Don't Go Far Off: Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?



I adore this poem, ah! Thought I'd share.

an old story from the boy who's coming home and me

Andrew's writing is blue. Mine is green. We wrote this during church, if I recall correctly, sometime in 2007. We could only see the third line of what the other had written and would then add on our own three lines.

Saving Leeches
His helmet shone brightly through the
night sky. It was a beacon of hope
to all who saw it. It created a feeling of
euphoria and everyone was seized with a desire
to strip off their socks and raise them
like flags to the sun. They took off their socks
and wiggled their toes in the sand
and then they lifted them above
their heads swinging them in a
fit of frenzy. Then they began to
run around in circles proclaiming their
intense hatred of the VP. They chanted
spells and brewed potions. Their
schooling at Hogwarts had definitely
paid off. They knew that
nothing could ever be the same. They
proceeded to sit down indian-style
(how racist is that?) on the grass to
the yellow brick road. They
called it that because it led to
China. (How racist is that?) It led them
to the great wall where they marched
for miles until their feet bled. They
mourned for their socks and wiped the blood
from the rocks. Their goal was
to collect enough blood to help save
the most endangered species of leeches.
They gathered the blood and performed the
necessary transfusions. The leeches smiled with life.

Sestina!

I wrote a poem that has form. And it's 39 lines. See if you can figure out the pattern.

Hold your breath and dive into the water,
Feel the saltiness whirl around your mouth.
The ocean and the sky merge into one,
The hot sand warms in the cold winter.
The scents from Puerto Rican cuisine burns
Your nose as you try to remember home.

You’re remembering the place called home,
As you drink Gatorade instead of water.
The pang of loneliness burns
Your heart which is stuck in your mouth.
You guess at “how many” snowflakes this winter,
While you’re stuck under a sun of one.

You’re trying to guess which one
Number you should phone to home.
Your heart seems full of winter;
It will not melt with the warm ocean water.
Words twist inside and curl in your mouth,
As they wait on your tongue and burn.

The hot humid air outside burns,
As you sit at a table for one.
You lift warm cinnamon buns into your mouth,
Like Aunt Corrine’s with raisins back at home.
You look out at the aquamarine water,
Wishing that spring would absolve winter.

Here in this gorgeous place it is not really winter
As shown by your shoulders that are burned.
Swimming in a pool of clean pure water
You feel as if this place and you are one.
You almost wish to call it home,
But the word gets caught between your tongue and mouth.

The hot liquid you pour on your lips and mouth,
And the snowflakes from previous winter’s,
Seem to coil around the mention of home.
All your memories seem to churn and burn,
Until they are melded into one,
Like the ebb and flow of two ocean’s waters.

The ache of home seems to tighten your mouth,
Until you get back to pool water in Provo winter.
Then the burn of Puerto Rico bends your heart in one.

once and now

Once I crashed my bike.
Now I have a scar.

Once I conversed in Russian every day.
Now I fear I'm forgetting a bit of it every day.

Once I didn't like tomatoes.
Now I love them.

Once I climbed Squaw Peak with Sierra.
Now she's in New York.

Once I picked huckleberries.
Now they rest in the freezer.

Once I got a scary phone call in the night.
Now I hope to never get one again.

Once I held baby Josh.
Now he will still cuddle-bug, but he's no baby.

Once I threw an apple through a window.
Now I laugh at that me.

Once I was.
Now I am.
Soon I will be.

zephyr

Sketch of a bird.

Snatch of conversation.

A broken button.

You turn the pages.

Pencil captured the bird.

Mind remembered words.

Tape holds down the three pieces.

The feathers remind you of a rainy morning.

Clouds hindered the sun as you looked out the window.

You held your cup of tea and upped Neil Young’s volume.

The assumed dialogue becomes a soliloquy.

A man and his dementia battle it out.

One voice. Two tones.

The three uneven pieces beg you to finger their crags.

One hole remains intact.

Makes you ponder your own heart’s shape.

