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Jul 2022 · 941
Grats!
Noah Vanderwerf Jul 2022
A seventy year old woman is waiting at her physician's office in a hospital gown. Her name is called by a secretary, and she calmly gets up to walk to the desk. She is told that her doctor is waiting to speak with her in his office, where he has the clothes she arrived in.

After some time, she exits the office in her dress, shawl, and shoes. She is clutching a manilla envelope. She is wide-eyed, calm, and content. Her face glistens with the fresh residue of tears.

The woman's granddaughter is waiting in her sedan, parked in an adjacent parking structure. She is listening to music on the radio. The woman shuffles to the passenger seat door and enters the car. The granddaughter instinctively starts the car and begins backing out of the parking space. As they're leaving the parking structure, the granddaughter notices the manilla envelope held by the woman. She stares at it, missing her signal to turn onto the road. She ***** her head back forward, and her lip quivers before gradually morphing to a smile. She turns off the radio before continuing their trip home.

The woman enjoys many nights with her relatives and friends, hosting dinner parties and being treated to recreational outings.

When the woman meets friendly acquaintances or loved ones in public, they always deliberately congratulate her before swiftly and gracefully continuing their conversation as normal.

One month after the previous doctor's visit, the woman is awakened by breakfast in bed, prepared by her daughter and granddaughter who are both doing their best to contain their beaming excitement.

"These deviled eggs are wonderful. I knew you would share the skills I taught your mother."

The woman's daughter asks her if she'd like some privacy.

"Oh, no. The more the merrier! I almost couldn't sleep with how much I wondered who would be standing in my kitchen right now. Feel free to let them in, just one at a time at first if you wouldn't mind."

The woman's daughter exhaled in delightful affirmation, and obliged. The daughter and granddaughter left the woman's bedroom.

A tall man named Harvey with white hair, a scully cap,  and glasses put down a mimosa that he was nursing onto the kitchen counter. He smirks when he notices the woman's daughter nodding loudly as she walks towards the crowd. Harvey turns to the rest of the small, tight-knit crowd who are enjoying each other's company in the kitchen. He pardons his interruption, asking if they mind that he go first. Empathetically, everyone in the room encourages him to proceed.

Harvey enters the woman's room.

"Oh my lord! I wish I'd finished that script!"

Harvey chuckles at the woman's remark, bending over to hug her in her bed. The woman gleefully reciprocates, with a grape still bouncing around her mouth.

"You know, I give you full permission here on out to use or adapt anything in my vault. Consider it my retirement gift. If you need to talk to any of the new people to get the rights, just call Diane about it first. She'll straighten it all out."

Harvey praises the woman's work, saying he couldn't do any of it justice. He thanks her for the gesture, but says it won't be necessary. They spend almost fifteen minutes reminiscing with one another.

He asks her how she's feeling.

"Great, actually. Now that I've had more time to process all my feelings recently, especially with everyone else, I feel more dignified. I feel ready for what's to come. I'm surprised we're one of the few cultures of this world that do this. I always knew that this is how we meant it to be, but I was still scared of the future and didn't quite trust the process. Now I'm confident since I've felt that the process is itself trusting me. Does that make any sense?"

Harvey thinks it does. He asks if the woman would like to speak to some of the others, and she agrees.

Over the course of ninety minutes, a hearty handful of relatives and close friends visit the woman in her room in small groups, thanking her for everything they've given them and receiving her own loving compliments in response.

After everyone's spoken to her individually, they all excitedly rendezvous in the kitchen with a pastor. The last of a charcuterie board is picked at by the younger attendees while the daughter speaks to the pastor, who arrived within the past half hour. The daughter is nervously trying to clarify procedural details with the pastor, but the pastor replies speedily and in a reassuring tone.

All the visitors file back into the woman's bedroom, lining the perimeter and encircling her bed. The pastor proudly strides to the center of the room, facing the woman who is practically glowing with honor.

The pastor introduces himself out of formality to the room, but with an infectious sense of levity in acknowledgement that everyone's already acquainted with him. He thanks the woman for electing him to be the officiant of this traditional meeting. He joyously espouses a soliloquy of his personal admirations for the woman, recounting their bonding memories. He acknowledges the mutual love in the room, recognizing those in attendance.

