I Am The Hunter

Walk through the trees, little deer

Daintily step over the underbrush

And nose through the leaves and grass

Your ears are quite capable to discern the sound of predators

Occasionally you perk up and swivel your head around

Looking for something that might have seen you

Gingerly you meander about in and out of danger.

But you know you do, and you try to be careful

But you never quite had your wits about you.

If you hadn't wandered into my garden that day,

Maybe if you hadn't trashed my flowers.

I wouldn't be here, stalking.

And waiting.

Oh, little deer. I need not trap you.

You end up in open clearings and places

And box yourself in.

Maybe it was I who lied to you.

You weren't aware of who I am

Or what I'm capable of...

And

Did I make a mistake and

Jump out the wrong window?

I'm falling and falling and

I have yet to hit the ground.

Unless I have already landed and

I have absolutely no idea.

I've not felt the impact and

The aftershocks that come.

Nor is there the stability and

The solidarity of earth beneath my feet.

I feel sad and lost and

Somehow, quite content.

Like I've cut my losses and

Now I'm floating, but I don't know where.

But I see it falling down beneath me and

I cannot save it.

I see it moving away and

I cannot retrieve it.

I see it getting lost and

I will never find it again.

The Irishman and the Sea

He stood on the rocks, and stared down below
At her writhing, tumultuous watery throes.

His thoughts were all quarreling about his disgrace

While the sea spat and sighed in his hardened face.

He lowered himself to perch on a stone
That had been weathered and beaten for years unknown.
He thought out loud, "How can it be,"
"That the woman I love will never love me?"
As soon as he said it, the tides started to rise.

Her billowing surf shown in his lost eyes.
"I've loved her through all of my musings and pain.
By pulling her in, I've forced her away."

The water was high, the storm drawing near.
Inside rolling fog, the world disappeared.
He howled in agony, his soul torn asunder.
The sky cracked apart with a peal of thunder.
Her waves and his fists both beat on the shore.
For his heart and her slumber both were now torn.
White caps erupted as she suddenly awoke
And at last, after silence, the sea finally spoke.
Who are you, she pondered in her salty breath.
That looks to his life as if he lives it in death?

"It is I," moaned the Irishman, he rose to his feet.
"Without the woman I love, why does my heart still beat?"
She robbed all my senses, so why do I feel?
If I cannot live with her, then why bother to heal?"

The sea rolled about in her turbulent fashion

With love and anger and misguided passion.
She rose from her bed of rocky, black shoals

And with one fell swoop, she swallowed him whole.
He kicked and he flailed but was still pulled down
As the sea held him tight, he knew he would drown.
Surrender, my darling, for you will not go free.

Stay with me now, succumb to me.
He clamored for air, but to no avail.
Her grip was too strong, his attempts were too frail.

Look at yourself, all the hurt you've sustained
You're broken and battered and lost in your pain.

With a twinge of regret in the face of his death,

He released his final and miserable breath.

Now you are mine, she whispered to he.
I can give you something if you listen to me.

I cannot give you kindness, for it will hide it on a shelf.

I cannot give you strength, you must earn it yourself.

I cannot give you joy, for it will be hollow.
I cannot give back yesterday, or find your tomorrow.

I cannot give you courage, nor honor, nor grace.
What you've openly surrendered, I cannot replace.
But I can give you something for your journey above,

I can give you my wisdom, some hope, and my love.

Never ask for something you can't find on your own.

Your path in this life is yours alone.

Be what you are, but don't stay where you're at.
Most things are ephemeral, you cannot change that.
You're wasting yourself, by ignoring your thirst,

No one will love you, unless you love you first.

With a wild furor, the sea violently churned.
She thrashed in her turmoil like a woman spurned.

Waves broke with wrath over the jagged rocks

And she ravaged the shore in ill aftershocks.

When the Irishman opened his green-hued eyes,
He saw a pinkish dawn with cloudless skies.
The world was dusted with early morning chill,
The sun tipped the horizon and the sea was still.

He was flat on his back on the old, weathered stone.

And for the first time in his life, he did not feel alone.

The Meaning

What do you love? How do you seek it? And why do you love it in the first place?

This morning, I was on my way to work. I stopped at the 7-11 in Grandin to pick up Diet Cokes like I do every morning. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed an elderly man in a white and red cardigan, with reflective sunglasses, sporting a long white cane that he was using to sweep the ground in front of him. I got out of my car, grabbed my bank card, and as I approached the front of 7-11, so did he. He found the curb, stepped on it, and made his way away from the door. So I watched for a second, as he found a trashcan, and then I made my way to him.

