Never Be Decieved

Never Be Decieved

August 10, 2003

Thanks so much to :devsot67: for helping me learn rhythm for this one. :)

This is a NEW poem, I just wrote it a couple days ago after shuffling through my old poetry folder and finding nothing relating what I was feeling.

I’m simply entertaining a daydream with the poem, it’s not particularly written to anyone save my future wife.
I didn’t really have anyone in mind; just simply wishing I did.

I hope you enjoy itl

I want to sail breakfast
Far along the coast
Scent pines in our breath
Spiced with French toast

Feel the sun glow on your skin
Feel a love that’s never been
Let the seas swing you to sleep
Slumber with feeling too deep

I want to glance into your eyes
And never be deceived
I want to plummet into love
And know you’ll never leave

I want to show you forever
With nothing left to hide
I want to realize our dreams
And have you by my side

Watch the sun bloom
Over turquoise oceans
Feel our days blend
Destiny circumfornean

See the fish race by our ship
See the sail in full-blown rip
See the waves thunder the land
Let us see life hand in hand

Set our anchor in the cove
Don our snorkels and our masks
Glide above the glimm’ring reefs
Sharing smiles across the glass

Dancing close on starlit sand
As if it were our debut
After a million times
That I had danced with you

I want to pull the mast down
Weathering ferocious storms
Letting Chopin sing to us
Lighting candles; staying warm

I want to sit up with you
After we’ve gone to bed
Telling you soft sweet stories
As I cradle your head

I want to sail with you
To a land forevermore
Slide smoothly to eternity
And beach upon it’s shores.

Fen Xin

Fen Xin

August 17, 2003

Fen Xin means literally “Divided Heart” (thanks, sto67), though I used it for a slightly different definition than Stephen did.

I’m confused as to what was really true in the past; whether Caroline lied to me or not. I don’t know. You see, one of the last things she said to me was that every time she had said “I love you.”, she had never really meant it.
But, I don’t know how much truth there was to that. It leaves me wondering which was the lie.

Anyhow, back to the poem.
It’s an experimental style for me; pure rhythm. This poem can actually be done as a rap, which I may do later.
The title (Fen Xin) is meant to be read as part of the poem.

I engineered it a bit more than is originally apparent, though… its deceptivly simple.

When you read it through the first time, you’ll probably read it straight down like you read any other poem. And it makes sense that way. The rhyming and story fit.

However, try reading the 1st line in each paragraph, and then the 2nd, and so on. You’ll see it tells a much more complete story.

I did this on purpose; because the truth can be taken two ways.

Fen Xin

Stolen soul
Gaping pool
Ancient scar
Stiletto mist

Half hole
Lovestruck ghoul
Winter star
Silent kiss

Unseen tear
Life unfair
Stolen right
Waning moon

Deafened ear
Undone pair
Soft goodnight
Far too soon

Shiny eyes
Heart of ice
Drawing close
Never again

Romantic vice
Unthrown rice
Living ghost
Lost Friend

Fen Xin

Iiyuuw Awaas

Iiyuw Awaas

April 4, 2004

Iiyuw Awaas, literally translated, means Native Child.

This poem I wrote to be read at the international banquet.

It was extremely well recieved, by both students and faculty.

I was inspired to write it by my friend Agaba Bisengo, who had shared her experience as a victim of genocide in Rwanda. Both her parents were killed.

The one thing she said struck me the most was that “Everyone had a story”

I feel I’ve held mine back far too long.

.:edit:. My dad (naskapi-linguist.deviantart.com) helped me with some spelling of some older ways of speaking. :) Thanks.

I am the son of a white man
But I am the child of the Naskapi
I am Iiyuuw Awaas; a Native Child
That is how they called me

By the elders, I was raised
They taught me many things
To hunt; to smell caribou
As they travel north
To watch their thundering hooves
As the stamped in 3000 head strong
I am Atiihkw Awaas, a Caribou Child
That is how they called me

By the great Forest, I was raised
To feel the weather change
And listen to the ice melt
Cachatooa!
Echoing across the lake
Telling of warm snaps
To watch the winds
As the Geese fly
To speak to them
*honk honk*
And beckon them to land
To hear the Loon
*whoooioioi*
And to answer its mournful cry
To speak with the great bear
And the lone wolf
As the chorus of the wind in the trees
Sang to me
I am Uskaahtikw Suuhchiuw, A Young Strong Tree
That is how they called me

By the heavens, I was raised
To watch the sun carefully
To know when it was going to set
And when to build a shelter
To watch the stars, the uchaakitaahkw
To let them lead me home
And share the dance of northern lights
I am Tipishkaaw Awaas, A Night Child
That is how they called me