He reaches a cadence, announcing that everyone is gathered in this room today to deliver a greeting of congratulations-in regards to some landmark information-to the woman.

The pastor looks directly at the woman and calmly says "congratulations, Eve. You're dying."

"I AM?!?!"

Grape juice leaks onto her blouse from the side of her mouth.
Sep 2020 · 110
Terminator
Noah Vanderwerf Sep 2020
In adolescence, I saw Jupiter.

He was alluring in the dark,
offering smoke and excitement.
We danced and cackled through the high,
pointing fingers and lashing out
to bolster ourselves.

I found my peace without entropy,
and he moved away to chase more confrontation,
revelling in the name of darkness.

In adulthood, I saw jupiter.

She was attractive in the light,
delivering analysis and closure.
We entwined and consoled through the anxiety,
turning noses and quietly denouncing,
to bolster ourselves.

I found my peace without entropy,
and she moved away to chase more condemnation,
revelling in the name of light.

In my future I will see jupiter:
distant, and still boiling.
It may visit me again,
revolving to show either its dark or light sides,

but i will refuse its entropy
with no need to bolster myself.
May 2020 · 122
Our Law
Noah Vanderwerf May 2020
Many young will start running as soon as possible.
They'll jump and trip,
blaming the terrain for their gaffs as they pull themselves so close to it.

Many old won't push themselves.
They'll crawl the ravines,
avoiding any rock that might slip out from under them.

Some will slow their pace with interest, but also charge through the plains,
stopping to observe every natural cave and canal,
learning to embrace untouched tundras, unforgiving cliffs, and the inevitable.

For there is no guarantee in boldness or caution,
only necessity in openness.
May 2020 · 113
Balance
Noah Vanderwerf May 2020
the big bang was the origin of the greatest fractal that will ever exist

everything is the logical conclusion of everything that came before it, eternally entropying into a complete expression

for every pattern, its hosts have unique traits

this deterministic totality cannot discourage us from forging our marks

actualizing change is the destiny of every branch of the fractal in carrying out its life

but we can also not be hurt by the blame that comes from losing sight of this great machination that encapsulates us all
Apr 2020 · 116
Untitled 4.19.20
Noah Vanderwerf Apr 2020
He walked away

She screamed that he is weak
and he walked away
Mar 2020 · 105
Grain
Noah Vanderwerf Mar 2020
I won't get mad
but what I see of you will shrink as our distance grows wider

The allure of the tide was too strong for me, like many

The water is soothing, especially when it drowns my ears
And the certainty of its repetitive nature is comfortable

I spent my life feeling its waves for momentary relief, leading to cold abandon when it pulled away

You never got wet, and I hope you never do, bright and resilient

I gave in
Inevitable after dipping into it for so long

I know I am being pulled away
I know I will never be back

I know you will never stand with me
I know you won't, and shouldn't

I may only know shade
When you still bear sunlight

I may become the water
And I may curse the sand

I just need you to know that you didn't push me into the ocean

It had already taken me
Feb 2020 · 118
Living In The Museum
Noah Vanderwerf Feb 2020
The more people leave happy today, the more will come back tomorrow.

They want to see my marble
reaching towards them
but not too close.

They want to see what speaks to them
and to feel like they're learning
but nothing too different.

Their expectations are all unique
wondering where it stands
and to whom it stares.

I would love to create just one opus
to contain all of my concepts
standing as a self symbol.

But no one can view it identically
from the same vantage point
or the same lighting.

If I can't standardize their experience
then how can I direct attention
and guarantee my impact?

Every patron will see a new sculpture
It will pose differently enough
to fit their perspective.

The sculpture will appear still
unchanging with time
as if eternal.

The fewer people watching my sculptures form, the fewer will doubt their reality.

