A Life Spent A life spent lo A Life SpentA Life Spent A life spent lo by ravenstromdans
A life spent lost in roles, trapped in characters;
swordsman, mage, victim, hero, villain,
hiding in guises stripped from the imaginations
of other people who've lived fuller lives,
learning too late that life isn't hidden
between the pages of a novel.
A life spent chasing an illusion, a fiction
while bound by the cold confines of reality;
caught up in the pursuit of a woman with
with eyes of a myth, the body of a legend
and the mind of a goddess, realizing too late
such a human being can never exist.
A life spent flitting from one thing to the next,
wandering hither and yon searching for passion,
for that moment of inspiration that might produce
fiery sort of drive, to provide some direction,
failing to find the one bright spark
that might ignite the flame.
A life spent...time's up.
Morning and EveningI have sung out these verses with life's blood and breath,Morning and Evening by ravenstromdans
ignorant to whether the words are for you, to you or at you;
each memory a husk pregnant with shadows,
A signpost of the past, devoid of sensation.
A Thought of Morning.
The wages of the sword are pain,
these choices made that direct
the diversely winding course of life.
The true tragedy of of failure
is not the decisions that lead
down a dark and treacherous course,
but instead the knowledge
that the one source of salvation
could never be trusted to provide it.
A Thought in the Evening.
Blue BirthIn the evening, there was something new in the sky.Blue Birth by ravenstromdans
It was hugely egg-shaped, dwarfing the moon with a startling aquamarine pearlescence. That glow had spread across the night-side of the earth, alternately fascinating and disconcerting the human population.
Johnson Blake watched the sky distrustfully from the porch of his small cabin, a largely neglected bottle of beer clenched in his gnarled paw. The sweat on his face and the condensation on the bottle a glittering with a turquoise sheen. Strangely, the touch of the light made his skin crawl with goose-flesh, his muscles involuntarily twitching in an unconscious effort to shy away. Was this common or was it his personal reaction alone, he couldn't say. All Johnson knew for certain was he didn't like that great blue, whorled egg sitting in his sky.
An engine was sputtering up the path to his cabin. Glancing down, Johnson noted the approach of a small blue Datsun. His son Tad had promised to visit with his long-su
Flesh Of Ice and FireThe poetry in my soul has ever been in free verse.Flesh Of Ice and Fire by ravenstromdans
Composed of mortal flesh, blood and bone,
But infused with unfeeling permanence:
A conflict of elemental contrasts define
What little sense can be made of my portrait.
The dancing hunger of fire;
There is no meter to the heat in my eyes,
No rhythm to the flames I speak
Impossibly rent forth from a figure
Composed entirely of rime.
There is no liquid flow to these veins,
only implacable glacial progression;
the beat of a permafrost heart
stands frozen, marking time.
There was a time when I was a stalker. This was well before the time the term ‘stalker’ really developed the meaning it has today; indeed, this was even at an age when my sort of single-minded attachment to women with no interest in me was just considered the norm, particularly for socially inept fellows like myself. This was also a time long before you could do web searches to find out where people lived, discover their phone number, rack up dozens of pictures of them off of social media sites, all that jazz that’s so in vogue with stalking these days.
I will now say, in my own defense, that I was not a good stalker. I genuinely *sucked* at even the few stalking tactics that were available to a pining pissant at the time. I was (and frankly still am) so afraid of actually getting the attention of the females I desired that I was never willing to take the kinds of risks that would have been required to be a truly gifted stalker. I did my best to establish where the objects of my interests lived and made attempts at being where they might be to spend time in their presence…but frankly, I was just too timid to make it work.
I realize in retrospect that this was a good thing for my future; if I’d been more aggressive or daring, there could have been consequences far reaching into my life. As time goes on, though, I realize that while I never harmed anyone with my ‘stalking-lite’ technique, I never really learned anything from it either, never matured or evolved past the mindset from which my stalker-ish tendencies sprang. I still don’t know how to get the attention of a woman I find attractive; I still don’t know how to talk to a woman I find attractive if she happens to show me some unsolicited attention; and I still follow many of the same habits I had when I was younger. Although I don’t ride by houses on a tenspeed anymore or try to get assigned projects and/or classes with the women I’m infatuated with, I still find myself habitually going to places where I know women I’m attracted to happen to work. I don’t know if it’s prudence or laziness that constricts my activities…and I don’t much care.
I don’t know where I was going with this, to be honest. Just sort of thinking in print, trying to unravel an idea that’s been curling around my brain since this morning. I was making an effort to write while at Starbucks; both of the women I like most there were working and I thought about my motivations for going there on a regular basis. While it’s true I like Starbucks chai and that pretty much all of the staff there know and talk to me in a friendly manner, I also recall that the reason I first started going there regularly was because of Devin behind the counter. I thought of her as “The Goddess with the Golden Eyes”, because for some reason when I first saw her, I remembered her as having, well, golden yellow eyes (which turned out to be not true; still unsure of where that impression came from). When Amanda, a previous crush from the defunct Borders, also started working there…well, I was locked in. It was local, had two pretty young women behind the counter and it had good chai. There was no other place for me.
The pathetic part about this is both of them have long-standing relationships that seem entirely contented and both are at least 10 years younger than me. For some people, neither of these facts would matter, but both matter to me, in varying degrees. I’ll admite the latter doesn’t matter all that much to me…but the former is very important. I intentionally ruined one relationship in my lifetime and that fact disgusts me. There’s plenty of reasons that I’m disgusted with myself as a person, but this is one of the few that directly impacted other people. Although that story seemed to have a happy ending of sorts at the other end of the line, I’ve never quite managed to reconcile how the whole thing came to pass. The very idea of being the catalyst for the dissolution of another relationship nauseates me with horror.
Anyway, my point is that I’m still stalking, in perhaps the laziest fashion possible. The real reason I keep going to Starbucks is to spend time in the presence of two attractive young women who I know will never look at me as more than a regular and slightly overly-friendly customer.
At nearly forty years of age, it’s kind of sad to recognize that socially you never became more than the fourteen year old boy who spent his time watching the pretty girls from the shadows.