By the children I was raised
They taught me to fight and be fought
They taught me not everyone loves everyone else
That colours and shades were enough to kill
That drugs and alcohol were death
That they saw no hope
That they hated me because they had seen people hate me on TV
They called me Michin Waamistikusuw Waas, The Ugly White Child
That is how they called me

By Chamindo, I was raised
He taught me to dream
He taught me the gift of clairvoyance
To see His friendship in your slumber
He taught me to see the beauty in all things
Even though they hurt me
And that love is stronger than hate or pain
He taught to interpret His gifts
To listen to him when he speaks
They called me Saachiihiiyiwaau Naapaaw, The Man who Loves
That is how they called me

To the United States I was brought
Moved down to where I was not home
Placed in a sea of Waamistikushuwch
They taught me that I was not one of them
They taught me to see that I fit better with minorities…
Than my own… No, than their own kind
They taught me there was much I had missed
While I was raised by the Naskapi
And I was glad
They called me Jansewits, for they could not speak
That is how they called me.

By International Students, I was raised
They welcomed me into their home
They gave me friendship and love
They did not condescend, but simply related
They showed me I wasn’t alone
Even among those who were not like me
They showed me I had been given gifts
They showed me people could use my help
They taught me new ways of speaking
And showed me my way was important too
They called me Young Savage, for they knew me
That is how they called me.

I am the son of a white man
But I am the child of the Naskapi
I am Iiyuuw Awaas; a Native Child
That is how I call myself.

Ending Speech

Ending Speech

April 4, 2004

I read this piece last night.
It it traditional at Internation Banquets for seniors to get up and say a few words; so I wrote this as halfway a speech of thanks & encouragement, and halfway a poem.

I’m putting it up because several people said they’d like copies of this and the Iiyuw Waas poem as well, so I’m going to be sending them links.

God has brought me before you once again
It’s as if I’ve walked into a warm room
From the cold outside, and the glow alights on
My skin doesn’t matter for once
In my whole entire life
And it brings tears to my eyes

Keep it in context for a moment
For where I come from, a man
Is not one who holds back tears
But knows when it is appropriate to cry

And so I weep.
Tears of joy and of sorrow
Joy because I have seen you grow
I lived through your most trying times
And I have seen promised tomorrows
Become today

And of sorrow.

Sorrow because this season is waning
The golden glow that I knew is leaving me
This stage of my life has come to an end
And now I have to leave

I have watched those before me leave
I have watched how their last year buries them
In work, they detract from you
And they are alone
And I feared that
Because for the first time
I was truly with friends.

I did not want this year to come
And yet now I see
I will not leave you
I have you with me
In memories

You will remember me as the wild and the crazy
Or as the soft and poetic
Or as the fighter for injustice
Or as the artist and designer
Or as the musician and the speaker
I was all of these, and more. But not without you.

I will remember dances in the living room, stomping our feet and shaking our bodies to the dances not of our culture but of that room. Of that time. Of that moment. Of that beat.
I will remember deep talks and long walks and shoulders wet and salty. Of people I have somehow been able to comfort, and of those who comforted me.
I will remember movies watched late, snuggled in blankets, riveted to the screens.
I will remember great feasts of spicy and exotic foods, caressing and exciting the taste buds, spurring smiling faces and gleeful jokes.
I will remember arguments about race, culture, travel, politics and sex. In that place we were free to talk with understanding.
I will remember spiritual uplifting, and profound thought in learning who God was and how we should be around him.
Of trials and struggles, and of celebration and joy.

These I will keep with me.
I have learned much here.
I have learned not only that people can be friends with me
But also how to be a friend
I learned no everyone can be friends with you
Even though you may now why
I learned some will always be you friend
Even though you may not know why
And these lessons
I carry with me

Who are you?
You are ISA/MK
You are Diversity on this campus
You are the minority that attracts the good of this college
You are the feather in the cap.

But you are more.
You are a community
You are the proof that people can unite under the banner of love
While loosing none of their culture
You are the proof that you can make it anywhere
And not forsake the values your grew up with
You are the glue that holds the campus together
You are the salt and the light, as well as the spice and the glow
You may have light, but to truly see and feel welcome, you need a glow
And You may have salt, but to truly get flavor, you need spice

You are more than even you can imagine
And so God has brought me before you again.
I am proof you can do it.
I am proof you can make a difference
I am proof you can survive
I am proof you can love.

And it because of you I am proof.

Thank you.

Occidental Attack

Occidental Attack

April 12, 2004

It’s an excerpt from my Final piece, to be displayed in the Messiah College Art Gallery this Saturday.