This is really rough. Wrote in less than 10 minutes. Nat, don't be befuddled if you don't find any meaning because I don't always write meaningfully. These words just came out. I like some of the lines. Maybe I'll come back and work with it one day. For now, it's just been nice to have a little lunchtime diversion.

don't ask me what it means, it's late, you're all great

Why am I listening to Christmas music on Halloween?

Is it like when I eat oatmeal plain with cold milk?
Or is it like wearing a tide kick shirt?

Maybe it's like shanksing my loved ones?
Or is it the calming sound of living in a city of immigrants?

Am i a blue elephant who can't make up his mind?
Or am i the bright red leaf who doesn't dare fall?

And maybe i'm just like you
and you're just like me.

I want to
runrunrunrunbikebikebike
away
and
far
away.

leave my heart behind
in the dust of my body's sweat.

but I always come back to this--
my heart.

it cannot be left behind.

and, blessedly so, I suppose.
for it helps me in so many other ways.

I feel love from above,

love all around,

love on the ground.

in the mood for Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter - bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

Shadows

I had to write a poem for my Creative Writing. Here is my offering.

I never saw a velvet sky until tonight—
Walking onto campus to take my science test.
While molecules of information,
Whirled in my mind like Brownian motion.

Students were dark shadowy figures creeping quietly.
Someone whistled briefly-then quickly stopped.
Apparently afraid to break the silence
Or that shadows would break into unsettled violence.

My own steps were tentative and scared,
Like each one was increasing the entropy of earth.
My own shadow swung onto my left side
While the girl’s ahead of me was on her right stride.

The trees limbs were spider legs on the ground,
Crawling slowly to the edges of my sneakers.
The testing center was painted dungeon black,
From the shadows of the other building’s backs.

Before I stepped into the gloomy dark,
I looked up and caught my breath.
Purple stars pressed against the dusky blue sky,
Their own shadows totally invisible.

you

you once drank the dregs of your former self.
they didn't taste as bitter as you thought they would.
of course, you didn't swallow with a smile,
but you weren't exactly choking them down either.
they settled inside your stomach
and didn't raise a roaring fight to come back up.

you once hated that you.
but you have always been you.
the you that has been is and will be.
you.

preserved

put me in a bottle
with lots of alcohol
then I'll be preserved
and you'll have killed me

A Very Badly Written Poem!

When the shadows depart,
Where are our hearts?
When insecurity dies,
Who are we inside?

Stronger,
Braver
No longer afraid
Of what people think.
Living life
To the fullest

Or

Weaker,
Cowardly
False bravado gone.
Quiet minds become
More aware
Of the hurt inside others.

So who are you,
Stripped of your false
Covers?
Naked to the world
Your true self shines
Or dims.

this i believe

I believe in new days, in climbing out of bed to know that a whole, new, clean day stretches before me.

I believe in family. In laughing, talking, eating, and playing with them.

I believe in holding babies. Their new hearts jumpstart mine into living more fully. I believe in looking deep into their eyes. I believe they're heaven-sent.

I believe in gardens. I believe in digging, sowing, weeding, watering, and harvesting. I believe squatting in the dirt and working makes me alive.


Just a few thoughts on this October morning. I love the "This I Believe" Series on NPR and here's a snippet from an 1950's essay by Hugo Haas. His dad and brother perished in Nazi gas chambers. He's Czech and escaped to the U.S.

I believe in friendship as something given by God to make our lives worthwhile, warm and less lonesome. And I believe in love with all the consequences of joy, sorrow and sacrifices. For love is the strongest element that in the final analysis fulfills our lives. It is the strongest impression left to the end of our days and all the dear faces connected to these feelings: father and mother, brothers and sisters, wife and children, stay with us in our memories to the very last moments of our consciousness.

