While I’m waiting, I am distilling neon signs in a drop of rain, nearby the rushing of the world’s many neurons, held by the weight of stillness: the back and forth and back of this daily game of hide-and-seek.
Story Embers Poetry Writer
Dwelling deep in the forests of New England, Graham spends most of his time reading, taking walks with his dog, and learning new and interesting things (and reveling in cooler, more temperate climates). Born and raised in the Boston area, Graham was homeschooled from an early age. After high school, he proceeded to get a bachelor’s in Literature from Patrick Henry College in Northern Virginia. He currently resides in the Boston area while pursuing a master’s in Education at Gordon College, steeping in the rich history of his home turf and a continued exploration of literature from across the world. He says you should read Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country and Chaim Potok’s The Chosen, because they are incredible novels. Also, read Robert Frost.
Each bee that’s crystalline with spring’s golden frost (each filament gleaming with the idea of flowers) carries with it the possibility of true abundance—the hope of things not yet seen by the manifold eyes of the wild world.
I am fearfully made in this garden of wonders where sun dapples down upon bench and bed, upon creeper and crocus, with shoots lancing quickly up, defiant through dampened earth.
That sunny day I stepped upon a shell, its bitter clam’s edge digging in my sole. I remembered why we pain, remembered well. So I dug in deeper, dug deeper still, my foot on the shard in the fleeting hole, that sunny day I stepped upon the shell.
Miracles are quiet, great as the blades of mountains that rise and score the clouds, rending greater gashes and letting light inside a world that’s gone too loud.
The snickering blade draws a fine, sharp smile across the wrinkled surface of my thumb, and the bread I pursued with all my guile turns real, running flesh and blood. Numb with pain, I watch and wait as dark wells in and out.
The bird quickly rapped against the window, hard, the azure pane, that false pane. At least, that’s what others told me—I wasn’t there.
When you’re waiting for the curtain to rise at a theatrical production, you wonder what the stage will look like. Will the first few moments show dazzling scenery or characters prancing about? Will silence or song fill the air? What are you in for, and where will it take you? The catchphrase “lights, camera, action” captures the exhilarating transition from darkness to light and stillness to dancing. When you stand on the threshold of a poem, you’ll have similar questions and emotions swirling through your mind.
You’ve probably heard the expression “That was epic!” thousands of times. But what does it actually mean? Epic is used to describe a myriad of experiences, but we typically treat it as a synonym for big, awe-inspiring, or just plain cool. Movies are full of epic clashes between good and evil. And if you’re hungry enough, hamburgers can be epic too.
“Tell me, Wind,” said Rain, “you who catches me in your cool embrace, what it means to wander, to wander the world, to want no direction.”