Justin Silverblade

Rolling around hmmm?

 

Well it sounds great to me, but if you mean that its even *currently* writing and rewriting itself, I'd love to see any changes.

 

(but I like it as is. )

 

- Justin

 

Aww thanks gals. I'm glad you liked this. I was trying to get out of my typical 4 line, rhymed verse. This message really couldn't be expressed with that kind of style anyways, so it worked out really well.

 

This is a poem that could be written or read somewhere and with the right inflection, pausing, general created vocal mood, could bring the audience to tears.

That was much how I intended it - I really spoke it to myself as I typed. I'm glad it got that kind of emotion across.

 

What amount of work did you put into this? It seems not only well written, but thought out perhaps? Could you explain your motivations for such a striking construction. (not necessarily the personal circumstances, but maybe why?)

The poem itself took me the better half of a couple hours to write, but the topic had been bouncing around my head for quite some time. I didn't quite know how it was going to turn out until I sat down and started putting it together.

 

My motivations for writing it? Well, without going into personal circumstances... the want to express. It's one of those things that, when I discuss it with my friends, it gets quite lost. I'm quite unable to convey my meaning simply and cleanly in an open conversation. Quite often I lose myself. So in trying to find a way to express this message - this unwanted, but somewhat voluntary loss of innocence. This.... fear of "growth" (be it backward or forward). My motivation thus, was to sit down and see if I could express it at all, or if it was to stay in my head forever. I think it came out rather well.

 

Does this explain it? If it doesn't, I'm sure I can try again.

 

Again, glad you liked it and thanks for your comments!

 

- Justin

 

Oh this is splendid. Thank you very much.

 

A very quaint, endearing little piece. I liked it. Makes me sorry I was so late in reading it.

 

- Justin

Rune, I enjoyed this very much. Don't usually have a lot of time to devote to this end of the Pen, but today I was glad I did.

 

A great piece. Thanks for sharing.

 

- Justin

Well, I thought:

 

The poem stabs (in a good way) it's emotion into the reader. Not a gentle caress, but... well... the imagry I see to describe it is "the prick of a thorn into skin, drawing gently a single droplet of blood." That's how the emotion was brought to me - a stab of verse followed by a dollup (sp?) of thought. All, of course, dripping into one pool of beautiful message. A wonderful (tragic) poem.

 

What stood out as my favorites particularly were:

 

Black roses, sharp and beautiful

At the beginning of the piece. This is what first gave me that "prickly" sensation. Crisp and precise. But personally... the contrast of the last verse, having been aquainted with the thought I have aformentioned (OOoOOoo, a big word!)...

 

Black roses, sharp and beautiful

I can't stand because you're gone

Well, it gives you that really weak feeling, ya know? To complete the corresponding image I'd give it would be to think that someone was drained so much (from the stabs of the poem) that the message is almost too much. I don't know if that makes a lot of sense, but the short version of it is: "Cool contrast!"

 

Thank you for sharing, I enjoyed it very much. A very sad message, very evocatively portrayed.

 

- Justin

Hello all! For those of us in Canada, today's Thanksgiving!

 

So, for everyone out of school, hope you're having fun. For everyone working - enjoy the Stat Pay. For everyone who doesn't normally do anything on mondays anyways.... well, happy holidays.

 

I hope that everyone has/had a great day and weekend, with family, friends and (hopefully if you're like me) lots of great food.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

- Justin

 

PS - we don't have a turkey Smilie. *gobble, gobble*

Merely a thought or two, or three... Hope you enjoy!

