Monday, January 30, 2017

Heaven's Poem



Forever flowing, the fragrant flowers of spring
bring busy bees, pleased to be buzzing
eternal echoes etched in earthly oms, 
homes for hearts and Heaven's poems.




Copyright 2015. JourneyHolm. All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Pointless Story

In a quaint, quiet forest a mole went around, tilling the earth and digging the ground.  He was searching for worms, his slimiest prey, when he discovered a farm that would fill him for days.

There were so many worms, he ate himself fat.  On writhering thrones, he slurped and he sat. When he was finished, there were still many worms who attacked him in strong, slimy squirms. 

Sifting the soil, the worms trapped the beast, bathed him in grime, and made him their feast.  The mole was too gorged to put up a fight.  An ironic twist to his utopic night. 

The worms then thrived for three thousand years, devoid of thought, worry, or fears.  They evolved into a race of omniscient beings, finding all answers and gleaning all meanings.

One sunny day, a boy dug them up, washed off their dirt, and filled up his cup.  He used them as bait when hunting for fish.  Catching a trout was his number one wish. 

Grabbing a long, wriggling worm, the boy set to stick the hook through its form.  Just before the point pierced its soft side, the worm told the boy, "I want to survive!"

The boy dropped the worm in startled alarm, stumbled backwards and tripped over the farm.  The pile of worms slopped out of the cup, raced for the edge, and dropped in a plop. 

In the cool water, they raced for the shore, unaware of what the fish had in store.  Within a minute they were swallowed up whole, which really was this story's one goal. 

You see, the fish were part of a plot to show you what the mole begot: the beginning.  And the moral of the story is this, my dear, faithful friend, nothing matters when it comes to the end.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Forget Your Own Name

If I was God,
I think I'd be bored
because if I knew all
there'd be not to look toward.

Like watching a movie
for the one millionth time
I'd know the all the scenes
and speak every line.

Which would make perfect sense,
since I played every part,
from beginning to end,
in every moment and every heart.

I even transformed
into a limited being.
The pain of the world
had somehow been freeing.

If I was God,
I'd feel like a parent
who was raising a child
with a loving impairment. 

I'd want the world to know
how close I could be,
but then I'd think clearer
and see only me.

I think that God's lonely,
so he forgets His own name,
joins His creation
and plays out the game.

If you look into the heart
of any possible thing,
then there you'll find God
and merge with His being.

Once this occurs,
nothing's the same.
You see that you're God,
and forget your own name.

It's scary at first,
but once it moves past
you come back to earth
and try to broadcast.

Alas, the masses don't understand
and the message is never quite clear.
But in the end, it was all meant to be
exactly as it was written here.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

The Illusion of Time


Imagine a world with no time.  If you reflect, I think you’ll find that truly there is no specific date and that being late is just an illusion to eliminate confusion as we try to understand the world in canned form.  It has become the norm to believe that we exist during a specific year and hour.  We adhere to the power of the clock and allow it to lock us into place, creating slaves as we race to and fro with thoughts that we will go somewhere other than where we always have been.  A proper zen might snap us out of this delusion.  Alas, the infusion of the hourly circuit makes us work it until our fingers are numb.  It’s making us dumb; the thumb of the man holding us down so we can sparkle his crown with rocks that the flocks confuse as wealth.  All the while, their health is depleting as they lose fleeting moments to the ticking tock that mocks every moment of their lives. Time.

Friday, January 20, 2017

A Lone, Lost Lad

It was, from the start, a terror stricken heart that caught my throat in a chokehold.  I'd been bold, wandering so far from mom and her friends, and, now, it seemed my end was near.

Fear burned my mind as I tried to find the path from which I came.  Alas, they all looked the same, and no matter how loudly I called her name, she did not hear my cries for help. 

Long legs and sagging purses made me feel like I was drowning in a sea of strangers.  The stampeding masses sounding like nightmarish morasses reminded me of monsters and other things that could go wrong in life.

I remember just sitting on the ground, hoping to be found by someone who could help.  Instead, I was accidentally kicked by those too busy to look around, continuing to shuffle like sheep that baa this way and that, seeking the promising pleasure of consumer goods.

Finally, a man in blue wondered who I was and why I was alone.  His tone was tough, so before he could rough me up like Uncle Jim, I bluffed and said I'd hurt my shin and that mommy was just ahead. 

I jumped to meet her, but accidentally turned toward a dead end.  Now trapped, the man snapped a walkie-talkie off his belt.  I felt the cold pain of my own misdoings bubble up in my belly.  My legs turned to jelly as I felt the welts from so many times before pour back into my mind.  Fearing his firm fists, I pissed my pants and started to cry.