As I reached the man, another person behind me called out, "Are you looking for the door?" but the blind man didn't hear. So I put my hand on his shoulder and he swung around. "Do you need any help, sir?" I asked. "Where is the door to the McDonald's?" "McDonald's?" I repeated just to be sure. "Oh no, not the McDonald's." He laughed. "I mean 7-11." I laughed with him. "It's right over here, sir." I linked my arm with his and slowly guided him towards the door, where the other helpful citizen stood, holding the door open. He said, "Thank you, young lady," and we parted ways.

I've done little things like this numerous times in my life. I bought a tube of lip gloss for a little girl in Bath and Body Works. I gave twenty bucks to two kids who I witnessed returning a lost cellphone they had found. I helped a broke, and possibly deranged, man who was living in a hotel. I've listened to people talk for hours about what pains them or about their ideas and notions they cannot keep locked away inside them anymore. I've given money to the homeless. I've held open doors, picked up dropped wallets, and let people pass me on the interstate.

I love making people happy. If I can't make the entire world happy forever, I would love to make one person feel slightly better than they had before I came along for at least a few minutes. You cannot predict when someone needs something; it just sort of happens. And a lot of the time, these people didn't even ask for any kindness to begin with. I just see someone that needs something, and I do what I can in that moment to help.

Why, though? Why do I love making people happy?
Is it for some selfish reason, that making others happy makes them like me more? Because I'll receive that little bit of validation when someone turns around to say thank you? Because I want that little pat on the head from my peers? Because my church and my bible and my God have told me so? Because karma exists, and I know I will be rewarded ten-fold down the road?

I think I do it simply because it's the right thing to do. And I believe that everyone should do it, regardless of his or her motivations. Kindness is a kindness, no matter what spawned it. And oh sure, if everyone did it "the world would be a happier, more beautiful place," but that's not why. I cannot change and improve the world, but I can improve me to help you, so we can change now.

Hope, She Calls It

If only, I sigh, with the wind of desperation that escapes me loosely. Staring into a tiny dot on my computer screen, knowing that perhaps, you feel I'm looking at you.

It's terrifying. Joyful and terrifying. To be so connected with someone so intangible. You hardly exist, in a realistic sense.

What I would give to feel you, for at least one moment. To hold you inside of me. To know that your pulsating heart does so next to mine. To feel those hands, those beautiful hands, as they firmly grip my hips. To feel your breath, moist and warm, on my neck, condensing with sweat and heat. The roughness of your facial hair grazing my collarbone.

Two lips, meeting mine, in a rushed flurry of tongues and passion. I'd whisper to you, and allow my words to fall inside of you. I'd pray they leapt across your heartstrings in the same fashion your words leap across mine. How I long for that one blessed moment when my skin can touch yours.

Instead I take solace in the sole fact that you are alive and breathing every day. Knowing that you traipse across the surface of this earth, the same as I, is enough. If only for now.

Do you think of me when you stare at the expansive cyan sky and know that I, just like you, stand below its vast greatness thinking of you?

Do you think of me when you stand amidst a blossoming forest and wish that I can be there with you?

Do you think of me when you are alone, and just as I do, do you long for that day when we can at least be in the same room as one another?
I cannot see you, I cannot touch you. Within the deepest chambers of my heart and within the very breadth of my soul, I do believe I can still feel you moving about. Restless and longing, just like me.

I miss you.

And I don't even know who you are.

My Favorite Things

Blueberry incense and warm summer nights
Card games with friends and bright Christmas lights
Open windows and books and old cocktail rings
These are a few of my favorite things

Visiting the zoo and big, white full moons
Bonfires and brush fires and watching cartoons
Learning weird facts and untangling string
These are a few of my favorite things

Being on stage and taking pictures of flowers
New pencils and cats and laughing for hours
Dancing with people and trying to sing
These are a few of my favorite things

When I'm left alone
When my heart swings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Nyquil High

The rush of the earth impinges upon you such a sluggish display, and the room around you becomes festive and boring all at the same time.

Tomorrow's troubles seem like distant nuclear wars.

The waste of dread bears down on you like thick, gray chains.

Tear at you like starved bloodhounds.

The hot, steely lips of that broken-down devil swears and makes poems.

He leans against his liquid black car. The tears of his past pool and ripple around his ankles.

He hides his sly grin in the sleeve of his brown mole skin coat.

The epitome of empathy and compassion is letting those who will harm you win.

When you close your eyes, you can feel his voice settling in your ears. You can feel the room and all the world melting into a thick damp fog. When you close your eyes you spin like a dainty water lily traipsing around the glass-top pond. Consciousness flows out of you like a forgotten dream and you are at peace once more.