Monday, 17 April 2017

Anthony Desmond

With each review I write, I'm finding more appreciation for words and how they are phrased within individual poems. Just like that of today's poet Anthony Desmond...

Strap

I bathe in a washtub
surrounded by grass and weeds.
I take buckets of water,
pour them over my head
and act as if a God
is purifying my sins
but these riches are
damned by the poorest
of bastards with souls
as cold as the leather
they wish their daddies
beat them with.
They learned pain is love,
and I ain't talkin' bout the
sting of discipline.

Such luscious language and imagery is strongly associated with this piece – I could almost smell the grass and the weeds. It's quite powerful indeed when one allows their senses to take over when reading a piece of poetry that leaves you to just genuinely think. I found this particular section to be especially soul nourishing:

I take buckets of water,
pour them over my head
and act as if a God
is purifying my sins
but these riches are
damned by the poorest
of bastards with souls

Water is often utilized as a purification medium – it really does give one pause to think about what it really means to be baptized and how that symbolic sacraments truly are with regards to the growth we face as humans. I can clearly see how one would think pouring buckets over their head to be an act of God – in that action you could not exclusively be cleaning your body but your soul as well. A physical purification of an emotional act. Quite profound indeed!

Hands

You brush your hair in the evenings
Humid curls with every stroke
as if moist fingers tousled your locks.
You say it's the damp heat
in our room, so I turn on the AC
and enjoy this sky blue fiddle.
She walks to the kitchen counter,
her robe half open; he admires a peek
of her breast, as she goes about her
business. Yet shudders at the depths of
life and death between her legs.
If I would've surrendered like
a civilian told to throw the white flag
in the trenches, my reward would
proudly be a house with too many
bathrooms and a bed that's just
for me, to sleep.

I like this poem because it really does offer a slight video of what someone's life could potentially look like from the confines of their own dwelling. For some reason, I really have no idea why but it is propelling me to think like this – can you see this snapshot captured with words taking place either first thing in the morning or right before bed at night. This time does certainly not strike me as a middle of the day scene. Now, come to think of it – this piece could easily reference an evening routine...


Guardian

You never wore shoes
and I waited for you
to dip your feet in the water,
leaving a trail for me
to follow like a loved one
gone too soon.
I floated on the thought
of you alone, singing
the lonely lover's call
as a vulture over
freshly killed prey.

Why is it that when the water is cold we have the instinct to directly put our toes in and not just jump right on it. There are indeed dangerous things in the water as are on land however it seems more dramatic to use water for this purpose over land.

I kept reading this section repeatedly:

I floated on the thought
of you alone, singing
the lonely lover's call
as a vulture over
freshly killed prey.


I'm reminded of the Sirens from the ocean how they would lull the men on their ships into a strong slumber – in order for them to ensure a properly crashed boat. I wonder what one would consider to be the vulture over of the ocean? One which lingers on freshly killed prey ready to be devoured – leaves one feeling completely satisfied if you ask me as our world has always and will always survive by the old adage of only the strong survive. 

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

R.Z. Joyce

My next showcase R.Z.Joyce has no compunction ruffling a few feathers by saying on her Instagram last week; that if she was a male and had written a poem like the one that was showcased she would have like a gazillion followers. I'd never really given much thought to gender with regards to poetry. Do women have to work harder in this realm to be considered equals? In fact just this past week while I was inputting Cockroach Blueprint Anthology submissions I'd noticed that one of my contributors was a female who signed her name with that of a male. It's definitely a dialogue worth exploration. This subject certainly does offer more than a slight amount of food for thought.

There's a stillborn in Brazelton,
Warm yet,
with a definitive lack of first breath,
and a heartbreak that only was a moment.
It's a sad day for the rugby match too
As the ground knows the reason
For loss
and a frostbitten morning sky
Chewed and digested
with unbuttered toast and cold coffee
reminds us how grey
is the color of regret.

