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Todd Aug 2018
Every time I went to the bar, I saw him sitting there.
It didn’t matter what day it was,
didn’t matter if it was early or late.
The same man was sitting in the same spot, alone.
Some days he was nursing a beer,
other days he’d be sipping coffee,
but every day he’d be sitting there, alone.
I never heard him speak a word,
the bartender would bring him a new drink
when his was empty, he’d pay and leave a tip,
all without speaking.
There were times I’d feel compelled to speak to him,
make small talk, try to draw him out of his shell.
But, somehow, I could never bring myself to.
Maybe it was because he never looked at people,
not even when the bar was crowded,
or when someone bumped into him.
Maybe it was the look on his face,
neither smiling nor frowning, utterly blank.
Even thought I could never speak to him
I looked for him every time I was there.
Eventually I noticed, he didn’t just sit,
he was writing in a notebook.
Not constantly, he’d sit, stare off into space for a while,
then pick up his pencil, write furiously for a moment,
then stare off into space again.
Once noticed, the notebook was as constant as he,
a thick, five subject notebook, looking battered and worn.
When I first noticed it, he was barely a fourth
of the way into it.
Watching him became kind of an obsession,
I felt drawn, compelled.
Sometimes I would walk past him,
try to see what he was writing,
I never could.
Some nights he’d only fill a page or two,
other nights, whatever muse inspired him
led him to fill a dozen or more.
As time went by I watched him progress,
slowly, but steadily through his notebook.
Halfway, three quarters,
until one night, he reached the end.
My curiosity was still burning,
maybe he had just finished
the next great American novel,
or maybe a screenplay
that I’d soon be paying to see.
Even more than that, I wondered,
now that his project was done,
would he become sociable?
He waved away the bartender, who was approaching,
a fresh drink in his hand.
He sat and stared for a moment,
then wrote a brief something
on the inside of the back cover.
With that, he closed the notebook,
placed his mechanical pencil on the top of it,
placed it gently, almost reverently, and stood.
I watched him walk out the door,
wondering if I’d see him the next time I came out,
perhaps with a new notebook.
When I looked back at this seat,
I saw that he had forgotten his notebook.
I grabbed it, rushed out the door,
hoping to catch him, to give it to him.
When I got out the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to head back inside, leave it at the bar.
I was sure he’d be back for it soon.
I paused with my hand on the door, battling with myself.
I wanted to look inside, see what he had written,
yet I knew it was private,
he had never shown it to anyone.
I ended up taking it home, unopened.
I figured I’d return the next night, give it to him.
I’d assure him that I didn’t read it, and then maybe,
maybe he’d tell me what it was.
But when I returned the next night, he wasn’t there.
I left my name and number with the bartender,
said to have him call me if he came looking for it.
A week went by, with no call.
I returned to the bar but he wasn’t there,
the bartender told me that he hadn’t been in
since that last time I had seen him there.
I couldn’t believe it,
I was sure that the notebook was very important to him,
and said as much to the bartender.
As I said this, there was a tap on my shoulder,
I turned to see a guy that I had seen at the bar before,
seen him, but had never spoken with him.
“You must be talking about Peter, always sat right there.”
He pointed to the writer’s usual spot, and I nodded.
“Sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.
Hung himself about a week ago.”
He walked away and I left the bar,
unsure of how to feel.
I got home, picked up the notebook,
it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
I wondered if it was the loss of the notebook
that had driven him to suicide.
I disregarded that thought,
he hadn’t even come back that night,
to look for it.
I put the notebook down on my nightstand, still unopened.
I had trouble trying to sleep,
feeling more grief than was warranted,
after all, I had never spoken with him.
Mixed with the grief, was guilt,
maybe if I had spoken, had reached out...
Finally, I fell into a restless sleep,
riddled with half-formed nightmares.
I woke early the next morning, not rested,
the notebook sill on my nightstand
where I had left it.
I picked it up, considered throwing it away,
after all, it wasn’t mine.
But instead, I sat on my bed and opened it.
His penmanship was neat, precise,
almost too tiny to read.
The first page was simple, a list,
titled “The List of My Regrets”.
Nothing shocking in the list, no major sins or crimes.
Friends he didn’t believe,
people he never got to know better,
women he never asked out.
The next page he had doodled on,
a series of geometric shapes, some simple,
some complex, others placed just so,
to form a stark face.
I flipped through the pages, reading some,
skimming others, a third of the way in
I found a poem.
There was more raw emotion on this page
then I had felt in my entire life.
The poem was about love,
and all the expected images were there,
but somehow he had constructed it in such a way
that reading it saddened me nearly to the point of tears.
There were other poems, as I worked my way through the notebook,
even some short stories.
Some pages only had a few words written,
but even these sparse entries had a feeling of finality, of completeness.
Even though everything I had read gave the feeling
of rightness, some sort of unexplained symmetry,
the tone kept growing darker, more somber,
as I neared the end.
The last poem, on the last page, written on his last night alive,
made me weep with it’s simple purity.
“A life filled with loneliness warms nobodies soul.”
The last line of his last poem.
I felt more guilt now than ever, if I had tried,
maybe I could have made a difference.
Maybe I could have eased his loneliness,
warmed his soul,
saved his life.
Then I read what he had jotted down,
on the inside of the back cover,
the last thing he had ever written.
Just three lines.
“I know you’ll take this notebook
and I want you to know,
it’s not your fault.”
More crap from my leaky mind
Shiny May 2017
Imagine life to be a notebook and the pages to be the days,
when you read my tale!
I don’t know the number of pages on my notebook!
Maybe half the notebook is already filled.
Some pages are filled with
my life stories that I am proud of and
some pages with stories I am not so proud of.
I know that I can change not what I’ve already written,
but I do know that I can bring about a twist in the story,
steer around and change the direction;
And write the ****** that I would come to like.
Pals, believe me, we have the power to write our ******.

Sometimes, we think that the milieu our notebook is from,
decides all the chapters on the notebook.  
We presume that if the notebook had not seen sunshine
and had been confined to the cupboard,
then it will be impossible for the notebook
to survive the outside weather.
Survive the rough weather, believe me, it will.
Just going through it, experiencing the rough tides,
will change the course of the story,
making a history that will not be forgotten.

