On the Air

This is my latest published poem, "On the Air."

the Breath of the World is not

stoppered in a jar,

or produced with a machine.

the Wind whispers on its way

from Here to Somewhere Else:

it is Nature’s greatest contradiction.

it is neither close nor far.

it is invisible, 

and is as unknowable

as the hour of one’s Death.

it is as fleeting and as constant

and as precious as Life.

it moves---and lives:

with everything,

through everything,

in Everything.

Muse and Anti-Muse (Melencolia)

I know I'm a bit late wrapping up Shakespeare Week, but better late than never. The following is the sonnet I wrote for my Western Humanities I Final Project on the Renaissance. I had to display a Powerpoint on the Shakespearean sonnet, write and recite my own sonnet. 

My sonnet is inspired by the 1514 metal engraving "Melencolia 1" by German Renaissance artist Albrecht Durer. (see below)

In the happy course of composing plots, 

full of daring deeds and mortal affairs.

A sudden chaos, then my mind is fraught:

Calliope! She leaves me unawares!

Imagination now an empty room;

the door therein stands frightfully ajar.

Souls who pursue the arts know well this gloom;

with Mind and Melencolia at war.

Melencolia violates the space,

that dearest Calliope once did fill;

And stirs me not with her Stygian face.

All inspiration she’s designed to kill.

    O Anti-Muse! turn yourself ‘round again,

    Leave by that door, and let my Muse back in!

What real love means—Shakespeare Week, Day 3

Sonnet #116 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Only Silence Remains

This poem of mine was published last month on "Soft Whispers." 

I am here...right here...

just a step or two away

from you...here-

with only the distance

of the aisle to separate us.

You are looking at cans of tuna fish,

I am contemplating vegetable soup.

You turn and look in my direction and I smile

but your eyes are blank and unfocused;

seeing right through me,

not seeing me at all,

as if I have become Invisible.

Again and again I observe this 

tragic ritual 

in American marketplaces

and city streets, where a

smile and a “Hello” are rare commodities

and sometimes more precious than gold.

We are a nation of Invisible People:

frightened of any confrontation

beyond our computer and cell phone screens.

How will we re-learn the Art

of spoken Communication 

once it is forever lost?

Will our public voices continue

to dwindle into nothingness

...until only silence remains?

(dedicated to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, who envisioned this long before I did, and wrote about it in “The Sound of Silence.” Poetry can be prophesy.)

Works in (slow) progress...and a trip into the surreal life.

1.) Outlining chapters for my NaNoWriMo novel, which is to be called "Mages of Morrow." It is set in the same alternate world as my short story, "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon."  
2.) Working on finishing up some incomplete poems: "Ars Gothica", "The Thoughts of a Statue of Dead Poet in a Park Watching People", and "Blame, Lies, and Manipulations." 

I have other unfinished business, this is just the stuff I'm working on now. 

I work on these projects when I have a spare moment. And I haven't had too many of those lately. Recently my time has been maxed out with studying and writing essays for college. My term ends 7/23 and then I'll have a small break before the fall term begins on 8/23. I hope to squeeze in a little writing time during that nice break.  

I took a little field trip to the Salvador Dali Museum as part of a cultural experience for an essay I had to write for Western Humanities class. I love Dali's work. Especially those pieces from the years when he was fully engaged in doing his best Surrealist stuff.   

I feel inspired to write a story based on "Archeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus." But I need to chew on it mentally for a bit. When the time is right, I'll know it. I want to be able to do it justice.
 
This is a photo of the artist outside the entrance to the museum:

Golden Warm

My new poem "Golden Warm" was published on "Soft Whispers" yesterday. Last week they published my poem "Only Silence Remains," but I have not posted that one yet because I am still trying to find an good image to go with the post. I almost have it sussed out, so it shouldn't be long now. 

Lying back on summer-green grass, 

gazing up at Heaven.

Stars are brighter than ever.

Night is blacker than velvet.

Heat lightning flashes in the distance:

far away for now, no threat now, no harm.

For now, I am warm--golden warm.

Warmed by love and wine

and the thought of you--asleep at my side.

Though sharp is the wind;

it howls and keens!

Come storm and do your worse!

I am golden.

I am warm.

Seven Petals

seven petals float
trapped in a spiraling stream
i splash among them

the streamlet flows to
where the river warden waits
silent and brooding

dips in his fingers
draws forth a dewy petal
and whispers my name

we run through the glade
in the warmth of spring sunshine
and chase each other

it’s too much to know
that our love is forbidden
and so we pretend

this is our garden
it is our sanctuary
for a brief moment

walking home again
i stop by the stream and see
petals floating by

Poets

New poem published on "Soft Whispers" today.

Poets are like magicians

that pull verses out of the air

like bouquets, each one as lovely

and fragrant as a flower.

Poets are like mothers

in labor to deliver inky black lines;

their twitching hands 

like wombs, birthing rhymes.

Poets are both teachers

and students of life;

their subjects are love and loss

and sorrow and joy and strife.

Poets are like oysters

and their poems are like pearls;

the words they hold in their souls

change not themselves, but the world.