That isolation is the price of living in the museum.
Dec 2019 · 142
Greener Grass for Machines
Noah Vanderwerf Dec 2019
i walk on the edge of the crowd, seeing you all in it.

trying to connect, i spill my stories.
i pull you out of the current and we tell tales.
letting you into my mind is its own reward,
though i wouldn't mind peeking into yours.

having seen the machines inside you i'm consoled
knowing i'm not alone in my bitter automaton.

but now the crowd migrates without you.
rushing to get back to your place, regain pace.
memories are missed with the time lost,
and you had to work to reclaim space.

i don't want to hold back those i admired in the first place.

back outside the tide, i resist the urge to dive.
gazing at the faces and imagining their insides.
then i catch others staring back, continuing on
scanning me as if from outside the swarm.

we're all on edges of the crowd, seeing each other fit.
Dec 2019 · 124
Message
Noah Vanderwerf Dec 2019
hold my tongue
with your weathered, learned teeth.
stop me from biting again.

as much as i yearn to impress
my throat onto your heads,
my orator just runs to the press.

so yet again your wings outstretched,
making my shade not to burn like you have,
and to keep your gut in the cold.

looking up from rest to your gaze,
my weight on you sustaining
that phantom limb's need to lift.

is this muscle meant to be trained,
or shouldn't we need it in the first place?

i could let these bottles float on
if i just swam along in the current,
but that would reduce their stories to pawns.

or i could show them my scrolls
and compare our notes,
but they can't bear the critique.

so, when we visit the rat, we sleep
as not to stir the vermin progeny.
but on the other hand i throw myself
in the way of your restless beak.

i may be hanging back as we all navigate these trails
but i know i'm pulling your hands
to try and steer where you lead.
Nov 2019 · 138
Be to Act
Noah Vanderwerf Nov 2019
When I talk, I'm performing
When I listen, I'm performing
When I ask, I'm performing
When I laugh, I'm performing

When I play, I'm performing
When I watch, I'm performing
When I teach, I'm performing
When I learn, I'm performing

When I touch, I'm performing
When I kiss, I'm performing
When I ****, I'm performing
When I rest, I'm performing

But when I perform,

When I perform I'm talking, I'm listening, I'm asking, I'm laughing, I'm playing, I'm watching, I'm teaching, I'm learning, I'm touching, I'm kissing, I'm *******, and I'm resting.

Oh, how I am resting.

Until you're not here,
then I've traded my mouth for my nature.
Metering expressions for a tireless repose,
acting to be for not being to act.
Oct 2019 · 196
Rooted in the Furnace
Noah Vanderwerf Oct 2019
We got a sinkhole in our kitchen,
all the tiles shaken and wallpaper peeling.
Could be where we've been stuffing our laundry,
or just ran out of caulk to fill the cracks.
Either way, we paid it no mind,
and it grew from the fridge to the door,

from the toilet across the floor.

The pipes jutting out of the dirt and the drywall,
and drop ceiling shredded around.
Through the hole we feel heat rising,
and hear the squawking from the basement.
The crows are dancing around the clutter,
trying not go up in flames,

but without the children escaping.

They've felt the furnace overheating,
refilling gas with every rising flame.
Claws would burn on the steaming valve,
so they just endure the roasting.
Until the furnace finally blows it smoke,
bursting out the house-grown pressure,

the crows only feel frost or the burn.

There's no gray now, just black and white.
Up from the sink hole grows a giant sunflower.
Its rotting face uncolored through the cel shade.
We're all entangled in the vines until it's chopped down.
Sep 2019 · 140
Beacon
Noah Vanderwerf Sep 2019
the night fog, thick with dust and smoke
a depression over sea for ages

tainted by this void, a lighthouse remained unlit
silent until an inevitable, habitual spark

the lighthouse burns a beautiful flame
its warmth and radiance drawing many from the distant dark

sentimentalists, misanthropes, vagabonds
all converging and communing around the beacon

its heady inebriating light bringing wonder, vigor to lives

as the density of benefactors grew, so did their warmth
the heart fires and body heat compounding greatly

storm clouds replaced by an inescapable, passionate blaze
steaming and suffocating the view from the lighthouse

the stairways inside collapse into embers
the dancing of which entertains the visitors

patrons each take bricks from the lighthouse to claim their own
but lament the lost stability

the tall pale structure, once hardened and obscured in darkness
now fragile when it's most featured on the horizon

the beacon dismantled
consumed in twisting, combusting delirium celebrated by all who witnessed it

