Repose and Prose

Postmodern, Postscript, Post Production...Post-rock?

Hello, my dearest darlingest readers. Sorry it's been a little while, I've been busy...STARTING HIGH SCHOOL. The first week was certainly wonderful (if a wee bit terrifying) and I'm already making some new friends, one of which runs her own wondrous blog. I've mentioned it before, but it truly is a lovely site, so it deserves another mention.  Currently, I'm listening to post-rock, which is a completely instrumental style of music. It's very inspiring. This Will Destroy You and Explosions in the Sky are two post-rock bands that I particularly enjoy and find quite inspiring. I wrote these pieces while listening to their lovely melodies.

Notes scream through silence.

Guitars claw the air with chords,

The piano sighs.

-

White petals, so soft

Sigh with the touch of moonlight

In the morning, gone.

-

Darkness, like sorrow

Where, where is your hand?

Black eyes, so hollow

Where, where is your hand? 

Snap Shot

For a moment,

Everything is quiet.

Everything is on the edge.

We are frozen

With a perfect view.

For a moment,

The noise seems to stop

Our constant battle ceases.

We hang, barely balanced,

We could go up or down.

For a moment,

Time is electric.

Sparks replace blood,

The danger is mist in the air;

I don't think of breathing.

For a moment,

Anything could happen;

We could fall or we could rise.

Everything is crystal clear,

I see through all deceptions.

For a moment,

Everything is quiet.

Everything is on the edge.

We are frozen

With a perfect view.

11:56 PM

Tomorrow is just a few minutes away

This is the time when hunters prey

When shadows and darkness come out to play

When good boys and girls are led astray

When Technicolor memories fade to gray

When mothers fall to their knees to pray

When right and wrong can be twisted like clay

When sinners make new debts to pay

When good, righteous people can only wait for the day

Tomorrow is just a few minutes away

The Girl From Ipanema

She walks, tall and confident. Sunlight settles contently into her dark hair and bathes each strand in hues of gold. Her cinnamon skin is smooth, like a young seashell, and her eyes are of the deepest brown. Her waist flows into low hips that swing like a cool, gentle samba with each step. She sings a simple, lilting song in her native tongue. Lovely and serene, she walks to the sea.
As she passes, he halts his working. Her hint of jasmine perfume wafts around him, and he lifts his head. Oh, see the love in his gaze! She tosses her sable locks, and he drinks in the drops of sunlights they fling out. But, oh...see the sorrow in his heart. How can he tell her that he loves her? He would gladly put down his burdens and give her his heart, if only she would look his way. Alas, she never does. He smiles at her, but she doesn't see. He watches her disappear.

Welcome to the world...

It is August.
A dying breeze floats through a tree like a wisp of cotton.
The leaves barely move.
In an old hayfield,
A sleeping, aged soul lets go of the world.
A final, content sigh creeps from his cooling lips.
The dying sigh joins the dying breeze.
In the same moment,
Without much ado,
A new soul slips through the atmosphere.
She wriggles her toes and smiles.

Innocence

Eyes were mild
You gently told the sky your name
Oh, sweet child
Nothing ever stays the same

You quickly smiled
And looked for someone else to blame
Oh, sweet child
Nothing ever stays the same

You were riled
Fighting the person you became
Oh, sweet child
Nothing ever stays the same

Tears run wild
You tried to play life like a game
Oh, sweet child,
Nothing ever stays the same.

Landscape

The hillside has been subdued by the mist. Its once-vibrant hues are now faded and dull. The woman in the hill...
A patch of hazy blue sky! The sun struggles valiantly to pierce the mist, to send golden strength to the lonely woman. The mist moves, and the light is gone.

This mist... this fog. It approaches the woman. For the first time, I sense her loneliness, her sorrow. Her imprisonment in the green-draped hillside. The mist comes to rest gently on her alert form. I have seen the mist be ruthless, blotting out everything and anything in its path, leaving the victims to mourn in their isolation. But, with this woman, its touch is light and gentle. Always patient, it slowly (oh, so very slowly, like the breathing of an old old man) settles over her face, like dust upon an ancient artifact. I think it is so gentle with her because it knows what it doing is wrong. It knows the despondency it causes by separating her from the ocean she loves. And so slowly, gently, and with the faintest hint of an apology, it moves to take her.

I steal one last glance before she is taken. She is still searching for her beloved ocean, her sparkling freedom. but through this blanket of grey, she sees nothing and no one. Her lonely sorrow is hidden by the mist, but I feel it seep into my bones. I mourn with her.

She who was once serene has now disappeared, claimed by the mist. And the sun is long gone. The world is heavy, grey, and silent. Sleeping. So I sing the world the one true song I know. A song of daffodils waking with the dawn, clad in gowns of sunshine, the first smile of a new-born baby, and the little beginnings happening all over the world.
And I feel the shiver of awakening.

Oh glorious day! Er.....night.

It is, my cherished readers, RAINING. Beeyooteeful.

I
love
when
it
rains.
So. I had a terrible experience in music today. I had to sing my music final. I won't go into detail.
On the bright side, I went out on my parent's balcony, and what I saw was astoundingly gorgeous.
The sky was covered with a blanket of grey clouds, and the hills were countless different hues of green. I decided to write about the lovely scene. Here's what I wrote. Let's hope it's something. (by the way, it's not exactly verbatim...I may have changed some things)

I felt...a cold breeze. I felt it brush my skin softly and gently, like it was a blanket made of snow. It wrapped around me, encasing me in cool confinement. It was so smooth and soft, it reminded me of lip balm. Cool, soft, gentle, lip balm breezes wrap me in their embrace.

Birds. Three, no, four- black. The outline of the feathers on the tips of their wings stands out from the muted grey of the sky. They fly out of my sight. Gone.

Breeze again. I can feel it almost everywhere. It pushes steadily through my skin to frost my flesh and bone. The cold feels strange inside me. Pushing through me. Always pushing right on through.

Sky. The clouds are...
I see a plane rise in the distance.
The breeze slips around my neck like a scarf, and sends cool shivers down my vertebrae. The chill seeps in, soaks and saturates my muscles, making them tense. I feel warm prickles up and down my arm. My ankle. Little sparks...I am on fire. Cold fire? Clichéd, but true. Cold fire up and down my arms. Icy sparks.

The hillside. A sleeping figure (a woman) is hidden beneath the trees and bushes. She is blanketed in green. There are more hues of green than...
it's impossible. an impossible number of greens.
The woman watches the ocean.
For what? I do not know.
I wish her well.

The clouds are heavy and grey from moisture. I focus on one. Try to comprehend it. I imagine...to be inside it would be like being inside a cold steam room (cool, clear water condenses on your skin. A heavy droplet slides down your arm and falls from your fingertip. it makes a tiny splash as it collides with the tiled floor. you think of your existence.)

I'm quietly frustrated. and cold. This untamed scene gently refuses to be conquered by my limited vocabulary. My body is chilled to the bone. My spirit longs to be part of this wild beauty, but it knows that I am different. It will not accept me, so I turn indoors to sleep, like the woman in the hill.

Blue as the sky, just not as bright.

The only thing that rhymes
With melancholy
Is a phrase that deals with crimes:
Felon's folly

(And that will never assist
When I'm trying
Vainly to resist
Deep sighing)