lani-foronda - Hello Poetry

My dear Icarus, Have you brought tales of gold for me? You-- the master of self, The one who held his own thread and shears. Don't share of how hard you beat your wings But how the air beat against your brow. Don't echo your father's faded cries But sing the songs of the Aegean sea-- Sing them only for me! My sweet Icarus, Is the world as grand as the travelers say? Are crumbling maps and hand-spun tales nothing to compare? I've read of Sicily, where your father rests his mourning head. I've traced its rivers as they curved against my torn papyrus. Sicily, the land of Aetna. Oh, to watch the land shake at the beckoning of her call (Oh, to fly free of these labyrinth walls)! My darling Icarus, Tell me-- is life better above the blanket of Grecian blue? Is it better than what the Fates designed? Is it better than what I hold today (please, let it be more than today)? My beloved Icarus, Will you give me your wings-- The mingling of feather, wax, and dreams. Will you give me your wings and Your will to yearn higher and higher So that I too can reach the city of gold.

0

Apr 1, 2017

Apr 1, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC

"City of Gold (Icarus)"

My dear Icarus, Have you brought tales of gold for me? You-- the master of self, The one who held his own thread and shears. Don't share of how hard you beat your wings But how the air beat against your brow. Don't echo your father's faded cries But sing the songs of the Aegean sea-- Sing them only for me! My sweet Icarus, Is the world as grand as the travelers say? Are crumbling maps and hand-spun tales nothing to compare? I've read of Sicily, where your father rests his mourning head. I've traced its rivers as they curved against my torn papyrus. Sicily, the land of Aetna. Oh, to watch the land shake at the beckoning of her call (Oh, to fly free of these labyrinth walls)! My darling Icarus, Tell me-- is life better above the blanket of Grecian blue? Is it better than what the Fates designed? Is it better than what I hold today (please, let it be more than today)? My beloved Icarus, Will you give me your wings-- The mingling of feather, wax, and dreams. Will you give me your wings and Your will to yearn higher and higher So that I too can reach the city of gold.

28

Winter is coming but I fear I am not ready. I may have spent too much time chasing sunsets that I've failed to notice the leaves changing. Reds, oranges, yellows, and browns-- They came upon me before I had a chance to grab a jacket. Now I'm left outside shivering. Waiting. Longing for a warmer day. But the only day is today, And I am at a loss. The leaves are finishing their descent, eagerly awaiting to see their friends once more. And as I watch, I am envious, so envious. These leaves-- they are quick to change. Quick to adapt without a single worry of what's next. They know that reunion is coming soon. Soon they will feel the rough edges of those they grew up with. Soon they will echo together. *Winter is coming. Winter is coming.* They whisper quietly as they crunch underneath my boot. *Winter is coming. Come quickly, dear friend, For winter is coming.*

0

Jan 12, 2016

Jan 12, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC

Winter is coming

Winter is coming but I fear I am not ready. I may have spent too much time chasing sunsets that I've failed to notice the leaves changing. Reds, oranges, yellows, and browns-- They came upon me before I had a chance to grab a jacket. Now I'm left outside shivering. Waiting. Longing for a warmer day. But the only day is today, And I am at a loss. The leaves are finishing their descent, eagerly awaiting to see their friends once more. And as I watch, I am envious, so envious. These leaves-- they are quick to change. Quick to adapt without a single worry of what's next. They know that reunion is coming soon. Soon they will feel the rough edges of those they grew up with. Soon they will echo together. *Winter is coming. Winter is coming.* They whisper quietly as they crunch underneath my boot. *Winter is coming. Come quickly, dear friend, For winter is coming.*

22

"You cannot save him." I used to think that I could Be a knight in shining armor With my sword in the air and my head held higher. I thought that I was better than what the mirror showed me. ***** streaks across my face? War paint from my last battle. Scuffed up shoes and calloused heels? Proof of a great highway escape. Rope burns across my palms? A reminder of how strongly I held on. However, someone should've called a magician because I’d become the next grand illusion. I was the backdrop The focal point The uneven lines Which strained your eyes and made you feel as if something more was present. But really— the trick was on me Because I wasn't a knight in shining armor but a child with a toy. I was a lifeguard who’d never learned how to swim. A fireman who choked on the flames. A therapist who’d never sat in her own chair. I was just a girl with a heart one size too big and mask worn too well.

