The Hands of my Clock

Ticking time
away
Why won’t you realize
It’s best if you would
It’s time to
rationalize
That the hands of the clock
won’t tick forever
The working of my clock could be worth the endeavor
Every night I ponder
What is it that I lack?
Your absence drives my mind to wander
Don’t be gone eternally, please come
back
My clock is beginning to die
You’re losing
so much time
Lay with me and watch
time tick away
Give your life a little bit of
purpose
Avoid this deep feeling of dismay
Give my life a love surplus

Soundtrack to a Sleepless Night

Pitter, Patter 
The serenity of a storm is of a special desire 
Drip, Drip 
It's something like this that lights your soul on fire 
Crack, Clash 
The scent of fresh rain can bring back so many memories 
Boom, Rumble 
With those memories, come many discoveries 
Crackle, Roar 
On a sleepless night, it's a beauty you can't miss 
Plop, Plop 
It's perfect when you're in the mood for a special bliss 

When Will You Be Back, Dad?

The whistling of the wind squeezing through the crack of a window,
For the convenience of my father, as he flicks his ashes onto the dusty road,
Swirling around the tires, engulfing the power of the hefty tanker.
Destination,
Unknown, but does that really matter?
These several days are enough to last me until next visit.
Who knows when that will be?
Does it really matter?
All that matters is that I learn his ways, so I can be just like him,
My father.
I want to trust him, but in the silence of this refreshing ride, I realize what he has really done for me.
Days,
Months,
Waiting,
For something that could never come,
But how could I know?
As I'm left in this dome of doubt, my mother is here for me;
She's always been here for me.
If only he could be here for me.
Does it really matter?
Yes, it does.

Classical Music is Bach!

       Some may say that the music we hear on the radio is the music of today. I disagree. Classical music has been successfully revived by one particular group. The Piano Guys consists of a man who plays the Cello (along with several other instruments), and a man who plays the piano (along with music composition). They collaborate with a few other people to nurse back the classical era into a genre called New Age Classical. This group has proved through their music that classical music is not dead. These men deserve to be recognized for their beautiful and moving talent. This music will live on! 

      

Departure

I walk outside, sun reflecting off my freshly polished aviators.
Today's going to be a stellar day.
I check the fuel, the oil, and the miscellaneous, but my mind is somewhere else.
How can I focus my concentration on the ground, where it's obvious,
My mind belongs in the sky without reservation.
I hungrily grasp the yoke in my trembling hands, running through checks fluently.  
My hand touches the throttle, and a surge of anticipating energy fills my body, just as I crank the key in
the ignition.
Oh, how I missed the hum of the prop; striking the air, ready to fulfill all my ambitions.
I run through my radio calls, almost like clock-work, eager to depart from the smooth asphalt heated by
the soothing sun.
As I approach the runway, I know this is it. Everything I've been striving for has lead up to this flight.
To every flight.
I apply full throttle, and feel the roll of the wheels on the ground, eager to depart, just as impelled as my
soul.
As I catch onto ground effect, I approach uncertainty;
Why can't two tanks of fuel last an eternity?

Eternity

Trapped until eternity  

Until I count to infinity  

Beguiled in this isolated phase  

Until you melt me with your gaze 

Just three words I need to hear  

For I am isolated out of fear  

I'm trapped in this world out of insanity  

But only till I count to infinity 

You're the shadow that calls me unsound  

But you're the voice that makes my heart pound  

You're like a drug that numbs my mind  

You·re the meaning of life, I never could find 

I give you the key, the lock, my trust  

I can see in your eyes so full of lust  

Free me, don't leave me, and when done don't run away  

I want you for eternity, so please come back and stay. 

Dear Diary, Who am I?

         One of my biggest perils is empathy. It may seem strange, but in deeper analysis it makes a lot of sense. I feel what other people feel; Pain, happiness, love, hatred, etc. It may come in good use, but sometimes it’s overpowering. Past events in our history are what define us. My past is far from dinner table discussion with cousins at Thanksgiving. This past may be the cause of this insane sense of empathy. If you laugh, I laugh until I lose my breath. If you cry, I cry enough to restore water in third world countries. If you need a shoulder to lean on, I open my heart to recovery. If you despise me, I question my existence.  It’s great that I have had such an impact in the lives of others, but these emotions fill my mind, body and soul. Poetry is where my trust lies. I can write on any topic, and still be able to let out all my emotions in my words. My words are what keep me in the state that I am, and without it I don’t know how sane I would be. I have my past to thank for this. Who I am, who I was, and who I will be later in life. My mistakes, discoveries, and victories are what will define me, and I am thankful to be who I am. 

