Mol-eh-skeen-ah?

My name is Marie, and I am addicted to…Moleskine notebooks! (No, there is no official pronunciation).

You know, those useful little notebooks which you can carry in a pocket and use for practically anything: sketching, writing, note-taking, to-do lists, you name it! Moleskines are known for their sturdiness and high quality, as well as a legendary brand identity which will never go out of style.

Anyway, I’ve got this thing for Moleskines; I can’t get enough of them! I constantly carry no fewer than 4 of the little guys on my person, sometimes more, and they each have different uses. The smallest ones I use to record quotes and ideas which I review later for inspiration. The medium-sized books (my favorites! <3) are my go-to for my poetry and other creative rants which simply must get out of my head and onto paper. I am not currently using one of the Moleskine sketchbooks, but I’m planning to purchase an empty one soon and all will be right with the world.

Just a few days ago I was able to fill yet another poetry book with my horrid first-draft stream-of-consciousness brain-vomit, some of which is good enough to end up here. I had been working on that book since Fall, and in celebration of the opportunity to open up a fresh set of pages, I read over the past few months of creativity and pulled out a few pieces to edit and share. It’s been a while…

Crystal Tides

From the window I can tell

that someone has stolen the water from our river

and replaced it with

diamonds.

And, though they glitter,

I can honestly say that

the scent of the waves

was worth far more to me.

(c) 2013 Marie KR

You are the seekers, so

scour the world for beautiful things, my friends.

Dig them out from under rocks

and in the shadowed hollows of tree roots.

Listen closely

in dingy, smoky refuges

for the lonely and brilliant–

taste of clouded liquor

clouded eyes

clouded thoughts

harsh on your tongue.

Savor the things you discover and

(if appropriate)

fling back the overcast curtain

and dash them across the landscape,

exposed and naked

and lovely in the light.

(c) 2013 Marie KR

We Are Outsiders

When foreigners arrive in a new city

they walk with heads turned upwards

and we chuckle at the cricks in their necks.

Though if a tourist is naught

but a curious person

in an unfamiliar place,

then what else may we call ourselves?

Life is our destination

and we are new to every second.

You are a perpetual tourist, my dear.

Look up.

(c) 2013 Marie KR

So that was the first and last entries in the book, as well as one I randomly selected from the middle pages. Hope they were…inspiring? enlightening? Gosh, I would settle for entertaining even.

TTFN, Ta-ta for now!

P.S.: I just saw that Moleskine has a website app which allows you to design and order your own personalized notebook. There go the next few hours…or days…

P.P.S.: Y’all can look forward to a Valentine’s Day post in 2 weeks!

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Fall Back

So, it’s nearly daylight savings time again!

How odd, moving our clocks around. It’s as if we’re making time so much more complicated than it needs to be! Besides, time doesn’t progress linearly; it’s more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey…stuff. (‘Like’ if you got that!)

However, whenever I hear the phrase ‘fall back’, an attempt to remind us which way to turn the clock (it doesn’t work for me), my mind runs off with me. I like to think of it as a time to ‘fall back’ to summer–remember the end of last year, the beginning of the warm weather and adventures that were had. It’s almost like a buffer, helping me make it through the winter just so that I can experience early summer again.

I don’t know about you, but my favorite part of summer is the fireflies! I recently met someone who had never seen a firefly before, due to where they lived. *Sniff* so sad…but it got me thinking about it and I flipped back through my notebook to some mumbo-jumbo I had scribbled down and abandoned sometime in June. Here it is, all clean and fresh and edited just for you!

Midsummer Magic

We were the ones

who saw the stars for what they were

and brought them down—

relaying them from the cradles of our palms

into old glass mason jars,

we marveled

as the night sky we had claimed as our own

glimmered and flashed

just for us.

But who are these newcomers?

Who are these numbed ones?

Content to remain within a prison,

and let the lights outside

dance

with no wondering eyes upon them.

They have killed us—

we are gone.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Aaaaand a bonus poem, just ’cause I feel like it!

Wired

In place of my morning coffee,

today I waited for sunrise

and dipped myself a thermos of gold.

With the lid back on,

I cannot see its light,

but the pulse of heat warms my clasping hands

and I know that inside

the life steams golden

               and wild

               and waiting to widen my dozy eyes.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Sister Blog!

Psst. Psst. Hey.

I’ve gone and done it. For reasons undisclosed at this time, I’ve started a second blog here on wordpress.com. I know, I know, I don’t update this one enough as it is. In my defense, composing and editing poetry to be presentable enough for sharing takes a lot of time! Thankfully, my second blog is not poetry-based and therefore should be a bit more active. I’m quite excited about it! However, I will still be maintaining this domain as well whenever I get a chance. There will likely be a bit of cross-contamination between the blogs depending on the untangling of my thoughts, so I apologize for any slight repetition which may occur.

You can find the new blog, Le Charrette, here, and if you follow this one then you should follow that one as well! (Because I’m greedy and want more followers).