0

Aug 20, 2015

Aug 20, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC

Four words my thirteen year old self needed to be told

"You cannot save him." I used to think that I could Be a knight in shining armor With my sword in the air and my head held higher. I thought that I was better than what the mirror showed me. ***** streaks across my face? War paint from my last battle. Scuffed up shoes and calloused heels? Proof of a great highway escape. Rope burns across my palms? A reminder of how strongly I held on. However, someone should've called a magician because I’d become the next grand illusion. I was the backdrop The focal point The uneven lines Which strained your eyes and made you feel as if something more was present. But really— the trick was on me Because I wasn't a knight in shining armor but a child with a toy. I was a lifeguard who’d never learned how to swim. A fireman who choked on the flames. A therapist who’d never sat in her own chair. I was just a girl with a heart one size too big and mask worn too well.

22

I’ve always believed in closure but not when it pertained to you. You were more concerned with the queen of hearts and having the upper hand (rather than holding the right heart in your hands). You always desired to see what was up the other player’s sleeve but never checked your own. Poker face was not a mask but rather a lifestyle— one you played too well and too often for yourself. There was never a big picture or a great road ahead of you. Only pit stops for the wandering souls. Life became less of the destination and more of the journey (little did you know where you were headed). You grew to care more about instances and examples rather than purpose and decision. You lacked depth and I pitied you for the shallow grave you had begun to dig. And perhaps during those finite moments of pity, I realized that closure never existed to you. You see, closure meant answers. And answers meant words. And words meant speech. But the only tenant you contained in your vocabulary was silence. Silence was your upper hand while I was just another player in one of your infinite card games.

0

Jun 29, 2015

Jun 29, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC

queen of hearts

I’ve always believed in closure but not when it pertained to you. You were more concerned with the queen of hearts and having the upper hand (rather than holding the right heart in your hands). You always desired to see what was up the other player’s sleeve but never checked your own. Poker face was not a mask but rather a lifestyle— one you played too well and too often for yourself. There was never a big picture or a great road ahead of you. Only pit stops for the wandering souls. Life became less of the destination and more of the journey (little did you know where you were headed). You grew to care more about instances and examples rather than purpose and decision. You lacked depth and I pitied you for the shallow grave you had begun to dig. And perhaps during those finite moments of pity, I realized that closure never existed to you. You see, closure meant answers. And answers meant words. And words meant speech. But the only tenant you contained in your vocabulary was silence. Silence was your upper hand while I was just another player in one of your infinite card games.

3

i will see you around sounds much better than goodbye.

0

Jun 29, 2015

Jun 29, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC

10w from a summer afternoon that i still tell myself today

i will see you around sounds much better than goodbye.

1

I'm starting to find that there is bittersweet relief in letting go of the things that i had so desperately clung to because maybe- just maybe- I never really needed them in the first place. I'm beginning to understand that there was and **always has been** something between us. And I suppose we didn't want to admit that what we had was the one thing we both knew we never would need.

0

Jun 26, 2015

Jun 26, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC

(one day i'll stop writing about you because)

I'm starting to find that there is bittersweet relief in letting go of the things that i had so desperately clung to because maybe- just maybe- I never really needed them in the first place. I'm beginning to understand that there was and **always has been** something between us. And I suppose we didn't want to admit that what we had was the one thing we both knew we never would need.

22

you said you’re on a quest to find the blessed rest which can make a person feel whole— and thus ease your burdened soul. so with a wooden ship but neither compass nor crew, you set sail across the seven seas in search of what man knew. you argued with the fates and begged the gods to open the gates. you refused to entertain the silence of your mind, and scorned the stars of the sky for not being aligned. so with questions unanswered and feet more calloused than before, you altered your course to a more distant shore. to a land a man once spoke of where the sun did not exist and where life flourished when midnight was kissed. a place where the only music heard was the laughter of souls and the only thing which existed was man’s fleeting controls. and though the months have turned into years and nothing has changed—especially not your fears, i hope a morning will come when our feet touch the same ground and the great unknown is at last safe and sound; i hope a day will come when the only thing forsaken is your desire to roam and you—you, my dear friend, can finally come home.