I can't imagine what having a stillborn baby would even begin to feel like – I think it to be probably one of the most traumatic things a woman can go through. I imagine the recovery from something like that -- would be at half past never. The careful way in which R.Z. layered this touching piece is quite poignant indeed. When there is absence of colour, a monochromatic palette takes over and transference to grey is quite the relatable mood when an instance of horror has occurred in one's life. I must admit I think this piece is carefully crafted – the way R.Z. Speaks of a “stillborn in Brazelton” and how “it's a sad day for the rugby match too” tying everything to the “the colour of regret.” All three aspects strongly featured within these words – as emotive as one can get when describing incidents that render grey aura's during moments of intimate turmoil.


I didn't mean to die that day
As the sands drew down
And the tar sap oozed in the heat.
There was nothing more for me to do there
But I almost forgot to breathe
And the breeze didn't cool off
anything at all.
A year later I wrapped my car around a
pole.
I said I had a foot cramp
But that was a different matter.
On this day as I sat on the mossy rock
Turning it over and over in my hands
The metal wasn't even cold
With my dress sticky on the backs of my
thighs
And my temples dripping...
There was nothing more for me to do there
But I stayed.

I wonder how Dali would have painted an accident in the heat of the sun the way he did his clocks. Would they drip with sweat and fall as one dimensional painted beings would? When I read the piece above, I thought of a wayward soul that had no idea they'd just died – how they would rest closest to the scene of whatever accident ended their life – in a state of constant confusion. I must admit I personally relished the lines below:

I didn't mean to die that day
As the sands drew down
And the tar sap oozed in the heat.
There was nothing more for me to do there
But I almost forgot to breathe
And the breeze didn't cool off
anything at all.

I just love the casual way R.Z. Joyce starts this poem – so matter of fact especially with something as heavy handed as death. Indeed, once again more subjects to ponder upon. 

Bring me the writer that rambles at night.
The one who is sick and whose words are contrite
Bring me the stumbled, the accident prone
The ones who drink often because they're alone
Bring me the words of a bruised barren soil
The tracts now gone sallow
The till and the toil
But sweep them all downward
And brush them away
They're crumbs, they're husked sweepings
They're compost and hay
The dust of their musings
ne'er blind my bright eye
Le me tamp down the embers
Of swathe burnt ripe rye.

I was reminded of a scene from one of my favourite stories by Oscar Wilde called The Happy Prince. The story was about this statue of a prince, who stood in the centre of town tall and proud able to see all of his subjects suffer. He'd decided that he could offer respite to them while they struggle in their daily lives by asking a little swallow to deliver gold or jewels to each of those who required aid. One of these beings the Happy Prince and asked the swallow to remove sapphires from the eyes of the prince once the gold had been peeled off of his statue to give to a playwright. Enough to buy some wood for his fire and food for his belly in order to finish a play by luna's light and that of a fresh fire in the place.

Bring me the writer that rambles at night.
The one who is sick and whose words are contrite
Bring me the stumbled, the accident prone
The ones who drink often because they're alone
Bring me the words of a bruised barren soil


I'll be damned if this section doesn't remind me of every writer I've met at some point or another in the course of their life.  

Please take the time to follow R.Z. Joyce and her thought provoking body of work on Instagram.

Saturday, 8 April 2017

Christy Aldridge

When I read the poems of my next showcase Christy Aldridge I want to just sit and cry. Because her work is lovely and EXTREMELY emotive. It moves me to think of a mission that I started years ago called “the verity of humanity” basically, searching for personal and intimate truths. And Christy is quite honest about speaking hers.