I hear there can be alternate timelines.
Maybe, someday, there will come into the world
a machine with a dial,
that will let us turn back pages
and overwrite what we’ve already written.
Till then,
write great stories on each page
that wipes away the bitterness on the previous pages.
Rachel Cloud Mar 2014
Some days I want a notebook
all covered in pretty things
And I would fill it with sugar
and warmth
and happiness
with swirling silver letters
and poems
and stories I could never write
that could never be right

Some days I want a notebook
to fill with dreams in cursive curls
I'd write love letters and
song lyrics and
sweet dreams that tickled
my thoughts in the night

Some days I want a notebook
in a candy pink room
with flowers on the walls
and romance on the shelf with
knights and princes that
for me would fight

One day I bought a notebook
a diary of dreams,
an empty page for a prince
One day I bought a notebook

And I haven't seen it since
WritinginStars Nov 2014
My notebook
Full of words
Commas and periods

My notebook
Full of smudges
Eraser bits
Crinkles and creases

My Notebook
Full of messages
Hidden Meanings
Energy and life

My notebook
Is the place,
The book
In which
I write
We all have that one old, torn notebook that holds all of our secrets and poems.
Sam Mar 2019
I bought a brand new notebook.
With floral print and purple lines,
For the brand new school year,
To show them how I shine

But now it’s half way through the school year,
And my notebook has lost its glow,
It’s like as if my floral notebook,
Somehow really knows,

My mood and all my feelings,
And as I begin to age,
Like my floral notebook,
I seem tattered at every page.

When I reach the end of my notebook,
I fear what the story will hold,
Stripped of the words on the pages,
My heart soon growing cold.

I remember all the lessons,
And hope one day I understand,
That the stories in this notebook,
Are worth all the ink marks on my hand.
Kristo Frost Aug 2014
This notebook and I share a secret,
which I will never reveal.

This notebook, on the other hand,
has at times sleighted me slightly.

This notebook is not to be trusted,
for if I trust it, I may be betrayed.

