Skeleton Keys Kept

A porcelain jar of skeleton keys

go to nothing,

lost their use in time.

Dusty jar

cracked

on the dresser.

Reminds of hatred like keys

unlocking nothing of use,

spreading rusty words.

Leaving a taste on tongue

of metallic opposition:

you and your orange ash.

Ignorance keeps old keys

no longer relevant,

but recycled into the dusty jar

cracked

on the dresser.

The rust continues on,

spreads

metallic ignorance

from your mouth

so used to the taste.

The Art Form of Envy

The red sun rakes the grass,

caressing the metal holding the hefty

tabletop desk,

where he vigorously scribbles his visions

on the paper, bowing and stretching

to the breeze,

held down by his left,

pictures etched with his right.

Lead whiskers coordinated on the page,

his hand blends shapes in the page,

morphed from ideas in his mind.

He is occasionally mindful

of the vast meadows

surrounding him,

preserving him and his

flavor of the arts.

Sitting in my small black box,

this pinhole camera reflects

his perfections on the wall

like filming April Fools

onto my forehand.

I try and fail

to imitate his art

like an ape imitating

human lifestyle.

I am trapped

in the zookeeper’s cage.

Of Faith and Fate

I gaze over terra, beyond the boundaries

Of the swaying tree lines and washing winds,

that divide fantasy from reality,

and vigorously choke wicked courage from my lips.

I stand steady on the spilling cliff

of sweltering memories,

screaming death and defiance,

stealing faith with condemning fate,

drifting off the path of elegance and empathy.

I regain footing in free fall,

and gawk at the orange warning and smoke

exploding on the canvas beyond Hemlock and Hickory,

a reminiscence of Renaissance, Raphael, and Athens.

In this deep reminder of responsibility,

I drift on impaired air currents,

reluctantly cradling me above the forest barricades,

and into the portrait of beauty and truth.

I stand steady on the spilling cliff,

and stare sarcastically at destiny and divinity:

Accolade to fear and misfortune.

Exigency of Faith and Fate.

I stand steady, dreaming of intangible portraits

In the blockades of endless space before me.

The Shrine

Based on

Fumée d'Ambre Gris

By

John Singer Sargent

A shrine is a holy place. It is a place that is highly revered by a culture. It is a person of historical significance. It is a library that holds all the knowledge of the world. In this case, it is a relic designed to challenge.

History holds many secrets of its culture. Buried in tradition, one can forget the true meaning of life. Sometimes it takes an important journey to discover the true meaning.

In an age of prosperity and marvelous landscapes, the temple stood as a monument to its people. This shrine was inside the most sacred temple of their land. When the tribal men and women of their city turned sixteen, they were required to enter the tall marble halls for the first time in their life. Under the temple’s golden dome, the young men and women traversed a long and seemingly empty hall. A carpet with vibrant red and white circle patterns guided the young seekers. Their eyes beheld a diminutive object, steeped in simplicity. Once they cast gaze on the shrine in the center of the temple, they were required to uncover its mysteries, the test of true adulthood.

On this day, Nasreen was hesitant to take the ultimate test. It was her fourteenth birthday, the proper test age. She stood in front of the temple that she had been solicitous of since she was little. When she was six, she even tried to sneak across the golden entrance but was caught and severely punished for her crime. Ever since, fear grew stronger within her. A decade, to Nasreen was a long time to consider what was sacred about the shrine. Was it worth her punishment? Curiosity colored her agitation. She was reluctant to cross the threshold of the portal leading into the alabaster sanctuary.

Centuries ago, a group of nomads discovered fertile hills hidden deep within the vast arid desert. Mysterious waterways ran underneath the hills, providing the proper nutrients for the soil. The nomads knew that this land would be perfect for growing food for their people.  As they travelled deeper into the hills, they discovered a rich oasis with beautifully clear water. It was perfect for drinking. They did not make this discovery without a little help. They called it the “gift of the gods”: swift-flying red birds, the guardians of the fertile land. 

The nomads saw the birds as the messenger of the gods, welcoming them to a new land. They saw it as an opportunity to settle. They began to build a thriving society by the fertile ground. With the new abundance, they began raising families without the worry of the harsh desert and limited resources. They were grateful for the opportunity to grow and prosper. The nomads could finally get the most out of their fragile lives.

Soon after, the temple was built as a dedication to their new-found bounty. They didn’t want their descendants to forget the message from the gods, bestowing such blessings. The temple was later used to teach the young about the importance of the land. Generations passed. The message was passed down.

