Melted Under the Moonlight

Let your silken touch wander

across a pond of smooth ice

and you’ll see your reflection;

            then a pale lily

            frozen in the moonlight

Watch streamers of colour

as they bloom beneath

the surface of the glass;

            they’re her memories

            locked away in the ice

They’ll paint you pictures

of a life lived without

the warmth you’ve always harboured.

Dwell too long on the surface

and your touch will melt the frost

into tiny pools of crystal;

watch your reflection

as it blends into her memories

Your soul will start to sink

into the waking essence

of that lone flower;

            whose life begins

to intertwine with yours

As the waves swell

her petals will lift you out to sea

            and you’ll drift away together

                        on only a raft of moonlight

                                    to get lost

beneath stars

                                                that do not

glow as bright

as the fire

            you’ve kindled

                        in a lily’s

                                    ice-blue eyes

TIghtrope, Tightrope, in the Sky

When you walk

amongst the clouds

you dip your feet

in the DNA

of the sky

and hope that

the threads

now strung beneath

your gentle feet

are not so easily

blown away

by a gust

from the winds

of misfortune

Teardrop Medicine

a tear

brewed in

the same old sorrow

rolls down your cheek;

it leaves you with fire rings

in your eyes

and water beads

on your face

of trembling snow

when you fall to pieces

it's just emotional decay

and a seed dropped

inside the carcass

of one who had

so much to give

will be given

the greatest nourishment

so cup your palms

and breathe poetry

to the broken leaves;

if you're lucky

something stronger

will grow back

and spread its roots

along your arteries

until your heart

is laced with the strength

of a plant

that doesn't know the meaning

of surrender

to the frailty 

of life

A Place in Time

You can find your place

on a flat paper map

or a curved iron globe;

two views

of the same position.

But to know one's time

is tricker still

when paradox is spun

from fabric

that aligns history

and weaves future;

everything we see

through the eye

of the needle.

We could be rainbow blips

on a treadmill in time

in a perfect line

of chain-linked

human arms.

The escape

to the unknown

is just steps away

yet the walk of life

goes on

along the same track

that keeps coming

back 'round

to confront us again,

now a tread deeper.

That, or we're bubbles

summoned randomly

across the plane

and the flutter of one

rocks the ones that follow

on wave crests

that build as you look back

in time.

One bubble

swelled with curiosity

asks, "Who is the first,

and who gets

to dip their finger

in the pool

without feeling

any responding

reverberations?"

Tinkles on a Glass Stairway

the whirrs

of alien instruments

diffuse across

the Cumphurt Zoan membrane

and alight your air

in crackling streamers

with sparks

of electric melody

the molecules jiggle

until one band

like an internal

Milky Way

glows

in perfect resonance

music

made flawless

by intricacies

need not create

a new atmosphere

the air already

brims

with subtle feelings

gentle pinches

will charm

the capillaries

of the imagination

into a blush

of colour

across the aura

of a stimulated mind

consciousness

trickles along 

such vital

paths

in a realm

where thought

flows unlike water

a fossilized 

ember

frozen in currents

of thought

flows up

a glass stairway

that tinkles

in xylophone

tones

on the way back

to the stars

in a nursery

long-lost

behind a glimmer

your mind

will nest

amongst

its seeds

of creation

commemoration

and thus immortality

at the end

of a road

untraveled

by spirits

that don't

yet

know freedom

as yours does

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock!

Prepare yourselves: I am about to fan-rant about a new show, and beneath said rant, post a little fan art creation. For any of you who have heard my Doctor Who fan-raging, you have been warned.

Basically, there's this fantastic new show called Sherlock, created by the BBC, and it takes the legendary Sherlock Holmes and tosses him into our modern day world. I know it sounds like just another imitation of the character we all know, but it hooked me and many others after just the first episode. Even hardcore Sherlockians (or Holmesians, depending on what you go for) have taken a liking to it, and we're all eagerly awaiting a third season after the actors and writers free up their schedules enough to work their magic.

I won't tell you all the details, but if you haven't seen it yet you should consider giving it a whirl. By the end of the sixth episode (which is also the end of the second season, though they're only so short because the episodes are each an hour and a half long) you'll probably be trying to solve the mystery, too. Even though it's an adaptation of the old classic, the writers have given their own twist to the storyline, and reading the old stories might not save you! Speaking of which, I look like the Supreme Nerd Overlord with my two massive Sherlock Holmes collection books from the library, each of which could probably punch a hole through my floor if dropped. NO SHAME.