This notebook and I share a secret;
it will never be told lest I talk.
Thanks to all the readers!
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
She said, ‘You are funny, the way you set yourself up the moment we arrive. You look into every room to see if it’s suitable as a place to work. Is there a table? Where are the plugs? Is there a good chair at the right height? If there isn’t, are there cushions to make it so? You are funny.’
He countered this, but his excuse didn’t sound very convincing. He knew exactly what she meant, but it hurt him a little that she should think it ‘funny’. There’s nothing funny about trying to compose music, he thought. It’s not ‘radio in the head’ you know – this was a favourite expression he’d once heard an American composer use. You don’t just turn a switch and the music’s playing, waiting for you to write it down. You have to find it – though he believed it was usually there, somewhere, waiting to be found. But it’s elusive. You have to work hard to detect what might be there, there in the silence of your imagination.
Later over their first meal in this large cottage she said, ‘How do you stop hearing all those settings of the Mass that you must have heard or sung since childhood?’ She’d been rehearsing Verdi’s Requiem recently and was full of snippets of this stirring piece. He was a) writing a Mass to celebrate a cathedral’s reordering after a year as a building site, and b) he’d been a boy chorister and the form and order of the Mass was deeply engrained in his aural memory. He only had to hear the plainsong introduction Gloria in Excelsis Deo to be back in the Queen’s chapel singing Palestrina, or Byrd or Poulenc.
His ‘found’ corner was in the living room. The table wasn’t a table but a long cabinet she’d kindly covered with a tablecloth. You couldn’t get your feet under the thing, but with his little portable drawing board there was space to sit properly because the board jutted out beyond the cabinet’s top. It was the right length and its depth was OK, enough space for the board and, next to it, his laptop computer. On the floor beside his chair he placed a few of his reference scores and a box of necessary ‘bits’.
The room had two large sofas, an equally large television, some unexplainable and instantly dismissible items of decoration, a standard lamp, and a wood burning stove. The stove was wonderful, and on their second evening in the cottage, when clear skies and a stiff breeze promised a cold night, she’d lit it and, as the evening progressed, they basked in its warmth, she filling envelopes with her cards, he struggling with sleep over a book.
Despite and because this was a new, though temporary, location he had got up at 5.0am. This is a usual time for composers who need their daily fix of absolute quiet. And here, in this cottage set amidst autumn fields, within sight of a river estuary, under vast, panoramic uninterrupted skies, there was the distinct possibility of silence – all day. The double-glazing made doubly sure of that.
He had sat with a mug of tea at 5.10 and contemplated the silence, or rather what infiltrated the stillness of the cottage as sound. In the kitchen the clock ticked, the refrigerator seemed to need a period of machine noise once its door had been opened. At 6.0am the central heating fired up for a while. Outside, the small fruit trees in the garden moved vigorously in the wind, but he couldn’t hear either the wind or a rustle of leaves.  A car droned past on the nearby road. The clear sky began to lighten promising a fine day. This would certainly do for silence.
His thoughts returned to her question of the previous evening, and his answer. He was about to face up to his explanation. ‘I empty myself of all musical sound’, he’d said, ‘I imagine an empty space into which I might bring a single note, a long held drone of a note, a ‘d’ above middle ‘c’ on a chamber ***** (seeing it’s a Mass I’m writing).  Harrison Birtwistle always starts on an ‘e’. A ‘d’ to me seems older and kinder. An ‘e’ is too modern and progressive, slightly brash and noisy.’
He can see she is quizzical with this anecdotal stuff. Is he having me on? But no, he is not having her on. Such choices are important. Without them progress would be difficult when the thinking and planning has to stop and the composing has to begin. His notebook, sitting on his drawing board with some first sketches, plays testament to that. In this book glimpses of music appear in rhythmic abstracts, though rarely any pitches, and there are pages of written description. He likes to imagine what a new work is, and what it is not. This he writes down. Composer Paul Hindemith reckoned you had first to address the ‘conditions of performance’. That meant thinking about the performers, the location, above all the context. A Mass can be, for a composer, so many things. There were certainly requirements and constraints. The commission had to fulfil a number of criteria, some imposed by circumstance, some self-imposed by desire. All this goes into the melting ***, or rather the notebook. And after the notebook, he takes a large piece of A3 paper and clarifies this thinking and planning onto (if possible) a single sheet.
And so, to the task in hand. His objective, he had decided, is to focus on the whole rather than the particular. Don’t think about the Kyrie on its own, but consider how it lies with the Gloria. And so with the Sanctus & Benedictus. How do they connect to the Agnus Dei. He begins on the A3 sheet of plain paper ‘making a map of connections’. Kyrie to Gloria, Gloria to Credo and so on. Then what about Agnus Dei and the Gloria? Is there going to be any commonality – in rhythm, pace and tempo (we’ll leave melody and harmony for now)? Steady, he finds himself saying, aren’t we going back over old ground? His notebook has pages of attempts at rhythmizing the text. There are just so many ways to do this. Each rhythmic solution begets a different slant of meaning.
This is to be a congregational Mass, but one that has a role for a 4-part choir and ***** and a ‘jazz instrument’. Impatient to see notes on paper, he composes a new introduction to a Kyrie as a rhythmic sketch, then, experimentally, adds pitches. He scores it fully, just 10 bars or so, but it is barely finished before his critical inner voice says, ‘What’s this for? Do you all need this? This is showing off.’ So the filled-out sketch drops to the floor and he examines this element of ‘beginning’ the incipit.
He remembers how a meditation on that word inhabits the opening chapter of George Steiner’s great book Grammars of Creation. He sees in his mind’s eye the complex, colourful and ornate letter that begins the Lindesfarne Gospels. His beginnings for each movement, he decides, might be two chords, one overlaying the other: two ‘simple’ diatonic chords when sounded separately, but complex and with a measure of mystery when played together. The Mass is often described as a mystery. It is that ritual of a meal undertaken by a community of people who in the breaking of bread and wine wish to bring God’s presence amongst them. So it is a mystery. And so, he tells himself, his music will aim to hold something of mystery. It should not be a comment on that mystery, but be a mystery itself. It should not be homely and comfortable; it should be as minimal and sparing of musical commentary as possible.
When, as a teenager, he first began to set words to music he quickly experienced the need (it seemed) to fashion accompaniments that were commentaries on the text the voice was singing. These accompaniments did not underpin the words so much as add a commentary upon them. What lay beneath the words was his reaction, indeed imaginative extension of the words. He eschewed then both melisma and repetition. He sought an extreme independence between word and music, even though the word became the scenario of the music. Any musical setting was derived from the composition of the vocal line.  It was all about finding the ‘key’ to a song, what unlocked the door to the room of life it occupied. The music was the room where the poem’s utterance lived.
With a Mass you were in trouble for the outset. There was a poetry of sorts, but poetry that, in the countless versions of the vernacular, had lost (perhaps had never had) the resonance of the Latin. He thought suddenly of the supposed words of William Byrd, ‘He who sings prays twice’. Yes, such commonplace words are intercessional, but when sung become more than they are. But he knew he had to be careful here.
Why do we sing the words of the Mass he asks himself? Do we need to sing these words of the Mass? Are they the words that Christ spoke as he broke bread and poured wine to his friends and disciples at his last supper? The answer is no. Certainly these words of the Mass we usually sing surround the most intimate words of that final meal, words only the priest in Christ’s name may articulate.
Write out the words of the Mass that represent its collective worship and what do you have? Rather non-descript poetry? A kind of formula for collective incantation during worship? Can we read these words and not hear a surrounding music? He thinks for a moment of being asked to put new music to words of The Beatles. All you need is love. Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. Oh bla dee oh bla da life goes on. Now, now this is silliness, his Critical Voice complains. And yet it’s not. When you compose a popular song the gap between some words scribbled on the back of an envelope and the hook of chords and melody developed in an accidental moment (that becomes a way of clothing such words) is often minimal. Apart, words and music seem like orphans in a storm. Together they are home and dry.
He realises, and not for the first time, that he is seeking a total musical solution to the whole of the setting of those words collectively given voice to by those participating in the Mass.
And so: to the task in hand. His objective: to focus on the whole rather than the particular.  Where had he heard that thought before? - when he had sat down at his drawing board an hour and half previously. He’d gone in a circle of thought, and with his sketch on the floor at his feet, nothing to show for all that effort.
Meanwhile the sun had risen. He could hear her moving about in the bathroom. He went to the kitchen and laid out what they would need to breakfast together. As he poured milk into a jug, primed the toaster, filled the kettle, the business of what might constitute a whole solution to this setting of the Mass followed him around the kitchen and breakfast room like a demanding child. He knew all about demanding children. How often had he come home from his studio to prepare breakfast and see small people to school? - more often than he cared to remember. And when he remembered he became sad that it was no more.  His children had so often provided a welcome buffer from sessions of intense thought and activity. He loved the walk to school, the first quarter of a mile through the park, a long avenue of chestnut trees. It was always the end of April and pink and white blossoms were appearing, or it was September and there were conkers everywhere. It was under these trees his daughter would skip and even his sons would hold hands with him; he would feel their warmth, their livingness.
But now, preparing breakfast, his Critical Voice was that demanding child and he realised when she appeared in the kitchen he spoke to her with a voice of an artist in conversation with his critics, not the voice of the man who had the previous night lost himself to joy in her dear embrace. And he was ashamed it was so.
How he loved her gentle manner as she negotiated his ‘coming too’ after those two hours of concentration and inner dialogue. Gradually, by the second cup of coffee he felt a right person, and the hours ahead did not seem too impossible.
When she’d gone off to her work, silence reasserted itself. He played his viola for half an hour, just scales and exercises and a few folk songs he was learning by heart. This gathering habit was, he would say if asked, to reassert his musicianship, the link between his body and making sound musically. That the viola seemed to resonate throughout his whole body gave him pleasure. He liked the ****** movement required to produce a flowing sequence of bow strokes. The trick at the end of this daily practice was to put the instrument in its case and move immediately to his desk. No pause to check email – that blight on a morning’s work. No pause to look at today’s list. Back to the work in hand: the Mass.
But instead his mind and intention seemed to slip sideways and almost unconsciously he found himself sketching (on the few remaining staves of a vocal experiment) what appeared to be a piano piece. The rhythmic flow of it seemed to dance across the page to be halted only when the few empty staves were filled. He knew this was one of those pieces that addressed the pianist, not the listener. He sat back in his chair and imagined a scenario of a pianist opening this music and after a few minutes’ reflection and reading through allowing her hands to move very slowly and silently a few millimetres over the keys.  Such imagining led him to hear possible harmonic simultaneities, dynamics and articulations, though he knew such things would probably be lost or reinvented on a second imagined ‘performance’. No matter. Now his make-believe pianist sounded the first bar out. It had a depth and a richness that surprised him – it was a fine piano. He was touched by its affect. He felt the possibilities of extending what he’d written. So he did. And for the next half an hour lived in the pastures of good continuation, those rich luxuriant meadows reached by a rickerty rackerty bridge and guarded by a troll who today was nowhere to be seen.
It was a curious piece. It came to a halt on an enigmatic, go-nowhere / go-anywhere chord after what seemed a short declamatory coda (he later added the marking deliberamente). Then, after a few minutes reflection he wrote a rising arpeggio, a broken chord in which the consonant elements gradually acquired a rising sequence of dissonance pitches until halted by a repetition. As he wrote this ending he realised that the repeated note, an ‘a’ flat, was a kind of fulcrum around which the whole of the music moved. It held an enigmatic presence in the harmony, being sometimes a g# sometimes an ‘a’ flat, and its function often different. It made the music take on a wistful quality.
At that point he thought of her little artists’ book series she had titled Tide Marks. Many of these were made of a concertina of folded pages revealing - as your eyes moved through its pages - something akin to the tide’s longitudinal mark. This centred on the page and spread away both upwards and downwards, just like those mirror images of coloured glass seen in a child’s kaleidoscope. No moment of view was ever quite the same, but there were commonalities born of the conditions of a certain day and time.  His ‘Tide Mark’ was just like that. He’d followed a mark made in his imagination from one point to another point a little distant. The musical working out also had a reflection mechanism: what started in one hand became mirrored in the other. He had unexpectedly supplied an ending, this arpegiated gesture of finality that wasn’t properly final but faded away. When he thought further about the role of the ending, he added a few more notes to the arpeggio, but notes that were not be sounded but ghosted, the player miming a press of the keys.
He looked at the clock. Nearly five o’clock. The afternoon had all but disappeared. Time had retreated into glorious silence . There had been three whole hours of it. How wonderful that was after months of battling with the incessant and draining turbulence of sound that was ever present in his city life. To be here in this quiet cottage he could now get thoroughly lost – in silence. Even when she was here he could be a few rooms apart, and find silence.
A week more of this, a fortnight even . . . but he knew he might only manage a few days before visitors arrived and his long day would be squeezed into the early morning hours and occasional uncertain periods when people were out and about.
When she returned, very soon now, she would make tea and cut cake, and they’d sit (like old people they wer
JA S-Mine Jan 2018
i keep a notebook
this is my notebook
filled with everything
and anything

