal monologue our only company
grinding at the loneliness inside.
But don't worry, it's not just you.
This is how everyone feels sometimes.
So you're not alone those hours every day,
when you're so very alone
and nobody cares.
We do care. We all know what it's like,
feeling lonely. We're just busy,
worrying about our own loneliness, just like you.
We're each all too familiar
with the dark pit of despair.
It'd be easy enough to climb out of,
if only someone out there, would lend you a hand up;
which they'd surely do,
if they'd ever just see you there in it.
Nobody's ever interested in you,
physically or intellectually,
it's what you want more than anything
what we all do,
but you're just another cog to them,
one more human obstacle
to be dealt with or avoided.
When you are stabbed again and again,
by the frustration and pain,
despair and hate,
We all know how that feels.
We all know the fantasies that bloom,
your mind shying away from the dangerously possible,
sliding to the bigger ideas, the better catharsis.
Dream of rending the planet,
ripping the whole thing to shreds with your hands,
tearing civilization till it pops at the seams,
smooshing all the little bits that fall off,
crushing everyone and everything,
and bringing an end to the worthless world that has no time or patience
for someone like you, and your pathetic loneliness.
The loathing and rage
shrieking and screaming inside
while outside you're ever more civil, more quiet and numb.
madness and chaos,
venom and bile,
fiery and fury,
fatigue, and exhaustion.
Don't worry, it isn't just you.
I feel that way too sometimes. We all do.
Even if you never tell anyone,
We all still understand.
By Turtle Shell
--------------------
One of 2-1-11's "We live so much of our lives without telling anyone." poems.
an internal monologue our only company
grinding at the loneliness inside.
But don't worry, it's not just you.
This is how everyone feels sometimes.
So you're not alone those hours every day,
when you're so very alone
and nobody cares.
We do care. We all know what it's like,
feeling lonely. We're just busy,
worrying about our own loneliness, just like you.
We're each all too familiar
with the dark pit of despair.
It'd be easy enough to climb out of,
if only someone out there, would lend you a hand up;
which they'd surely do,
if they'd ever just see you there in it.
Nobody's ever interested in you,
physically or intellectually,
it's what you want more than anything
what we all do,
but you're just another cog to them,
one more human obstacle
to be dealt with or avoided.
When you are stabbed again and again,
by the frustration and pain,
despair and hate,
We all know how that feels.
We all know the fantasies that bloom,
your mind shying away from the dangerously possible,
sliding to the bigger ideas, the better catharsis.
Dream of rending the planet,
ripping the whole thing to shreds with your hands,
tearing civilization till it pops at the seams,
smooshing all the little bits that fall off,
crushing everyone and everything,
and bringing an end to the worthless world that has no time or patience
for someone like you, and your pathetic loneliness.
The loathing and rage
shrieking and screaming inside
while outside you're ever more civil, more quiet and numb.
madness and chaos,
venom and bile,
fiery and fury,
fatigue, and exhaustion.
Don't worry, it isn't just you.
I feel that way too sometimes. We all do.
Even if you never tell anyone,
We all still understand.
By Turtle Shell
--------------------
One of 2-1-11's "We live so much of our lives without telling anyone." poems.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Ages go and history flows
ever repeating and growing.
Common mores get wound up and disdain,
then relax, relearn to empathize
with a lyrical writer's life passion.
Could any sanity have expected,
predicted, or dreamed,
that in two-point-five thousand years
your ardor would not be forgotten?
Yet still in the heaps
of a library's deeps
a peruser will find
a sweetbitter mind,
How could writing so ancient
and yet so fervent be?
Neglected, eponymized Sappho,
would you have selected me?
By Turtle Shell
--------------------
One of 1-25-11's "selecting a reader" poems.
ever repeating and growing.
Common mores get wound up and disdain,
then relax, relearn to empathize
with a lyrical writer's life passion.
Could any sanity have expected,
predicted, or dreamed,
that in two-point-five thousand years
your ardor would not be forgotten?
Yet still in the heaps
of a library's deeps
a peruser will find
a sweetbitter mind,
How could writing so ancient
and yet so fervent be?
Neglected, eponymized Sappho,
would you have selected me?
