Time's up!By: Ryan Beodeker
So humanity? Out making plans for tomorrow? Or rather, are you making plans for tomorrow by not making plans for tomorrow?
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Time's up! A short Essay on Doomsday
Time's up!By: Ryan Beodeker
So humanity? Out making plans for tomorrow? Or rather, are you making plans for tomorrow by not making plans for tomorrow?
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
Quotes worth quoting...
Monday, November 12, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
I Hope You Enjoy Being Alone, A poem
I Hope You Enjoy Being Alone By: Kit Carson
I hope you enjoy being alone. The thoughts that I had predicted to come not the one's knocking on my heart's door. Helped to the renaissance of new found emotion. Once again the gift given freely not to be taken, not to be accepted, not to be wanted.
The funniest thing of all is the inability to believe that the longing of my heart doesn't cry out in my thoughts. That experiences can be shared. Lives can be similar. Unlock the gate to your heart and let me into the space occupied.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Arnathor the Great (Chapter 2: Part I Rough Draft) Fiction
Chapter 2: The Restored Republic of Southern Dwarfs
The Restored Republic of Southern Dwarves
made their home in the Nordsten mountain range; located in the southwest of the
five realms. The mountain range lay directly to the west of the Grundelstin Valley;
creating a border between the two kingdoms. The Dwarven people were a hardy yet
reclusive folk; though unlike their northern counterpart, the southern Dwarves
were a much more open people.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Driving While Intoxicated, A short poem
Driving While Intoxicated
By: Robert Orr
I am the designated driver
For when you become intoxicated
I will always take the wheel
When you have had too much
I am the driver
When you get inebriated
I will let you feel
All that you can touch
Veiled Nation, A Poem
By: Felix Maxell
Too much government power is not only unhealthy, but also induces fear. Our rights and freedom our being taken, either by changing of a bill or tampering with the constitution to fit their needs, we are all affected somehow. “Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved”(Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, 1513). That being said, the concept of complete government power is not far off, a nation built on secrecy and fear.
I am Found, A poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
The adventure ends and begins with a conversation with the most unlikely of friends. Let the thought ring for a while; please proceed. I've been planning my day like the chess games they always are. I move here and here, do this and this. The outcome predicted only slightly different from the outcome achieved; prediction makes perfection.
I think on my chances. How one text, and two little phone calls, can change the view of something so pure and honest in it's nature. Misconstrued are the efforts of my deep longing. I mean you no harm; come, go and may peace be with you.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The Goddess, A poem
The GoddessBy: Klive Mercer
Wake up and make a fresh pot of coffee. As I make this soon to be delicious brew, the aroma fills my empty soul. Now I can start my day, one cup at a time. With the caffeine entering my bloodstream I am infused with the one, the only, java goddess.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Lakeside Dreaming, A short poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
The sun is shining down on the lake as I sit resoundingly between the backs of two palm trees. Church bells. I see the chorus of miniature cars race past the toy sized houses across the lake from me. A duck and her ducklings float by, beautiful.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
What my thoughts are of, A poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
I sat down one evening and figured I'd take down my thoughts. First reaction then was to turn off the light. For deep thought, solitude of somewhat darkness. I sit alone in the dimly lit room with myself; searching the inner depths of my own mind.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
The Snake Charmer, A poem
The Snake CharmerBy: Kit Carson
There is a certain gift bestowed.
The masses naught see it lest,
they who hear it willingly jest.
Off to then pursue the rest.
The gift that's given quite the best.
Much like the snake charmer,
do I possess the talent,
to sway the savage beast.
The flute he waves,
makes all the snakes rave,
hidden in my speech.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Memories of a Dream, A short Poem
By: Charles Wood
It all starts off with a smile
from a pretty girl with a lip piercing.
She looks up at me lovingly;
a friendly, warm gesture
that I vaguely recognize.