i write
and i sob
while keeping a straight face
i let my depression speak
my blue pen touches paper
it bleeds through

i keep a notebook
this is my notebook
filled with notes
and snide remarks

i write
and i bite my lip
as my anger takes my place
red over white
he writes in cursive

i had a notebook
it was my notebook
filled with math equations
and reasons to live

i wrote
and i felt
as my emotions took over
as the smoke of burning memories
touches the clouds

i had a rope
and it was my rope
i had an apple tree
and it was my apple tree
i had a life
and it was my life
i had
sorry for the depressing poem, feeling those feelings like the rest of you
Savio Apr 2013
Stumbling through the streets of Mexico
At the ripe age of 20
Dancing nudely in front of his jewel eyes
It is 3am
and the latino barking k-9's are loud
loud and beautiful
like thinking you were dead
but you are woken by a train
and you touch the bridge of your nose
you touch the cheekbones
beneath your face
and you sigh in relief
that you are not dead:
The leaves are green
The grass too
Poison Ivy and Dandelions

Stumbling through Mexico
Wearing an old ***** flannel
a few buttons missing
Examining the streets
for cigarette butts
To unravel
To squeeze the brown tobacco
into his palm
for later
when he has the chance
the consciousness to buy rolling papers

bottle of cheap whiskey in his back pocket
holding an imaginary rifle
firing at the pigeons
at Cadillacs
that care freed on by

He had been at a bar
He was born in a Hospital
He liked to drink on top of buildings
He has a father who is dead

Stopping at a church that smelled of coffee
Music played
It was soft
Like a woman kissing you good-bye
Yet you try to recall the feeling of her lips
and cannot
He leaned his dark curly hair against the bricks that vibrated smoothly
from the violins
from the piano that over took the room
That washed away the hardwood floor
That tapped Death on the shoulder
That stopped the rain
That made you stand still
to make sure
you are not dead
And the Violin wakes you up
and it is Fall
Now Winter
Now you are with your mother
Now you are
and you look around and notice that
The music has stopped playing
and the Trees
look a little wet
look a little
than they used to be

Woke up to his whiskey bottle shattering underneath him
Saw the Sun
Saw that the Church was empty
Saw that the door was open
Saw that
He was hungry

Inside there was nothing
Not even a Cross
Not even an Alter
Nor a candle
did flicker

There was nothing on the walls
The stained glass windows were covered by sheets of metal
The hardwood floor
sank a little
He walked to the back room
An empty room
Not even a window

So he slept
and did not dream
His father taught him that Sleep Dreams were useless
when Savio woke
it was cold
Everything seemed very still
The walls holding their breaths
The Ceiling calm
The hardwood floor quiet not creaking

He opened the front doors
to see that it was Night
and that there were no Headlights
no Taillights
So he stumbled to the liquor store
Holding a Blue Notebook
That he used to
Write down the dreams he wanted to have
The Dreams
he was not allowed to have

At the liquor store
he bought wine
walked back to the abandoned church
and read to himself a dream he never had
but would like to have:
“I am home, a child, sitting or standing at a stream, it is warm, I am alone, but I am at home, Yet, I know that I will not be at this stream for ever.”