Plastic

Everything is beautiful from the outside, looking in, faces pressed
against the glass, imagining the sweet words being said as you read
our lips and pretend everything is perfect.
Everything is fine.
Everything is perfect.
I'm okay.
Our smiles could be envious, you wish you were us because who
wouldn't want to be? You can see our perfect faces from the other
side of the glass. You can see our perfect life. We're happy.
Everything is fine.
Everything is perfect.
I'm okay.
From the outside looking in, we have it all. We kiss and carry on.
We smile and laugh. We put on a good show for our audience.
Everything is fine.
Everything is perfect.
I'm okay.
You can't see the glass we walk on, forcing laughs to cover up the
tears. You can't hear the abuse, the control, the intent in the words
we say cruelly between smiling teeth. You can't feel the pain we
keep creating to amuse those looking in. You can't smell the stench
of death as we rot. You can't touch the plastic our skin has turned
into as we change into what we're expected.
But everything is fine.
And everything is perfect.
Don't worry.
I'm okay.

Every single human being has issues in their life that they struggle with – perspective and to not judge is the key. I know, at times, someone's life might seem completely perfect – a utopia – feast for the eyes when others are looking in. But, their intimate truths tell another story. I thought the first sentence of each stanza created a smooth transition throughout
Plastic to show the severity of one's own human truths. My favourite one was...

You can't see the glass we walk on, forcing laughs to cover up the
tears. You can't hear the abuse, the control, the intent in the words
we say cruelly between smiling teeth. You can't feel the pain we
keep creating to amuse those looking in. You can't smell the stench
of death as we rot. You can't touch the plastic our skin has turned
into as we change into what we're expected.

There is such power here not only through the words but also through actions. I mean think about it – we only know the faces people are willing to open up their hearts to sharing. Everyone seems to always judge people for some reason or another but no one truly knows anyone – as truths almost always mean keeping people at a distance even though their faces are pressed up against the proverbial freshly wiped with Windex windows.


Emptys

How much louder do I have to scream before someone starts
listening? How many words do I have to spell out for you before
you finally see that something is terribly wrong here? How many
bruises must I self-inflict upon the unseen parts of my soul before
you'll admit something is wrong with me? How many cuts must I
make before you notice the blood? How many ways must one
person die before you understand? Before you sympathize? Before
you decide to offer your help? How much more do I have to cling
to my sanity in hopes of getting better? Of escaping? Or finally
giving in? How many smiles must I force before my face finally
breaks and reveals what no one will ever understand? How many
laughs must I fake before you play back the tape and hear the
voices in static

-I'm not ok nowhere near okay I'm on of the emptys-

and understand that we're all just losing our minds and pretending
to be okay? How many more times do I need to start writing for
me only to find myself speaking for us? How long before I realize
my voice is louder than the preset I've been operating at? But how
much louder do I have to scream before someone starts listening?
How many people must lose their voice to finally be heard?


How many times have you casually walked down the hall at work or supermarket and bumped into someone that you know? Of course, upon first sight in a civilized culture the first thing that should come from one's mouth is "hello, how are you?"  The next part is the tricky – how many of you in a clearly not fine mood or even state fit for company turns the corners of their mouths up to conceal the pain with a half smile with the answer of “I'm good, how are you?” We have become a desensitized society – and once again – the last stanza genuinely speaks to me:

and understand that we're all just losing our minds and pretending
to be okay? How many more times do I need to start writing for
me only to find myself speaking for us? How long before I realize
my voice is louder than the preset I've been operating at? But how
much louder do I have to scream before someone starts listening?
How many people must lose their voice to finally be heard?

I'm just going to let that sit there for you to think about. Before, I add one more thing... if you are person who is screaming at the top of your lungs in silence – who is not constantly heard that could cause a lot of pain – eventually that person will genuinely end up blowing their casket after feeling silenced for a long time.