 

- Justin

 

 

~~~~

 

The Twelfth of December

 

 

It was a cold morning, on the twelfth of December,

When I sipped from a strong earl grey.

It was a brightened day, this morning after,

The world lay asleep from troubles,

In silent echo of erred innocence.

I hugged close my cup, in humble compliance,

Acceptance.

It was a frosty morning, on the twelfth,

When the tears of mourning lay as snow.

It was a noble pose, this devastation,

Hiding pain of death beneath,

Deep beneath the quiet companion of ice.

It was fear that brought me warmth,

That fleeting warmth of toil and tea.

It was fear that drove me to snow the sea.

 

Two days ago, in truth, I fell,

Lamentably.

In such a day, as a bleeding rose, I lived.

If ever a time, I thought suffering worthy,

It was then. Oh bliss of innocence –

Of pride and righteousness

Of glory and idealist grace.

That was my course, and with it suffering.

Beyond beauty was this destined duty,

To live, to know the world held some inner strength,

That man could live a life worthy of celebration,

And worthy of tears.

Worthy of a life without man made fears.

 

But two days ago, I saw the flower wilt,

Droop and cry.

I reached out. Oh I reached out! To man…

To man who knew the world’s inner strength,

He and She, who knew a life worthy of celebration,

And worthy of tears.

And they told me, whispered silently yet with a smile,

“My dear, my dear, do not weep…

“My love, please know your love we keep.”

But still I lay discontent, and so stood

To fall to beg. “But sufferings of life,

“That I would live, of duty, with strife.

“Tell me, please, why then should I?

“How do you live with soul and sigh?”

Unknown to them, their answer nigh,

“Oh my love, we don’t – that’s why we cry.”

 

The eleventh of December was dreary indeed,

Without Mankind, my crutch.

The fall from innocence was inevitable now,

Unless was found a fact: its truth.

I struggled and fought myself to hold,

An ounce of red on my noble rose.

I had lost those dear to me – my path and love.

I could hence turn only to my faith in world’s strength.

I cried.

“And are you too a lie!?

“Do you hold the beauty I saw, I thought I saw?

“Have you made a golden rule of law?”

But it gave no answer. Silence was my earned wage.

“Is that it?” I screamed now. “You die in death?

“I held myself to sufferings of my own breath?”

The world I listened to would not reply,

And so, with those lasting words, I died.

 

It was a cold morning, on the twelfth of December,

When I sipped from a strong earl grey.

I was liberated today, this morning after,

Free from any noble friction,

In silent mourning of lost illusions.

I hugged close my cup, in humble compliance,

Sinfully sinless.

It was a frosty morning, on the twelfth,

When roses lay below the ground.

It was a noble pose, this devastation,

Hiding pain of death beneath,

Deep beneath the quiet companion of ice.

It was fear that brought me warmth,

That fleeting warmth of toil and tea.

It was fear that drove me to snow the sea.

Happy birthday!

 

 

Wish you both great happiness in your days to come.

 

That's a wonderful poem Peredhil! I was very taken. Stopped by for a bit of reading before I got to my homework, and was very glad I did! It was a real treat. Message and mood, really stirred memoires. Splendid.

 

And.............. the present from Rune! What can be said but:

 

:woot:

 

That's great Rune. Those images, especially with the music, complemented the poem beautifully. I've saved the link and am going to pass it on to a few friends of mine.

 

The Pen is soooooooo cool. *hugs*

 

- Justin

Wonderful poem, and congrats on being accepted! Welcome to 'official' membership. I'm glad you're on this side of the fence now, and can't wait to read more of your work.

 

- Justin

 

PS - if you don't really know the value of money, and you want to, it's never too late to learn, and a very valuable exercise! (of course it comes hand in hand with a depression of it's own. )

Happy birthday. Hope it's great.

Hey all. I half edited, and was too lazy to edit the other half (but anxious to post it. ). So if there's some rough stuff that's why. But it's a nice piece. Based on a real life experience of mine. A real eye opener. Hope you enjoy!

 

- Justin

 

 

Queensway Station

 

 