This is Saskatchewan

Watch the shimmering walleye wander through the crystal blue of Lac la Ronge. 

Listen to the roar of a hidden waterfall, on an undiscovered river, deep within the Shield, and the crackle of fresh fillet, frying over the red and orange splash of beauty dancing on an island of solitude, under the starry sky.

Gaze upon the ribbon of colour dancing across the consuming night platform, stealing attention from all reality.

Pay close attention to the golden wheat standing tall and willow-like, in a warm, welcoming breeze, dancing to the song of harvest.

Hear the near inaudible buzz of a crop duster in the distance, passing miles of field, positioned where the never ending blue sky and stretching green field meet in a subtle friendship. 

Taste the tantalizing, sweet fried onions and butter, boundlessly tossed upon an unrealistic portion of torrid, cheesy perogies, with a scent lingering for hours.  

Lose yourself in a heroic attempt to find an isolated town, in the middle of nowhere, too small to be named on a map, but friendly enough to make the search worth the hassle. 

Shamelessly flaunt the green and white that represents who we truly are. 

A Roughrider. 

Foolishly gamble on the fickle weather, which a farmer's entire year depends upon.  

Drive through the rolling green hills of Qu' Appelle valley, feeling the pop of your ears, but too occupied by the inconsistency of the wave-like land. 

Love the stream of colour flooding the pale blue sky, and note the earthy smell that marks a deceased storm, now nothing but a null memory. 

Take time to gaze upon the brilliant orange lily, oh so delicate and forbidden; Holding mystery in its elegant, silky petals.  

Never take for granted what makes us whole.

This is Saskatchewan.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull

My name is Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

I look like your average sea bird on the outside:

Scruffy, feathered and filthy,

But my heart’s ambitions cause my mother to worry.

She always tells me to be more like my ten thousand brothers and sisters.

They’re all scavengers, but I glide upon the spontaneous thermals of the agitated ocean.

They thought I was uncomfortably different;

Gaining speeds up to two hundred and seventy miles per hour,

Leaving them in the salty mist of the crashing waves.

I would rather starve than be chained to an island of bountiful fish.

I would rather die alone, while trying to embrace the physics of flight, than be accompanied by the safety of numbers.

My brothers and sisters squawk that my frail body will kill me.

I can’t hear them, for my heart thumping to the tune of the humming wind is all that really matters.

Your average seagull flaps their wings frantically to capture food every couple of hours.

Your average seagull is aware of what is happening at all times, with the comfort of a schedule.

Your average seagull nestles with the flock, resting their weary bodies for the new day to come.

I am not your average seagull.

My name is Jonathan Livingston Seagull,

But everyone calls me Aeroplane.    

Claustrophobic Nowhere

I once had a spirit, free-willed like a stallion.

With each pen-stroke, came words from a poet.

There once was a canvas, splattered with colour. 

I lived, loved, and lost, with no fear of failure, 

But the walls of this nowhere squeeze out the artist inside me. 

I struggle to break free, but these walls encase me.

I'm trapped without inspiration, in this claustrophobic nowhere.

Unable to break free to a wide-open somewhere.

The Man on the Train

          He sat on the train with nothing more than the tattered shirt on his back, blue faded jeans, old work boots, and a rose clenched lightly in his rough hands. He never spoke once, but his pale blue eyes had told all. This wasn't his first train ride, and we both knew it. What brought him here was unknown, but his awkward posture cheated him of his most intimate secrets. It was clear he was a no body. He owned no possessions; he had no purpose in life. The next stop was his, and though I wasn't supposed to get off for another hour or so, his presence was intriguing, and it drew me in like a honey bee to a ravishing daffodil. It was plain to see he had nowhere to go, and no one to see, but there was determination washing off of him onto the aged, crumbling sidewalk. He wandered the city for what seemed like hours, when finally, he stopped in front of a blanketed shelter containing a woman outside of a shopping mall. She was trembling, and covered in goose bumps caused by the chilled spring breeze. She looked up at him, and he gave her the rose. I heard him speak for the first time that day, and by his awkward posture I knew he knew not of her, but the words he spoke that day will be engraved into my memory for eternity. I believe in you. You are beautiful inside and out, and I love you. Her eyes watered and her lips parted slightly, as though she were going to say something. She was unable to muster up words, but instead stood up and nodded at him. She walked away with a stride of confidence, and bounce in her step as though she had a renewed purpose in life.