To kick off the sister-blog posts, I’ve composed a stream-of-consciousness, spoken word style comment on architecture. Not quite a poem, but poetic enough, alright? Check it out!

Worth It

In order to become an architect, you have to give it time. Literally—it steals your time away and parcels it back again in war-time rations.

It does not become worth it until suddenly it is. Until you can spend all day at your studio desk and realize you didn’t mind it at all. Until you’ve discovered that in perfect silence, you can hear the scratch of your felt-tip micro pen against the paper. Until you’ve drawn X-acto patterns across your skin and let your veins absorb the smell of wood, glue and vellum paper. It does not become worth it until it’s deep in your blood and deep in your life.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Perhaps I shall expand it someday, but I wanted to have something ready to post today so it can wait. 🙂

The angels are having a bowling tournament.

Was anyone else ever told that before?

While wondering about the cause of thunder as a child, it seemed to make perfect sense that God was busy perfecting his strike or that the clouds had eaten Mexican food for dinner. I certainly preferred those explanations before everything had to be all ‘scientifically correct.’

Despite its cause, I love thunderstorms! I may be in the minority, but I always seem to sleep better when there’s a hint of thunder in the distance. When it’s right outside, however, I prefer to stay up and listen to it. Call me strange, but thunderstorms have never been frightening for me. Any interesting thunderstorm memories or stories out there? Share them!

So Crumbles the Sky

I enjoy thunderstorms

because they are proof

that God is still stronger than us.

Under orders of the anchorman,

humanity scuttles indoors to fill the bathtubs with water.

Windows are boarded,

appliances are unplugged,

and everyone waits in the dark—sniffing for sunlight

signaling a clear sky.

I prefer to stand before the storm

alone

and praise the artist of those galloping clouds,

composer of the wind(singing

like whales in my ears),

cameraman behind the flashbulb lightning

which cracks like a whip at the sky.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Ignorance is Bliss

As a child,

I imagined that heat lightning

was the distant flashes of stars

exploding like grapes

in the microwave temperature left behind

by a boiling summer sun.

Older now

(as bursts of light break the clouds above

and a swollen yellow moon buries his face

in the safe shadows of the clouds)

I still know not the cause,

yet cannot help but press my forehead to the chill window glass

and watch for tell-tale shrapnel

of obliterated stars

falling to earth.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Memories Make the Best Poetry

I’ve been writing a lot lately, much freer and more often than I used to. In fact, I have so many pieces ready to share, I’m going to begin grouping multiple poems in one post. Thankfully, lots of them share common themes!

I believe I’ve mentioned before that I’m Canadian, that I love Canada and everything aboot it, that I’m going to live there someday, yada yada yada. But what I love most about Canada is that, whenever I am there, I can spend time with my huge, crazy, fabulous extended family! I was up north for a few days around the beginning of July, and the following poems were the result of those crazy 72 hours. Enjoy them, eh?

We consider ourselves too cool for airplanes, so I had a lot of driving time to work on this one on the way up!

The Physics of Us

We are electric and

we are electrons

racing along the lines of our infrastructure;

two sides of a wildflower median.

We barrel through

resistors and capacitors alike

toward our destination;

arrive with a spark

of energy

to fuel our antics,

often shorting a fuse

into a burst of burning memories

and love.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Because the cottage we inhabit is directly on the banks of the St. Lawrence, we swim a lot while we’re there, and considering that the water is flowing South from the Arctic, it’s just a tad bit chilly. Nothing we Canucks can’t handle, though. Being descendants of polar bears has its perks!

Shivers

I have learned

that there are several stages of cold.

1: The first frigid shock

travels up your body—

toes to head—

a bitter surprise which

wedges icy fingers

between bones and flesh,

drawing your breath out

in a rush of white bubbles

before you reach

in what you hope is the right direction

and break the surface with a gasp

and a toss of your head.

2: The even motion of your body

strives for some sort of friction

against the river,

and a blessed numbness

seeps into your pores

and allows you to feel

weightless;

conscious of nothing but

the smooth darkness of the water

and how fast the current is carrying you

away.

3: Just when you’ve been lulled

by lack of feeling,

a chill creeps up your spine

and reaches for the wind

from the crown of your head;

it invites the breeze

to pull frozen hands

across your neck

and between the bones of your jaw,

making you shiver

to the rhythm of your

clattering bones

which shake so much

it is near impossible

to pull yourself onto warm shore.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

We don’t swim all the time, though–we also have a boat!

St. Lawrence Nights

That dusk we took the boat out

to air-dry ourselves

in the glow of the full moon,

I carried the wind home

in my hair;

I slept with the scent of the night

in my curls;

awoke–

and belatedly regretted my morning shower.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

…and a jet-ski…

Hold On

I have rarely felt as alive

as the few minutes

when it was just you and I

and the sunset,

racing down a stretch of black empty water

so fast we clung together

for fear of losing our grip

and

vanishing

like sparks which rise from a campfire

before the darkness swallows them up.