The day had finally arrived for Nasreen. She was the first of her generation to learn what it means to take responsibility as an adult. Though fear stricken to enter sacred ground, there was talk that Nasreen would lead a new generation. Nasreen was always driven to stand at the front lines. Her peers looked up to her. It was finally time to prove that she was a leader among the youth.

Dressed in a weighty, white robe, Nasreen stepped into the marble halls. The sunlight reflecting off of the golden silk sleeves and silver neck-piece instantly disappeared as she stepped inside. The sacred presence of the temple overwhelmed her. She kept her face covered with the heavy white material and her eyes to the ground. The vivid circular and diamond designs of the carpet pattern entranced her. It guided her to her destination.

It was the shrine. It was forged with the richest of polished silver. The base consisted of as simplistic design that almost resembled that of a vase. The shrine increased in width as it increased in height. Near the top of the shrine, the silver began to weave together in a spiraling pattern. The spirals merged together to create the crown. A round hood protected the top of the crown. The hood’s tip was molded into a circular handle.

Nasreen was cautious. She studied the design for several minutes. Nasreen was surprised at the small size of it. Her heart began to beat faster as she thought to touch it. She never expected something so significant to be so small.

She wondered what contents laid under the hood. Her hands began to shake as a new fear rushed through her body. How could an extraordinary revelation be made with such a tiny object? She wondered why it only sat on the floor. 

Why wasn’t an alter built for it? Maybe it’s not necessary, she thought. Its reputation was great enough. The temple was constantly discussed in Nasreen’s city and needed no introduction. However, the contents of the temple were shrouded in mystery. The elders did not talk about them out of respect and the children feared the possibilities. Nasreen was the only child ever brave enough to attempt entry when she was young. Now that she understood the temple’s significance, was she prepared to face the challenge?

Nasreen pushed all the doubts aside as she gently reached for the handle with her right hand. She gently clutched the lid with her index finger and thumb. Slowly she lifted it off of the tray. Her eyes widened at the sight.

It was the remains of a small bird. Nasreen was very familiar with its species. It had been a symbol of her people for many generations. It was the messenger of the gods. Flying over the city, the people were entranced by the bird’s majesty. They were always high above the fertile lands, a beacon of their home. Why were the bones of this specific bird placed in the shrine?

Nasreen thought of death. Is this a lesson about life and death? She wondered. Nasreen gently stroked the smooth skeletal remains of the delicate creature. Through touch, she began to feel a connection with this gentle race. She remembered her childhood. Her parents once kept a majestic young bird at her home after it had been injured. It sat in a cage and sang beautiful songs to Nasreen. As time passed, the bird’s wounds healed and its songs became more joyful. However, the bird soon became restless and the songs became sadder. 

Nasreen understood that the bird wished to be free. It wanted to spend its life with salvation and prosperity. Nasreen was instilling hopelessness in a bird that was supposed to be the city’s symbol of hope. A messenger must perform its task. One day, she snuck the cage outside and released the bird. Immediately, it whistled joyful tunes as it joined other birds that were passing by. The birds soared high above the city.

 The pieces began to fall into place. She understood the meaning of the shrine. Nasreen placed the lid back on the shrine and began to slowly walk back down the pathway. Those poor, fragile creatures, she thought. It’s amazing to think that an animal so frail...so susceptible to pain, death, injury...could be the symbol of prosperity and a servant of the gods. As she exited the temple, she thought back to the beautiful caged bird. Its beautiful song could still be heard from outside the temple. It was a careless creature, fulfilling its short life. It was as if it knew...nobody is immortal.

Inventory of Our Words

They crack the safes

hidden in our portrait of communication.

an  intercourse of social science,

flooding the streets of civilized city structures,

isolating outstretched pastures beyond urban diction.

We paint the portraits

of expressive thinking.

They map the blueprints

for oratorical robbery.

The rural fires of our desires are diminished.

The ashes scraped into our

six foot deep imagination asylums.

They stock coffins of our ideas

and do inventory on our intentions.

The sky box is shrinking slowly.

A blanket is draped over in refusal.

We stand inside

Eyes up

Heads cocked

In awe.

The sun sinks behind the dirt piles

crafted by spade shovels

that tear away at the grey soil,

like the escape artists

that tear away at our grey matter.

Anchoring our escapes,

we stand in the burial grounds of our words.

