One Word.

A question fills my heart and my mind.
Though short, polite, and quite refined.
Just one word, to share what I really think.
But I say it quite slowly, not intending a blink.
For it sounds like a whisper, it is no harsh sound.
And it leaves your breath hanging, on to the very echo it leaves behind.

As my heart saddens and my throat closes up,
I squeeze that one word out into the open air.
Wondering, not in amazement, but confusion.
These things that just happen, that suddenly appear,
Deserve this one word that only you and I hear.
One word, one breath, is all it needs.

So tell me life's happenings,
You are here, seeming to stay.
No thought of surrendering,
What must happen today.
I ask one little thing,
One word, in one breath.

As I say it, you hear me sigh.
Out of exhaustion, confusion, and everything more.
I say it, and it echos through the walls and floors.

Why?

Feelings.

Flying through the air, catching my breathe. My eyes swell with tears from the wind as it crashes against me. My throat closes so no words are of use. My heart sinks plunging into the sea, and my hands shake with fear. My pale skin returns with no good news. Everything seems a blur, no, nothing in focus. The tears my eyes bring drip down across my lips. I sit and forget what joy is, being thrown into this dark place. The wind howls in my ears and the soft whispers of the tormented are all I hear.

Relieve me of this thought, of this pain, of this oppressing way. Let me go, and let there be no more torture. Save me of this misery and let me hear sweet tunes. Let my limbs no longer feel numb so that I may dance in joy and love. But sadness wraps my heart, and no hope is to be found. Not yet.

You are here now. My stomach flutters with the joy that consumes my body. A smile is no longer brief, but seemingly everlasting. A soft pink covers me now, and a sweat comes from being overwhelmed. I jump and dance, yes, a happiness now is within me. For You have come and saved my soul. The darkness no longer wins and no longer do I scream in pain and misery. Your light overcomes everything and the love You pour into my soul is unexplainable.

Walking across the valley I feel You beside me, yes, You are here now.
Don't leave. Please don't.
You are what I need.
You are all I need.

Snow.

Snow is flying in the air,
As the wind quickens its pace.
Laying almost everywhere,
Each flake now takes its place.

Glazing the ground with light white blanket,
You cannot even see.
The brown tree branches up against the sky,
Or the grass beneath your feet.

Cold and gray it left the sky,
As if an old and lonely sea.
The warm calm breeze comes swiftly by,
And wakes the sky with relief.

Our Little Girl

Our hearts are broken
From one little girl
Whom we loved and whom we lived in
Smothering her with love
We could not tell the future
Or the brokenness we would then compose
Now the solitude they feel
At the emptiness which now is revealed
Will crumble our hearts at just the sight
The love in which we lent
To that one little heart, that one little girl
May-hap go far into the world that we do not know well at all

But who knows
Who dares to say
In which the wind will obey
It could blow in many ways
In our favor
Or in theirs
O wind please be ours
Be ours to blow
To blow away and back again
I want to see her -- yes please once again
To see her smile and hear her laugh
O what a joy would that be in
For that little girl
She is ours too
Yes she -- is Our Little Girl

Finally. I got a post out.

I sit down to write a post. To start again with this writing thing.
Who knew that it could be this difficult to just write a post. . . I didn't.
In the movies you watch people like Kathleen Kelly and Julie Powell sit down and write something -- even if it's on a food blog or in a message to an "over the internet" friend. Somehow they managed to get something out. Something out that didn't sound completely ridiculous because they didn't know what to say. They formed words that sounded good together and little phrases that never leave your mind like, "a bouquet of sharpened pencils..." and such like that. Of course, they had script writer's who formed the words for them, but someone still thought of it. Someone thought of, "I like Patricia. I *love* Patricia. Patricia makes coffee nervous" and all of those things that just make me laugh and want to hear that line said again.

They also have the benefit of living in a place like New York City, where they can write about the things that they see every morning that happen to be very good at repetition. Writing about bakery's opening up for the day, people's habits in grocery stores, and the every day conversations that you have in the same book store that you own.
And what could I write about? I could write about the school buses that pick up the children in our neighboring homes. The farmer's that eat at the local diner every morning. The same mail man that brings our mail. The two lady's that walk the same route every day, normally at the same time. And such like that.
But all those seam almost blase, if you will.
Perhaps I will try to make them sound as interesting as New York City's little habits. Who knows.

But not now.

----

.....

children laugh as many sing.
people discuss as children scream.
but I, no not I, could ever handle these things.

toys are on the floor while people just ignore,
all the incredibly intricate entertainment that they are there for.
but I, no not I, could ever handle these things.

these things that I speak of are not for my life,
for although it may be nice I am quite the opposite.
yes I, indeed I, am quite different and only wish to be the way which I speak of.

for children laugh as many sing.
people discuss as children scream.
and I just sit and ignore as best as I can.

indeed toys are on the floor while people just ignore,
all the incredibly intricate entertainment that they are there for.
and I, yes indeed I, just sit and ignore it all and do nothing about it.

utter failure. the loss of destination. nothing in sight, and no one to be heard.

it is a blank slate with no directions written on it to help you at all. . .

. . .it is a blank slate with no directions written on it to help me.

but with no directions I shall move forward,
even if there are to be trials in the moving.
for I, yes indeed I, shall not ignore my failures,
but make better of them and turn them around into a way for me to move forward.

to move, and not stand still.
to make something from nothing.
to sing while feeling melancholy in heart.
to help when I am not motivated.
to make everything worth while.
to love and not hate. . . .

. . .to handle the situation, and not ignore.

yes I, indeed I, shall conquer this.

I shall.

temptations.

I sit in the kitchen. Jeff Buckley in the back round accompanying my many thoughts.
A younger brother comes in with the mail, and I happen upon reception cards that were sent back for my sister's wedding. So soon, that event is coming. . .and soon, would I like this pounding headache to go away.

But piles of folded laundry wait for me to put them away. My Grandpa and Grandma's apartment bed wants to be made by me so that it looks ready for someones arrival. So many things call on me so that I might be able to do it, but I still just sit here drinking my coffee that calms me. I continue to type certain computer keys to make words that you can read. . .

And yet I feel as if I might fail at both typing and with the many things that need to be done. For Jeff Buckley's falsetto is pulling me into a deep sleep that tempts me very much. The thought of sleeping and relaxing is such a wonderful thought to me at this very moment. So much that other things don't even seem like something that needs to be done. But sleep is something that I need to get done, so I may be ready for the days ahead of me. . .

"No," I say in response to this wonderful thought that came into my head. For although it is a wonderful thought and it tempts me so, it can not be. So many things need to be done, and some need to be done by a certain time. . .so no is all I can say. . .

But my mind is utterly confused with this strange and odd decision I have made.


"What?. . .why?. . ."

And all I can say is. . .

"I don't know. . . ."

one year.

one year ago my precious little niece was born. and almost exactly a year ago I wrote this:



another niece. a cute little girl.
little, tiny, and adorable.
although i have not seen her eye to eye,
i can see her and say "my, my, my."
aubrey you have a special spot in me.
and forever it shall always be.