They are all these things, and more,

though they may not know it.

You can be whatever you like, but for me:

I think I’ll be a poet.

Simple Beauty

This is my latest poem published on "Soft  Whispers."

the dewdrops arrive
    and linger on the petals
    of the morning glories;
        their bright faces
        cerulean like a sky,
            unspoiled by clouds.

the trees are calling
    each rustling leaf like a sigh
    of a wood fairy gently drifting;
        sweetly on the breeze
        at the edge of dreams,
            untroubled by time.

the streams are singing
    asking me to stop and listen:
    a half-remembered song;
        to look and wonder,
        to pause and consider,
            beauty in simplicity.

Word Association, 3 a.m.

New poem published Thursday on 'Soft Whispers.'

I think of you

here in the inky blackness

separating dusk from 

dawn and I listen

to music - REM, 

and wonder: am I

losing mine, too?

faith - makes me 

feel faint when I start

to question it,

so I just ignore

the issue and

place it, wrap it

contextually, conceptually

within the confusion

and obscurity 

of other words:

clamor - am I 

making one

for nothing

here in the silent 

breathings of

my soul?

sleep - when is

the last time

since you left 

that I knew 

that blessedness?

or love - which is

something like faith

but is even more 

intangible?

Fractals in Love

New poetry published on 'Soft Whispers'

Nature loves a strange attractor

a chaotic set of repeating notations

that explode in ecstasy outward from her center 

in lines and spirals and circles

A paisley mathematics so beautiful in 

design that it is almost blinding

As the vibrant colors engage

they tickle the mind and delight the eye

and leave me with burning questions:

Do Mandelbrots and Julia Sets fall in love?

Is this what it looks like

when colors and patterns hold hands? 

Kiss deeply?

Make mad, passionate love?

Threadbare Heart

Published on "Soft Whispers" today:

My heart is hanging by a thread 

and you stand there holding the other end 

and smile your saddest smile

we know it’s no use

no amount of pretending can bring something back

that’s lost beyond recovery 

You pull away and the thread goes with you

my heart goes with you, tethered like a balloon

leaving me standing here

empty without a heart of my own

it was always yours

it is always yours

I don’t need it right now

so just take care of it and

bring it back to me soon

it won’t change anything at all

if I have it back

it will still be yours 

Though you won’t be here

you never were here, really

you were just a feverish dream

that I had one summer 

some events to fill in

on the calendar

A name on my to-do list

something to fill up my heart

like promises and sighs

please...let me have it back now

just drop the end of the string

and walk away...

A Coin from a Fountain, Lost in Time

(to “Junkets,” I would love you, if I could travel back to you)

You took me by surprise, my lover

I knew you were waiting patiently by the fountain

for me to come to you, as you knew I would

both of us slipping quietly away from 

our alternate lives, bound and chained by time

in servitude to the lies we see

as reflections in the mirrors we pass through

as we leave our promises behind us

like ashes from long dead fires

smoldering softly asleep.

I gasped as I felt your arms

encompass me in the dim light of the street torch

your lips burning like sweet poison 

everywhere they touch

and they touch everywhere

and I think: if we should be discovered

at this moment and be killed for our indiscretion

then I would die content

but the street is happily deserted

the tinkling fountain and our sighs the only sounds.

The larkspurs by the fountain are drooping

the hour too late for their lovely faces

You dip your hand in the shimmering pool

and pull up a piece of shiny gold...a coin

of some foreign mark: a bright, thin thing

and you whisper, “Make a wish on it, my love

And I shall throw it back in!”

“No,” I cry. “Let us both wish on it, then

leave me have it so I can 

wish on it always and wish for you!”

So we wish. And I take the coin from him

and leave him there. And through my silvered

mirror I pass again, back to my own age

my own time, my own space, 

my realm of utter unhappiness and as

I wait under electric street lights by fountains

I pull out the coin and wish, wish, wish

I’ve gone back through the mirror many times

Yet, I’ve never seen my lover since 

the night we didn’t throw the coin back in.

The Tempest

This is my latest poem that was published on 'Soft Whispers' blog site.

there has never been pain
like the clash of kindred spirits
from a tempest so intense - a marriage
of like minds connected between a thin thread
of similar design, or
a familiar pattern to be read,
so comfortable and so blind

then

drawn suddenly taut and strained,
trembling entropy, where passes blame -
it snaps like thunder crashing;
lightning reflects, eyes flashing
and rages stabbing from each barbed tongue:
our cages ripped wide open, but
all of our traps have sprung

and

this is what the tempest left behind:
there has never been pain
like yours and mine

Forever

Forever

by Maria Kelly  (published by Soft Whispers on 1/26/10)

I promised forever.
Though your love slipped from my finger as
quietly as you slipped from the world.
Still, forever I will wear it;
closer now to my heart than ever.
It is engraved there.
It whispers there.
Forever.

painting the sky - PUBLISHED!

