Friday, April 20, 2012

The Narrow Ledge

I haven't read this poem in years and well, it's not as clean as I'd like it to be, but it's still strong in how it affects me.  The story behind this is that I basically had this image in my mind while in youth group a while back and it's always stuck with me.  I hope you enjoy it and find it encouraging.

The Narrow Ledge

A man walks
But not where others are
Yet, where everyone is in its place
Here is another realm
In fact, I think the man is myself
On a Narrow Ledge
A Ledge no columns hold
There is only forward as well
Nothing is behind me
Oh, there is a couple!
No shouts will turn
Now the left sphere of vision is blue and calm
While the right,
Molten reds and yellows
Where dragon-like flames
Fly and threaten to pull me down
I know, it is an illusion
Meant to cause me to stumble
But evermore,
To take my soul
While the right is busy,
The blue left is encouraging
I cannot help
But want to jump
Oh, wait, a couple just did
Yet, the dragon swept them away
To the right,
Oh the screams of desperation
I step,
Guess there is no other way
Of joining the deep blue
Yet, the sounds there
Are beyond musical
I myself want to reach
Out to the blue on my own
But the dragons
Oh well, must go forward
After some time
I reach another phase
It seems
That both the blue and red side
Are reacting to each other
Great winds become visible
To the eye
Tornadoes roam an all sides
The Ledge stays still
I can feel the wind
But I know it won’t take me
If I don’t look at it
I look down the ledge
Again, not much to see
Though there is a star
I would say it’s white,
But each twinkle denies
That statement
Then a person stops down
Further along the narrow
I cautiously move on
Closer and closer I come
He turns and faces me
Horrifically he talks
With many mouths, only two eyes
But the mouths talk in unison
And with different voices
Some I recognize as my own
I begin to despair
I can’t go around,
It is too narrow
Falling to my knees
I begin to truly weep
After some time I stop
The demon gone
With no composure
I run and streams
Of tears flow in my wake
It must have been days
When I tripped and fell
I got up and another
Was staring at me
Only this had many faces
It could have been a man
Or demon, but much greater was he
For he took my hand
And contact unveiled my
Eyes to see his faces as one
He did not say much
Just that,
“You have been forgiven much”
I wept and embraced him
I sobbingly kissed his hands
He led me forward
And I saw the star
Again, it followed the man
We came to a door
He motioned me to go
I was scared, but knew
All would be well
I stepped through
As I opened
Lights of all colors
And songs of all forms
Bathed me with
A never-ending joy
I cried again, but
Happy tears fell
I ran with my
Welcoming song
And met all the others
So many people, even
Magical creatures I only
Saw in dreams
Bowed their welcome
Then I saw him again
He was sitting on a great throne
With the mightiest of angels
Beast and humans alike
And I began to worship
Never again did I care
About my own time
Worship became eternal
And joy became worship

©T.S. Graveline

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Colonoscopy--Wrote this a few years ago


“Take three deep breaths.”
And let the hour long coma
Take place.  This is the single,
Most amazing feeling in life.
I can completely escape reality.
Don’t have to think about school,
Work, family, lack of a love life,
But for just one hour I don’t have to think.
Thinking is the worst thing I can do.
No senses are at work in this state.
Complete imagination takes over.
It’s as if I’ve found another reality,
Another dimension within my mind.
I only wish I could travel the gurney
Of midnight delight, and ride it to Ink and Write.
Who knows, perhaps this is the same sphere
The opium addict writers of the past found.
This is where I want to be. 

            Yet, I would rather not
Have to go through the process of surgery to find
Home.  I awake and the nurse tells me, “You must
Pass gas or there may be damage.”  I have license to
Fart all I want to.  Another great side-effect.

© T.S. Graveline

Thursday, March 29, 2012

The Writing Block- Part 2

This is a continuous segment about Writer's Block.

Today's note is about the nature of some writers, like myself, who struggle to figure out how to make a break through.

Here is what I propose writers do.  Write something! Anything! Even if it's not relevant to your book.  The more you're writing the more engaged your brain is and thus, the more likely you'll break through to the other side of that pesky brick wall.  It doesn't matter how you get there.  Who cares if you climb it, break it, use a police tank as a battering ram, just find a way to get to the green pastures you've been dying to frolic in.

Keep at it folks and remember, just because you passed one wall, doesn't mean more won't come up again. So keep keepin' on like the Brady Bunch.

Monday, March 26, 2012

A poem for one of my favorite romances

The Shepherdess

It was so innocent.  It was pure excitement.
He kissed me and here He stays a month.
I will never forget that touch.  His eyes,
His arms, his breath, and his smell.  Him.
I see him as I pass by, I love how he looks
At me.  Oh the determination.  I hide behind
My sheep, waiting, and wishing I knew his heart.