He closed his blue notebook
looking up he saw that the church was lit up
and music was
falling out of it
seeping through the wood like sap
The smell of coffee
the smell of cooking meat

Yet when he opens the door
it is empty
it is gray
it is tinted sad
And his father is there
peeling off the sheets of metal covering the stained glass

And Savio wakes up
Turns to his Blue Notebook.
Aztec Warrior Oct 2016
The Notebook

A small leaf fell from the notebook. It was Autumn colored transparency, gentle to the touch, not dried and brittle, but still seemed alive with vibrancy. Its shape was unusual to me and I discovered the tree it came from died out thousands of years ago.

The notebook, old leather bound, seemed just as old. A bit larger than my hand, you could feel wear of millennia in the symbols etched and raised on the back and spine. On the cover, a leafless, ancient and gnarly tree. It’s trunk at least 10 men, arms stretched around, with fat, ugly limbs touching the sky. It felt alive, breathing as my fingers brushed across the tree and symbols below it. An exciting warmth flowed in my mind and without really thinking, I picked up my pen and wrote my name atop the first page.

It made me smile, cause as I wrote “REDZONE”, the letters turned into ancient, ornate symbols and the space around me shifted, almost a dimensional phase in astral synchronicity but a dream walk reality. The paper, handmade papayra, drank in the ink coloring it with the passion of Time, licorice and figments of imagination.

Under my name, more symbols appeared smelling of musk, jasmine and blue nile; the words: “POET, WRITER, SINGER OF IMAGES AND PAINTER OF WORDS.” In smaller word symbols: “Keeper of our Stories and Origins”.

As I began to understand the notebook’s meaning, a single leaf materialized on the ancient tree. And a second small leaf of Autumn’s design formed as I wrote:
                                 Small leaves unfolding
                            In Autumn’s hue, written in
                                Sun rise morning dew.
                                 Leaves painted by words
                            Will cover this ancient tree
                                 With life origins.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 9.26.16
while I was staying with family past few weeks, my grandson Nicky gave me a hand made leather bound with hand made paper, notebook... he said that I should fill it up with poems and give it back to him... the above prose poem is the first entry..

hope you enjoy reading as I had in writing it...
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
  out again
  I write from the bed
  as I did last
  will see the doctor,
  "yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
  aches and my back
  "are you drinking?" he will ask.
  "are you getting your
exercise, your
  I think that I am just ill
  with life, the same stale yet
  even at the track
  I watch the horses run by
  and it seems
  I leave early after buying tickets on the
  remaining races.
  "taking off?" asks the motel
  "yes, it's boring,"
  I tell him.
  "If you think it's boring
  out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
  back here."
  so here I am
  propped up against my pillows
  just an old guy
  just an old writer
  with a yellow
  something is
  walking across the
  oh, it's just
  my cat
anastasiad Jan 2017
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Design and style ( blank ) Hewlett packard ProBook 450 G2
That 16.6-inch device has got dimensions 375x262x23-25 mm, and its particular body is employed matte soft-touch plastic material in addition to lightweight aluminum. Forces and hues the product, although it is kind of typical, or in other words conventional. The lid as well as the bottom on the ProBook 400 G2 black, while the important area ?silver. Alternatives back again of your pc, the idea contains the air vents, compartment, to which includes the ram segments and hard hard drive, and battery power as well as segments to help eject And sealing. As to the design, plus there is very little authentic. Include and also basic aspects slightly rounded physique truly becomes smaller, except that it is actually fuller regarding some mm.

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Present, sound, net camera - Horsepower ProBook 400 G2
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Keyboard set along with Touchpad ( blank ) Hewlett packard ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2
In the key-board, waiting in this laptop computer, there are plenty of benefits. This can be mostly a waterproof surface that won't complete towards interior pieces poured the liquid. It is usually a tropical, full-size, incorporates nampad.

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Efficiency ( blank ) Hp . p . ProBook 400 G2
Brand-new makes 64-bit main system Microsoft windows 7.One. Just in case Hewlett packard ProBook 450 G2 (J4S24EA) covering the low-voltage dual-core Apple company Central i5-4210U , which has a time clock volume of one.7 Ghz as well as a storage cache inside third volume of Several Megabytes. The following chip is made in Haswell 25 nm technological know-how, how many its features consist of service regarding Turbo Raise, which allows to boost the frequency to two.Several Ghz with a one lively nucleus, together with Hyper-Threading, through which the two cores is actually refined approximately three facts water ways in unison. As you can tell, compared to the forerunner Center i5-4200U the following a bit improved time clock pace since the bottom, and something by which the actual brand operates in any style Turbocompresseur. I must say which Center i5-4210U handle business office chores and also media, however if you have to have a stronger notebook, then otherwise you can pick an extensive fixed with primary Central i7.

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Locations as well as Marketing communications * Hp . p . ProBook 400 G2
Only be aware that on the appropriate side from the journal is really a more compact volume of slots compared to a eventually left. So, for the proper you can view this built-in visual push Disc +/- RW SuperMulti Defensive line, adjacent to which are a couple Universal serial bus Two.0 ports and a put together microphone connector and also a headset connector. Towards the end faces visible position with regard to Kensington lock.

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Cellular connection in a very pc through Wi-Fi 802.11b Versus grams / d along with Wireless bluetooth 4.1.

Battery power -- Horsepower ProBook 400 G2
Horsepower ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2 Battery Package with 5 parts. Lithium-ion battery power features a volume with 30 Wh in addition to asking for 65-watt power. On the independence in the notebook is not a great deal hard work Data, doing the job devoid of re charging mode internet surfing two to three hours, plus within a weight connected with at most A person.Several hours.

Realization -- Horsepower ProBook 450 G2
Hence, this particular novelty, portion of a series ProBook, will appeal to those people who get the job done each day with a notebook computer, but he was no unknown person for you to leisure. Which H . p . ProBook 400 G2 will assist keep, making it possible for to try out, focus on new music or check out video clips. Is the fact a visit to this kind of hobby will not likely continue to be very long, because the small operating duration of the battery pack. Of course, too high-quality illustrations or photos through the present, you cannot put it off, since settings and contrast are small, as well as timetable is certainly not the main stage. But that notebook computer ?it is just a viable option intended for everyday projects.

