p.r.h.

silent in a reverie that will come to pass
wandering attentive past broken bonds
he muses on commonalities long since detached
and knows that rectifying comes through a Song
with a confidence that borders godliness
and a lightness reflected in his face
he hears a cacophony of fragile mess
and envisions a symphony of grace
he sees through windows to wanderers abated
to a lesser form than that which was intended
he renders himself so that it may be stated
“that which seemed impossible has been mended”

posted by jon havens

a life of juxtaposition

i have this hanging in the coffeeshop at vintage for the advent conspiracy art show. all i could find was my rough draft so i tried to remember how the finished product went. i think it is close to what i have below.

what new sensation is this? what little can i give that would incur something so great? what tiny thought? what infinitesimal gift? if these hands unclenched their fists and stretched from my body would they reach your lips or would they stretch to your soul? would they belittle your condition or illuminate your sallow cheeks? what is this ocean that rages within me? for too long, i have fought back these waves. i have wrestled posiedon and when weary, my hip out of joint, i have turned to face neptune himself.

how i long to see a different day. a day that holds new burning horizons, a day where fresh blood flows in reconstructed hearts, a day unlike the one that stares at my sallow cheeks. am i the one to give or is it you, after all? i give what pleases my conscience and you give what you are.

but i have come to see that this storm will continue to rage and it is only how i will face it, it is only how i view this cold despondent world that will shape how i respond. this vignette is not a new day but rather the opening of an ancient door to reveal a day that has been here from the start. only these wrinkled eyes have been closed for too long. but with mud and spit they have been opened to see this painting anew.

i will dive deep into the black ink and not surface until this rusted anchor has been firmly planted in a new Foundation. no longer with white knuckles barnacled to the wheel will i battle this storm. i will man the rafts and set out to give what i can: namely myself.

and so, what new sensation is this?

posted by jon havens

the nightmare

after much time, i finally have something new. it is too long to post so i have linked it here. enjoy! the nightmare

happy anniversary

a week and a half ago marked the year anniversary of the birth of this blog. it is our hope that if you look back at the older posts you can see a progression and improvement in our writing. though i may only be talking to myself, drew and dani, we are glad that we can share our stories and poems with you and we look forward to another year of writing. be ready for some halloween posts coming in the next few weeks. thanks for reading.

posted by an unholy collaborative effort

yesteryear

sing that long forgotten rhyme
that warm breeze of breath
trailed by the romance of the yesteryear.
the melody that once came to me on treetops,
on meadows,
on crumbling boulders overlooking distant lands
has melted to a wisp of my own breath
dying fast on the cold winter air.
i smell traces of Your mystery
wrapped in the tenderness of great love
that is drenched in the sweat
of a night of great agony.
my bones ache for Your salt
to alleviate the pressure
of needing to be in unbroken enrapturement.
gather me under Your wings
for mine are weary with flight.

posted by jon havens

a jar of fireflies

to jules, the boy butterfly, cocooned somewhere in a sleepingbag,
drinking starlight and sleeping under god.
with autumn dust on his feeble eyelashes.
who is teaching me to look past the clouds in the morning,
just before i get into my car to rush off somewhere and wait..
wait..
just for a bit, wait...
to see the geese triangle through the sky kissing the ripe lemon moon goodbye.
i'll send them off north with a wave of my tiny hand,
wishing i knew what that felt like.
to the boy cocooned,
whose materialisms are the sounds of crickets and breeze through the jungle grass.
and the atlantic sweet water falling from the pacifics cotton clouds.
who taught me that its ok to open the lid and let the fireflies go.
for this is an act braver than any i know.
they still illuminate the walls of my ribcage quietly leaving behind trails of delicious light around my heart.
to the boy butterfly,
who is unafraid...

posted by drew carlascio

the molten sky

as your spheric surface invades the night sky i wonder if those blotches were borne into you forcefully or if they developed over time, with age and fatigue. tired from beholding a world of malice and ignorance, your perfect surface has corroded and the light that you reflect grows dim. was that the plan? or do you still shine when no one is looking, when busy eyes look inward and outward instead of upward?

hang in your incredulous sky for your journey is long and your toils are endless. you viewed our destruction and lamented your concerns to the foggy night sky which hid your sorrows and caged in your fears. eclipse yourself in shadow and never show your dark side. will no one raise their heads? will the blood not move? will the face remain comatose longing for something to make it plush?

stare hard into my jealous skin and you shall see the inner workings of something not yet breathed upon, not yet fashioned. it is making its slow journey into the depths of my sadness. my shell has cracked, interior exposed, an orphan in your light. as i search the heavens for traces of your journey, i am left with a parade of cauterized emotions, an endless labyrinth of choices. maybe our paths are not so different after all?

oh to see the day you found your resting place and reflected your light in freshness for the first time. if i could, i'd sail a tattered ship on your beams through the clouds and dense atmosphere where together we could view this cold cruel world and hope to God that our dreams haven't been shattered in the fallout.

posted by jon havens