Since the beginning, you have divided. You divided religion from faith, then you divided religion into a million different religions, each one different, each one more and more lost. Churches so divided they shun other churches and whole peoples over details insignificant to your faith and against the teachings of your God. You divided faith from work, from government, from life and from love. You divided your work and your play. You divided your government into inoperability. You divided your life into years, months, days, hours, minutes and seconds. You divided love from sex, sex from passion, and passion from caring. You divided your country from your king, your land from your people, your souls from your minds.
You divided the people you enslaved and killed, and then taught them to divide themselves when you were not around.

And I?

I am in love with unity.
Can you see where that might be a problem?

Believing is Seeing

Believing is Seeing

September 13, 2004

This is a song I began writing in the beginning of the summer, but only brought to fruition the other night. It is written for the band, with me being the originator of both lyrics and music. Naturally, it has a very strong piano part, but I’m finding it easier and easier to play and sing at the same time the more I practice.

If you pay any attention to my journal, you might be able to draw relations to that too.

A word on contructive criticism; go right ahead, but keep in mind it’s a song. Some of you don’t like rhyming poetry (you know who you are). It parts seem to simple, they might be just so that they can be sung, but if you have some good ideas, by all means.

Youth is not the way you look
But the way you see
The world through the eyes
Of another’s company
You won’t know the truth
If you believe the lies
And become satisfied
With mediocrity

You never really understood
When I said Believing is Seeing
But you
Marveled at the joy that was in my life
And when you
Saw that I was happy
Despite all the times that I cried
You wanted to see who I was inside

The people close the door
On what it is to be human
And you look at life
And see it’s misery
We’ve got blood on our minds
And revenge in our veins
As we loose the fight
For our humanity

I’ve never really understood
Why I was given so much feeling
But I
Look at you and I see a friend
And when I see
All those around you
Who’ve only fed you their deceiving
I’m so glad that you believe in me

Truth be told
I can’t live a perfect life
Everything I say
Is with hypocrisy
But I know if I don’t give up
Even though I fail
It’s not what they say
But what you strive to be

I think you might understand
When I say Believing is Seeing
And I
See a spark of joy that is in your life
And when you
Don’t take for granted
All the gifts that you’ve been given
You begin to see the world in a different light
You begin to see the world with a different life

Just Don’t

Just Don't

September 17, 2004

The result of listening to too much soulful Stacy Kent.
If you don’t know who she is and have never heard than name before, check her out.

Don’t smile at me
The way you always do
Whenever you think I say
Something admirable

Don’t do little things
Like reaching across the seat
To pop the lock
And open doors for me

Don’t cook for me
Serving on my plate
The very biggest piece
Then refuse to let me wash

Don’t speak so softly
When call my machine
And leave messages
That brighten up my day

Don’t kiss me when I’m sad
Don’t pay me so much mind
Don’t say how much you care
It’s just… just…. Just…. something I can’t take

Don’t drive me places
With the windows down
Taking me where
I really want to go

Don’t lie with me
When your feeling tired
With your head on my chest
And arms around me

Don’t wear those scents
And fill the room
With intoxicating
Fragrance afrodisiac

Don’t play with my hair
When you rub me down
And smooth away knots
Of a weeks rough days

Don’t do your hair so sweet
Don’t ask for my company
Don’t be so nice
I just… just… just… might decide to stay

Whenever I wake up

Whenever_I_wake_up_by_dragonorion

Written November 17, 2004

.:Original’s location: with Tamika:.

New Poetry!

This is what happens when someone who already views the world optimistically is given something that would make the average person insanely happy.
Everything else is gone, and I just glow…

.:edit: I decided to write this poem out in a tiny little book, phrase by phrase, each page the size of a postage stamp. I’m giving it to her today. :) It will be the first piece of poetry I’ve given her. :):.
.:edit: I added the sefl portrait as a preview. :.

“Woke up this morning, you were the first thing on my mind
Don’t know where it came from, all I know is I need you in my life…” India.Arie

“Nothing even matters… at all…” ~Lauryn Hill

Each morning I wake up
And whether you’re there or not
I always see you when I wake up
Before I even get up
I see you when I wake up
Before even my lids arise
I see you
I see you
I see you smile

Because you’re there in front of me
Because you’re there along side of me
Because you’re right inside of me
Whenever I wake up

Because you’re here inside of me
Because you know the insides of me
Because I knew that you’d be there
Whenever I wake up

Each afternoon I rest
Whether you’re there or not
I always feel like you are here
Before I even touch you
I feel like you are here
Before I’m even sleeping
I feel you
I feel you
I feel you near me

Because you’re imprinted near me
Because your scent surrounds me
Because you’re what I think of
Whenever I wake up

Because you’ve shown you love me
Because you’ve known I love you
Because I’m dreaming of you
Whenever I wake up

Disconnected.