By Turtle Shell
--------------------
One of 1-25-11's "selecting a reader" poems.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
by Turtle Shell
In studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness
I'm wondering if grins
are interludes and only this.
I amble past people
a hedge 'round my soul,
brambles that creep 'till
I've edged down a hole.
Solitude is having the time and space to work on your project until you get it juuuuuust right.
Loneliness is wishing you had someone to show what a good job you did.
Solitude is being in a place where you could strip naked and no one but you would care.
Loneliness is wishing someone cared.
I've been studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness
a bit too much lately.
I wish I could stop.
In studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness
I'm wondering if grins
are interludes and only this.
I amble past people
a hedge 'round my soul,
brambles that creep 'till
I've edged down a hole.
Solitude is having the time and space to work on your project until you get it juuuuuust right.
Loneliness is wishing you had someone to show what a good job you did.
Solitude is being in a place where you could strip naked and no one but you would care.
Loneliness is wishing someone cared.
I've been studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness
a bit too much lately.
I wish I could stop.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Surprise Surprise
Rumble and tremor and then,
The concrete city falls.
A population over a million... decimated,
Ten percent die under broken, crushing walls.
Isn't ground supposed to be solid?
Shouldn't home be a safe place to go?
Can you trust the ground again, or buildings,
When they've killed people you know?
We don't like to be surprised like this,
And so internalize the fear and pain and worse,
Awaiting the next one, expectation lays within,
A hard and heavy curse.
Was that shaking just now real,
Or was it only in my mind?
You keep a glass of water by your bed,
To know if you need to rush outside.
Many have trouble sleeping,
Some refuse to go inside.
But when Earth itself tries to kill us,
Where can we possibly hide?
Rumble and tremor and then,
The concrete city falls.
A population over a million... decimated,
Ten percent die under broken, crushing walls.
Isn't ground supposed to be solid?
Shouldn't home be a safe place to go?
Can you trust the ground again, or buildings,
When they've killed people you know?
We don't like to be surprised like this,
And so internalize the fear and pain and worse,
Awaiting the next one, expectation lays within,
A hard and heavy curse.
Was that shaking just now real,
Or was it only in my mind?
You keep a glass of water by your bed,
To know if you need to rush outside.
Many have trouble sleeping,
Some refuse to go inside.
But when Earth itself tries to kill us,
Where can we possibly hide?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
"What will you do when you become a top executive in a large company?" my textbook asks me, deadpan.
The topic is Business Ethics.
The question is not entirely facetious,
And the presumption is enormous.
When I become a top executive in a large company...
Is that who I'll be?
Is that who I am?
I should know the answer to this, if anyone should.
Should I dream up an exciting future for myself,
Call it a goal, and in so doing, in that instant,
Resign myself to the sacrifice of all other conflicting dreams?
Am I arrogant enough to call my goals expectations?
No. I've made that mistake before.
So, who will I be? Who will I become?
Sometimes I have to be okay with the answer,
'I don't know.'
--------------------------
By Turtle Shell
The topic is Business Ethics.
The question is not entirely facetious,
And the presumption is enormous.
When I become a top executive in a large company...
Is that who I'll be?
Is that who I am?
I should know the answer to this, if anyone should.
Should I dream up an exciting future for myself,
Call it a goal, and in so doing, in that instant,
Resign myself to the sacrifice of all other conflicting dreams?
Am I arrogant enough to call my goals expectations?
No. I've made that mistake before.
So, who will I be? Who will I become?
Sometimes I have to be okay with the answer,
'I don't know.'
--------------------------
By Turtle Shell
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
No Cigar
Such a thankful word is 'close'
Injected with a potent dose
Of beaming joy and giddy cheer
Churned within from passing near
The zooming car or thund'ring truck
How great it feels to not be struck!
--------------------------
By Turtle Shell
A thanksgiving meditation on highway cycling.
Such a thankful word is 'close'
Injected with a potent dose
Of beaming joy and giddy cheer
Churned within from passing near
The zooming car or thund'ring truck
How great it feels to not be struck!
--------------------------
By Turtle Shell
A thanksgiving meditation on highway cycling.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Chocolate tastes sweet, creamy, and rich,
Slightly bitter, nutty, waxy, earthy, melty.
