Ghosts Like Us

Ghosts like you

like holding my hand

and then disappearing

into thin air.

Ghosts like you

like ghosts like me,

stirring fire in your heart.

Ghosts like me

like holding you close,

and never leaving.

Ghosts like me

like ghosts like you,

sending shivers down my spine.

Ghosts like us

like the idea of

something more than this.

Ghosts like us

like the sensation,

but then it fades,

like ghosts like us.

-LJ

31 March 2017

A Walk Down The Street

While I was walking with my little brother,

we passed a corn field that fell victim

to the bitter cold of the winter season.

The wind had thrown the corn close to the road

and the birds feasted like winged kings on it. 

I stumbled upon a baby bird,

frozen with eyes wide open,

wings down and at its sides,

lying lifeless at my enclosed toes.

It filled me with a sadness that

I could not begin to describe.
I wanted to pray for the baby bird

that lay dead before me.

I wonder why I didn't.

I wonder why I kept walking.

We finished our hour-long walk,

and when we passed the baby bird again,

it wasn't there anymore.

-LJ

26 March 2017

100/shallow waters

Life was beautiful,

and so were you.

100 

You wandered,

deep in thought,

99 98 97 96 95 94 93 92 91 90

and I have appeared

to have lost you

89 88 87 86 85 84 83 82 81 80

within the codes of

the human condition.

79 78 77 76 75 74 73 72 71 70

Diving into the shallow waters

to bring you back to me,

69 68 67 66 65 64 63 62 61 60

I began to lose air,

and filled my lungs

59 58 57 56 55 54 53 52 51 50

with the contaminated water,

which allowed you to float

49 48 47 46 45 44 43 42 41 40

back to the surface.

39 38 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30

I sank to the bottom

of the shallow waters

29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20

heavy with your burdens,

and your worries, and your fears...

19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10

and the last of me returned to you.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Life is beautiful;
so are you.

0  

...forever.

-LJ

24 March 2017

i woke up like this (two haiku)

How did these get here?

When I fell asleep last night,

these feelings weren't there.

I woke up like this;

another nightmare rattles

my body and mind.

-lj

24 March 2017

Another Poem About His Eyes

If the pupil of your eye is a black hole,
why can I see into your colorful soul?
Have we become, in a way, connected,
so that we could keep each other protected?
Is your soul so incredibly, wondrously sacred,
that not even the strongest bout of self-hatred
could shatter you into a million stained-glass pieces?
God above, how I wish I could straighten my creases,
so that my fragile, small soul, through your beautiful eyes
could one day, eventually, realize
that love is something like our souls--
deep and somewhat dim, black holes,
with vibrant colors in glassy eyes
that cry with sheer pleasant surprise
at the moment when time stops and two becomes one.
Please let it be us, my moon to my sun.

written by: lj
date: 10 March 2017
title: "not sure what i'll call this, probably a shit-poem"

For Every Sorry

A flower for every "sorry" I need to say;
but, like the most beautiful of flowers,
they eventually wilt, they lose their petals,
and they shrivel up and expire.
It reminds me that, in my mind,
in the household of my head,
sorrys, like flowers, will mean nothing,
and they will perish along with my sincerity...
and the worst part is, the flowers were
hand-picked, hand-held, and I planned
to give them to you when I was ready.
Nobody wants dead flowers.
Nobody wants empty apologies.
Nobody wants them, my mind says.
So, I crawl back into the earth,
becoming one with the roots of the flowers beneath,
so that I, too, may grow strong and beautiful,
and then, and only then, will my "sorry" finally mean something.

-lj
10 March 2017

The Conductor

The conductor stands before 

the orchestra and choir,

ready to guide their execution

of the repertoire etched in their minds.

Turned, facing them,

he holds the ability to give

feeling and emotion

with his face away from the audience

and the wave of the baton in his hand.

Left to wonder what the

beauty of music was about,

the audience watched as the conductor

caused rainstorms and earthquakes,

tornadoes and blizzards,

rainy days and sunny days,

and only the most blissful night

of full moons and shining stars. 

The conductor stands before

the whole auditorium,

and gives a new gift to the world;

the gift of empathy,

as he conducts the sights and sounds

of the world, for the world.

When the last note has been played,

he stands, frozen and relaxed,

speechless in the stillness.

Resting his arms and 

releasing the tension from his hand,

he knows he told the story well,

and he knows the musicians told the story well,

and he knows the audience listened.

-LJ

21 March 2017

(this is a "part 2" of sorts to a poem I wrote

last spring titled The Lone Composer.)

Spring Cleaning! (featured post)

Hello, and happy first (now second) day of Spring!

The blog has taken on a new appearance! Looks nice, doesn't it? I usually change the background to fit the changing of season, but some new themes were made available recently, and I was excited to try one of them out.

 So, the background has changed, and the layout (or the theme) of my blog has also changed!
 I really like this new theme I chose, to be honest, but since this is new to both myself and my readers, I'll point out some important things.  Below should be a screenshot of the top of the blog, highlighting the newest changes to know about!

-there's a "KEEP READING" button on the bottom right corner of each post, so click on that to continue reading the rest of my poems!

-the blog's archive, my "list of links", and my "greetings & salutations" is located in the little pull-down menu (the three lines) located on the top left corner of the screen! Click on that, and it should pull those things up!