In a final, desperate lie, I told myself that everything was going to be ok. 

Later on, the all-call echoed throughout the mall, beckoning my mother to come retrieve her lost boy.  Like a tossed toy, I sat in a corner wallowing in self-guilt, which had built upon itself throughout the drawn-out day.  There was nothing left to say.

She arrived, dismayed; insisting that I should have stayed by her side.  Half of me wanted to hide away, while the other half grabbed her hand and wouldn't let go.  Like an undertow, I'd been swept far away and was barely saved.

Despite having braved the wild concrete jungle of society, I still felt lost--no longer a child.  Perhaps it was then when I crossed the threshold into a more mature mold of myself.  Forever, my play would hold a hint of awareness for my surroundings. 

The pounding of my heart dissipated as I related what had happened to her and her worried soul.  Her lost foal, finally herded home.  Carrying me to the car, I rested my head on her chest, ending the day better than I would have guessed.


Copyright 2015. JourneyHolm.  All Rights Reserved.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Monday, January 16, 2017

Believe it if you want...

Believe it if you want, but a well dressed gatekeeper just gave me a key to the mansion he guards.  He told me to travel through the yards and use it to open a door.  When I did, I would know where to roam. 

It was the home of his brother from another mother who had died trying to hide from his wife in a river of lust with another man.  The plan was to flee the state and incubate their forbidden passion.  He was in fashion and his partner was a barista at the local cafĂ©.  Neither knew he was gay until they locked eyes for the first time.  Only then, did they find the truth about who they were.  

In the spur of the moment, they decided to own it and leave in the morning.  However, they never came together again.  Mourning his loss, the boss of the coffee shop decided to chop up his employee so that no other company may enjoy his brew.  He knew that without this man, his shop was finished and would slowly diminish because he could never seep a cup of joe like this sage.  

In a fit of rage, the keeper’s brother called his mother, who was an assassin of sorts.  She killed for sport, whether it was man or beast.  Then, she would feast on the flesh of her kill until she was ill from stuffing herself full with its meat.  

She agreed to meet the boss for a “job” in which she would rob him of his life.  She plunged a knife into his chest and watched him come to rest in eternal slumber.  He was number seven that she had sent to heaven that year.  

It became clear to a cop that something was wrong when he stopped outside after hearing a song.  She often sang as she ate, it was the way her late husband always had his meal, bless his soul.  Her real goal was that of sacrifice to entice him back into the living.  By giving her voice to the choice people she killed, she steadily willed him back to the earth.  His birth would be known if a corpse started to groan after having already been dead. 

I stopped the gatekeeper and asked if his mother was sick in the head.  He was quick to explain that her crimes only caused pain to the people for a short while.  It was her style to kill quickly and not in a gruesome manner of repeated impaling.  I could tell that he was failing to understand the grand madness of the scheme.  Did he realize this tale as ghastly? 

Lastly, he told me that his friend was found to be a cohort of it all when they traced the call from the mother’s phone.  He finished with a tone of lament.  His intent was to get fired of his post and become hired at the most dangerous prison around.  He would join the grounds crew, which he knew was a way to free his friend.  In the end, all he needed was for me, he pleaded, to wander around until I was lost.  When I called for directions, an inspection would be made and he would be tossed out without getting laid.  

Once free from his job, he could finally rob the prison of his mate.  They would have to flee the state, but he would rather be a refugee that had freed his buddy than a cruddy cohort to this whole mess.  And, now that I knew his plan, it was best that I ran away once I made it back to the street.  If I wanted, he would meet me in a secret location to avoid probation for us all.  He would call me on the next full moon, which was soon, and all three of us could flee on a bus to the Mexican border.  

In order to succeed without being caught, he thought that we should use code words to move towards the culmination of the deed.  I would need a mask when wandering around, because if it was found out who I really was, then the fuzz would surely jail me as well.  

I couldn’t tell if he was serious with me or not.  Suddenly, I forgot that I was late for work.  I had to cork off this conversation, lest I catch reprobation from my manager.  He was a challenger of my consistently being late, but I was a great worker and no one made coffee like me.  I became increasingly interesting in this man, his story and the idea of glory in a far away land.  He had planned it all out and I was about to explain that I must refrain from his plea.  He saw that I might disagree and eyed me up and down.

What he found was that I might leave him in his endeavor.  However, he had never met anyone he was so connected to in so few minutes of time.  Now, I’m not going to lie that when I met his eye I felt a faint flutter in my heart.  I started to see him in a new way and just as I was about to say otherwise, our eyes broke away to look at the floor.  