At least, that's how it tastes in words.
But that is so incomplete.
The real flavor of chocolate
is incomparably beyond the sum
of the words used to describe it.
Words don't do justice to some things.
...
There exists a numinous experience,
Though I'm not sure what that means.
To be bound by divine presence in transcendent ecstasy,
To feel the holy exuberance of facing celestial mystery,
To be filled with the Spirit and exult in its Glory,
To "witness His Majesty".
I don't think words capture its power.
This is a feeling that changes lives.
Not that I'm one who really understands.
Hearing how it is in words
is the closest I've ever gotten.
------------------------------
by Turtle Shell
One of November 16's "What it is like in words" poems.
Slightly bitter, nutty, waxy, earthy, melty.
At least, that's how it tastes in words.
But that is so incomplete.
The real flavor of chocolate
is incomparably beyond the sum
of the words used to describe it.
Words don't do justice to some things.
...
There exists a numinous experience,
Though I'm not sure what that means.
To be bound by divine presence in transcendent ecstasy,
To feel the holy exuberance of facing celestial mystery,
To be filled with the Spirit and exult in its Glory,
To "witness His Majesty".
I don't think words capture its power.
This is a feeling that changes lives.
Not that I'm one who really understands.
Hearing how it is in words
is the closest I've ever gotten.
------------------------------
by Turtle Shell
One of November 16's "What it is like in words" poems.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
By Turtle Shell
This is one of the October 19 meeting's Next Time poems.
------------------------------
Next Time
Next time, what I'll do
is try to join a club or two.
I won't slip in and out of school again
like a sewing needle with no thread.
Next time I'll do more than spend my days
just attending classes, and getting A's.
I'll unlearn how not to be seen,
unlearn how to not talk to strangers.
Unlearn skills hard won to protect the fragile heart
of a weird child who couldn't bear criticism,
from the childish peers
who couldn't let weirdness go unmocked.
Those skills were hard won and are harder lost.
So I'll join some clubs. Maybe a study group.
I'll smile at people, just to see who smiles back.
I'll learn to engage conversation, and not just deflect it.
I can relearn how to make friends.
It's an ability I had once, long ago,
so I'm certain I can reclaim it.
What is going back to school for,
if not to learn such useful things?
That's what I'll do, next time.
This is one of the October 19 meeting's Next Time poems.
------------------------------
Next Time
Next time, what I'll do
is try to join a club or two.
I won't slip in and out of school again
like a sewing needle with no thread.
Next time I'll do more than spend my days
just attending classes, and getting A's.
I'll unlearn how not to be seen,
unlearn how to not talk to strangers.
Unlearn skills hard won to protect the fragile heart
of a weird child who couldn't bear criticism,
from the childish peers
who couldn't let weirdness go unmocked.
Those skills were hard won and are harder lost.
So I'll join some clubs. Maybe a study group.
I'll smile at people, just to see who smiles back.
I'll learn to engage conversation, and not just deflect it.
I can relearn how to make friends.
It's an ability I had once, long ago,
so I'm certain I can reclaim it.
What is going back to school for,
if not to learn such useful things?
That's what I'll do, next time.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
By Turtle Shell
This is one of the November 9 meeting's "Suddenly I understood that I am happy" poems.
------------------------------
Important.
There's a place I'm going,
Firm gray paths enclose pressing destinations,
So many of us here for similarly personal purpose,
We cluster off at rigid times in rigid places,
Not trivial meetings, nor trivial reasons,
What's here is IMPORTANT.
Crisp wind slices down a curved brick conduit,
Cold air the minorest of obstacles,
Compared to ASPIRATION it weighs naught,
It pains little, and impedes none.
Today is especially dense,
In the week's ebb and flow, today is a torrent,
Five places I must be, five tributes I must pay,
Each hand-crafted creation accepted,
Each reward: being told to craft another.
The long-term goal shines beacon bright,
I see it. I crave it. I WILL have it.
But the short-term is trying to kill me,
Obligation crushes.
Crucial were the first four meetings today,
A momentary fancy is the fifth,
Still an obligation to meet, but a light one,
On the busiest of days, I make time for fun.
I take my eyes off the horizon,
Decouple from chasing the future,
And relax into NOW.
