Thursday, March 8, 2012

Reflections of the Phoenix

03/08/2006

Reflections of the Phoenix 
One breath between us and eternity, and all that we have created in this semi-realistic hole in the universe dies with us.
The writing which gave birth to all that you felt that you thought would never be expressed and if so, never understood, yet you wrote none-the-less, to give life to something inside you that you wanted the world to see and comprehend as a part of you, and in a sense, become a part of them.
The picture taken on that first day that spring whispers it's presence in the wind and you felt it and knew that change was coming, just as it does every year as you watch it and take it in, and remember,,,, bringing something that you saw and felt into a photograph, also to be shared and expressed, to spread that part of your life, that minute that you felt it, to spread it somewhere to someone and exist in someway...
The token that you wear so obsessively about your neck, close to your heart,,, touching it ever so often in passing others to remind yourself that even though you are somewhere unfamiliar and uncertain, that you know who you are and where you come from. Playing with it habitually yet, unintentionally, remembering when it came into your possession and why it bears so much significance to your existence.
The random pieces of artwork, books, doo daddles collected on a weekend night out with friends, tapestries, mementos, favorite movies, your burnt cd of your most treasured songs that each remind you of something or someone dear to you, random pictures of the one you used to love along with the one you love now, mixed with the blessings and offerings of those who crossed your path that wished to leave you with something to remember them by, all filling a room that you so perfectly molded into a reflection of who you are.
All the memories you ponder on, the things you like the most and the things you dislike, things that make you happy and things that hurt your heart. All the weird little quirks you have that make you cute to some and oddball to others. Your dreams, your fears, your secrets, your wishes,,, all the things that you allow those you trust to get a glimpse of but wonder if they ever really see in you...
All that will be buried with you when at long last your last breath is spent and releases all those wonderful things that made you the person you were... and what happens to all that it meant to you? What happens to that piece of you that you wished the world to see and exist?
I have it...
And so does the person sitting next to you, the next person to cross your space, the person you pass in the morning and get close enough to that they can smell the scent of your existence, the person you call tonight and make chit chat with about their day and what you felt earlier about something that was bothering you or made you happy, the person in the room opposite you that you think doesn't even know you are there, the last person you touched with a loving gesture, the person with whom you used to be close to but for some reason they are gone or away yet still existing in some form or another just not with you, everyone that you have come into contact with in the smallest and biggest way receives something from you that leaves an impression no matter how defining or unnoticeable, still it is there...
And I take that part of you with me today and thank you for sharing it with me... just by existing.

To Dirt

Originally Written on 3/08/10

So quickly turns the timber in to dirt that which was once that sturdy frame to house a happy home.
Crushed heavily beneath cold fists of ignorance in the pursuit of progress. . . what lies in the rubble of this lost existence that once felt the love and lives of so many.
Dancing, running, jumping and playing ... hugging, kissing, loving and praying... all ghosts now lost to wander with no halls to roam because of a selfish persons desire for the contemporary.
And never know what piece we lose of ourselves with each time you destroy that which means nothing to us but much to another. Yet we do... and destroy over and over those pillars and historical  heritage here as if we never existed at all,, but just ... are.

In Memory of The Smotherman House
Dedicated to Laura Royster Smotherman and others who Loving Roamed those Halls and Stairways at some Point in their Life.