Her smile, that smile,
I have seen it before.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Can you See it?, A poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
I have ascended to a higher plain of existence. I have reached the summit of my own personal Everest and have placed my flag upon its snow covered peak. I have escaped from the socialized, the modernized society that engulfs the conscious minds of the youth. For I have ascended. I have shuffled off my mortal coil and opposing a vast sea of troubles I ended them with upward motion. I have burst forth and now I see.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Here in these deep city lights, By Alyssa Seal
By: Alyssa Seal
I miss the trees and the ocean. I miss running with deer and the long, quiet, dark drives home late at night. The scenic backroads that occupied idle summer afternoons. I miss bonfires on the beach and late nights in the field. I miss watching the ocean rage as rain tears down and lightning cracks the sky. I miss the feeling of the grass between my toes. I miss standing in my backyard in the cold, letting go of the warmth of Summer and welcoming the Autumn and Winter to my home. I miss the feeling of a fresh breeze on my face, instead of the piss and dirt polluted stagnancy of this concrete hell. And I miss the view of the Earth outside of my window, instead of these towering manmade lights crafted to imitate the stars we’re told we’ll never reach.
Friday, August 31, 2012
As Summer Fades Away, A short poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
As summer fades away,
my thoughts go back to May.
How each and every single day,
in the sun we'd all laugh and play.
Happy, jolly even in skies of gray,
for every day in the month of May.
I think on the days we spent in June.
A summer romance to be coming soon.
The wishing and wanting for hours past noon.
On all the rehearsals that vanished so soon,
for every day in the month of June.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
"I don't understand why she didn't just leave...", A short narrative
"I Don't Understand Why She Didn't Just Leave..."
By: Alyssa Seal
The mind is a hilariously twisted place, that no one fully understands. You can condemn and judge me for what I've done, but how can you do so without first understanding my own torturous internal processes?
It's the thought that counts...
Monday, August 27, 2012
Silently Walking Alone in the Dark, A short poem
Silently Walking Alone in the Dark
By: Ryan Beodeker
The Epic Speech of the Beer Olympics, A short story
Memo to S.S. Carter
Subject: The Beer Olympics
Date: 3/18/12
3:14am, A poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
I have walked in the forever darkness. Seen atrocities, unshielded and unprotected as the mutagenic augmenters poison the water supply. The trash builds up and the men move it to the barges. Once there, the ships go on and on for ages, the sight of humanities deformed plastic mounds takes over the landmass, a sea of discarded cellphones and iPods. The t-shirts made by sweatshop hands stained with the tears of youth taken too early. One more bowl of rice here, another missing limb there, sweetheart.
Thinking on cities, the centers of our society. Where the hip cat roams looking for the green; to make the mind ease. Come down off the pills and the sugar, the processed fat that clogs the beating heart. Hearts can’t love when they can’t beat. Coca-Cola the devil’s drink; the hyper-deficit, over-active, cracked-out kid. Shaking and dancing. Moving to his own beat walking down the street. The eyes. Societies eyes stare out from veiled glances. An “Oh, I shouldn’t have glanced for that long” exchange between a passing boy and a group of girls. Everywhere you go the looks over the shoulder, a cold distance as if they aren’t there at all. Ease the mind.
We were talking about the ships that contain the, our garbage. The 50 tons of filth, pardon me, fucking filth they pulled out of the pacific. The ocean blue. Now a garbled mess full of coffee grounds, and tv guides. The best of American culture tossed away. The stink must be rancid. I just imagine standing on the sandy shores at the feet of the golden gate bridge. A thick morning fog has just begun to depart. The sun is piercing through the mist and rays of light are beginning to seep through the clouds and are touching the bridge as if by magic. The blue water of the pacific slowly becomes visible and there in the distance among the majestic beauty of nature, the greens, blues, the hues, the taste of crisp clean fresh air that is only found in nature. The air that if you could bottle it and sell it people would buy it, kinda air. The air that I breathed in the forest back behind my childhood home, back by the fifty acres of farm land right next to that forest. Air that you only find in nature tainted by the rancid smell of fifty tons of human filth.
Now some would become sad or downtrodden by the notion of nature ruined! But no, the fifty tons of human waste in the beauty of the pacific is art. Modern glorious our final station on planet Earth. The human race to slowly waste everything that we touch slowly wants to take hold. I think on for a second that such a dismal prediction can bring no satisfaction and devise to hypothesis that something else might arise. Possibility or better yet probability that we as a nation of Americans survive is slightly proportionate to whether or not we choose to think. If we think we live, if we believe we die.