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alexa Feb 2018
you will never be forgotten.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.
Mya Mar 2015
haha, I wrote in your notebook
I guess you can't stop me
Even if you could,
I don't think you would

You're too blind
And you despise my joy
Even when it's me
Writing in your notebook

This means some of your space is mine
Does it scare you to be open?
To let someone else within your pages
And to be a part of your space?

I wrote in your notebook
And I guess it was wrong to laugh
Not everyone wants to be open
And share

Yet again, don't you love me?
Do you fear that I may hurt you?
Please trust that I care for you
And I would never hurt you

All I want to do
Is laugh in joy
And write in your notebook
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I almost forgot about you today. A sizable
spill of coffee shot me to my feet, holding
up my mocha-soaked notebook like an
unclaimed child. A dozen eyes found
me at once---a security measure meant
to bring shame to a klutz breaking his
social contract. Attention for **** living.
When the pain receded I stood in place
and imagined you brushing your teeth.
Your love is algebra
I can't find the formula
If I could find the right calculator,
I could define your euphoria.

Your love is geometry
I can't find the angles
If I could prove your theories,
It wouldn't be a shambles.

Your love is trigonometry
I can't figure it out
If I spent an entire notebook, perhaps
I'd still have doubts.

Your love is a mystery
Just as the greatest math
Although worth much,
Seems irrelevant to my path.
A Thomas Hawkins Aug 2010
Let us fill this notebook,
with the words we dare not speak.
Of a love that is forbidden,
lest the havoc it would wreak.

For now we'll keep it secret,
a place to rendezvous,
where you can talk of me,
and I can talk of you.

A place to ask the questions,
normal lovers get to ask.
Only ours will be handwritten,
such is the nature of our task.

A place to write sweet nothings,
and lines of loving prose,
to share our private jokes,
and act like everybody knows.

We'll take turns to enter something,
for each month we are apart.
Consider this my entry,
your turn to grab a pen and start.

But one day we'll take this notebook,
sit together, look within,
and on that day I hope we find,
this single entry found therein.
Keith Skyy Nov 2011
I'm told not to hide what I feel,
But the only place I truly reveal,
What I am feeling deep within myself,
Is in the notebook that sits upon my shelf.
                 It's always waiting there for me,
                 To open it up and trail my ink,
                 So that my thoughts I keep hidden away,
                 Finally have a place to stay.
Sometimes I surprise my conscious mind,
With things I write in such short time,
But other times I can't say what I mean,
And the subject stays a thought unseen.
                  Certain days the page will glow with glee,
                  Other days it's dark, depressing and mean,
                  Some days there is no emotion at all,
                  And the notebook lies still against the wall.
I despise the day that will come too soon,
When I arrive home and rush to my room,
Full of thoughts I must put in a cage,
Only to find the notebook has no blank page.
I never thought that a three second eye contact
Could rock my world like this
I just wanted you to notice me
It was never my intention to fall
I don't know where I lost control
Must have been somewhere between your smile and the way you dance

You have marked my notebook
But your smile left a mark on my heart and mind too
You are everywhere I go
And everyone I see
Take my heart with you
I don't need it without you

**I think I better Ron (run)
Fangirling. I dedicate this to the boy who made my day extraordinary. This is for you Ron Mclean Galang. <3
DarkDepriment Jun 2014
I found the secret notebook you hid from me
It was full of love letters that you never gave to me
Because I was too cold hearted to let you in.
RN Nov 2018
So here's the notebook of mine
Where I wrote all my sweet and cheesy lines
Please read all of this if you have time
Cause it's for you even I can't call you mine

This notebook will be the proof of my love for you
All the words and lines I wrote every page are true
Unlike Bruno Mars, you can just count on me until two
I'll be there because I love you and will always do

My love. I hope you'll remember me someday
Keep this notebook and don't throw it away
It's the summary of my feelings that I want to say
I love you forever, you're the reason why I pray
Rhymes in my Mind
My notebook lay in pieces

From my anger back in time

Something treasured; precious: shredded

All to match my mind

Along the line, another suffered

With its brethren folder

Stanzas, thoughts, ideas along with

Rants were left to smolder

Soon, I metamorphosed

My whole self into a new

And in the wind behind me

I watched as my cocoon blew

Little layers containing me

Yet strengthening my soul
So silly, yet so precious

Yonder through the dust it rolled

Lost, but not forgotten

My old writing disappeared

My notebook lay in shreds

On many floors through many years

Perhaps a line or paragraph

Floats on beneath the sun

Perhaps the ashes of a special

Character still run

To the wandering thoughts I’ve mangled

I give gratitude

The future of these brand new thoughts

Won’t see a fate so crude

For every distant memory

Of what I have destroyed

Has taught me that my strange old mind

Is one I can’t avoid
Aaron Wallis Feb 2014
A lowly wooden bench lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.
He and the bench creak as he sits back; clutching at the satchel veiled among his dull drudged garb that bleeds into his pallid slack and cracked skin.
The wiry hairs bushed around his nostrils recoil to the deep inhale before the sigh, his yawning blue eyes sliding behind a milky glaze follow a bushy tailed rodent hurry into the confidence of a tree.
Through all nonchalance a pair of hobgoblin lugs under a brown woollen hat slides up the flanks of his head to outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity, an unseen clutch of kids filling the common’s spread with their foolish louting prances. Intimidating the preferred and performed with their innocuous idiocies; a mere asocial array of follies without the thought of good manner.
The thoughts of the old man are only briefly drawn; his ears leave the sounds of reckless recreation and back to the hushing song of the swaying grass, the rustling shake of the seasoned leaves on gorged and drooping branches. To his own wilted waning heart, the tremors, quiver and shivers within his own cage, his thoughts turned to his own temporal passage and to the re-joining of his love, of whom no longer lays her head on his shoulder, whom no longer wraps herself around his arm on the lowly park bench.
His lowest lip gives to an emotive tremble as he heaves himself over to the hem of the seat, his hands without any other part to play; frenetically tickle one another with frail kinked fingers.
With what little his body has left to give the eyes well to the upmost point of a tear, as he feels the weight of his wallet in his side trouser pocket against the rough of his skin. Where there within lays an image of a most loved face in a prized time, so that it may be remembered so it may fetch ease to a remittent floundering morsel of a man who could justly with the dead.
The photograph within his keeping need not be looked upon from under the shine of a laminated holding; it needs only to be there, only to be known that it is there.
The satchel was undid and fetched from within the clutter came an elderly notebook now held in his hands. A phlegmy husk of something said breeches his gummy chops, and he spits as he spat shouting out at the still of the garden.
“You should always write more than you do,” she would say, “you are better for it when you do and it lifts me as it does you, when you do.”
The old man reads from the notebook with a weak hate for the world.