Jackson Browne

You old man that my dad listens to.
How long have I been drifting
alone through the night?
But your soothing voice
brings a calm to my soul.
In the shape of a heart and
pages turning,
and the hope that one day,
to be like the
rebel Jesus.

le fin de septembre

je ne sais pas quoi dire.
tu es la.
je suis ici.
voila, c'est mon coeur.
il ne peut pas vivre sans toi.
et moi, je ne veux pas respirer sans toi.
c'est impossible te voir.
simplement impossible.
tampis.
je veux te dire au revoir,
mais je sais que je ne te reverrai.
c'est le fin.


(je sais que mon francais n'est pas parfait, mais je voulais ecrire un petit peu en francais.)

a found poem (magazine phrases)

your dreams miss you.
Before you live without power, Buy another book.
A SPECIAL PLACE: A reading room.
We can get peace so sweet on the beach.
I am strong!

I STAY AFLOAT.

I felt the most spectacular rain and rock and sea.
I'M GIVING BACK.

ode to the leaves i love

color.
it's shading the leaves.
some still hold their summer hue.
while others have lost their grip.
they've dropped to the ground.
back to the soil from which they sprung.
fall.

Poem

Walking alone
down a dull yellow streetlamp lit street
praying for an angel
to bring deliverance,
or at least a car,
as I walk from corner to corner,
to lift me up into the cooling night air
and set me down in the soft wet grass
to rest.

jumping

I’m jumping over the moon with the cow. I’ve forgotten how to let myself cry and this hurtle into space has startled my tears into jolting out—a mini-flood. I’ve no need to wipe them away; rushing through the air pushes them down my cheeks and they’ve dried before even reaching my chin. ‘Tis a pity we don’t halt and come to rest atop the moon’s surface. It’s just an arch, up and over, and we’re earthbound. I want to land in the ocean but the cow has a slight aversion to salt water; she much prefers soft fields of clover. I let her have her way because she’s the one who invited me along for the ride. I really have no say. Coming back down through the clouds is more magical than half-seeing billowed vapors from an airplane window. The mists wrap round my fingers and curl my hair. We begin to slow and I realize somewhere along the way my tears have evaporated completely. The dawning sun rises, and I’m on my back looking up for the fading moon while the cow takes her first bite of breakfast.

Andrew Grant Skabelund

Fare thee well, bro of mine.
You're off soon, you'll be fine.
Thanks for your happy smile,
And not talking 'bout bile.
I love you more than dope,
More than mouths full of soap.
Do not run out of time;
Diphtheria's a crime.
Pick this one, you once said.
This one pick, you also said.
Seashells are not my fav;
I've since learned to behave.

Well, that's all I can come up with on my lunch break. Not the best ever, but just a lil' tribute to the little super guy. Have fun in DC, And.

Going down to the May parade...

These feelings, buried deep, resurface once in a while. I hope that like some distant marsh, they will slowly drain away. They cut, weigh down, cloud, break and then break again, and they have shaped me into me. I am no longer a yes-man, no longer content on just swimming along. I am a broken bittern. Hoping, hoping that I could forget my home, or to leave it behind, silencing everything, but I am too afraid to take flight, too afraid that I might fall. And so, I’ve stayed, sometimes, oft times, wondering why.

happy birthday soon to my sister, the lovely girl with the russian name

In a celebration of sorts, I'm putting up a little something I wrote a while ago. I hope that's not cheating, if there are even any rules in this game. I had Sierra and myself in mind in the following. But I think Nat can include herself in here and so may anyone else who wishes, except if you are of the male sex because that would be rather disjointed. It's not the greatest, but it's something I'd like to go back and revise one day.

The girl next door. The girls next door. We’re not your sassy type. We like dirt on our knees and the scars left from long forgotten sticks and stones. We pull our hair back out of our eyes so we can see the world and face it head-on. We disdain the coloring of nails either on feet or hands. We prefer the dirt to have free roam between our fingers and toes. We can’t count the times we’ve slept under the sky. The girls next door. Chapstick suits us fine and we don’t wear it for the shine it gives but for the comfort it offers after a full day in the sun. We mow the lawns, weed the garden, and harvest the fruit. We hop the fence and laugh when our shorts catch the top of the fence and rip. We stand on mountain tops and feel strong. We hold babies closely and feel their hearts beat near ours. We are the girls next door.

