That Fire Inside

Just Imagine

Butterzworth — Tue, 17 May 2011 13:45:13 +0000

They ask,

“What does the future have in store?”

Rolling my eyes,

I say, “I can’t tell for sure.”

“Just imagine!”

they implore.

“Sometimes I do,

until I realize I’m not meant

to dwell on that shore.

I live in the present

and need nothing more.”

Succession Progression

Butterzworth — Sun, 15 May 2011 15:42:35 +0000

Here I am,

doubling back over

those tracks,

faint within rows of

sweet corn and beans.

As the days lengthen

and my time surely lessens,

the savory beets of winter’s past

linger on my tongue,

their ruby red juice

swallowing my taste buds up

in a mnemonic whirlwind of flavor—

the makings of a curious tale

taking root

along a path paved

by dried moss and weeds,

leaving me unsure—

wondering what to cast away

and how much to prune

to sow myself anew,

to create a mosaic of shapes and hues—

splashing nature’s flair

onto barren trees

surrounded by daffodils, tulips,

and every herb in between—

this tangled, star-spangled field

in me, a perfect pattern,

succeeding.

Even though the bleak has passed,

that delectable red remains—

a familiar greeting

amidst the bustle of spring

carried forward in a ripening.

“Newspaper Blackouts”

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:38:19 +0000

Throwing Stones

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:27:03 +0000

You can’t hold back my story.
I may be throwing stones,
standing on that cliff above the sea,
shoes cast off,
barefoot in the face of destiny—
oh so free, but living life
in stark dichotomy,
trying to look more objectively
while doubling further back to see
those stones falling, splattering
drops like stars into the fractal of astrology,
across the depths of my mind into eternity
as I circle ‘round searching for clarity,
my soul longing for ordinary
stones, the essence of memory,
dreams, and fantasy—
real and imaginary, sense and sensibility
opening onto infinity,
the hope of possibility,
so don’t dare take my creativity.
You’d find nothing more than false security—
neither truth nor justice,
nor praise, nor dignity—
you’re wasting time claiming space in my mind
and acting out of jealousy.

Full Circle

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:25:54 +0000

“End the cycle”.
Valiant words
whispered under a poet’s breath,
but you know better than I
the gravity of the situation,
a dark ant
marching beneath
Uncle Sam’s soulless stare.
We walk a fine line,
separated–
a stark difference
intensified
as we cast away
shades of gray between.
Surely you know
it’s not as easy as you think,
because nothing ever ends–
our eyes flit about
at the whim of our attention.
You’ll slip into the cracks–
obscured
by our fickle need for truth
while my stomach tightens–
drinking this honey sweetened tea,
watching the firefighter
rescue the cat in the tree,
and all that remains of you
will be those “amethyst rocks”.
I may be left in the shadows,
wondering how your story ends,
but you–
you’ll be living it,
“slinging your amethyst rocks”
as I amble on,
imagination
forced to fill in the gaps.

*Quotes from the poem “Amethyst Rocks” by Saul Williams.

A Personal Translation (“Kertesz Leszek”)

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:24:01 +0000

Original:

“Kertész leszek, fát nevelek,

kelõ nappal én is kelek,
nem törõdök semmi mással,
csak a beojtott virággal.

Minden beojtott virágom
kedvesem lesz virágáron,
ha csalán lesz, azt se bánom,
igaz lesz majd a virágom.

Tejet iszok és pipázok,
jóhíremre jól vigyázok,
nem ér engem veszedelem,
magamat is elültetem.

Kell ez nagyon, igen nagyon,
napkeleten, napnyugaton–
ha már elpusztul a világ,
legyen a sírjára virág.”

– József Attila

My personal translation:

I will be a gardener,
a simple caregiver for trees
waking with the sun,
trifling with my garden as I please.

Each of my flowers
would be precious to me,
and despite nettles and thorns,
they would blossom into beauty.

With milk to drink and a pipe to smoke,
I would walk my own path, live my life
free from fear and worry
until I myself am planted without strife.

This is inevitable, a natural close,
such as the sun rises and then sets,
if my world comes to an end,
let flowers be placed upon my grave, not regrets.

Dichotomy View

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:22:04 +0000

A small ring of light,
the soft glow of flame
in the midst of pure darkness—
all that I strive to be,
dazzling and golden,
against the mess I can’t deny—
sheer, undiluted slog
pushed away,
out of sight
and out of mind
as I gaze into the flame’s center—
a small child—mesmerized,
dazed, confused,
lost in the world’s dichotomy views—
seeking truth, shades of gray
buried far beneath the surface,
obscured by false perceptions—
but who am I to judge the fate,
to look between,
to sort, to debate?
With only a glimpse
into this swirling fog,
so little experience beneath my belt,
what gives me the right
to act above myself?

Why We Do What We Do

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:21:22 +0000

We are who we are—
our stories wide open books,
their leaf-thin pages turning,
relentlessly—flashing before our eyes,
often before we can grasp what to write,
as we march on and on and on
in widening circles
spreading out like multi-colored ripples across a pond—
flavors unique to the individual—
at times, intersecting,
the colors mixing, mingling, befuddling the mind
as we look each other in the eye
and carry on,
grateful for the company.
We’re on our way—
works in progress, constantly in motion,
molded and shaped like clay,
fashioned into something completely new
by the curious hands of providence
as seconds turn to minutes,
minutes turn to hours, hours turn to days.
Time never ceases,
and we’re swept along in life’s currents—
still trying to figure out the right words,
we do what we can.
We’re on our way.

Freedom’s Cry

Butterzworth — Sat, 14 May 2011 05:20:09 +0000

Speaking something into nothing—
a tangle of emotions
spontaneously splattered
upon an empty page
like mud upon bare feet
whilst dancing through deep puddles
to the tune of raindrops
pounding against the dirt,
washing away worries and fears
in the ebb and flow of
colorfully vivid words,
that drift along—mere fish,
surrendered to the reality
of the mind’s swift currents,
the pen’s effortless strokes,
and the poet’s fervent desire for freedom
too often squelched
by the pretense
of terror and judgement.

Scary or Natural?

Butterzworth — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 23:44:46 +0000

In such a colorful world
where beauty abounds,
I can’t help but wonder,
“How would it feel to be blind?
Would I notice a difference?
Would I feel deprived?
Could I use other senses
to turn Nature’s tide?
Would my mind be changed?
My soul? My heart?
How would others feel?
Would they leave me in the dark,
or would they look deeper
for some semblance of love,
a trace of kindness,
to see past my anomaly?”