“Am I for the worms yet? Am I to be from this rock?
Am I not yet too mad for this mad maddening world?
Four corners of an empty house, a homeless place of curling wallpaper and aloneness for company.
A room in a vagrant house with no light to fill it with a decrepit fool for a keeper
His stink stinks the walls for days as the blow flies form a speckled haze as they feast in filth of his unnoticed demise
With no manner of intention and for relation or friend, there is no cause and no mention for any to attend
He will rot with the house and his memory with it, with his memory does his love die and together they are ghosts in a world where ghosts do not exist.”

The old man pauses as he forcibly triggers one finger to his temple and ***** in his lips. His empty cries fall to a mumble as his hands tremble with his dear notebook in their grasp.

“Take me now cruel are the fates, take me now and rid me
The worms will welcome me, my flesh for an endless night
My life for a world without this life, for a life without his world
I would hold with a brim smile if it was not for my memory of her, if she was not to be lost at the close of this stint
I know not or want knowledge; I seek not of a design and not of meaning
Just a cure for this affliction for my must to her who brings me so much sorrow
Through blissful ages I can no longer hold, and can barely recall
We are all just people who will soon be once living, to be unlived and to forget is a conflict in myself
I have no answer as I have no question, you can have no answer to a question you do not seek nor ask
I dare not speak but I have no end for this, I have no solace and I have no end.”
The old man; the poor old man began to close his dear aged notebook and find the need to bring a smile, perhaps a moment of lunacy to calm the tightening knot beneath his breast.
He pulled a scratching cackle from the pit, wild and uncooked wiping the drool from the crook of his maw with the back of his blotched, mottled hand.
The old man found some seconds of a stoic amenity as his wild eyes grew gallant for those mere moments before the grey metal heft of his sullen vesture fell to his shoulders, he became heavy once more as the world retook him and cloaked again in the present - the light ebbed from him as swiftly as it came. The old man reproached his satchel to humbly return his dear old notebook.
There was a crack like a pick to ice with a hollow thud like a boot to wood as an immediately dissipating claret mist fizzed above his head. The make shift found-about cosh still swinging through the air and over his crown, the old man’s wilted body twisted and slumped to the floor face first. The concrete path before him tearing at the skin of his chin, his frail bones cracked as the meagre weight of his body forced itself into his neck. Laying perverse and unnatural the life was soaked up into his woollen hat and out across the concrete, to the grass – to the worms that writhed below the muck. His eyes were as lifeless as they were when he lived.
They did not wait for the gentle hiss of the spray or the bubbles that popped in the pool that surrounded the old man. They had snatched the satchel and ran off into the spread of the common until they were nothing but outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity.
Crazy old *******.
A lowly wooden bench has lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.
I wanted to look at the people we never notice or avoid and there potential differences, whether it be an old crazy man on a bench or a group of youths in hoods. I wanted to follow the man though and his reason for him to be sitting in the bench a momentary peak into his life. I also tried to paint a scene with a little detail as I could. I only hope it all worked.
Mark Upright May 2018
"Stop your navel gazing, get out your notebook, there’s a world exploding out there"

Tom Wolfe
25 | 31 Poems for August 2016

A few months ago you didn't know that I could write or recite like that.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
If my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished then just know that I wrote from the heart.
I know that love is a beautiful thing but sometimes I feel like its main intention is to tear me apart.
So don’t be too surprised when I tell you that I’m slowly falling to pieces.
The ocean in my muse’s eyes reminds me of the colour of the sky and how I want to dive into the depths of who she is.
The world has made her feel like an abandoned church but in my eyes she’ll always be a cathedral.
She will always be a cathedral and you can say hallelujah or amen to that.
We are from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
Went from breaking up, breaking down, breaking through to finally breaking new ground.
So even though I’m hurting now I know I’ll eventually be safe and sound when a new season comes around.
I’m still fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Reading the lines on a woman’s skins is poetry and too many men are illiterate.
So they will never truly understand the fact that liberty begins with literacy.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
Even if my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished I will always write from the heart.
This poem feels as incomplete as my life right now.
Ray Dunn Mar 2019
I lost my notebook the other day
It didn’t quite look like something
I had made.
It looked too pristine, too manicured.
I wrote on its pages with all my heart,
I could have no way of knowing it wasn’t messy enough.

It had a grey cover.
My last name written on the inside.
It wasn’t exactly filled yet…
But the words inside tumbled out like
I’d never intended them to.

It’s long gone.
Probably left in my classroom…
Maybe on the floor of my car.
Who knows!
I don’t quite have the energy to look right now.
Not enough energy until it’s too late to look.

I spent six dollars on it.
Down at the local craft store.
Its’ cover design fades from white to black,
Very different from the contrast of my pen.
I only ever used black ink.
Maybe it’s because, that’s what color pen was closest.