TRUTH! If we think we live, if we believe we die. Fundamental truth. I’ve got to go on and probably on, about the damned green squiggly line. If this is ever to be read or heard or seen or spoke or joked or tossed out as shit or passed around for a laugh or for a smile or for a cry or for a drink whatever the case I want you to think on me sitting up at a quarter past three typing away. With each new sentence and as I go back and read I can’t help but see all the grammatical errors there have been, maybe if one day this were to be published all of those beautiful lines would be gone. You see my failure at grammar is a product of my raising. See in only fifth grade did I receive lesson, on nouns, and verbs, and tenses present-past. But really, truly, I forgot it all fast. But without my green lines, well I’m less who I am. Without my green lines I’m less of the man who rides on red cobble to songs from the past, going to see a few men bout some grass.
There is a tornado of words, though tornado isn’t the best way to describe it. A slow twister, a spinning realm of black Times New Roman size 12 words engulfing me. They all shout to be caught, they are like children, in the schools of our children, where sometimes the unnoticed happens far too much. Where the hand of the brutes, and the tongue of the wicked spin lies and tails of unbelievable sorrow.
There is a castle by the rivers head. There in that famed land many years ago a band of foundlings made their way. Struggling. Life is a struggle. After years of friendship and good will, the foundlings became divided and though neither side was inherently evil, neither side was good.
I will respond, recollect and then proceed to go on. It must first be said, and then later read that since the time in the castle long ago in a land most likely forgotten, well, we’ve all moved on. Grown wings and took flight never to return again. Though a flock may suffer losses, they are never gone for long.
The foundlings split that is what is certain and their story only finds merit in that it speaks on us, on all of us. Who we are and how we become the people who we see when we brush our teeth in the mornings. Many battles were waged and after nearly a decade of war, friends lost. The scars running far deeper than the foundlings ever would say. There are two outcomes, the first side of the foundlings sought power and respect, they were ambitious and saw all that they craved come to their feet. The second sought the same but found ‘long the venture friendship and companionship, though never reaching their aims. Though the first only knows the companionship of a few, the second has friends far from few. To be ambitious and win, or lose and be loved? Though which do you choose, glory or love? The warmth of power, or a hug from a friend?
Vengeance is poison. To seek, to aim, to conspire, to plot, to revenge is something one should not. At three forty-seven we speak on the second great war.
There needs to be a dark romantic symphony playing, perhaps something out of Swan Lake. The chords: minor, diminished, augmented, tri-tone, chromatic scale, key change, timpani drum. For revenge, a black mist swirls around, a fleet of brooms tossing their buckets of water. Creating a maelstrom, eating everything around. Nothing escapes the black-hole. Always remember nothing escapes the black-hole.
Humanity must, the we shoulds, groupings of words slapped together. The wish it was this or that ways. Sadness is our inability to accept that we can not control. Release and be free. Ease the mind. The monster mash, blast off time. A little church converted theater, stretch driveway paved from street to cemetery. Scruffy woods, weeds, and vagrants. Anthills and two white men screaming and shouting over and over again. A rinse wash repeat cycle of complete human mishap. Conducted by God, the cruel science experiment, pits the lowly stoner against the ailing cancer patient! They’ll be tears! They’ll be laughs! They’ll be heartfelt moments! Coming soon to a TV near you type ordeal that never gets old.
What’s really been said in the now thirteen hundred and twenty words? Have I said anything? Can I talk to you my reader? Do you exist outside my head? Can you dig it my man? I don’t know if you’re real. Are you real, is that possible for you to exist in my current world? Even if you do exist, my reader or maybe even readers, do you feel the flow? Can you taste the rainbow? Do you see the vibrations the colorful hand clenching amusements? A lay in the dew covered grass naked and roll around under the stars night sky. You, the fresh clean crisp air, the awe of the night sky, beer pong table backyard shenanigans. Bare foot running through the canopied dark unlit street, each pair of headlights most certainly the police officer that will arrest you. Make you an institutional man. The I’ve been working on the railroad all the live long day type guy from a nineteen forties jail. A deep south chain gang, with a man wearing sun glasses riding a horse with a shotgun aimed right at your nuts. Ease your mind.