And for any Doctor Who fans (I know you're out there, so don't even pretend you're not), Steven Moffat if just as mind-blowing with Sherlock as he has been with these past couple seasons with the Doc.

Incoming artwork!
3....
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A Splash of Colour

Hey everyone! I know I haven't posted much artwork yet, but I hope to change that in the near future. I have a few drawings on the go, so with luck some stuff will get done. In the meantime, I found a neat design online (see http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/8BXSBu/juliannakunstler.com/art1_opt_des.html) that looked intruiging. My shading style's a bit different than theirs, and the sunlight makes it look a bit brighter than it really is, but here's my go at it: 

Don't worry, there's original artwork to come. Next up, my ink mural!

Do You Follow?

it's in the                          t

                        d                     a                             

                                   e                       i               s

                                                                  l

and in the                   p a  t    t        e               r                             n                                             s

                                                                                                                         e

                                              o         e                                                         d

it can be found                     u         d            the box, and then            i              a bigger one;

                                                  t s i                                                     s

                                                                                                           n

                                                                                                           i

you can always follow it forwards

or trace its origins by going sdrawkcab 

It just depends on which truths you're looking for

and how they're hiding

Do you see

or (hear)             the answers to the questions?

or Feel

In the small sciences

you deduce a beginning

from an ending

of scattered breadcrumbs

that lead back

to speckled hands.

In the big sciences

you dream amongst stars

and try to bring

a new reality back

into the scope

of human eyes.

Questions of science and progress

speak as loud as a heart

that loves knowledge,

ranging from the stars

back down to our humble lives,

marked by experiences

unique to the one.

Are you still keeping pace?

Glimmers in the Night

There's an alien on Earth.

It steals into your home on a breath of night air

from the direction of the distant stars.

It visits your innocent, young child

asleep in a gentle fabric fort.

There's an alien in your home.

It plays with your child's dreams

and weaves through them like twisting thread.

It learns to use the power of sunlight

and blinds the dreamer who dwells in the clouds.

It plants new seeds to sustain itself in this land

but foreign roots remain forevermore.

There's an alien in your child's head,

but it is not what it seems.

She traveled here on a broken rudder

atop the currents of winds she could not map.

She got tangled up in your child's blankets

but tiny arms could not pull her back out.

She was swept up by your child's dancing dreams

and inside them found a place like home.

She learned to cast light on lucid landscapes,

and to nurture life in the eye of the whirlwind.

She cared for the seeds of imagination

and lit the hearts of their blossoms like beacons,

to shine through the mind's clouds like stars

who come out to play when she slips away.

There's an alien in your child's heart,

in their voice's strings and the alcoves of their soul.

When you hear tales of a dream-sprite Tinker Bell

do not cry out about delusions,

but see them simply as beautiful illusions.

An oasis might not prove to be real

but there's no better place to build paradise—

that holds towers with girders of hopes

and houses museums with tiles of memories—

            in which both you and She are visible

            as imprints across night and day,

            from every rung of the polished ladder

            with which your angel can touch the stars.

IDEAS

a film of liquid stretches with the horizon

            forms a bubble around the world

           

                        home to pockets of ideas that burst into the air

                                    which we intake and shelter with our minds

                                                until the day we die when with us they're recycled

                                                             buried below the surface --(we now know is the skin of life)--

Flashlights

Without a pen I'd have no tool,

Except ten fingers, which will trace,

Wet pictures in the darkened sand,

Sliced open by majestic hand.

The pictures don't last when they're dry,

And so we must live near the source;

The water, that has both the might,

To preserve and to sacrifice.

Close to the depths, beside the black;

From the unknown we find motive,

The power to build shining statues,

Our salutes to cherished virtues.

We don't run from the black, we stand,

Our flashlights cast searching circles:

Illuminate one at a time,

The milestones of a living line.

The fragments each show up alone,

Small dots in need of clear connection,

Until the sun's rays eclipse ours,

And light our way amongst the stars.

There's nothing but safety in white—

The bleached walls of a shallow life.

So we must stand before the black,

and let loose the light at our backs.

A Kindled Cure

Stiff old furniture absorbs the weight

of a mind bogged down

not by the day's events

but by the event of the day;

another square on the calendar

something to be filled,

we scribble in with blue pen (never black)

to fill as much space as possible

            and to plug the white holes of our hearts

            not with pegs that fit

            but with inky webs

            meant to catch a day flying too fast.

