Monday, April 23, 2012

So, I saw a girl today that reminded me of this...

This is a poem I wrote quite a while ago, about the girl mentioned in this post... I saw a girl at dinner today who struck me as very similar in appearance. Funny how little things can trigger memories like that, even ones that are amusing and ridiculous to examine in hindsight. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm suffering from acute lack of sleep :) But anyway, enjoy the poem!

Dancing With You

I can still remember the way it felt,
Dancing with you last night.
You looked so beautiful, so gorgeous as always.

Your warmth, your confidence, your assurance,
You melted my heart into a pool on the floor,
Made me utterly lose all my sense of rhythm.

I made halting conversation, you answered with grace,
Your face aglow with that radiant smile,
Your warmth spiraling through all of my veins.

I was blessed and humbled that you'd even accept my request,
That you'd descend from high Heaven to this humble earth of mine.
And Heaven is what I got the faintest taste of, last night.

And then, so soon!, the dance was finished.
You thanked me, as if I was even a little worthy.
And so ended my brief glimpse of bliss.

Maybe someday you'll find out how I feel,
Maybe someday I'll find the courage to tell you.
But I'll never forget the way it felt, dancing with you last night.

And all the thousand times I pass near you in the ins and outs of life,
I'll wish you could only sense, only know, only feel,
Just a little of the way I felt, dancing with you last night.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

A Conspiracy Story?

The small jet soared above the clouds, swiftly winging its way to a small private airport removed from Washington, D.C. by about two miles. Though only one of the three passengers aboard would be recognized by the average American, his presence on the plane was in fact less intriguing than that of the other two. Tall and thin, with a Roman nose and short-cropped auburn hair with greying temples, he looked the part of the consummate American politician. And indeed he was, perhaps more so than his history would indicate. To his family he was known as “John” or “Dad”, but the rest of the nation just called him Mr. President.

The nationality of the other two men was less easily discernible; they spoke in a near-perfect aristocratic English, but its status as a second language was occasionally betrayed by a tinge of something Eastern European, or perhaps Western. The men had strangely pallid skin, matching suits, and cold, businesslike demeanors, and appeared to be identical twins; in fact, the President couldn’t discern the difference between them. Truthfully their presence made him very uneasy, and they knew it (though he had never, and would never, admit it to them or anyone else). Most oddly, they nearly always spoke in unison, and when they did it sounded as if a million others were echoing the words along with them. On the rare occasion that they would speak separately, it was in a quick interchanging barrages of words and phrases, as if the same mind was bouncing ideas back and forth between the two of them. They had introduced themselves as Hobbes and Locke, though clearly these were only aliases or codenames of some sort.

“L.A. in two weeks?” the president asked. “Is that really necessary?” The men glanced at each other. “Yes, of course it is,” they replied in perfect unison. “You do understand this has been part of the arrangements for quite some time, don’t you?” The president sighed and nodded in the affirmative.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

A Brief Experiment in Post-Apocalyptic Survival Literature

After picking through the pile of wreckage for what felt like an eternity, Dave found an unopened can of lima beans. Ripping the lid off, he devoured the contents hungrily, desperate for sustenance. He quickly emptied the small can and took a few precious sips of clean water from the canteen in his backpack. After the Bomb, most of the water sources in the Midwest had been contaminated; safe drinking water was a priceless commodity. Dave had been lucky enough to find a few gallons of the liquid in the ruins of a warehouse that had supplied supermarkets back when they existed. “When they existed,” Dave mumbled to himself, marveling at the sheer absurdity of it. The Bomb had changed everything. Politics, money, civility: none of it mattered anymore. Not after the Bomb. People did what they had to do to survive these days, and if one man’s survival meant another man’s death, then that was just the way things were. Oh, sure, people tried to hold it together after the Bomb; there were some communes out in Utah that lasted for years. But eventually, without anybody other than a few self-appointed messiahs telling you what to do, there’s just no reason to keep obeying.

Dave pulled himself out of his musing and started back on his way. Where to, he didn’t know. But in this world, standing in one place meant getting left behind; you couldn’t rely on anybody but yourself to keep you alive, especially when you look like an easy target. Dave had been a software engineer back before the Bomb; though the hard years since had taught him a thousand little things about survival, he still had the bland, unintimidating look of the American office drone. Funny how looks could be deceiving, though; Dave thought back to all the punks who had tried to make trouble over the years. At first things had been hard, but in a way, punks were a lot like software bugs; they’re all just glitches in the same underlying logic that drove everything. When it came down to it, they were all predictable, and once you figured out the patterns, you could come up with a standard procedure for dealing with them. Dave’s standard procedure was to keep to himself and avoid looking for more trouble than he had to, but sometimes trouble was just a part of life. Jeff had spent a lot of time and effort learning how to fight when he had to, and he was proud of the results; he wasn’t Chuck Norris, but he was more than tough enough to deal with the low-life punks he ran into on a regular basis.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Poem: An Easter Meditation

The bells all are ringing,

The people are singing,

Today is the day

Our Lord conquered the grave.

Through his life he brought hope

To a hopeless, weary world,

He eased pains, cured the sick,

Even offered dead men new life.

But all of these miraculous acts,

Beautiful and holy as they were,

Are only the preamble to an incredible song,

Just the beginning of the greatest tale of all.

A tale that transcends all of human experience,

The greatest moment, the linchpin of history,

The reunion of humanity with the divine,

The new Adam’s coming to redeem the old.

By the hand of men the Son of Men was taken,

Tortured and beaten and condemned to death

Battered and bloody, they nailed him to the cross,

He died, taking on the punishment of humanity.

But the poetry of substitution was just the first half.

For three days the world was plunged back into darkness,

Despair ruled triumphant as all hope was lost,

The love of Christ was faded and dim.

But then! In a moment the tide was turned,

The stone rolled away, the God-man risen up.

Completing the arc of human history,

Rising to finally crush sin’s dire hold.

This is Easter, a time worth celebrating

As the most joyous day of the Christian calendar.

Even greater than the birth of our Savior,

Is the day in which his poetic work was completed.

The bells all are ringing,

The people are singing,

Today is the day

Our Lord conquered the grave.