0

Jun 24, 2015

Jun 24, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC

quest

you said you’re on a quest to find the blessed rest which can make a person feel whole— and thus ease your burdened soul. so with a wooden ship but neither compass nor crew, you set sail across the seven seas in search of what man knew. you argued with the fates and begged the gods to open the gates. you refused to entertain the silence of your mind, and scorned the stars of the sky for not being aligned. so with questions unanswered and feet more calloused than before, you altered your course to a more distant shore. to a land a man once spoke of where the sun did not exist and where life flourished when midnight was kissed. a place where the only music heard was the laughter of souls and the only thing which existed was man’s fleeting controls. and though the months have turned into years and nothing has changed—especially not your fears, i hope a morning will come when our feet touch the same ground and the great unknown is at last safe and sound; i hope a day will come when the only thing forsaken is your desire to roam and you—you, my dear friend, can finally come home.

22

you still exist in the crinkled pages of my notebook. last autumn i dog-eared the top corners so i would find my way back. your veins dance with the curves and loops of my frail frail words. the contours of your dreams lay in the indents of my ballpoint pens. your fears bleed black and blue. your voice--the raspy scratching of graphite before bed. my sentences often sit incomplete because that's how you left-- in the middle without warning because you lacked a single transition. your breath echos at the turn of every page inhale--look back exhale--look forward (i can almost feel your lungs working alongside my own). your blood runs red as i scribble across the pages-- at times i am in a frenzy, lacking control as my hands skirt along the paper. other days, i am silent, waiting for my hand to pick up the pen and bring you to life. i keep telling myself that you still exist in the crinkled pages of my notebook but every time i close its covers shut, i can't seem to find you.

0

Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC

june 11, 2015 // 1:05 am

you still exist in the crinkled pages of my notebook. last autumn i dog-eared the top corners so i would find my way back. your veins dance with the curves and loops of my frail frail words. the contours of your dreams lay in the indents of my ballpoint pens. your fears bleed black and blue. your voice--the raspy scratching of graphite before bed. my sentences often sit incomplete because that's how you left-- in the middle without warning because you lacked a single transition. your breath echos at the turn of every page inhale--look back exhale--look forward (i can almost feel your lungs working alongside my own). your blood runs red as i scribble across the pages-- at times i am in a frenzy, lacking control as my hands skirt along the paper. other days, i am silent, waiting for my hand to pick up the pen and bring you to life. i keep telling myself that you still exist in the crinkled pages of my notebook but every time i close its covers shut, i can't seem to find you.

28

will you tell me of the hues that drip and bleed onto your canvas— the streaks the smudges the smears. are they the ones flowing through your veins twisting—turning to reach that place I long to call home? or maybe the ones residing in your eyes flickering—hiding behind the mask you too willingly wear? will you show me the color of dawn when darkness sheds its skin and kisses goodbye. the amethyst seas where sirens beckon from the deep. the color of blood when it meets oxygen’s lips. the strokes of rain against the window pane where you spent your autumn afternoons. the cups of undrunk tea that your mother left sitting on the kitchen table. will you show me the hues of your paint-stained hands that I have yet to hold so maybe—just maybe— I too can see the colors you see.

0

Apr 23, 2015

Apr 23, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC

the self-portrait he made one day

will you tell me of the hues that drip and bleed onto your canvas— the streaks the smudges the smears. are they the ones flowing through your veins twisting—turning to reach that place I long to call home? or maybe the ones residing in your eyes flickering—hiding behind the mask you too willingly wear? will you show me the color of dawn when darkness sheds its skin and kisses goodbye. the amethyst seas where sirens beckon from the deep. the color of blood when it meets oxygen’s lips. the strokes of rain against the window pane where you spent your autumn afternoons. the cups of undrunk tea that your mother left sitting on the kitchen table. will you show me the hues of your paint-stained hands that I have yet to hold so maybe—just maybe— I too can see the colors you see.

26

i gave up on my dreams tonight but that doesn't mean i've given up on me. you see, i am many things i am a daughter a sister a friend a student a writer a dreamer a disaster a believer a human, but one thing i am not is my dreams. i used to believe that i could only be one thing and this one thing was the only thing. thus if i could not be this thing, then i would be nothing-- absolutely nothing. however, it's taken me six thousand seven hundred and sixty days to admit that this one thing is nothing in the midst of He who is my everything.

0

Mar 16, 2015

Mar 16, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC

i am not my dreams

i gave up on my dreams tonight but that doesn't mean i've given up on me. you see, i am many things i am a daughter a sister a friend a student a writer a dreamer a disaster a believer a human, but one thing i am not is my dreams. i used to believe that i could only be one thing and this one thing was the only thing. thus if i could not be this thing, then i would be nothing-- absolutely nothing. however, it's taken me six thousand seven hundred and sixty days to admit that this one thing is nothing in the midst of He who is my everything.

25