Looking to the Skies

By now, you might or might not have noticed the medium for the basis of most of my poetry. The moon and stars seem to have this effect over my imagination that I have never been able to control. The Hunter's Moon this year was begging me for days to write something about my most favorite constellation in the winter sky, Orion.

Mediums for writing seem to be the hardest things for most writers to find. When you slowly make that discovery that you are a "Writer" then you start to realize that it's very easy to say you're a writer, but it's also another thing to sit with a pen and paper all day or to sit in front of a computer screen and write for hours on end. It's easier said than done. Then to top it all off, you might not even like what you're writing. I've been writing since I was thirteen and let me tell you, it never gets any easier. The writer who tells you that it gets easier after you've written so much, is pretty much full of it. The muse of your life changes and sometimes the biggest thing that you need in order to write some of the greatest pieces of your life, support, is never there. I guess that would explain why I've never actually completed a novel and in my heart I would love to.

The moon has become my muse as of late. It's a constant friend that I know will always be in the sky to guide my mind at night into a new poem or some new urge to get something down on paper. Writers are not born in the mind, they are born on paper. Although, anyone who has been writing as long as I have will tell you that without a mind, you can just forget about writing entirely. And then again, a few of us writers lost our marbles a long time ago. Hell, we take the chance of writing something everyday that might not ever get read by even the every day Joe or Jane like you reading now. Doesn't that tell you something?

Me on the other hand, I don't really care. Writers and artists are one in the same. We try so hard to create something that we hope others will flock to and stand, or in this case read, in awe and we will earn the admiration of millions. For a select few of us that actually happens. The majority of us stand back and just write what we know.

Perhaps one of these days I'll write the greatest novel of the twentieth century. Hey, I'm young, it could happen. But I won't spend the rest of my days thinking about it. I know that eventually I'll finish the novel I started three years ago about a reality that I really wanted and now I know will never happen. I guess that's why we have those little things that are part of us that give us hope. The reasons that we move on from the evils that conquer our spirits and help us to see that there is more beyond this one point. Tonight, I look to the stars one more time. This time, I look to the moon to wonder if a friend is still watching it with me.

He opens the back door
to his home and steps
into the veranda

The chill in the air
raises each hair on his arm
as sentinels standing guard

He wraps his blanket tightly,
his only protection
from sensation of the dead
moving in the night

The roof
made of crystal clear glass
to let in the sun, moon, and stars
and to proudly show
his favorite constellation

He waits for this moment
every year, through every season,
through every cover of clouds,
he's waited for his return

In all his glory,
there in the winter sky,
is Orion the Hunter

How proudly he stands
with the belt we know so well
and his arm stretched
brandishing his sword

How mythology has forgotten you
oh great Orion
but the stars make you shine
more brightly than the rest
in my favorite time of the year.

The Hunter's Moon
beckons your return
and all those who would be you,
but those who remember you
know there will always
only be one Orion.


Until next time.

Taking a Breath

I took a step back earlier today as I was looking at my bookshelf. I have a habit of forgetting about the small paperback books I've got. Some of them are actually awesome. In searching through some of them, I found my own book. It's hard to believe that I spent three years of my life working on it and it ended up in the same place as the rest of the books I hold dear to me. On a shelf in my collection, forgotten about because it doesn't stand out like the rest.

It was so weird now to hold my own in my hand. To think that there are people who are holding the same thing that I am and it was something that I created. Absolute strangers are reading parts of my mind that I always told myself that I would never let anyone read. And now here I am. A poet. But even more so, a published author.

Peeling back the cover I found the first poem. It was one that I wrote during a lost period of my life when I was just realizing what I was trying to make myself to be. A writer. To this day, I can remember how this poem came to life. It was created between the lyrics of some Josh Groban song and something that I had always told a friend of mine to do; "When ever you're wondering about me, watch the moon. I will be watching it with you so you will never feel alone." In a way, it's something that's so true. At night, the moon is the focal point in everyone's life. Even when it's covered by clouds we know it's there. But if you stop and think about it and wonder for just a minute, remember this. There is someone in the world, maybe someone who loves you, is watching it with you. That sense that we are all alone will never enter your mind again.

To all of my new readers and new fans, this one is for you. Here is the poem that taught me to reach just far enough, but never more then what I should have.

Stars

Lost in a world of empty spaces.

The ruler of my world is the desert.

It never seems to care who enters its lands.

All it knows is that once you step in,

it's unlikely that you'll come out.

With my wings stretched out, I fell from Heaven

hoping that I could find something new for me.

But now in this decrepit land, never once used for the much,

I lay with my wings broken and my faith shattered.

Why did I have to dream of more then what I wanted?

Why did I give up eternal beauty for a land of solitude and dispare

which is built only for hermits.

Now I watch the clear nights with the sky full of stars.

They are the eyes of my brothers and sisters watching me.

The cold wind and dry air make me understand

they do not cry for me. Not a tear has fallen from the sky.

The sun rises and begins to burn me. Not with the heat

that it gives, but with the light that it brings.

It allows me to see myself. My shame. My broken wings.

I pray that the invisible flames may take my life and my soul,

but I am an archangel. We are cursed with immortality.

I will never die, but in my time here, I will wish many times

that I could.

And now the sand shall cover me. Breeze after breeze

shall bring parts of the land to cover me.

It will burn my skin, dry my eyes, and melt my spirit.

Soon the sand and I will be one and my wishes

will still not have passed.

My Lord of lords, I make one last prayer. Take my soul.

Take my soul and place it in the stars.

Not in the Heavens, but amongst the stars.

Make my star the color of mortal blood,

so that when they look up, they may not pray for me.

Oh Lord, I beg and plead that they will not pray for me.

My soul is not worthy of your grace.

Name my star, The Morning Star, for that is when my pain begins.

My real name is not worthy of a star in the beauty you have created.

Who shall look upon the sky,

and pray to see the star....

Lucifer?

Until next time.