Swimming With Sharks

You're suffocating me. I can't hardly breathe when we talk. Can't
speak. Can't think. You've cut the oxygen to my brain and I'm
slowly dying beneath your embrace. You've placed a pillow over
my face and you smother me. You place your hand securely over
my mouth to capture my words and my thoughts before they hit
the open air. You've become my filter, sifting through what I feel
until you find something that works for you while I begin to rot
inside. I don't know when I became such a problem for you, when
what i say became grounds for you to censor who I am. I sit by
myself and my mind begins to reel. I start to wonder why I ever
let it get this far, how I let you get this much control over me
because this was supposed to be love but it feels like sedation, like
isolation, like slavery. This was supposed to taste like forever but it
tastes like poison, like a leaking gas hose, like carbon monoxide
filling my lungs with the death I chose for myself and the death
you chose for me. Because I can't breathe and I'm drowning
slowly while everyone is watching, smiling as they remark how
beautiful the water looks because the ocean is always gorgeous until
the tide pulls you under and refuses to release you to the surface
where you can breathe. The waters are beautiful until you're
drowning in them. You were beautiful until you began choking the
life out of me.


Breathing space, I think is something that most of us require in order to sustain our lives. It is essential that we be able to respect the space of others as they should respect ours. But that is not normally the case is it – normally there is one who feels the need to control every aspect of your life. To the point that one day you are walking around in a pair of Mary-Janes instead of the big buckled shoes you loved but your significant other at the time (there is a reason why we have ex's) had thrown outside of your house. That type of control is not something that people need to go through. We do not need to be controlled and manipulated by someone who doesn't genuinely love us. There is a tremendous wisdom inside of all of Christy's work that most certainly should be acknowledged. 

Please feel free to follow Christy on Instagram

Friday, 7 April 2017

ugly

peace is built
inside an unassumed core
we thrive to feast
on the essence 
of illusion 
delusion spreads
her legs to shame 
an eagles outstretched
wings -- fundamental
rights fostered 
with the loss
of shells washed 
upon your
morbid soul

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Janine D.

By day a mild mannered accountant but; at night a poet who thrives on raw emotion. When I first read the work of Janine D. I was completely hooked. She writes with such a knowledge of a one of a kind emotion – Janine's pieces are beyond honest and speak of distilled feelings, broken hearts and with a sincere appreciation for the passion behind her phrases and heartache within these elegant poems.

I find myself trapped
Between these four walls
Debris is scattered
Every where
The remnants of thoughts
And desires unfulfilled
There is a window
That provides some light
But will not open
To freshen the air
It is stale and stagnant
Like a child's forgotten laughter
I cannot escape here
Although I am free to leave
At any time
Stuck in the shelter
That is my mind.

Paralyzing fear and anxiety – I could literally feel the goosebumps on my arms rise as I started to read the piece above. I totally imagined a secluded oubliette as most of them are – with walls made of wind. Easy to pass through but enough to cause windburn in case you travel too far out of your mind. Sometimes we really do fashion ourselves a nice gilded cage with the locks on the inside in lieu of the out. I have to admit I loved the concept of thinking what “The remnants of thoughts” would look like. Can you imagine such a visual? As thoughts can not tangibly be touched with the tips of our unaware fingers. I imagine ripped pieces of paper to hold emotions that could render anyone to feel trapped within a prison of their own making. Tragic but such a charming poem.

Longing for reason
She wistfully searched
For answers
Behind the mist
Of her own tears.

The tricky aspect to questions -- is the duration of time for which it takes for information to actually come to you. I think one of the hardest things in life is to actually patiently wait for questions to be answered. Can I tell you how sometimes, it took years for me to obtain answers to questions I thought had been lost forever. But, there is something about life and things going around and coming around.. which holds steadfast to the idea of truth.  I've always admired writers who can write such short pieces that house a powerful message.  My best friend is always joking with me and asks if I get paid by the word -- not a single word wasted in this micro-poem above. 

At one time
You were my life;
My love
The bond may have
Been broken
But my heart is still yours
And now
You are a lingering memory
Tattooed on my soul
My own personal saudade
Of a tearful boy
Crying in the rain
Wanting nothing more
Than to just love me

There are people in life we are meant to love for long moments in our lives and those who come in during moments where remnants of thoughts reign supreme for the love of one we can not have or a friendship that dehydrates in the heat of the sun. I guess there will always be certain people in our lives no matter how long it's been since you've spoken to or have seen each other who will forever be a part of your heart. I loved this visual:

You are a lingering memory
Tattooed on my soul
My own personal saudade
Of a tearful boy
Crying in the rain
Wanting nothing more
Than to just love me

Sigh! How could someone not want to feel for the writer of this piece – lovely.