I stepped off the bus and into a painting. I had taken public transportation many times before; indeed, it was my only way to get around downtown. I didn’t see a need for anything else, really. This was, however, my first time at the Queensway Station. It was a quaint little set of 6 bus stops, each with their own plastic box and benches, on an island of cement. It was surrounded by several tall structures, the only one of which I bothered to note, was a museum. Standing regally off the east coast of our platform was a town clock, decorated and supported by several thin marble pillars. Outposts to watch our travels were some old fashioned lampposts, standing tall after the city had decided to beautify the downtown streets. Akin to them grew maple trees, helping to round the station into one circular garden of yesterday.

 

When I arrived, the sky was a deep ebony. The time was right: the clock stood fast at half past 10, and the moon was enraptured with a thick cloud. The wind nipped at my jeans and sweater immediately after I set foot outside the bus, mocking me for not bringing a jacket. It was a dark mood the night brought, one that I had not noticed within the safety of the moving tin box that brought me here. Fixing my eyes firmly on my destination – shelter – I did not look back when I heard the rumbling of my former bus, leaving hurriedly to its next destination. I sat down; it was cold.

 

I methodically placed my backpack down and looked around for a moment, as I always did. I tried to not look interested in anything but my own private affairs. Keeping in with the décor, my face was as stone and felt just as cold whilst I examined the area. It was scarce: three people were behind me, in open air, conversing with only their cigarettes, and one other person was moving in and out of the museum across the way, closing up for the night I would suppose. Then, as I always did, I reached down and into my bag and retrieved my schedule. Looking for my bus I aptly fingered through the charts of bus numbers and times until I came to my bus – the number 8. 11:00. Promptly I imposed upon the garden’s monarch to find the time. When I followed its arms to find I had a half hour to wait I sighed, my mind swearing. Thirty minutes was a long time to wait, for anyone who wants to escape their own thoughts.

 

I waited and grew cold. Someone laughed behind me, and I turned to pass the time. It was the tallest man, of the three, who had chuckled. The second dropped and squashed his cigarette butt, promptly taking another smoke from the third, and lighting it up. Through my shield of artificial glass I silently deplored them. How could they find anything funny tonight? I couldn’t fathom anything enjoyable in this mural of misery. The wind picked up again, suddenly, and I writhed soundlessly. Leaves fell from the trees, and could be heard rattling down the street. I watched as they all landed on the road in front of me before rolling noisily off. The trees themselves bowed, beckoning their children to return, and mourning their loss. I watched and thought as the wind that carried them whipped at me; chilling my bone and icing my heart. Those poor things, off into the unknown to start new lives. Bah, a lie. They were leaving only to be stepped on, and forgotten.

 

A loud crunch broke my concentration, but proved my thought. The museum manager had finished, the lights had been turned off, and he had set out to go home. The leaves gave under his feet and the wind broke away at his jacket as he walked briskly out of the sight of the encircling lamps. I watched him curiously until he had walked, devoid of emotion, to the end of the road, across the crosswalk, and then into his parked car. Relief imposed its will on his stature and mixed expression wore itself on his face as he entered the safety of his car. Slowly he became comfortable and soon sped off to home. I sighed again. Everyone was always in a rush to go somewhere; so quick to find misery in the hands of triumph, to discover the nothings of the world. It is pitiable that he would try so hard to find worth, only to eventually realize we are all worthless. To act so important only to be irrelevant. So many people had chosen not to see this, even though they lived it. They lived it every damned day.

 

I looked up at the clock. 10:45. Only fifteen minutes had passed. The glow of clock was a sickly pale orange, weary of its eternal purpose: waiting for time to run out.

 

Rhyme or reason unknown to me, something caught my attention on the inside of my plastic shelter. Upon further calculative inspection, its source and secret was revealed to me. My reflection. I was disgusted. My face, in its natural state, a Mona Lisa of anger. My brow was creaseless; concern or caring had not been mirrored there for some time. The eyes, slate blue, examined their specimen carefully, detaching it from any reality around it. Finally, my lips, curved into a half frown, disapproving of the other features. It was never content, I was never content. I turned away from my reflection, I could not stand the sight of it.

 