Ok...ok...I'm writing

This is out of the reverie of my nighttime reflections (that's sort of redundant, I know.)

Why do I eat lemons?

I eat lemons out of habit. To me, there is a something pure and honest in that first sour taste; like a hidden truth that cuts you and then is gone. Lemons are the most delicious fruit whereas coconut is the most disgusting—syrupy sugar.

I am a truth-seeker. Truth comes in all forms. I study the veins of a caterpillar, the bark on a tree trunk, and the ripples of the water on a lake. I listen for whispers of wind and singing of crickets. But most of all, I read. I read books were life is simple, uncomplicated, and truth is that good always conquers evil. That is not how real life is. Some days this fictitious truth disgusts me because it is so far-fetched. Other days I bask in the light of imaginary worlds.

Truth-seeking is not a hobby or a pastime—it is my life. In a world where confusion clamors at the walls of magistrates' houses and black and white fade to grey, I need to grasp truth. Not the overplayed clichés that haunt every student's English essay, but real, deep understandings of life.

That is why I eat lemons.

No, You're not, but you probably should be based on my poor writing.

Tomorrow, we say, all will be better,
Yet our eyes set on the lowering sun.
A secret hope that it doesn’t return,
Hiding our fears as we would a broken feather.

Who knows, we ask, what tomorrow will bring,
The moonlight shines off of our weathered skin.
We proclaim that we’re ready to begin,
But our heart shivers, beating with the stars that sing.

am i the only one writing here?

the raising of hands
the freedom of it
the spontaneity of it

the folding of arms
the instinct of it
the comfort of it

the closing of eyes
the desire of it
the necessity of it

the kneeling of knees
the humility of it
the pause of it

the failing of body
the time of it
the end of it

not laughing

Do you ever imagine future situations where you know you'll be laughing?
But then those moments never come.
You felt so sure they would.
You saw yourself seated at a table with several people.
You finished telling the tale--the damp yellow light showing the suspense on the faces of those sitting in the chairs drawn to the table.
You saw yourself howling with laughter as the others rocked in their chairs. One friend falls off and the shrieking heightens.
But as you're seeing this, in the present before the future, it's just you.
Alone.
Underneath the pale light
And you're not laughing.

Loss

"Have some pork and beans."

"Neh," I shake my head.

"They're yummy!" You begin to dish.

I clutch my plate, "Not really. I just don't like them much."

"Fine, your loss."

It's always my loss. Lost tooth. Lost friend. Lost sock. Lost glove. Lost love. One day it'll be lost life. One day. Can it not be my gain? I won't have a sick stomach. I'll be able to run comfortably. There will be room for dessert. It's my gain. In your eyes--my loss.

I don't fork up your recipe. Your loss.

"Have some loss yourself."

This is a little game I like to play in which all my sentences have to be 6 words or less. Let's see what And and Guya have. This one I did off the top of my head whilst listening to the Weezer "Pork and Beans" song (two times).

No title...

Random poem I wrote a couple years ago.

Touch the stars
Let the wind follow you
Rush up, reach high
You’re gone

Touch the air
Let it sink into you
Breathe in, breathe out
Invisible

Touch the ground
Let it hold you
Dig in, grasp hard
Disintegrate

Touch His scars
Let your tears fall
Look up, look here
You’re released

So in this effort to tap my inner muse, I've come to some realizations. The only thing worse than reading bad poetry, is writing it, and then reading it. So the greatest of apologies.

Untitled

Hoping for your song
To float from my lips,
But it stops.

Hoping for my smile
To find you somehow,
But it stops.

Hoping to smell
The hope that you bring,
But it stops.

Hoping for eyes,
To tell you my prayer,
But it stops.

Hoping my hope,
Will find you somewhere,
and it

We Started

So, Analyn, Natalya, and I were thinking we would put a joint project up. I am really wary of this, putting my trash among their lilies, but hopefully it will be rewarding and enriching.
Andrew