until it left them no guide through the raucous cliffs,
and ashes to further shroud their view

like they had been for so long
Sep 2019 · 132
Do It Again
Noah Vanderwerf Sep 2019
haunt me
and make me numb

pull me up
to put me down

because if you don't
i'll do it for you

and we both don't want that
Aug 2019 · 148
Little Window
Noah Vanderwerf Aug 2019
i'm always sedate in the darkness
catching that divine lethargy
and comforted in pitch black

however, this meditation is an ******
smoldering my spirit, snuffing out the energy

sunlight rejuvenates me like most
i can't cut it out like the rest
i've bathed in it, loved it
but its grating radiance pummels

wringing me dry

so in my walls i've made a hole
when i want the world,
or need its warmth
i expose myself

i cherry pick the rays of my contemporaries to shine through
when i need them
i plan the breaths i take out in the open, casting myself outward
when i need to

but this false balance toppels often
i either crave the sun's unrelenting healing
or the serenity of isolation
considering which i idolize more at the time

maybe my feet corrupt the soil,
'cause i can walk back and forth through this wall and the grass is always greener on the other side

only until i observed a model out in the world did i realize balance requires dual embrace

barriers need breaking
to dissolve their disillusion

the model bored so many holes in their borders that they cohered into a giant window

it seemed to defy their house
but the framework still stood
and the model lived at peace
merging the dark and light

i asked the model why his window was so big, and he said

"I’m trying to be more direct. In the past, characters would kind of show up, like, ‘This is what’s going to happen to them.’ And there’s a vague connection to something that I’ve gone through. It’s a way of evading responsibility for being like, ‘This is what I’m feeling and this is what I’m doing.’"
Aug 2019 · 176
Sublimate
Noah Vanderwerf Aug 2019
solid, stable, present
i re-enter the mold
edges grinding, sliding,
little passing collisions

my edges are jagged again
rolling, bumping and jumping
along shifting terrain
no longer settled

scratches form,
minute to the eye
but etched on my skin,
welts left in the walls

holes i made to fill with myself which i could never serve

quicker and quicker, noise builds
my core exposed under the blemishes
a rattling, radiating engine
excited amongst all the fumes

where others would repair,
or dissipate tension,
i burn
turn to smoke

there's no real pressure
but my temperature rises
i raise my heat specifically to escape
attempting to relieve internal density

floating out of the mold again,
where i have collected myself so many times over,
no longer unsettled

i cherish this peace
with the sacrifice of being weightless
unpacked and unsolidified in the wind
seeing the distant commotion

i still yearn to be in that mold
but i know what will happen

that i have
and will
sublimate
Aug 2019 · 132
Itemizing
Noah Vanderwerf Aug 2019
this spider wraps its acquaintances
into easy packages
constructing webs around observation

its foundation catches prey
automatically
it bites the heads
off its mates

but it loves most
those who defy these expectations
cannot be contained
or predicted

at first they're an adversary
but that maintains a purpose
which this spider chooses to uphold

what truly engages this spider challenges its livelihood
escapes its method
not for strength or validation
but to reveal its routine was not purposeful at all
Aug 2019 · 116
Empty Shop
Noah Vanderwerf Aug 2019
i walk through, seeing all the glass and china
vases, plates
on endless shelves, so tall and so long
priceless heirlooms

in them i see reflections
myself or others
or i see through the glass
warping surroundings, mistaken for substance

enamored with what's within reach,
i need to touch it
reaching as far as i can
tipping it with the ends of my fingers

i can collect its pieces
but its form is shattered
image scattered
dust over the floor

blood staining the room
i need to leave
prevent more damage
snap out of the dream

away from the wares
feeling horns budding out
and a tail emerging
and the pain as they take my body
Aug 2019 · 174
The Audition
Noah Vanderwerf Aug 2019
the stork's beared many gifts
and it's finally come to interact
looking to enlist others
expanding its territory

in the guise of understanding
you copy it, an homage
selfishly sharing in its moment
as if it needs your acknowledgement

the bird ain't here to touch itself
it wants to diversify its flight
mastering treaded path isn't proof of carving one's own

the stork can't fly through a mirror,
it needs a door

— The End —