I stand here I call it a defiance some call it mulish ‘no one can call themselves a tree, trees don’t even call themselves that among themselves’ but how can we translate what we hear, if we refuse to look around and see ourselves reflected? I am everything too and what about that? the true reflection of the soul is a gateway that mirrors life I stand here I call it defiance in the face of the fickle tide of trends I am nature herself and so are you and I stand here until the wind upturns me until my roots can no longer roam until my heart can no longer reach the depths until my soul has decided it has been a life what’s left will be a seed a maple seed in the wind twirling dancing away into another time
I’ve grown again; how many should it take for it to be understood? how many times can one come back, a little bruised, something missing here and there but still somethings remain intact, for anyone to understand what drives this little life to say, I’m here? I let the rain fall on me, I understand the cold, I understand the indifference of passersby, after all everyone has their own little life… I understand the heat, I understand anger, I have fallen in resentment and almost drowned in it, I floated above it, the water a mirror to show the missing lushness, and so I understood to let it go, I rose again, I stood tall again and understood, I understand I let the rain fall, my clinging is loose, I welcome the winds, come take what I can’t hold anymore, relieve my of this weightiness, my living is light, my light is living…
thrown away, I say that they threw me away, and half of me ashes in a bonfire… but I am still here, my branches grow roots! I snake them in these new grounds, I now say these grounds are sacred, as my blood has been spilled and I nourished it in my own defiance -I stand within myself pulsing, I cannot die- and as I feed, as I stay still, letting the breeze soothe me, a sprout, and new leaves come forth, spring is coming soon, so I reach higher, and higher…
be beautiful in the city, try your best away from the sacred grounds, and I oblige: I will be beautiful in the city, I will try my best away from the sacred grounds… I am not beautiful in the city, I make the city beautiful how can I try to grow, when there is no where to go? my roots they crawl and find nothing but a mountain of concrete, my heart recoils and rejoins my center… ‘silly woman, silly human’ but I insist, my roots are dying, this dark is not dark, it’s a prison of someone else’s making, not a place for one to nourish the self and grow… ah but I’m just a tree, my roots take what they can and expand, breaking through, I break the concrete but they tell me I’m a nuisance and cut me down…
who planted me? who said, and here I will bury this seed, and will water them, and will watch them grow… but I wasn’t watered as I should have, or is this not something a tree should say? oh, right, I am a tree… I broke through the ground and the rain came from the sky, or was the sky a face, or was the face a dried up honeycomb filtering in the water… nonetheless I grew tall, well as tall as I could manage, under that shadows of ancient trees I am but a sapling… but the sunbeams roping themselves between the leaves, the finger’s of god reaching through to hold me in an embrace, showed me love can come in places where one feels no one will arrive into and I love, standing here, feeling myself reach and reach, trying my best to keep reaching even as the winds they come to challenge my stance…
I am absolutely enthralled in the art of looking at things from all angles, especially the pessimistic one. I love what the positivity movement is all about but as someone who has been to the bottom, over and over again, it just does not jive with my spirit to be taken by that entirely. My writing explores the darkness, the shadows, because in them there are serious lessons to be learned. Even as it hurts to be bruised watching while others seem to have a better time living, this darkness hides a door that the light obscures. The depths of the soul are not created and shaped by the lightness of being, but of moving through the world with the vigor righteousness of valleys. A river came through here, shaped this landscape, and created new flora and fauna.
Edgar Allan Poe is someone who I could count as my first love, in everything, as strange as that sounds. I spent the majority of the beginnings of my poetry journey trying to master the rhythm and movements in the stanzas of lines to form a poem like that of Mr. Poe. After being introduced to The Raven and then diving through Poe’s oeuvre, I found myself alive and eager to refine the fetus like beginnings of my writing. I amassed a collection of the poems, each looking at everything with a very critical eye, not wanting to sugar coat anything.
This collection I named Humanism in Pessimism. There’s something very human in pointing out what’s wrong, or what could go wrong. It’s a natural re-calibration of the mind that helps determine what reality is really like and hopefully to reshape it to how it should be.
Here’s one: from, “The Glass Half Empty”
The Needle in the Gun
Flagrant speeches harbor stories written in between lines that hurry past the carrion withering in your voice the soul is surprised at every choice
Senselessly feeding quagmires on your shores impossible within the realms of your shorts but the vowels are distorted and cut to pieces where is the translator in all your demons?
Smooth apparatus containing the rage against the machine bluntly walking but staggering away from me disappointed consonants divorced from those ‘sometimes’ where is the demon of your good times?
Dismantling objects debasing them just so getting off and turned on by baseless prose charging into the flames of the sun hoping to do away with the needle in the gun