But it was entirely too late. My mind had been guided by the fates that be, that non-existent God that I cursed, by my own damnable composition, to my self. I was forgotten. My loved ones – those I thought I loved, and thought loved me – were safe in their homes now. My friends were in the warm, away from the bite of the wind, probably laughing and chatting. They would be oblivious of me and my plight. Unknowingly, they only pay lip service to our friendship. But at the end of the day their thoughts were only ever to each other, a group I existed in only superficially. Every time I thought this false and thought that maybe, just maybe, they actually cared about me, that they actually meant the words behind their lips… I am given evidence that do not actually consider the depth of what they are saying. It is not their fault, but mine. Mine for falling into that inescapable trap of wanting worth. Wanting to be valued eternally. Nothing is forever, nothing is ultimately important! I was a fool to ever let myself think otherwise!

 

As my anger churned internally, the clouded sky began to mourn. Rain dropped loudly onto my asylum, conjuring a cynical laugh from my own gut. How ironic that the world should cry, yet I would not. That it could, and I could not. Another distaste I have for me!

 

And distaste for distaste! There is a tragedy, truly!

 

Enough.

 

The rain continued in its mild downpour, driving the three behind me to an adjacent booth. It was quiet for a time, within the reaches of my mind. I studied the water dripping from the streetlights. They were glowing in silent defiance of the darkness. I concentrated on that quietly – fighting the urge to think.

 

But it was the monarch of the garden that stirred me once again. With eleven solid, off-tune tones, it heralded for the next set of buses. I waited, my meager clothing failing as protection against the elements. I waited, and still no bus. Not surprising. Perfectly fitting. To be completely forgotten. Never mind family, friends, teachers, children, employers, no, never mind all that. The bus system itself left the island for bare. I sighed and clenched my fist slowly. I could hear the other three men curse and pace, but I paid them no mind. I tried to give nothing my attention, though drifted into my own passionless failures – my memories.

 

I was rescued before long by a ringing. It angered me slightly – I was far busy in my own thoughts, and their disruption was unexpected. But upon realizing it was my own cell phone doing the distracting I reached for it. Who could it be at 11:15 at night? “Hello?”

 

“Hey, Will? You busy?” The sound of my younger sister rang through, unaware of where I was, or what I was doing.

 

“Not really…” I lingered, consciously evaluating the question. “Why?”

 

“I need help with my homework.” I smiled, knowing how Susan disliked Math. Since I had moved out a month ago, she had occasionally phoned for help with it. I asked her what the question was, and we walked through it – step by step.

 

The bus came, finally, and I unconsciously grabbed my bag and walked swiftly over to it. Almost completely engrossed in my conversation, I had to ask Susan to hold on for a moment to pay the bus driver. I gave her a quick smile and exact change, and hurried to the nearest empty seat. The bus was deserted, save for myself and the three fellows behind me. As I settled, phone in one hand, I glanced out the water pelted window. There was the station, in a dim orange haze. My thoughts withdrew from the math problem and returned briefly to the painting I had stepped out of. I shook my head, and laughed a hearty laugh, uncaring of my scarce company. That was quick.

 

“Suze?” I returned the phone to my ear as the bus pulled away from my former thoughts and poisoned fruit.

 

“Yeah?”

 

A smile pasted itself broadly on my face. “I love you.”

 

“…I love you too William.”

 

Very nice. I enjoyed it quite a bit. Emotive and enlightening. I'm glad I stopped by to read it.

 

- Justin

Not bad.

 

Inspirational to be sure. Designed to be very comforting. What's the word for it? Emotive? Certainly expresses that well. Interesting piece.

 