Then, I saw the door open to the guarded home.  A lady with a dog started walking toward us and I became desperate to know if he would share his life with me.  It turned out that the lady was his wife to be and that he wasn’t a guard at all.  He said he would call me to leave in the morning.  An idea was forming in my breast that he might be the best thing that had ever happened to me. 

I decided to quit my job as a barista and become a tourista of another land.  I went to hold his hand, but knew that I shouldn’t.  I couldn’t wait for his call and just as I was leaving, his fiancĂ© started to pray that his mother wouldn’t sing another one of her tunes.  It always ruins a meal, she complained.  I refrained from thinking about the sickly feeling that was creeping throughout my body.  

I oddly left the couple to tell my boss of his loss in a couple of days.  The phrase that stuck out on this page of my life was that of the friend’s boss and the knife used in the accused crime of his tale.  If I was to be impaled, I guess I had failed to prevent the event, because I continued to hustle toward my demise.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

A Tale of a Tail

I cut my mouse in half.

Dissection?
No.
Bisection of its tail.

It didn't end well.
Although, we never expected it to,
for it was a hideous experiment.

Do you wish to hear the tale?
Or should I say tail?
It doesn't matter,
I'm going to tell you anyway.

My fiance was wondering how to teach her students
to use a computer mouse.
It's not an easy task
for a student with severe autism
to recognize that the mouse manipulates the screen.

I got the idea to take a wire coat hanger
and attach it to the mouse
with a marker on the uppermost end,
like a bent arm drawing.

As you moved the mouse,
it's wire arm would move too.

I tied a dry erase marker to the end
to simulate the mouse impacting a screen--
the whiteboard, just above.

With all my might,
I tried to rip out the tail of the mouse.
I wanted to stick the wire hanger
in its hole,
but it wouldn't come out.

I struggled and wrestled with the beast,
eventually bringing a weapon into the battle--
scissors sharp and ready.

I sliced through its tail
like cutting through a rodent's tail
with a pair of scissors.

After that, it was over.
We tried to attach the hanger some other way,
but it was of no use.

The terrible and potentially dangerous idea lay in a heap,
my mouse and its tail now useless.

The End

Copyright 2015.  JourneyHolm.  All Rights Reserved.

Friday, January 13, 2017

Bubbles the Bird



Once upon a time, on a hot, sunny day, there was a big blue bird named Bubbles.  Despite Bubbles’ bubbly personality, she had no friends.  All the other birds made fun of her solid blue color, mocking her that she was boring and even invisible when flying through the sky.  So, one day, Bubbles decided to add some color to her monochromatic feathers.  

She flew down to a puddle of muddy water and jumped and splashed around until she was covered completely in mud.  As Bubbles was preparing to fly back into the sky, she found that the hot sun had baked the mud right onto her body, turning her into an immobile statue.  As hard as she struggled, she could not break free from her hard mud casing.  

For a long, long time, Bubbles had to sit still, motionless, as she watched the other birds swoop and sing throughout the beautiful blue sky.  She realized that if only she had appreciated what she was given in the first place, and had not worried about what the other birds thought about her, she would be having as much fun as they were right now.  If she had loved her blue body and disregarded the judgment of all the other birds, then she would still be free to swoop and sing like everyone else. 

Then, one day, it rained and all the hardened mud washed off of Bubbles.  It was like she had been born again.  Immediately, she took to the dark sky.  While all the other birds cowered in their nests, they watched in awe as a beautiful blue creature soared in and out of the brooding clouds.  Because of her newly found insight into her life, Bubbles no longer feared storms or what other birds said.  

She lived the rest of her days in complete bliss, fluffing her blue feathers and showing off her aerial abilities.  Since she was so wonderfully positive about who she was and what she could do, the other birds looked at her in amazement, wishing they could feel as free as her too.  Soon, they befriended Bubbles, asking her what her secret to happiness was.  With a simple tweet, Bubbles flew up into the blue sky, swooping and singing all day long.

The End

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

What Does It Mean to Be a Man?




What does it mean to be a man?
Does it mean that I can stand
upon the ground with solid feet
and firmly shake a hand when greet?

Do I have to win the bread?
When I sit at table's head,
will I cite the evening prayer
that promotes my loving family's care?

Will I have to save the world?
When I do my best to raise my girl,
will she turn to me and smile,
"Daddy will you walk me down the aisle?"

What does it mean to be a man?
Is it something one can plan
when what they saw from their own dad
is the same old question all men had?


Copyright 2015. JourneyHolm. All Rights Reserved.