The following poem is my first ever published work. It was published in the online e-zine "Soft Whispers" on January 21st, 2010. 

painting the sky

today
the sky
is too blue
and too bright
for me
it is far too blue
and far too bright
to reflect my despair
and pain
i’d like to
reach up
and seize hold of it
by its corners
and drag it down
to earth
where i would
splatter it all over
with shades
of rainy gray
and melancholy black
and dirty brown
then throw it back up
so you would see it
and know
what you’ve done to me

Just Another Long Goodbye

Oh, the sweet perfume of pheromones!
I inhale your chemistry and my lips find
the throbbing pulse of your throat,
wishing for this tender embrace to last
for one more day...

“stay with me...stay...”

These anticipated reunions are thrilling!
when long distance love is pursued
on the I-4 corridor, three hours become an
eternity driving “Malfunction Junction”,
wipers thudding to the rhythm of the rain...

“there will be magic in the Magic Kingdom tonight...”

Oh, but long goodbyes are heart-rending!
I stand on my tip-toes at the Clearwater terminal
and steal a parting kiss from the corner
of your mouth as you watch them load
luggage into the metal belly of the Greyhound bus, then
you pull me into your sensual response...

“get a room!” someone on the bus yells. and we laugh, faces wet with tears...

How long now have we been playing at this?
I knew better when I met you at your brother’s party
on the beach...and I spurned you. But you were tenacious, and
sought me out whenever you were in town. Your patience
and gentle demeanor wore me down, melted me, until I
was a dripping icicle in your warm arms with that first kiss...

now on the precipice of another goodbye, our sighs echoing the need...

I can’t bear to watch you pack the car. You look up with
red-rimmed eyes, try to hide your sorrow with a smile.
That’s my big man. I have decided that I won’t cry
until you leave the driveway. But that doesn’t work: the tears start
falling as soon as you take me in your arms. Our lips
find each other and we drink long and deep of our mutual thirst...

“goodbye, my love. now we count down the days ‘til the next hello...”

Hard Lessons Learned While Growing Up

There are definitely monsters under the bed
and in the closet. But, they are terrified of grown-ups.
If you see one, call a grown-up immediately.

When you are sick, learn the art of waiting.
I know it's hard to stay still with that thermometer in your
mouth for so long, but, believe me,
the alternative is worse.

Bumblebees, though brightly-colored and pretty,
do not like to be petted. If you insist, they will make
you go “Ouch” and you will cry. A lot.

Cats are not dogs. They do not like to be picked up
and forced to sit on your lap. They will not allow it, actually.

Mommy and Daddy can not be with you all of the time.
Either learn to get yourself out of jams or do not
get yourself in them in the first place.

God is bigger than the bogeyman. And a lot nicer.
So remember to say your prayers at night, every night of your life.

You can't be everything to everyone.
You can only be the best 'you' that you can be
for whoever needs you at the moment.

Not everyone you meet will be nice to you.
Someone will call you names.
Don't retaliate. They are probably hurting inside.
Someone will break your heart.
Don't stop loving people. Instead, love them more.
Someone will betray your trust.
Keep on trusting, but be smart about it.
Eventually, someone else will earn your trust again.

Scraped elbows, skinned knees,
cut fingertips and stubbed toes,
heal more quickly than
bruised egos, wounded pride,
and broken hearts,
and they hurt a whole lot less.

Someone you love will leave you. Forever.
Let your grief wash over you for a time, then, carry
your memories like a light inside you and they will
make you happy when nothing else can.

It's okay to fail. Wisdom is born from failures.
It's not okay not to try.

Eventually, you will get older, frailer, sicker.
There is nothing you can do about it.
Eventually, God will call you to come home.
This doesn't have to be scary.

There are many other things I'd like to tell you,
many other lessons you will learn.
These will be your lessons, unique to you.
Trust your instincts. Follow your heart.

And when you have learned something useful,
pass your knowledge along
to someone else who needs it
as they walk on the road to wisdom.

For the road is long
and we only stop learning
when we reach the end of it.

110 Over: To Save the One or the Seven

cold, cruel needle
bouncing and dipping
beneath your comfortable, transparent
little plastic dome - what cares
have you? or follies? or fears?


the laws are clear: 

emergency vessels have limited fuel
total mass must be x exactly
thus, and no more
or ship and pilot will perish
along with precious cargo: medicine 
to cure a half-dozen,
dying men
 on the surface of a frontier world.

mass is > x
> by 110 lbs.
the weight of death.
the pilot has one option (and
this is also the law): jettison the "dead weight"

to put the needle back to center. but …

it was just a girl...
frightened but happy
she wanted to see her brother
sooner than the transport
would allow her to...so...
she stowed away on the EDS before it launched
away from the transport.

she did not understand astrophysics and
fuel to mass ratios...all the precise measurements
she could only cry
her words haunting the pilot
ringing in his ears, pleading
as he confronted her with her fate.

i have done nothing to deserve to die!

and ringing again
after the lock cycled
and closed...
on the hard vacuum of space
and the harder choice of colder calculations -
x was exact again
and no more.


(The classic story "The Cold Equations" by Tom Godwin inspired this. A pilot is forced by ship weight restrictions to eject an 18-year old stowaway into space.)