Personal question: Could an athiest's/non-believer's piece be so well moving, in the same manner? I think so, hope so, believe so, and mourn that I can not recall it being so.

 

Thanks for sharing very much Annael!

Hmmm.... Many thoughts come to mind with this one. Perhaps most apparent to me:

 

Feeling 'Safe': A temporary reprieve from the illusion that Life's out to get you.

Finally "finished," I rather like this poem. Thought I'd post it here for the non-members to see as well, as I originally was developing it in the Writer's Workshop. If you've access, and want to see how this poem developed you can do so here.

 

Hope you enjoy! I loved writing it.

 

- Justin

 

 

If I Could Write a Word...

 

 

If I could whisper waning wonders,

Speak that language – the wine of kings,

I would wield with splendor true!

With sacred art would spread my wings.

 

And to soar - Oh to soar! – into the sky,

And to drift in drunken sweetness

To that place, upon command, of

Weightless worries and heaven’s bliss.

 

That place where wistful truths sit idly

The tears of Gods lay clear to man,

I’d not be slave to single moments,

With this gift to capture tears in sand.

 

But higher than and in that world;

More sacred still than my great capture:

Would be that with this flight on paper

I could my loved so deep enrapture.

 

Oh! If I could write a word!

 

What greater want or will could be

But to show what love shows me?

I would surely trade all delight,

To give to them what I see free.

 

To lift another to taste that treat,

Surely I would live content:

Knowing grass was greener by design.

Knowing loved knew where they were sent.

 

To fields of fruit, sweet taste of nectar,

That lingers languidly lest its leave,

Would be its final. So must it be,

To preserve its moment in Time’s reprieve.

 

But that too, I know, is not justice.

Rippling that in earth’s reflections:

Single triumph of such beauty, it

Eludes precision save “perfection.”

 

If I could write that word!

 

But drama mentions mild the image.

My hand and mind can not compare,

Can not restate, crystal clear,

A moment’s passion, zeal, or flare.

 

“So many words belittle meaning,”

I have read the quote, once or twice.

I can’t help but give a thousand!

In simple faith, hope they suffice.

 

I’ll give tomorrow a thousand more,

And again - to my beloved, whom I adore.

A pledge of moments I give in longing;

One word of many holds light to soar.

 

If I could write a word…

 

A very very happy Birthday Peredhil. Few deserve as much celebration. I wish you all the best, today, tomorrow, and each day after that.

 

Yours,

- Justin

Congrats friend, way to go!

 

An event to behold, cherish, and awe. All my love to you, mom, and daughter. I hope that everyone is healthy and happy.

 

Happy birthday Samantha!

It's good to see you again, friend. Welcome back.

Congratulations all.

 

Well earned and well deserved.

That's great.

 

 

My best wishes Yui. I hope you had a great day, and continue to have many more.

 

All the best,

 

- Justin

I'd pour out words of praise, for this poem certainly deserves it, but I can think of none worthy. I loved this poem very much. And I'm glad I stopped by to take a read. I think you've got a real treasure here, Rhapsody. Certainly worth the time spent, and worth a great deal of appreciation, if you ask me.

 

Very well done, thank you for sharing! Sorry I haven't written more about it, there is certainly a lot that one could talk about with this. Very thankful for having read it.

 

- Justin

“What are you looking at, Ryan?”

 

Some moments of life catch us off guard; hints of the wind whispering in the grass on a cool summer’s day, or the single note of an old, decrepit piano that seems for once in tune. Moments that enlightens us of life’s treasures. All the gold in all the world can not buy these moments, as lamentable as it is, for they can not be bought. They are given perhaps, or maybe simply sought, but no matter how they arrive in our daily lives they are indeed pieces of purity.

 

Such wisdom as written above was I treated to one late afternoon, as my friends and I had gathered around in my living room. We were enjoying an evening of laughter and joking which is an eventful pastime of ours. It is difficult to place just when and where, or how to describe the realization passed by my eyes. I would suppose, if I had to, it would have been just after a side splitting rendition of cartoonistics by one of my good friends. It was something we were well accustomed to, thankfully, else the expression “died laughing” may have become painfully apparent. While everyone rejoiced and glowed in the joke’s aftermath, I took a moment to survey the crowd; my second family. My over-dramatic serenity passed over each person, as I did many times before. My smile crept towards the thoughts of everyone, each person had their own beauties, when suddenly an image tranquilly smiled right back.

 