It shouldn't be an anxious event

to be alone in one's home

with windows thrown wide;

my heart feels light as the wind

but like it's been forced through the same mesh screen

            there's a beauty in the sunlight

            that casts blues on the room;

            so is it light

            that casts the blues on my heart?

my energy always spent on insulating myself

            from the bite of a voice claiming

                   wasted potential!

                        a voice chasing me in the circles

                                    of my daily routine

                   so maybe it's time to change states

                        use the energy to become something

                                    without need of warmth, only of

                                                the glow of a life that doesn't burn out

                                                            but burns brighter

                                                                        may the phoenix reborn inside me

                                                                        catch you on its way out of the mould

                                                                        that was crafted by lonely days;

                                                                        it will keep my spirit warm

                                                                        and hopefully yours too

                                                                        so i won't feel as if i always need you

                                                                        to chase the cold away.

                                                                        But I can always use your flame

                                                                        to burn all that's in our way.

A Note and a Poem

Today I finally saw the video that's causing so much international hype right now; it belongs to the creators of the group called Invisible Children. It's all over facebook, that's for certain, and lately that's where it counts. People are coming together to stop a man from committing further war crimes against children, in Uganda and beyond, and this video explains it more accurately than I ever could:

http://s3.amazonaws.com/kony2012/kony.html

Many of those who actually see my posts, if not all, have probably seen this already, but if not, it's really worth your time.

I haven't been on blogger for a number of months now, so I figured I'd return with the spark of inspiration I've gotten from this. Embedded within that is my frustration at myself for not really having done anything with my life lately, and today I pledge to change that. It might not be earth shattering stuff, but studying math, reading books, creating art, and writing poetry will at least give me something to focus my spirit on.

Now, back to the poetry!

The White Blood Pumps

"time to get the blood pumping"

In six words

   (a memoir, perhaps?)

a message flashes across my keyboard

from the tips of flesh pistons

that pound a message out through my electric window—

one of a global apartment building—

my thoughts sent to a soul across the hall.

Blip.

Meanwhile riffs pump in my ears

Tim sings another anthem in a voice of liquid metal

hear his fury for the untold story

the need to share all the sorrows;

now crackle up the headphones

now spark my blood.

Click

I share a video

            KONY

            2012

the fight

is ON.

An empathetic light switch.

BOOM

the vacuum before the cyber explosion

sucks my words back for a moment

then spits them out across the invisible lines

that trace the air we breathe

and connect us all like

the umbilical cords of modern life.

We're never too old to love as children do

and to share our love with those who will listen.

We stab the barrels and let loose the milk

that will flood the shadowed plains

where creatures scrabble underfoot,

only heard because they trip over their own feet,

in the search for nourishment

which sets fire to their mouths

and their eyes.

            And their souls.

The milk flows like the rivers we carry

made strawberry

 in arms raised to the sky

pumped faster by white fists.

Let's flood the world.

Right now, the brush fires have one name

for new firefighters in the world

that spring up against injustice by the thousands.

J.K.

only it's not a joke.

Crystal Skies and Cloudy Eyes

A porcelain doll perched

in her dusty hollow,

put back in the old shop she once tottered from;

set out to gain perspective,

now she's returned with a lazy eye

The empty dolls' stares glossed

over her weathered, rosy cheeks;

as she was set back into the soft-wood depression

she felt the hours tick darkly by,

back 

       into 

circles

Newly etched lines on her glass features

were erased again beneath the collective cover;

around her the void settled back down

and swelled in coils around her heart...

...but not the heart put into her

by a lonely matron's hands:

a heart the doll assembled

from stitches of lost thread 

found in an outside world 

she feels tugging softly on her soul

Suddenly an energetic pulse cascaded,

and rippled slowly across her being;

an entity, hers, weaved, while away,

by the digits of a reticent ghost

who had led her from those wooden rooms

astray, across the way...

            The little ghost boy has lost his toy

            and doesn't know where to find her.

            But draw out her heart and give her a start

            and down a new path she'll wander.

                        A tranquil wisp

                                    loosens a /s t i t c h/

                                                and fear falls                from her

                                                                        softly

            From her heart a piece unravels like fleece;

            a little white glow shines forward.

            The light of her ghost shines onto a post,

            the sign turns her too soon shoreward.

Tears coagulate on the beaded shoreline,

crystals sprout in circles;

they sprinkle the beach with cobalt shimmer.  .  . .

           

            Now diamond wings rise to slice the sky

            her heart cut into ghosting pieces

            set forth to fill the silence.