For more information about Janine please feel free to follow her on Instagram! 

Friday, 31 March 2017

Allen Tesch

Norman Rockwell, cookie cutter houses and luscious descriptions are exactly what you will find once you read the tremendous pieces written by Allen Tesch below. Allen has an organic gift to leave the writer wanting for more. I always love/hate it when writers leave us yearning for more descriptions sometimes it's good to include every single detail as to what happens to the characters in his poems and other times it's good to imagine what happened to the specific actors in one scene. Such a double edge sword in this case... well.. you will find out what I'm talking about when you read my whole review.

Sweatshirts and Yoga Pants

Sweatshirts and yoga pants.
Beautiful women who all somehow looks the same.
Marry beautiful men and have children who are beautiful
but still somehow look the same.
Sometimes they bring the wrong ones home and nobody
notices because they all have the same floor plan.
Someone wises up, though, when a kid notices she has
the wrong type of medicine.
They drive around for hours finding the right house
and there's panic inside as they see themselves pull up
-Honey, are we home? I thought we were home!
But it all sorts itself out over handshakes and smiles
until the one family family asks for theirs back
-Well you see
-Yes?
-We thought it was odd she didn't want to take her
medicine. But we finally forced her to. You know how
it is. She's upstairs in bed now, but doesn't appear
to be breathing.
The parents rush up the stairs. They know exactly
where her room is.
Tense until they hear laughter instead of anguish.
They come downstairs, holding each other chuckling
embarrassedly-Sorry about that. She-throws a
thumb-has a butterfly tattoo. That's not Penelope
at all!
Everyone laughs and shrugs. These things happen.
They sort themselves out.
They never found out who the dead girl was and they
put out fliers for Penelope for weeks. But the
attention her brother was getting at school was really
helping his confidence and social standing so really
it may have all been for the best.

Genuinely a myriad of images brought forth different themes into my head from this piece. First off, I loved the intro Allen wrote:

Beautiful women who all somehow looks the same.
Marry beautiful men and have children who are beautiful
but still somehow look the same.

It reminded me simultaneously of Stepford wives where everyone doesn't only look the same but act the same as well. Can you imagine how boring life would be if everyone wore the same clothes, spoke the same, lived in the same houses. There is also a strong elemental feel to CSI especially during the end of the piece – what haunted me the most was:

They never found out who the dead girl was and they
put out flyers for Penelope for weeks. But the
attention her brother was getting at school was really
helping his confidence and social standing so really
it may have all been for the best.

See, as I said in my intro it leaves the reader wanting for more. I want to know who it was, who killed the Penelope. Allen crafted a lovely mystery here for us to contemplate and wonder -- “did the brother really do it?” well that is what is crossing my mind anyways.

Sex Plum

Sex Plum shone
like a glossy page
Familiar oblivious
to the t-shirt and plaid
squires stopped
when she was at the fountain
Backed up
when she straightened a heel
15 minutes outside the restroom
nudging
and judging
and nervously contemplating
everything
but the impossible.

I have to admit the last few lines resonated with me...

nudging
and judging
and nervously contemplating
everything
but the impossible.

To think of everything but the impossible to me would be a bit boring... it is the impossible that I want to contemplate. I want to think of moments with limited possibilities and impossible outcomes, because those are the moments when extreme sweat and inspiration come forth for each other in the times of darkness. When you feel so hopeless that the slightest flicker of flint keeps you going to light a potential powerful fire.

