Press "Enter" to skip to content

musings & scribbles

(title)

33 and a father,
never thought i’d bother
to be responsible.
33 and a father,
got myself a daughter,
a reason
to be responsible.
33 and a father,
a husband still trying
to be human,
but still well-defended.

(title)

I wish you knew me,
But all you know
Is what you can see.
And I can’t change that,
No, I can’t now;
It’s who I’ve become
And who I’ll always be.

If I lost you

Your fingers run hot against my arm,
Brushing toward my own, opening a conversation
About where we are, about where we were
Before we got to where we are. And we can sit
Here, amongst the passion and words wanting
To be said with touch and presence– amongst
The passion and words wanting to be said,
But I’d rather touch you instead. And I trace
The ands I say to find my way behind your eyes,
To find my way into your world, where I can
Curl up and stay, forgetting how we got here–
Forgetting we were ever not here. And your lips,
Inviting me, show teeth so slight’ly.

I, the tumbleweed,
Long dry and uprooted,
Play atop the grains of sand.

(title)

Your husband misses you,
Mrs. Staines.

(title)

Everything I do
I try to make it for you;
Can’t say I always do,
But I try to make it for you.

I’m sure I’ve failed you;
Not that I meant to,
But I know I can’t be
Always who you’re wanting.

(title)

Your eyes
Shake me down,
Take my smile,
Turn these words
Around, into shivers,
Crawling out in sweat;
The scent
From your lungs
Slows my own,
Breaking rhythm
As I find yours,
Pulling the tips
Of fingers together.

On balance: Our ignorance, our obsession

As a noun, balance is a perception of the distribution of proportions; coincidentally, as a noun, balance is also a majority of proportions. Humans tend to overlook the latter if we feel the former is maintained to our liking. In other words, the world is viewed as being fair if we are treated fairly; we tend to not visualize others’ views, then, because theirs are overshadowed by our own. This is our ignorance. Inversely, if we feel we do not have a majority of or equal proportions, we look intently at the distribution of proportions to provide insight into whether another does have a majority of proportions, and, if another does have a majority, we analyze why they have a majority. In other words, the world is viewed as unfair if we are not treated fairly; we tend to visualize others’ views in relation to our own, then, because theirs overshadow our own. This is our obsession.

Beyond the simple definitions above, we innately depend on balance as a means to both perceive and interact with our existence. We treasure symmetry as a sign of perfection and familiarity, to the point where asymmetry is valued to offset symmetry’s ideal with its opposite. Balance is integral to our species, and to that end we make obvious representations (yin & yang, tortoise & hare, light & dark,…) to remind ourselves how we strive for balance. We also use a perception of gravitational balance to physically position ourselves as we see fit; we use balance for our basic means of mobility.

I do not know the struggles my daughter will go through, just as I do not know the struggles her grandmothers, protestors for peace & equality, went through. I also do not know the life-altering situations she will go through, just as I do not know the life-altering situations my uncle, a retired police officer, went through. I do know, however, that she will face both, and that her race will be a factor, no matter how hard her grandmothers and great-uncle fought to free her from that burden.

Justice is not blind; justice is a glacier slowly, surely, melting from the ever-burning sun of societal changes; justice denies more balance than is granted, until the denials pile and fall off the scale, replaced by, but still weighed against, the balancing of society.

We value balance in all things. We find symmetry to be beautiful, and feel so strongly that we must also find asymmetry to be just as beautiful.

Quotes the Ninth / Asinine


Warning: Attempt to read property "ID" on string in /home/staines/public_html/poet.re/wp-content/plugins/wp-post-navigation/wp-post-navigation.php on line 32

Sweat marched on his brow, to pillage his composure and burn his eyes.

The hairs of his mustache spun themselves onto his lips, dancing their 8-legs when he dared to be silent.

Frost builds on the unheated glass, clear but now hard to see through.

Rare are her smiles, so he collects and tags them to be recalled later, when time permits and he’s alone again.

She loosened her fingers from her palm, hoping he’d make use of them sooner/now and not when they’ve tensed again.

He forgets the weight of words on shoulders bearing the stress of being his wife.

They wash their towels after wading in the mold of their shower.

Children ask, “why?,” to better understand; adults state why to avoid having to understand.

The endless, “why?,” should always be used to help understand every situation. Dig in; don’t walk away.

Adults tend to skip the why’s. (Homophone on purpose.)

I work backwards so I can know how to get where I already am.

Life is easier when you show your work; otherwise, people seem to think you’re a simpleton with epiphanies.

Always dry your hands before you start drying dishes. This logic can be used for anything else you may be doing.

I now prefer, “make sure your hands aren’t wet before drying the dishes.” Less redundancy, more imagery.

They’re usually the smartest one in the room, unless they catch themself in the mirror.

Push, pull, remain.

She has complete control only inside her house; otherwise, she lashes at everyone.

We’re all puppies. Not weeds in a garden.

If you weren’t a baby, I might call you a name.

She talks with her whole mouth.

To the blind reader, what’s written means what they’re told.

They breathe with their teeth. A real teeth-breather.

He finds time to whine. He berates to settle into himself.

(title)

See, now, where I come from,
The warm blue skies puff a little bit,
The wet green leaves sway a little bit,
The wild purple petals surprise a little bit,
And every stop sign is a turn toward home.

(title)

Every day, the wind goes by,
Every day. The wind goes by,
And, when it stops, I will miss it,
Until it goes by again.

Every day, the wind goes by,
Every
Day
The wind
Goes by, and,
When it stops,
I
Will miss it,
Until
It goes by
Again.

musings & scribbles