I knew it was going to happen, I couldn’t stop it
From hurting.  He was furious. His eyes were dejected. 
He dared not look at me.  I saw his sorrow, but
He came through for me.  Why must the customs
Barge our Love? Yet a week has passed and here
We are.  I can taste his sweat, his lips, and his hands.
The joy of love, there was so much sorrow to
Overcome, but I can’t help but be lost in our promise.

His Eyes

I saw Her, and a passion so innate came over me.
I knew not myself, but I knew my other half.
Work was worth every split second of a glimpse.
Just to gaze upon Her moving so gracefully amongst
Her herd.  She is no typical woman, She is the
Shepherdess I wish to watch over my children.  I
Don’t even remember much more than a second.

My heart was torn from me when I woke after.
Leah was next to me, not Rachel.  I cried out,
For I had defaced my love for Her.  Her father
Forced me into another seven, to make fourteen
Years.  Rachel was worth the wait, She may not
Know it, but there was no one else for me.  I
Would have Her.  She is my bride, my true bride. 

© T.S. Graveline

Sunday, March 18, 2012

A little news and a poem

News first: I have a friend who is going to take over editing duties on the first book.  Hopefully, this means the book gets completed sooner and in your hands.  It really should be a fun experience and will help me grow in my own writing I'm sure.  It always helps to get other perspectives on what is or isn't working.  So be excited about that.

Here is an older poem I thought I'd share that I enjoyed writing:

“Du arme Sau”

A roaring pain
Half of my mid-section is gone
All I can feel is pain
The senses have never been,
Alert like this
Next sensation comes
With warmth and sputters
I can feel it rising
All the way to my throat
Clogging my airways
Lungs gasp for air
Only to soak in the thick red
I gargle blood as if it was water
A cool hand jerks me back down
I don’t remember sitting up
The voice said something
I struggle, but my ears are ringing
So loud, my body crashes
With every second
My eyes flutter to a gray color
I see his dirty coat
No longer white
All is gray
I see her again
Her words icy and blue
“Alles wird gut,” said she
I didn’t believe her, those eyes
Then the most sensational cool came
I woke in the dark
Feeling almost weightless, yet still
Then like a slap
Everything was white
The barbaric thing took me
And caged me
Then she came again
The familiar gray
She held something so painful
I tried to get away
But my stubby fat got in the way
The cool steel punctured me
There was no cooing
She only barked,
“du arme Sau”
And I wailed with pain

Second time she said that

© T. S. Graveline 

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Polyphonic Thief

The Polyphonic Thief

I loved trains, with
Their bravado-like march
But when close, there was
No chugga-chugga, just overwhelming bass
Last time I enjoyed this,
I was two years old.  I
Was on my 3-wheeling Harley,
With all the sidewalk I could ask for,
And listening to “Highway to Hell.”

On my way home from the railroad,
I met Lincoln.  A white boat, and this old lady,
I never saw her face, just gray hair and a steering wheel.
I bowed before them.  They unceremoniously lurched atop me,

Andre the Giant had on white-metallic spandex that day, black rubber gloves,
Chrome teeth, maybe braces, and gray chest hair.  Never did see his face.  I knew
It was him though.  We wrestled, till his hair was breaking out of the spandex, ripping, distorting reality.  I think I was scared.  Or is it scarred? 

Darkness took me.

My head came out with the stitchings of a baseball,
Adorned with a body carrying a black rubber sash
Given for heroism, stupidity, or just pure grace.  

                                              The Polyphonic Thief robbed me.
                                              From that moment on, I never knew true sound.

© T.S. Graveline

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

A poem that links some of my deafness to other areas of my childhood

Say Yellow


Yeawoah.  No. Say yellow.
Yeawoah.  No, yellow!
That’s what I said…


My yellow magic blanket;
was in fact magic, my
comforter, always kept cool
or warm, it was what I
requested, protected, projected,
my screen of life, the tangible
wall, the wall that oppresses
till ’89, must fall.  It fell.
it was torn, thread by thread,
lost its magic hold over
me, freedom came, yet,
what is with the change?
The unraveling left me naked,
alone in the dark, no longer
cool or warm. Molten
frost became me. 


Can one hear yellow?
Do colors make sound?
Sound is too mechanized,
there are no purities, nothing
tempered or refined.  Only
time has helped the aids, the
yellow ear-molds show age.
Now I need true yellow, geld,
which is gelb.  The former
now comes green, whereas
gelb is still gelb, albeit
I can’t hear the difference
auf Deutsch.

© T.S. Graveline