Disconnected

I feel disconnected.

I feel disconnected from my family.
I feel disconnected because it’s hard for me to talk to them. Because the deep stuff I probably should and probably need to talk to them about scares me. Because it doesn’t feel natural, because it feels awkward. Because I don’t know why I can’t start doing it.

I feel disconnected from my home town.
I feel disconnected because it’s so far away. Because nothing and everything about it is the same as I left it. Because some people told me I should leave, even though they later changed their minds. Because I was hurt so badly there. Because it’s so much a part of me, and still, I can never go back. Because there is no place else gives me the solitude and openness I once knew.

I feel disconnected from my people.
I feel disconnected because no one here talks they way they did. Because  nobody thinks the way they did. Because none of the earthy, familiar smells exist for me now; the spruce boughs, the simmering tea, the musty canvas, the thick warm hide. Because no one looks at me with pride the way they once did. Because I still dream in their language.

I feel disconnected from my God.
I feel disconnected because I worry too much. Because if I don’t fix it myself, I feel like a failure. Because nothing around me is quiet, nothing lets me hear that still, small voice. Because my dreams are no longer alive. Because I drifted away. Because I don’t know how to get back.

I feel disconnected from the people around me.
I feel disconnected because they don’t understand who I am and where I come from. Because I don’t understand where they come from, or why they are the way they are. Because they’re far too busy to care. Because most people won’t even read this. Because fewer people will do anything once they do. Because people don’t think to listen deeply. Because listening like that doesn’t matter to them like it does to me.

I feel disconnected from my art.
I feel disconnected because it no longer feels like something I am inside of. Because when I create something beautiful and meaningful, I don’t have time to sit and wonder at the gift I’ve been given. Because I don’t sit and just muse any longer.

I feel disconnected from myself.
I feel disconnected because when I am doing something. Anything. It feels like I am on autopilot. Because I can’t remember normal things that most people can remember. Because things get switched around in my brain, and yet it still feels like fact. Because I complain aloud how people can do certain things, then realize I myself am doing those things. Because my own history is blurred, mixed, tangled; not a solid line like it should be. Because I can’t figure out if I have always been like this, or if this is something new.

But what does it mean to be disconnected? Does it means that you are solitary, alone, an intrepid nomad? Does it mean you get to figure out things and reinvent them as you see fit? Is it bad to be disconnected?

I don’t really know. But feeling like you should be connected?

Hurts.

27

I am a Perfect Cube.
I am all of Uranus’ moons.
I am Cobalt. But I’m not Cobain.
I own no white lighter, there’s no club I’m in.
(RIP Brian, Jimi, Janis & Jim)

I am the Hebrew alphabet,
Written in the books of the New Testament.
I am Old too, but split and multiplied.
I fix the Constitution of America,
Light up the land-lines in South Africa.
I’m the great Canyon Expressway,
From Fort Wayne to Miami, Florida.

I am a cowboy cigarette.
I am a prisoner of Château d’If.
I am lawns for croquet.
A Cracker Jack peanut.
I am Salinger’s death, and his missing chapter.
I am Napoleon, as a Commander.
I am a hurricane’s pressure and temp.
I am a bat, and can comically detect.

I’m the Reagan of radio.
And the length of the LHC.
I am Crispus Attucks,
But during the revolution
I’m the escape from ASCII.
I am the rotation of the sun.

I am 27.

This might seem strange, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a grasp on the concept of my own age.
I understand age as an abstract idea, like what point people typically start thinking about certain things in life, at what point certain body functions begin to deteriorate.
But when it comes to understanding how old I am physically and how I think about the world, I don’t really get it. In one sense or another, I’ve always felt that I haven’t followed any of the prevailing attitudes of what other people my age have.

And it could be entirely cultural. It could be that I don’t feel my age simply because I can’t fully identify with anyone around me and say “oh, I am just like them”.
But there seems to be this expectation that I should relate to others based on how close we are in age.

I’ve always beleived that you’re only as old as you feel you are, and so I’ve tried to live that. I remember being little and learning the meaning behind Louis Armstrongs “Young at Heart”, and realizing that staying young was attainable if you could think that way.

Many of the grown-ups I knew as a kid were kinda boring. When I was little, I was pretty articulate, and would often talk to grown-ups and ask them about their lives. I remember asking a teacher at a dinner party why he didn’t smile more often. He told me he didn’t know.
I just know that I don’t want to be that.