Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → From my fingertips to your eyes...

So, none of you know me, on account of my being brand spanking new to this site, and actually forums in general. I happen to love writing, for anyone who cares. I have decided to periodically present some of the things I have written over the years to anyone who is willing to read.

My first piece is unfinished. I wrote a few lines at a time over the course of a month last winter. I stopped quite randomly, but I think I like the premise more and more every time I go back to it. It is sort of a short story/prose piece:

Once upon a time,
a young man with empty eyes awoke to an unfamiliar sound:
The morning birds were not singing
their beautiful song.
Never before had a day passed that the birds had not
chirped an early melody for the young man's village.

His empty eyes snapped open as he lifted from his slumber
and he listened for the sweet tune.
No sound met his ears, so he rose and walked to the window of his abode.
Still he could not hear the morning birds.

The man decided to ask his neighbor, so he gathered his cloak
and walking cane
and departed.

When he left the comfort of his home, a bitter wind
nipped at his cheeks.
An unseasonal wind, to be sure,
which simply added to the man's confusion.

He arrived at his neighbor's door
and knocked three times.
No one came to the door.
The man knocked again
and still no one answered.

Had the man eyes, perhaps he would have seen
his neighbors sleeping in bed,
no birdsong to awake them.
As it was, he simply departed,
further confused as to the happenings of the
morning.

The young man decided that,
if anyone,
the village elder would know why the birds did not sing.
He set forth down the road
towards the hut on top of the hill.
His cane guided his steps up the rocky path,
though he hardly needed the assistance.
The man had walked that path many a time,
for he frequently conversed with the elder.
A man of infinite wisdom and experience,
the elder was one to be respected.
He was also one of the few that did not reject the young man
for being blind.

The young man arrived at the hut of the elder and was greeted by a familiar
voice before he could even knock.
"I thought you would be coming soon," the aged, raspy voice sounded.
"Come and sit, for there is much to discuss."

The young man ducked under the thatched roof into the elder's humble abode
and sat beside the small table.
The old sage lit a candle, known to the man only by its odor,
and put a kettle on the fire in the corner.

"I have come this morning because the birds have yet to sing," the young man said
as soon as he was sure the elder had seated himself.

"And they will not be singing anytime soon," the old man replied.
He stroked his long, white beard as he observed the young man. The man had a troubled look
on his face,
only emphasized by the empty holes where his
eyes belonged.

"What do you mean, elder?"

"The sun has not risen this morning," the old sage answered.
He took the kettle from the fire and poured tea for himself and the
young man.

"How is that so?"

"I... I do not know," the old man replied. He sipped tea and further stroked his beard.
"I think, perhaps,
it has grown weary of rising every morning."

"Weary?"

"You see,
every morning since the dawn of time,
the sun has risen for our world.
It awakes in the morning
and lays to sleep at night.
For our entire history, the sun has told us the time of day.
It tells the birds to sing.
It tells the grass to dew.
It tells the moon to shine.
The moon is still in the sky,
but the shining has fatigued it.
Soon it will cease to glow,
and the horizon will loose all of its luminescence."

"The sun has grown weary of that?" the young man questioned.

"No,
the sun adores all of that.
It loves the sound of morning birdsong and the taste of morning dew.
It loves watching the moon fade as it drifts off to sleep."

"Then why has it grown weary?"

"Well, this is only my interpretation ,
but I believe it has grown weary of man,
for we do not appreciate the rays anymore."

"But would a deity be so vain
as to deprive those that rely on it
simply because they have become used to it?"

The elder did not respond for a long while,
as he had to think about his response.
Finally, after another sip of tea,
He replied:

"If you observe a babe and it's mother,
You see dependence.
A child cannot survive without its mother,
upon whom the babe suckles.
Without a mother, the babe would never survive.

As a young child, we are incapable of showing appreciation.
We cry, and feed, and sleep
and our lives are basic and animalistic.

Now, when the babe matures,
it gains the ability to appreciate.
It can bask in the beauty of the rising Sun,
It can revel in wonderful flavors and smells,
And it can thank it's mother.

If the grown babe were to not do this,
would the mother keep it around?
Would you drag along a dependent
That has every ability to take care of itself, but does not
And does not even thank you for your efforts?"



So, I might add on to that. I've named it The Sun and the Sunken Eyes.

Next, is a poem I wrote in High School. I love it, but most people do not. I don't care. Hate it if you will, my passion for this piece shall never die.


The Chase

I saw a poem in the park the other day.
It wasn't a great poem -
It was kind of small and downtrodden,
But I got the brilliant idea to ask it about itself.
What better way to write an ars poetica than to hear from the mouth of an actual poem?
Unfortunately, as I approached,
The poem saw me and ran.
I gave chase, not knowing why it ran,
But I was unable to catch it;
It was too quick.
Feeling the sting of failure, I hung my head and left.

I passed by the same park the next day and,
To my surprise,
That same little poem was sitting in the same exact spot.
I still needed to know about ars poetica,
But I needed a new approach.
So I decided to sneak up on it.
I crept around the fence and behind some bushes,
But just as I got ready to lunge
The poem turned and locked stares with me.
I didn't expect this
And my hesitation gave the poem enough time to run.
I leapt from the bushes and attempted to follow,
But the poem outran me again.
It had been just inches away,
Yet it still managed to escape.
I hung my head and left.

On the third day,
I was once again passing the same park and,
Lo and behold,
The poem was sitting in the exact same spot.
But this time it was watching me the whole way and -
The audacity -
It waved.
Feeling a new resolve,
I sprinted towards the poem as fast as my legs would carry me.
The poem ran, but I was faster that day.
I kept up with it, managing to stay just inches behind.
Finally, I dove;
I threw my body at the poem and tackled it to the ground.
It struggled and fought, but I managed to hold tight.
After several minutes, the poem stopped fighting.
I held it up to the light to see what it was about,
But, to my dismay,
There wasn't a single word written on the poem.
I turned and examined every inch of it,
But there was nothing there.
"Where are the words?" I asked.
"Where are the metaphors and the rhymes and the beauty?"
The poem looked at me and burst into laughter,
As if I had made some great joke.
After awhile of howling in hilarity,
The poem caught it's breath.
We locked stares again and it said to me,
"The words come from the chase."


So, feel free to post your own original writing here. I'll try to keep posting mine.