I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Had long hair for nearly ten years and after it was gone the person I had known was gone from the mirror. A startling revelation. The face I want to make is sorta out of a painting whose name I don’t know. Funny. It’s a face, not cartoon, nor impressionistic in anyway; more important the face is letting out what looks like a scream, a howl? Perhaps that’s the name of the painting, howl? The poor sod’s hands raised to its gender neutral ears, the painting head has no hair, no distinguishing gender features, its colors are a plethora of oranges and blacks, possible shades of what I’d describe as an ugly pale color that poses as skin tone. The only fact of the painting I see is that it shows pain. It demonstrates suffering of a nature unknown to most of us. It brings us to a dark place of human emotion, of inner-turmoil, of the great war to bury down our deepest desires. Ease the mind.
For Daniel, four twenty three. Sixteen years a person known, does a friend make. Christmas time thoughts, an aroma of cookies, some slightly burnt as is the way in many homes. The faintest smell of alcohol on the breath of most adults. The holidays with greens, reds, and gingerbread houses; of course warm coco in bed. That is the only real joy that truly describes that of having one good friend, the joy of a child waking up on Christmas and racing from bed, to find all of the presents under his tree that glee is the love for true friends.
Possibly out of the realm of coherent readable understandable comprehendible enjoyable people thought. If so, above or below? Do you fly in the realm of the eccentric, the land of houses with cows, dead relative ash’s in bottles of whiskey hidden in closets, from dixy cups filled with gin and even after breast cancer, skin cancer, and lung cancer still smoking a pack a day. Or have you fallen to the extreme level of mental, the lowest of the low, insane. No longer coherent, just babbled nonsense. To not be interpreted, to not be on talk shows, to not be at book signings, never tour the country, never win awards. Discredited, unrespected, and most certainly unknown and unheard of. The words trail on down a spiral staircase of confusion. Each step marked with a word, and as I proceed down them I understand as if by some hidden context clue that the words are derogatory but yet I cannot even begin to get my mouth to form the necessary shapes. The sounds of the words are too complex and proving their point lead me further into my own confusions, missteps, and illusions.
The leader of the foundlings is there. I am there. We all are there. None of us are sure where we are, but we have an understanding of each other. We have no real purpose, but in that we have an ability to define ourselves by whatever we chose. Without the fantasy of afterlife, the illusion of morality, there is only the choice as what do we do to define ourselves. Our actions, inactions, reactions, define us. Purpose comes from an understanding of our travels. We find our meaning in adventures with a friend, a kiss with a lover, a meal with a son, and a goodbye in the rain. 3:14am, on a Saturday.
The Soundtrack of Life, A short poem
By: Ryan Beodeker
What's the soundtrack to your life?
The noisy cymbals crash,
the trumpets blare,
the timpani just slightly out of tune.
Where's the music to get us through the day?
The bing bang clang of church bells.
Tangy juice flavored clarinets sing out,
sweet low pangs of saxophone.
Do you race off with dramatic sighs?
Hear the painful soft of piano?
The confident air of a mezzo forte?
Can you see the regal march in forte?
The kingly sounds of years now gone.
Or has it all been lost to the swirling spinning fortissimo?
The brooms toss their buckets of water,
the wizards hat just out of reach of your finger tips.
Do you hear that fabled soundtrack of your life?
The bing bang boom of musical splendor
hidden just beyond the reach of our ears.
A majestic start,
a heartening middle,
followed by a somber section of trials pains.
The beautiful triumphant return of the horns,
brazen bold,
they sum up the beautiful sunrise sunset succinctness of life.
Sunrise, sunset.
If you listen close you'll hear the music around you.
The tell tale signs are always there.
A beautiful morning air,
the calm feeling of dusk and dawn.
The bing bang blast of an orchestra warm up.
That pre-life warm up,
those harmonic melodic intervals of life,
time for our grand finish.
A one two three,
Two two three,
Three two three waltz,
fading slowly as the dancers halt.
Rest and listen,
enjoy the song of your life.
That beautifully orchestrated,
short yet wonderful,
musical soundtrack that you call your life.
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