Dancer

Sometimes when he's alone he likes to dance
a really stupid dance
that's never the same way twice
And sometimes he pretends to know people
and one of them opens the door exclaiming
-Hey asshole! (he pretends they know his name)
-What is it that you're doing?
Not stopping and a bit out of breath
he tells them
-I'm dancing!
so I don't kill myself tonight!
They laugh
because he makes them think
he's a wacky funny guy
And he laughs
because it's good to get off his chest
And he's never sure if it's that
or the dancing
But it's been working pretty good
so far.


Dancer totally reminds me of one of my favourite plays ever. The inner dialogue alone brought memories of Vladimir & Estragon from Waiting for Godot, save the exception that in Godot they did not really laugh – the discussion was mostly depressing if you ask me about erections and radishes. Except this is a one way dialogue one has imagined. There's an expressive depth that really showcases not only the subject of loneliness but also self worth of the character in Dances. He, I'm not going to call him he I'm going to give him a name Arthur is a poor lonely man trying to entertain himself who is just desperately trying to fit in even though he may feel he never will. It's an overwhelming emotion to feel or be the round hole with a square peg. 

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Katie Nolen

I love dual meanings when I read poetry – Katie Nolen's poetry induces intellectual thoughts through her profound scenes. (Can you believe someone once told me that poetry is not intellectual? That is a story for another day...) Now, where was I, yes, Katie's work exhibits: bravery, independence and strength. She writes in a manner that leaves the reader to wholeheartedly think and feel. And, in my opinion that is the role of the poet – which she does beautifully!


When a Woman Is Born

When a woman is born
she will find her makeup too heavy.
Her fingers will elongate
and her grasp will become soft leather.
Breasts will slacken and become
supper to her lover's touch
Hips will settle to her satisfaction
She will draw you maps
along the freckles on her arm.
She will pluck the years she has seen
from grey strands on her head
and grey stands on her head
and weave them into stories
When a woman is born
her cheekbones will rise
and she will molt her insecurities
She will throw back her head,
shake out her hair
and offer throaty fits of laughter,
She will be sure-foooted
and an unapologetic
singer in the shower

I can so relate to this piece right now. This past February I turned 43 years old and have enough grey hair – well let's just say it's not in short supply. I knew I was going to grey but not so fast. When I would poke fun at my mother's grey hair – she would always turn to me and say that “each one tells a story.” I found that visual from Katie's poem to be quite intoxicating. To think of the years we've lived and each of us with our stories to tell amplified by each individual hair. When a Woman is Born has a Benjamin Button feel to it – all the things that happen to us while we age – what if? And, this is one doozie of a what if? But, what if we were born old and became younger with each passing year. To have the wisdom throughout the ages with no years lived. If only!


You're sprawled across
a Sunday morning mattress,
a slovenly lump
of seaty brow, flushed skin,
and matted hair.

I lie in soft breath
and whispers
next to your heaviness:
entranced by legions of rain
stinging the windows
until it slows and surrenders
in defeat

You murmur and tell only
the pillow your secrets.
And I think, I know
I must have told you
it's impossible
to wash that much grease
from your hands.

But you're always elbow deep
and now it's all over the sheets
and all over me.

And I think, I too.
Have surrendered in defeat.

Sigh! First off it being Wednesday today – who wants to retreat to the soft comfort of their bed right now – I know, I would. I found it quite thoughtful how Katie uses the word surrender both in the middle and at the end of this piece. It organically ties everything together nicely. I would have to say these are my favourite stanzas:

But you're always elbow deep
and now it's all over the sheets
and all over me.

And I think, I too.
Have surrendered in defeat.

Sometimes, there is nothing that we can do but surrender defeat – it has got to be one of the most humbling experiences ever. I loved the way Katie placed her words – she is speaking about grease yes but it could also be physiological transference as well as physical. The duality in my opinion add such depth.


This is the stealing of my essence
and I am being vast out of myself.

I was a woman
who would not tame her hair
and could not tame her heart.

I sat with my legs open;
eyes, too lusty and green.
Plucked from earth,
muddy thighs and apricot smiles.
I was crawling over tables
playing with my food.

You drank me up from your water dish.