...
The hour ends unable to account for itself,
"Time flies," they say,
I exit the brief escape, sad that it's over,
Emotionally exercised and drained,
But drained of stress as well.
The cool wind lifts my hair,
I stroll up firm gray paths between gently curved bricks,
Thoughts drift toward tomorrow's duties,
Colored by a new mood.
The day is ending and I'm going home now,
But this place is so beautiful,
I can't wait to come back tomorrow!
This is one of the November 9 meeting's "Suddenly I understood that I am happy" poems.
------------------------------
Important.
There's a place I'm going,
Firm gray paths enclose pressing destinations,
So many of us here for similarly personal purpose,
We cluster off at rigid times in rigid places,
Not trivial meetings, nor trivial reasons,
What's here is IMPORTANT.
Crisp wind slices down a curved brick conduit,
Cold air the minorest of obstacles,
Compared to ASPIRATION it weighs naught,
It pains little, and impedes none.
Today is especially dense,
In the week's ebb and flow, today is a torrent,
Five places I must be, five tributes I must pay,
Each hand-crafted creation accepted,
Each reward: being told to craft another.
The long-term goal shines beacon bright,
I see it. I crave it. I WILL have it.
But the short-term is trying to kill me,
Obligation crushes.
Crucial were the first four meetings today,
A momentary fancy is the fifth,
Still an obligation to meet, but a light one,
On the busiest of days, I make time for fun.
I take my eyes off the horizon,
Decouple from chasing the future,
And relax into NOW.
...
The hour ends unable to account for itself,
"Time flies," they say,
I exit the brief escape, sad that it's over,
Emotionally exercised and drained,
But drained of stress as well.
The cool wind lifts my hair,
I stroll up firm gray paths between gently curved bricks,
Thoughts drift toward tomorrow's duties,
Colored by a new mood.
The day is ending and I'm going home now,
But this place is so beautiful,
I can't wait to come back tomorrow!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
By Turtle Shell
This is one of the November 2 meeting's First Lesson poems.
------------------------------
What I Wish I'd Learned Sooner
There's a voice inside your head
That tells you lies and makes you dread
The vivid thought comes fast as lightning
Tells you which things are good and which are frightening.
Just after perception, before you can blink
The voice flashes through, the first thing you think
Born from reflex without time for logic
Emotion's aroused by a voice demagogic.
No allegory this, the voice I speak of is real
It's there in your head telling you what to feel
But being so fleeting, to most it just isn't apparent
That the emotions it evokes aren't simply inherent.
The voice isn't evil, it's part of how our minds work
But in its speed and obscurity there are dangers that lurk
It can wax hyperbolic on perils that are in reality mild
And in so doing foment fear and send anxieties wild.
The first lesson then is to know, to know that it's there
To know how it works, the effect it has, to just be aware
The voice isn't perfect, it can be right, it can be wrong
And it can be CHANGED, you don't have to just play along.
To catch that lightning voice and make it submit
Is no trivial task, it takes work I'll admit
But the power to take charge of your emotions is yours, in your hand
That is my message, what I want you to understand.
This is one of the November 2 meeting's First Lesson poems.
------------------------------
What I Wish I'd Learned Sooner
There's a voice inside your head
That tells you lies and makes you dread
The vivid thought comes fast as lightning
Tells you which things are good and which are frightening.
Just after perception, before you can blink
The voice flashes through, the first thing you think
Born from reflex without time for logic
Emotion's aroused by a voice demagogic.
No allegory this, the voice I speak of is real
It's there in your head telling you what to feel
But being so fleeting, to most it just isn't apparent
That the emotions it evokes aren't simply inherent.
The voice isn't evil, it's part of how our minds work
But in its speed and obscurity there are dangers that lurk
It can wax hyperbolic on perils that are in reality mild
And in so doing foment fear and send anxieties wild.
The first lesson then is to know, to know that it's there
To know how it works, the effect it has, to just be aware
The voice isn't perfect, it can be right, it can be wrong
And it can be CHANGED, you don't have to just play along.
To catch that lightning voice and make it submit
Is no trivial task, it takes work I'll admit
But the power to take charge of your emotions is yours, in your hand
That is my message, what I want you to understand.
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