I lost my notebook the other day.
Hopefully someone will find it.
I guess they’ll probably read my name on the cover,
God help me if they read anything but my name.
They might think
I’m sad.
I guess they’d be right.
Believe it or not this is based on a true story, and I’ve lost my poetry notebook! The only place I would’ve left it is in my classroom or in my car, the only places my bag went that day, but I’m worried I’ve lost it for good. Basically this poem isn’t even metaphorical and is 100% literal Update: I found it!!!!!!
elle Mar 2012
My notebook
Is my best and only friend
I trust you with all my secrets
My darkest wishes
My brightest memories
We exchange tales
Of love
And heartbreak
I can count on you to be there for me
So I cam vent to you
About all the reality I wish to leave
Thanks, notebook
For keeping my inner thoughts
In your beautiful bindings
Nigel Finn Jul 2018
No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.
This space to be left blank
Patrick McCombs Jan 2011
I clutch my spiral ring notebook
Close to my pounding chest
I flinch with every glancing look
My thoughts do not rest
With cold hard stares
Their eyes drill into my head
I sit here among the savage bears
I sit on my death bed
I make sure the sheets are nice and neat
I write endlessly in my notebook
I flow my fears into it and steady my heart beat
I ramble like an endless brook
Javier Garza May 2015
Thoughts from the past written on these faded pages
The pain sealed behind each written word
Etched onto the old pages like the faded lines on damaged skin
Haunted memories that call out
The demons from nightmares
All locked and imprisoned in this old notebook
A notebook that burns with the pain within it
These cursed pages
This cursed notebook
This cursed past
All mine
All that I've endured
All that I've defeated
Honey Jan 2015
the idea of you

sits like God in my mind

with a pen and notebook

on the curbside of nowhere

where angels don't sing.

you don't know that your eyes

gleam with pictures of heaven

and if i believed in such a place,

it would surely be ruled by you.

draw shapes of jupiter in my palm

and i'll write a poem about how it felt

when the boy who held the world with his fingertips

sang me to sleep

on a Sunday afternoon
Lani Foronda Sep 2014
I want to surround myself with photographs at my feet.
I want to explore and have adventures with my camera in hand.
I want to get up early in the morning to see the sun rise and see drops of dew on the grass.
I want to walk around at night and see the city lights shine.
I want to count the stars as I lie down on a field of grass and play Us Against the World.
I want to write in a leather notebook all my thoughts.
I want to have a bonfire and watch all my memories burn in the flames.
I want to curl up on the couch and read as the sun warms my skin.
I want to sleep at 2 am and wake up to the birds chirping outside my window.
I want to remind myself of why I fell in love with photography and writing.
I want to go back to makes me me.
May 22, 2012
Lydia Oct 2016
You see terrible things
Maybe you're a child or a teenager
You talk to a therapist
They give you "medication."
You take drugs
You forget.

You get sick somehow, and it's bad this time
You see some weird doctors with titles you can't pronounce,
Maybe you spend some time in the hospital
You see your therapist again
They make sure you're still on your "medication."
You take drugs
You forget.

You're in school again now and you're taking some sort of exploratory writing class
You always end up writing about the same character and you're not sure why
Every time you try and write something else, it turns out like **** and you throw it away
You're too afraid to show your parents or your friends, so you hide your work, and
You take drugs
You forget.

Maybe you've finished school now, maybe you haven't
Your writing class has been over for months, maybe years now
But you still remember that one character, and you pull out your notebook
Looking back, you wish you had tried harder to learn something new in that class,
Maybe tried to experiment more
You put the notebook on the shelf of books you're done with
You take drugs
You forget.

You've been having nightmares for awhile now,
Sometimes you can't sleep at all
You start to keep a log,
Suddenly, you don't want to forget but
You don't want to be sick, and you don't remember what all of these pills do so
You take drugs
You forget

You've grown up with all of these ticks and habits
It was fine when you lived with your parents, but it annoys your roommate
They say you talk in your sleep and you say you're not surprised
All of your books got shuffled around in the move and you notice your notebook from writing class
You promise yourself that you'll read it sometime soon, until then
You take drugs
You forget

You dig out that old notebook and think a lot of that character you always wrote about
They are exactly what you wanted to be, but you aren't now and that upsets you
The notebook reminds you of the log that you kept and you dig that out, too
You really don't want to forget anymore
You feel like part of your mind has been drowned in this stuff and suddenly you care about all of the blank spots in your memories
You spend all day looking at photo albums and reading about your "medications" one at a time
Your mind and body are suddenly your decision, but
You're tired
It's been a long day trying to fill in all the blanks
You take drugs
Your write yourself a note in the half an hour before you fall asleep
You forget, but not completely
Not this time.
Please comment :)
Mya Nov 2016
I'm still in your notebook
Long after you've left
My page remains
Being open was hard for you
I get that
Not all of us can bare to share
But I pushed you away
For that I'm sorry
If you ever need me again
I'll still remain in your notebook
Forever my love
September Roses Oct 2018
The arctic cold has brushed my cheek once again
The skies are stained white
and the ringing in my ears
is louder than ever
I wonder what the clouds are doing, I never see them anymore
The night doesnt come but the sun doesn't shine
I have a silver notebook
I write, spearmint
Because my eyes are watering but I feel nothing
The world is dry while the air is full
And the heavens take their morning pills
Wash their face
Head off sleepily to begrudgingly watch the icy seas
The wind bites my cheeks
But moves in such silence I wonder if the feeling is not just my routine punishment
At least I'm used to my spirits
At least I have a jacket on
At least the heavens didnt take a sick day all together.
Somewhere beneath that piano's superb sleek black
Must hide my mother's piano, little and brown with the back
That stood close to the wall, and the front's faded silk, both torn
And the keys with little hollows, that my mother's fingers had worn.
Softly, in the shadows, a woman is singing to me
Quietly, through the years I have crept back to see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the shaking strings
Pressing the little poised feet of the mother who smiles as she sings

The full throated woman has chosen a winning, living song
And surely the heart that is in me must belong
To the old Sunday evenings, when darkness wandered outside
And hymns gleamed on our warm lips, as we watched mother's fingers glide

Or this is my sister at home in the old front room
Singing love's first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom.
She will start when she sees me, and blushing, spread out her hands
To cover my mouth's raillery, till I'm bound in her shame's heart-spun bands

A woman is singing me a wild Hungarian air
And her arms, and her ***** and the whole of her soul is bare
And the great black piano is clamouring as my mother's never could clamour
And the tunes of the past are devoured of this music's ravaging glamour.

— The End —