Tagged: from the vaults

Poems from the Vault.

Originally posted on 10-8-12, this poem is a little reminder that there is hope at the end of every dark tunnel, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.  The key is to keep moving forward; pushing, clawing, grinding…whatever it takes, until your eyes can see clearly once more.  Always reach out to those going through troubles; lend a helping hand, and make a point to uplift rather than put down.  Make an effort to find your peace…and help others discover theirs.  And remember to never fear the journey.
Twenty years imbalanced.

Twenty years spent roaming the stillness and

bedding down in a locked room.

Twenty years imbalanced-

a steaming brew boiled within those walls,

bubbling over and staining the pot with its

drippings.

Bubbles rose to the surface and exploded

into nothing-

spirits rose and fell like ocean tides,

and emotions rode those waves like daring

surfers in search of that unattainable thrill.

Thoughts and hopes and dreams appeared and

dissipated like gobs of rain under a hot sun-

twenty years imbalanced-

parched and afloat, drifting along choppy seas,

surrounded by irony, and unable to take a sip-

the know how just wasn’t yet there,

so he treated himself like a book,

and became an encyclopedia-

detailed, methodical,

and yet dusty and unread,

his pages stained with longing and mystery.

He learned to read himself, word for word,

until a detailed silhouette materialized.

A volume was left open on a table one

morning,

close to an open window-

a ripe plum purple morning, threaded

with the orange mists of dawn, and streaked

with whispering winds-

winds that meandered through the window and stirred

the sediments of dust and waste…

an eager gust crept along the table and

managed to turn a page…

Twenty years imbalanced.

Twenty years unsteady, unguided, unheard-

twenty years locked behind silent, mirrored walls,

examining and learning the words of himself-

the opening of that window flipped a page,

just a random page,

with a new one resting calmly beside it-

a new chapter-

waiting eagerly under

the brilliance of the rising sun*

From the Vaults. 

Originally posted on 12-11-13, this piece depicts the destructive and regenerative powers of earth, implying that beauty and strength can be found in all situations.
Earth, for all its beauty, is intent on its

own sustained destruction.

home grown demolition, fierce and consistent

and severe.

whirling winds and pulverizing plate shifts;

barbaric waves and the terrifically brutal spew of molten

agony

painting the landscape like a spirited artist with a palette of

hot orange,

black billowing smoke,

and fire.

the earth is angry-

that’s just one point of view-

a living mass of bound and shackled energy

bursting within

itself in a magma soaked rage,

the personification of angst and frustration with

no outlet but fury,

the elements of its true core still a mystery-

organically sustained destruction,

yet still fulfilling a predetermined purpose.

for each disaster, there are a thousand

seeds in bloom-

for each reaving of the landscape, there

are innumerable discoveries in waiting,

each exit creating a new beginning.

there is no end to its regeneration-

earth-

the great tortured soul,

the original self-immolator,

the flagellator of the ages,

concealing its guts with such a beautiful

mask-

stoned relentlessly for eons,

battered by its own children,

a lone voice among silent brothers,

eloquently patching over the steaming turmoil

boiling underneath-

earth-

take notes in her symbols-

But where is hope, then?

in the bowels of the sea,

in the claustrophobic canals worming through

the core,

in the depth of the blue above,

each revealing signs of perseverance,

adaptation,

evolution,

and the ability to overcome-

take notes in her symbols-

in the wooden arms and rustling

fingers of the winter trees,

pointing the way to heaven for those whose

eyes have been downcast too long-

for those who’ve forgotten which way to

look-

but again, that’s just one point of view*

-G. Boston