-I've managed to figure out how the "pages" thing works!  Like, it's about time, right?  You can find those below the blog title!

That's all for now!

-LJ

The Standstill

(The following poem is also posted
on my Tumblr! The link to that
is in my "link list" under my archive!)

***

If time tells the story
of two young lovers,
then time, slow down,
so that in this fulfilling moment,
we may stay together and kindle the perfect flame.
We set our souls on fire-
we ignite each other and set off
the most extravagant fireworks.
And, when the fireworks become frightening,
with their trembling tremendous roars and sparks,
let us keep in each other’s arms,
and allow us the waters of peace,
so that in the pounding ripples of warmth in our hearts,
we may stay together and stay safe.
Sure, we may burn each other,
and we may burn ourselves,
but it was once said that a little heat never hurt anyone-
but when it leaves scars and wounds
with anxieties that never leave,
let us writhe in pain, and let us come back so that we may be comforted
by the love in ourselves.
They said time would one day dwindle
like the water from the dripping faucet,
and like the flame from the fire.
They told us to live in this slow-motion while time sped up.
But it kept us together.
And as it kept us together,
we found our own way to thrive,
in the standstill of weathering disasters and silent breakdowns.
Time, slow down, and keep us. 

-LJ
18 & 20 March 2017

intrusive thoughts/where do they go?

Where do they go when the light of morning becomes the darkest night?
Do they go in the night in the healing of the spirit of day?
What do they tell me when the greatest of times becomes the very worst?
Do they speak in the tongue of the distorted shadows under my blankets?
Why do they appear when the cloud above me becomes the enemy?
Do they embody the frame of the hell of my capricious tribulation?

Where do they go?  When they appear,
what do they tell me?  Why do they come?
Where do they go, when they're done in this
ongoing scourging? What do they tell me,
when they whisper in my ear? Why do they
have to hurt me like this?  Where do they go?

-lj
7 March 2017

Sweetly Stealing Starlight

Last night, I caught myself
sweetly stealing starlight
and seizing all the moonlight
so you'd not be afraid of the dark,
and could sleep in peace.

This morning, you awoke,
and looked at me-
a sweet smile stole your fears,
and with glowing eyes,
you thanked me.

Tonight, we found clouds
sweetly stealing the starlight,
seizing all the moonlight;
but we had each other,
and could sleep in peace- unafraid.

-LJ
3 March 2017

Of All The Beautiful Things

Of all the beautiful things,
perhaps the most of these
is the light in your eyes,
the colors of your soul
and the wonder you inspire.

When I, with stained-glass eyes,
watch you chase your dreams from afar,
I am engulfed in a peace and love
that does not compare to any other
in this worn-out world.

I dream of myself,
chasing my own dreams, too, ya know;
and hope that one day,
I can find the beautiful things in myself
as I have found them in you.

God, give me the strength to try,
and then give me the motivation to do.

-lj
5 February 2017

The Two-Week Stay At The Old Little House On The Hill

In the old house, the propane heater roared
with violet, subsided into reddish-pink,
and overheated me at night.

In the old house, the water was cloudy
and I was afraid to use it because
it could almost poison me.

In the old house, the guests are see-through
figments of my family's family's family's
family's family, and they gossip all night.

In the old house, the heater scared me,
the water was cancer, and the ghosts were the voices
in my head trying to fight the voices in my head.

-lj
24 February 2017

The Grass

They counted each strand of grass, and it was said
to have taken them years to make sure
they caressed each with the same touch as if
being caressed themselves in a lover's arms.
Spring turned into Summer, and the grasses of the wintry world
began to live, only to have their time on this earth cut short.
Summer began to transform into Autumn, and the leaves fell
from the trees that swallowed our little city,
and they began to cry, knowing their carcasses
covered the grasses, and knowing that the strands that had withstood
the test of the seasons thus far would lose to
the harsh hand of Winter, where legend has it
that all dies.

-lj
7 February 2017

For The First Time

For the first time, I felt like I could sing again.
The tell-tale signs fit together, mended back
into the shattered frame that was myself.
My voice floated through the polluted air
of the depressing city streets, and the ears of
the world heard a sound they thought
they would never hear again.
With my instrument warmed up,
I prepared to take the world by storm,
and accomplish all the things that
I set to do before, but felt was out of reach.
For the first time, I felt like I could sing again,
and I was ready to let the world know
that the sweet and timid-voiced soprano has returned.

-lj
27 February 2017

The Window/The Giving Tree

I sat at my window the way that
I imagine Michael sat in his Giving Tree;
thinking of the many wonderful things
and the many grotesque silhouettes.
I sat there, feeling the breeze kiss my face
and play with my hair, as if my brown eyes
were his brown eyes, watching as the wind
might have wanted to wear his hat.
I sat there, relieved that the clouds offered
shade from the sun, which blinded me,
the same way I imagine Michael wearing long-sleeves
in hot summer California afternoons because
the sun was almost toxic like ultra-violet radioactive liquid.
I sat there, and in my mind,
I heard music and prose that I imagine as
my own little song, and I imagine
that when he sat in his Giving Tree,
Michael heard what he called
a "symphony from the heavens", and composed it.
-lj
27 February 2017