62 miles per hour,

not a single breath taken.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

Oof, poetry overload! I’m going to take a nap. Catch ya later, y’hosers!

Forgotten Things

Well, here’s the story:

My family has had many computers; surprisingly, most of them we acquired free of cost from various friends, relatives, or Church members (just one of the perks of being a ‘Pastor’s Kid’, A.K.A. ‘PK’). As a result, we eventually found ourselves with a random plethora of monitors, keyboards and towers in various states of functionality. As each used desktop met its timely end and was replaced, documents began to decay within the software of each discarded laptop or tower. Our barn turned into a graveyard of leftover technology as my father repetitively promised to a) fix, b)trash, or c)back-up documents from the various repositories. This never actually occurred…

Until now, that is! An ancient tower has been re-animated in our home office and its documents sorted through. I discovered two pieces of writing headed with my name and dating back to early 2010. Oddly enough, I have no recollection of ever writing them–I have come to the conclusion that they must have been created in a trance-like state which I instantly forgot in the aftermath of my brain-hurricane. With a minimal bit of editing, I judge them acceptable enough to be shared!

So without further delay, I present a long-forgotten sonnet and a poor, forsaken tercet. Judges, ready your score-cards!

Sonnet

A picture may be worth a thousand words,

So let me paint a picture here for you.

The holly tree, alive with shrieking birds,

Who also line the fence, made of bamboo

 

Their feathers shining black, their cries are harsh.

Do not, do not; their screeches seem to say.

Do not do what? Replies from nearby marsh.

Where minks and snakes do listen through the day.

 

If rocks, it’s said, could shout the maker’s name,

Would not they try and halt this odd melee?

This sour song has far and wide earned fame,

As watchers wish to halt our slow decay.

 

For it is us, the watchers, who bear the brunt

Of our completely ridiculous, beloved government.

(c) 2010 Marie KR

A little cryptic, perhaps, but since I cannot remember writing it, I’m afraid I can shed little light upon the point.

Tercet

When something that you love has gone away,

A haunt, a tree, a friend, a cloud, a thought,

You feel that you’ve wandered far astray.

 

And if you turn around, and hope, and run,

Stretch out your hand and try to catch the past,

You may be wrapped in memories again.

 

It’s what you wish, but no, it cannot be.

You find the fading shapes of times long gone,

But fading shapes are all that you can see.

(c) 2010 Marie KR

‘Tis Only the Beginning

This afternoon, whilst digging through the dusty archives of the MacBook, I found an old poem! Well, what a surprise! I do remember the process of writing it several months ago, but can’t quite recall the specific experience which inspired it. Apparently I never posted it, and the poor thing was just lingering in the basement of ‘My Documents’, waiting to be remembered. Sniff, so sad…out of pity I have dragged it out and dusted it off a little bit, and turns out it’s actually a worthwhile piece!

Roadkill

Coasting home on the lonely drift of Route 523

around a curve my headlights pass over

a murder scene

on the shoulder.

It’s just a glimpse

but even today I can see the carnage as if it is

plastered across my windshield.

A hit and run.

Her body is cradled in the sharp metal arms of the guard rails,

legs bent and twisted against the bed of asphalt,

face pressed into the oily grit.

Her mouth hangs open,

tongue tasting the earth

Head, thrown back to expose

a long column of throat

stained gray with dust and death.

But the eyes are the worst.

They stare into my headlights

and for a moment flash in imitation of life

but it’s just a reflection.

She is trapped,

her torso forever stretching toward the other side of the road

an unreached destination in sight

of blind eyes

and I feel her confusion

as my own,

a life cut so quickly

that she’ll never know what ended her in mid-step,

in darkness,

in glaring lights and squealing tires and nothing.

She is helpless and she is dead

and I should stop

tell myself I would stop, want to stop

and see if I can help when nobody else will.

Unfortunately

I’ve been taught that when it comes to animals,

we can forget that we have a heart.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

This is a topic which frustrates and confuses me to no end; the way that humans treat animals as if they have no consciousness, as if they feel no pain and that their lives have no worth. Someone else sees a deer on the side of the road and thinks “There are too many deer around anyway”, but I agonize over wondering if it’s still alive, if it understood the pain, if it was afraid. I seem to be cursed with an overactive empathy gland, because this is my typical train of thought in most every situation: how well can I understand what that living thing is experiencing? It’s terrible and painful and maybe silly, but I’d rather think like that than just brush off a life because I hold myself superior to it by intelligence or size or species.

But I realize that the title of this post needs an explanation. I’ll assume the incorrect fact that many people are daily checking this blog with bated breath, hoping for an update. Well, you’re all in luck! This post is only the beginning of a series of poems I’ve been working on for a few days and which should be ready for sharing very soon. So, don’t give up hope! There is more rambling to come!