Paper Skeletons

At some point in my life

I did some things

Not necessarily

            Good things

But things.

I’d like to say I’ve done

            Good things

But we’ve all got our skeletons

Don’t we?

These things

Hang on cobwebs of steel

Invincible

To secrets that need keeping.

            Good things

Just don’t happen to me

Like princes

Men on horseback

Minor miracles

            Good things

Take awfully long to come

I’ve been waiting a long time.

Packed into a closet

I’ve kept shut for years

Terrified of the boogey monsters

Occupying it.

They whisper all the

            Good things

I could have done with them

All the

            Good things

They haven’t done.

Good things

Aren’t made of steel

They’re like paper skeletons

Remnants of the things

The

            Good things

That wither and rot and

Fade into dust

Never lasting forever.

Experimentation

Today's post is an endeavor I worked on this afternoon.  My late uncle, Larry Kurtz, was a musician and poet.  While my father and I were cleaning out my grandparents' basement, we found a paper bag containing a lot of Larry's notebooks.  Inside these were hundreds of poems, songs, experiments, you name it.  It's difficult to explain how I feel listening to my voice singing his lyrics.  This was a poem, entitled "To Bernice (as we Change at Home), and I put a melody to it.  I feel sort of Imogen Heap on this one because it has no percussion and is entirely A Capella.  Although I never met Larry, he lives on through my voice, my songs, and his words.

Enjoy :)

I apologize for OneTrueMedia's sucky quality if you don't pay the $40 to do it in high quality.  It doesn't quite do the song justice, but I love it.  I nearly cried when I finished it.

Where the Blog Title Comes From

I wonder what it's like

to think

like a man

to think

without ever waking up

to dream

without dreaming.

I wonder what it's like

to be in love with someone

who loves you

I wonder what it's like to be in love

I wonder if it's all they chalk it up to be

Or if it's just chalk

and washes away with time.

I wonder what it's like to climb a mountain backwards

I wonder why I've asked so many questions

and never received a straight answer

why are they always crooked?

Does a crooked answer count?

Can I ask you a question?

maybe

Can you answer a question?

maybe

Would you say something other than "maybe?"

maybe

When I think about answers and questions and rhetorical things of that nature,

I think of the moon

how it's burning on one half

and freezing on the other

footprints left decades ago remain on its surface

the light we see at night comes from the light we see at day

We never see the dark side of the moon

Just like we never see the dark side of a question.

There is an answer to every question whether we like it or not.

It is the rhetorical questions that show their dark sides.

If humans were more like questions, would more of us show our dark sides?

Or would we cover our better halves in artificial light to make the rhetorical question seem answered?

Why does there have to be a wrong answer even when we claim there isn't one?

Why are there more questions than answers?

I guess that question has a dark side, too.