Night's Turbines

Awake in the presence of Night,

he claims the dreams from me,

and leads me onto my feet.

Noxious whispers clutch my lungs,

and drill madness into my bones.

The mocking shadows hide behind

night’s body, stretching to the yellow walls.

I shoot my arms through Night’s body

and grip the switch of illuminating armor.

The flaring explosion reveals illusions

on walls, portraits of shadows.

Night slithers into the floorboards,

and grinds the turbines of the basement.

Alarmed, I turn

to the looking glass.

Telling tales through my wild eyes.

My scorned memories swimming

in blind sight.

The Lens of Truth tells of Day,

the Achilles legend,

to dispel the Trojan Night,

and calm the Turbines.

And, once again,

Sleep unwinds,

kisses me,

kneeling me before Day.

The Death of a Crane

She laid down the pen. Gently, she closed the diary as she placed it on the table. Leona finally decided to step through the door. She saw the light in the distance as Death took her hand and guided her towards the soft glow.

She was gone. Her family stood around her bed, stricken by grief, yet a small number of them were relieved that her suffering was finally over. On the table beside her bed sat the diary that she held only a moment ago. The simple leather-bound book was worn from constant usage. The passages hidden inside would soon reveal to others her final days.

Diary of Leona Reece, February 15, 2012

Today was a good day. I’ve been wrapping up one of my last paintings to showcase in Pittsburgh in a few weeks. I’m excited because it brings back spectacular memories of my days as a dancer. I wish I could relive those days, but I’ve already sworn to live without regrets. She would be very upset if she knew I still had those wishes.

After gaining some inspiration, I decided to go back to my apartment and work on my painting some more. It didn’t last long; I started to feel the effects of my illness creeping back into my body. Leukemia is like having another shadow, always following me. It mimics my every move. It knows when exactly I’m ready to let my guard down. It strikes. For the time being, I’m going to rest. Tomorrow will be better.

February 21, 2012

My second shadow isn’t as forgiving as I want it to be. However, I’m always thinking back to what she said to me. It helps to give me strength, especially on a day like today.

As I continued my painting, I was reminded of Sage again. Sage Fallon always knew how to give good advice. She was not only my guide in dancing, but also, for two years, a guide in my life. I owe so much to her. If only I knew where she was today. Last I heard, she was following her dream as an archaeologist in the Middle East. She lives life by her own advice.

I knew how to live by her advice as well. Even after permanently injuring myself in the Jazz Dance Championship when I was young, I found other channels of free expression. She told me to live with passion. I lived enough for the both of us.

February 27, 2012

Sometimes mental persistence just isn’t enough. My body doesn’t seem to want to agree with me today. It wouldn’t be the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time.

It made me think back to when I first joined the Graceful Cranes Dance Ensemble. I was only 12. It’s hard to believe that it has been almost 19 years!

I’ve been dancing since I was 5, but nobody wanted to believe that I had so much experience at such a young age. My peers were harsh critics. Sage helped me ignore them. She taught me to be a strong and independent woman. After I turned 14, she left the dance ensemble and went off to college. Even after all that time, her teachings stuck with me.

March 3, 2012

It seems to be getting worse. I’m not sure how much more time I have, so I’ve been working harder on my final painting. It depicts our Dance Ensemble during the championship. Instead of a stage, we are dancing in a field of flowers. A flock of cranes circle in the background. They are judging us as we try hard to represent their grace by dancing with fire and passion.

It reminded me of the championship. I was 17 at the time. I tore my calf muscle during the solo, and I was surprised to find Sage rushing down from the audience. She came! I was so happy to see her that I barely noticed the pain. After all those years, she was still watching from the distance.

March 7, 2012, Final Entry

Everyone is here. My entire family came to be with me.  I was slightly saddened that Sage is not here, but news of my condition has probably not reached her. Maybe she will read this someday. I am dedicating my final painting to Sage. I’m calling it “The Birth of a Crane”.

This is my final adventure, Sage. Make sure this painting makes it to the exhibition. Drive my passion and perseverance one last time.

Sage closed the diary and set it back on the table. Tears streamed down her face as an overwhelming mix of emotions shocked her body. She stood up and wiped her face with her dirt stained sleeve. Slowly, she picked up the gentle work of art that sat by Leona’s empty bed.  She felt Leona’s presence in the apartment. After one last glance at the diary, Sage finally decided to walk through the door.

I’ll live enough for the both of us, she thought.