I am dying.
I am dying.
And you are killing us both.

I must have read this piece half a dozen times and the same scene came to mind half a dozen times while I started to think about other aspects of this poem. I started to think of the movie Brave how Merida had to fight for her rights to simply be who she is. Or, it could be about a woman who is emotionally abused who's allowed another to not only leave her washed up on the sea shore but; take everything from her including her pride and dignity. See duality.. Either side could be argued. One however must admit the beauty behind this piece.


For more information on Katie Nolen please follow her on Instagram.  

Monday, 27 March 2017

Harpreet M Dayal

You know when you go into a bakery how there's always a glorious selection of: breads, cakes & pastries. Beautifully designed and the insides allow your taste buds to linger on such delectable tastes,such as a: chocolate cheesecake with graham cracker crust, topped with a pool of liquid caramel before being reinforced by a brownie wall.  YUMMY!!!  That is exactly what Harpreet M Dayal's pieces remind me of -- little delights of emotion that transcend the reader to a place of quiet reflection and tranquility while devouring a delicious dessert.

Take me to a place where
enchanted wildflowers grow.
Where we can wander in the
depth of the pristine world that is
brand new. Unknown to anyone
but you and I.

A place where the first ray of
saffron sun may land upon our
parched skin and seep into our
hearts and minds, eternally
tranquil.

Upon first read, the thing that came to mind was the Garden of Eden before the snake enters stage left. A utopia completely created for two individuals looking to live and be completely engrossed by each other. Secret worlds are among some of my favourite places especially when you have someone to share such an experience with you. I imagine – a place where romance exists on a daily level, where things are not taken for granted and genuinely appreciated for the organic surrounding and company that stands by their side daily. Can you imagine such a place with the one that you love? I sure can and it appears to be entirely magnificent like the piece above.

There will be days when you want
nothing more than to build a wall
around your heart and hide away in its
depths. But I say be brave and
unwavering, leave the doors to your
heart wide open and let in whatever
this life has to offer you. You were put
on this earth with all the tools within
you to face whatever is coming.

You know, this piece speaks of universal truths. We've all had them right, some days where life is too painful that you want to barricade your heart and reinforce it with large pieces of impenetrable metal. The problem with a guarded heart is that it's motivated by fear – fear to keep from getting hurt. But the point of life is to get hurt and heal an endless cycle that circles around all of us at some point or another in the course of our life. 

So true:

You were put
on this earth with all the tools within
you to face whatever is coming.

That to me says it all right there! There are certain things in life that must be faced no matter how horrible or brilliant an experience it might be. A hurt open heart will heal much faster than once that's closed its doors off forever. Forever, that is a really really really long time to not allow yourself to feel – the side effects will create a deteriorating body to match a closed core. I've seen it so many times in the course of my life, those who are willing to fight – do so with the knowledge that everything will not be filled with extreme light and love. Sometimes a cement covered heart will silence all with it's shattered hard coated shell.

I save a share of my tears and I
keep them in vials made of
crystals. I show them away
amongst the flowers that hang
from the ceilings of my heart.
They twinkle every once in a
while beneath the petals
remind me that when the
days comes for me to see you
again, will be the day I let those
vials go. They will shatter as
they fall from a great height to
the ground, letting my tears
flow freely.

I've never researched the properties of tears until this very morning there are different categories -- the ones held in Harpreet's crystal vials are psychic tears. I found that so very interesting -- I imaged as I always do the many snapshots that could have caused such painful or blissful tears. When perhaps: someone passes, a birth, marriage, getting the job you've always wanted or a break up. I pictured all of these scenes as images etched on the outside of the vial to be able to chronicle which tears where collected in what vial and why. It's quite the profound image indeed if you think about it. And, the end exemplifies true strength especially:

They will shatter as
they fall from a great height to
the ground, letting my tears
flow freely.


I don't know about you, but I have a hard time letting go with certain instances to have tears flow to create such an impact. Each vial could easily house a tsunami's worth of tears.