Sunday, July 22, 2012

It's Within Those Precious Ten Minutes

where we all live.
But when you know
to fill the fleeting seconds
with all you have to give,
you notice the effects of
focus'd awareness outside
and within.
It's those precious ten minutes,
that move so quick.
You have to keep up,
and shrugging off thoughts of boredom
and impulsive whim
will present the world with intense depth,
no longer noticing with a skim,
a glance,
no longer delicate with this life's skin
     - egg shell thin.
But knuckle deep in what's surrounding,
with eyes agape,
angled and funneling,
pouring exhiliration deep into our being.

So don't wait for what's next,
but act with a passion
to make these memories stick.
It's those precious ten minutes
where the ticks begin to whirl too quick,
and that buzz you hear
year after year,
will finally make you sick.

The time we share
with humanity right here
will one day take it's toll,
so stall that illness' call,
and remember what once was
then go there
when you need fond nostalgia
 - it's the only cure for whizzing clocks
until our time finally stops.


Jordan R Shaver 07.22.2012

Thursday, July 19, 2012

We Build Our Own Fences

We let the fire burn itself out,
and retired to our selected earth
and our dreams.

This is where we danced.
As independent men -
dependant on the land,
our toils were daily,
and fruitful,
and to us - necessary.
And with no time for the
superfluous, we had to remind ourselves
to dream of reckless abandon,
and dance.

Heat sanded the flesh off our necks,
and our tools did not conform to our hands,
but our hands to them.
And our work showed daily progress -
with no sight of completion for years.
And for years our socks were never dry,
and we always prepared
to live the same days
in a cyclic time -
and we saw our lives
continue on, and on.

We fell to the ground that night
with ash and embers
above our heads
in effortless flight.
With our eyes closed,
they must have found their home,
on the minds of all of us;
burning images never seen,
and feelings
into our collective dreams
of things possible.

We woke at daybreak.
The usual soreness of the previous day's work
mingled with the tough bedding we chose to lay.
And we smiled.
Shrugging off the night of joyous ecstasy
as a single, individual, unique experience.
Never discussed - we began a new day.

We sat in silence,
waiting for the breakfast to boil,
thinking of the day
we could set ourselves ablaze
with a life of dreams unseen.

Jordan R Shaver 07.19.2012

Thursday, July 12, 2012

The Morning Floods

The wind blew in
I gathered my skin,
my first thoughts beckon,
Now I'll begin.

We've shaken hands,
and our words were like casual prayers.
And when you're gone,
and the words can only be thought upon,
I still pray.

So tonight while the shower head spat,
pummeling my back - my prayers
finally spilled over
I was forced to close my eyes,
letting words of love
in disguise with an amen
fall from my mind,
washing through my hands
with no soul to absorb.

It was only when
the exited the shower
that the flood of thoughts
showed their true power
in a single tear.

Jordan R Shaver (1999, originally published on Poetry.com)

Sunday, July 8, 2012

The Cottage

The musings of a family's Cottage, as told by the Cottage one quiet evening in July.


"... my concerns these days are of my own thoughts; general whimsy. But still I continue my beckoning call for you to join me, and sit on my dock, and in my hammock gently rock, and let the memories of our lengthening past envelop your eyes. In a single, unimpeded welcoming hum I'll tease you with all the possibilities of what you can do here with me. You always try to hang on to the reality of seemingly feasible plans created and put to order during the drive to me. I know your plans will not all be seen through. I know you'll fold to distraction. You came to rest in my comforts, but my comforts are an illusion, and there are no comforts where there are things to be experienced. And to remain uncomfortable will enable you to better fully describe a rich encounter with me. A series of them; each one different, and each one unified by my walls and the artwork hanging upon them, my scent and how it will never change. Perhaps one day you will miss me after a period of neglect. Perhaps I will entice a wandering breeze through my open windows, down the hall, and bend it toward your nose. At that moment I know you will not remember a single event here with me, but simply remember me - the one you affectionately, and inappropriately call The Lake.

I've had visitors with no plans or focus - and those with an itinerary of to-do's, and in my time I have never seen a single day of intentions actuated. It's not my doing. I have no hand in the day's events. But am merely a canvas having been painted by your families wandering, incongruent hand over and over, and still re-developing with your strokes today. Each stroke a visit and each visit another painting atop the previous. And from the way my delicate canvas has been covered I can tell I'm certainly not looked upon with aggression, or even intense passion - as each stroke mocks the whimsy of the lake which sparkles and adorns me with the jewels of it's reflection. Nor have I been implicated with planned measure for each stroke of each visit by each family member - which could possibly unify and, assuredly, paint the perfect day for everyone. Following the guided hand of everyone's experience, you would all know the right actions and thoughts and share this wisdom as a family. But the current orchestration of each visit is to prove the exact opposite of that unity; designed to create a discord, and a generation of different memories of me - the same shared space. Inside and around me, no one has felt the ecstasy of my full capabilities. But collectively, I have honored the family.
I exist for each of you, and never ask for the favor to be returned. But in the haze of my attic I've realized your error. Families exist for families, and especially for families that will follow those whose hands have touched my banister. And if together mattered, as much as time with me, then this family and future generations of shared blood will have what each other has earned. Which will be a bounty compared to their individual scraps. Especially concerning love and attention. Because when it comes down to it, without the love and attention of this family I would never have the strength to perk up when those familiar headlights cast down the gravel path, shake off the moss and straighten my joists, and gather my sagging floors with all the pride of having another welcomed guest.
They too should gather their floors, and stand firm on them in the name of family, and love, and permanence. Because one day I will  fail. Never having another opportunity following my final second to contribute my joys beyond what fate will allow. And fate will certainly grant me a moment when I can no longer withstand the weight of all of our history. But the replacement of future generations who will come to me represent the replacement of those weakening joists and footers, and together, as a family, we can live forever."


- Jordan R Shaver 07.07.2012

Monday, July 2, 2012

Sunday, July 1, 2012

A World Is Nothing More Than How You Percieve Yourself In It

She walked, blank-faced into the garden.
Looking as though she should be in deep thought,
but the quietness she showed came from inside,
and the blank expressions of her face resembled her mind.
She sat on the concrete bench,
uncomfortable, she crossed her legs
and let her posture slump.
With the vast beauty before her,
she'll never remember
anything but her footprints in the high
blades of grass
and the color of the worn brass
of the banister she passed
moments ago.
She listened to herself breathe,
and felt the wind build
and recede
and with nothing on her mind
she developed a love for mankind
by being alone,
and seeing the world as herself,
with no one else to blame
for the state of her day.

She'll never replay
the moment in that day
where she could finally see
the beauty of a world
built on her contributions
and there was nothing she could say.

So in that tall grass she chose to lay,
reveling in her world
- so perfect.

Jordan R Shaver. 7.01.2012