As all things of purity should be, my painting was draped in gold; sunlight from the open window poured upon two of my friends. His one hand around her shoulders, and his other clasped in her’s. They, king and queen, relaxed in that single moment on a cape of royal red, my couch. Calmed after a good laugh, they seemed to be in a kind of post-bliss, ignorant of their own passions. In that time their eyes, their windows to the soul, opened for me and I looked inward. They were unaware of my theft of the moment, as I let drift my own thought in theirs, and for that I am thankful. If they had known of my delve, it would have spoiled it; ignorance can bring about the most wholesome of colours.

 

“What are you looking at, Ryan?”

 

Fragments of thought only came to mind, for I was too overwhelmed to dare put explanation or interpretation to my perception. It was so serene now, so calm. Two friends, locked arm in arm, eye to eye. Spirit in spirit. My two friends – oh what splendor! How can one explain seeing this save to say that they are overjoyed? They had been enraptured in each other for endless minutes, hours, days, months. I could only grin as I thought of that bond strengthening, over months, years, lifetimes. They were so young in their relationship, life was so young at their fingertips. And now I had the distinct pleasure and honour of sitting across from the two of them, and could only think of what would be. I could only hope that I would be there to see it again, as I saw it now.

 

But I knew that it would be. For sitting there, on my couch, was forever. It existed as strongly and blissfully as the heavens above do, and as firmly and certainly as the earth below does. So let the church bells toll, and the blue birds sing! Lay me down to rest, for I needed to catch my breath. It is impossible to define and diffuse that passion into words, and I will run of air trying – for it is a worthy cause. One person tried it before, I think, and though I know not their name, I did and will continue to sing their praise; for they stopped with one word: Love.

 

So they asked me, the question I still had not answered: What are you looking at? I thought of all I stared at: The compassion in their eyes, the devotion in their hearts. The unity in their hands, the wisdom in their minds. The passion in their lips, the love in their souls. It was lasting; everlasting, and with time could not be degraded. From the soil of their bed and the toil of their work would grow only beautiful things. And at that moment, I could see those flowers. Breathtaking.

 

“Ryan?”

 

I couldn’t wait to see form in reality what had been in their hearts, what I had seen in the moment’s picture. I was completely unprepared to realize the truths of what is and what would be. But as unprepared as I was, I was indescribably happy to have seen it. Such a treasure! Silver and gold can not compare to such a passion. Even memories themselves, while grand, can not compare to catching a glance at living sentiment. Living spirit.

 

As they sat, the strangeness of my quiet faded out their open eyes. When I did not speak (for I would not dare allow speech to detract my attention from what was important), their curiosity began to cloud over the moment. I could merely find myself trying to stretch the moment, revel in its glory for as long as possible. Finally and inevitably it transformed from a moment to a memory, as all things do. My friends: as they were and as they would be. John and Laura, Lover and Beloved, Lord and Lady, Husband and Wife.

 

There was my answer, ringing clear as day: Husband and Wife.

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

Hearing my own voice finalized the insight and snapped me back to reality. I smiled, satisfied with my answer. That was exactly it. It was like the title to a work of art; not necessary, but when carefully considered added something to the art itself. For that brief moment, I had been treated to a gaze upon the essence of tomorrow’s love.

 

“I was looking at tomorrow.”

 

 

~~~

 

Comments appreciated - I'd like to give this to a couple of friends of mine, but would like to hear a few of your thoughts first. Hope you enjoyed it!

- Justin