Up in the clouds, just out of mankind’s reach, is a man who weaves. He sits at the loom, day and night, observing it from above and admiring his work. Every single string was placed for a reason, though at first it isn’t quite clear. As the loom works, the strings get pulled and threaded, changing everything they touch. The longer two strings are together, the more color from one string will bleed into the other.
The loom isn’t perfect. It has many scratches on the wooden bars, and many strings have been lost in the process. But no matter what, every single thread has a reason to be there. Though we may not see the final product yet, the man does. He cannot teach the pawns of the game to understand the elaborate strategy, but he can play the game through them, breathing his words onto paper.
The more the man sits at the loom, changing threads and renewing severed strings, the clearer the picture becomes. A tapestry begins to take form, far beyond a size and complexity of human comprehension. It is a breathtaking view, if one rises above enough to see it.
We never knew, but the Weaver has known for a long time what would become of the strings. He is a master at His craft. We may not yet be able to make out the collection of shapes, but the answer to that question has been written on our souls in ink since the day we were created.
We are the strings that make His cosmic curtain, and one day, we will learn just how massive and intricate the Weaver had declared it would be. We will stare in awe at the dazzling explosion of color and geometric patterns that make up our universe and wonder how we didn’t see it before. It was woven all around us and through us, reaching out and spreading like the roots of a tree into the ground. It will grasp our hands and take us where we no longer have to be stretched and woven, where everything is right and perfect, and the answers are clear.
The Man will hang his work at a temple in the sky. He will run His finger along the edges, admiring what He has created. The strings will sit perfectly, filled with the love and light of His hand. We will be fastened together by the Weaver’s warm embrace, no more rifts between our strings, so desperate to be made whole. And The Weaver will see that it is good.
For every sunset,
o birds of air, what do you see,
when you soar past earthly gravity?
Can you grasp, o birds,
the colors that spiral
in an infinite cycle?
Some days the clouds
erode in citrus colors,
or swirl like cotton candy,
or seem alight with orange flames,+
or dust the sky red like cardinal’s feathers,
or are gilded a color gold could never hope to be.
It’s never been the same,
not once.
Do you, o birds of the sky,
wheeling far, far away,
do you see the glory of today?
I play along the threshold,
peering through,
catching glimpses of ghostly shapes.
Often dancing along its steps,
doodling on the doorframe,
singing dirges through.
I decorate the threshold
covering it in sunburst flowers,
carving fragments of lines,
swirling gifts everywhere.
Sometimes I lay down flat,
soaking up the warmth of headstones.
I invite a friend or two
to come and watch with me
through long midnight hours
when the threshold seems cold,
and icy winds whirl through,
chilling my bones.
Occasionally, I’ll sit and watch,
grave, listening to special silence
which echoes through a tomb.
I let whispers caress my ears
of what was and what will be
parceling stories from my skull.
I’ll sift lies and truth
on this well-worn threshold,
often cry in disparagement
as lines, once so stark,
blur into strange hieroglyphs,
sometimes forming shapes
so clear, I thought I could understand.
When I’m tired,
I’ll lie on the threshold
to let my mind wander
and attempt to imagine
myself, beyond the threshold,
in the world unimaginable.
I know at a Christian Funeral, praising the Lord should be a given. But I didn't realize how much it would make my heart sicken. After experiencing someone dying,
I expected us all to be crying.
Although the comforts did seem nice,
It was all washed away when I saw him cold as ice.
The thoughts that swirled made my brain tickle.
In a dream I saw the grim reaper holding his head above a sickle. From that moment on all I could think about was you being dead, And all my eyes could see was the color red.
With the devil holding my hand, we wrote Mr. God a letter.
And I am ashamed to say it, but I signed my name with the devil’s scarlet feather. He told me the heaven I was taught about for so long,
Was just made up so we wouldn't think the people we loved were gone. And I will tell you this is by all means no excuse,
But the devil told me it was you God holding my beloved’s noose.
From that day on my life was tasteless and bleak.
Even the snakes couldn't stand the words I would speak.
Then one night God came to me in a dream.
He saw the color red was darker than it had seemed.
He told me that if I kept my devil's eye,
My life would turn for the worse.
Soon it would be the devil driving my hearse.
He told me if I repented my sins,
I could begin life anew with Him.
That's when I realized I was caught in the devil’s snare.
And I was just one of thousands of his little blood stained hares.
So I will tell you I jumped out of bed
And ran to the altar.
And I confessed my sins without a single falter.
As I walked away I came to a halter,
and looked to the sky and cried, “Oh Father!”
I fell to the ground in the middle of the chapel. All the people in the pew looked so baffled. Tears began to swell in my eyes
With my head still hung low.
I finally took all my anger and cried,
“Dear Lord, I shall tell you that You have finally won!” “My battle against Faith is finally done!”
From that moment on my heart is held by a tether, With God himself holding the string forever!
I got my current sketchbook on the thirty-first of October in 2023. For a sketchbook, it’s medium size. Too big to be conspicuous, too small to be a burden. The cover, when naked, is a simple jet black, with the texture of knotted tree bark. It’s soft, though, and the grooves upon its face are slim enough that you can drag your nails through the small depressions provided. When I first got it, the spine was stiff and steady and too rigid for my taste.
Naturally, this pristine visage did not last long. I ordered new stickers, new washi tape, and new markers all in the hopes of bedazzling my new outlet of creation. So, once all was within my grasp, I got to work. When your passion is poured into the internal contents of a subject, it is only natural that it will leak into the external as well. I spread three pictures out over its front, overlapping slightly. One has the appearance of poetry, one is a solemn-faced woman, and the last is the image of a locomotive. Where the train is going, we cannot know. Where the woman is looking, we have no clue. But they stall and watch, day by day, frozen in time, content to watch me work. Such depictions act as a mere glimpse of the various creations to be found, and act as a reflection of my personal inclinations and preferred colors. I taped layers upon layers, lining them in patterns that would rival your grandmother’s living room wallpaper. And this was all topped off with a healthy dosage of stickers.
But, as with all sketchbooks, the contents are what truly binds the book. I stretch it wide, straining its spine until it creaks and aches. Only when it is completely flattened am I satisfied. Over the alabaster pages, graphite cuts and sweeps into shapes. These shapes make faces, bodies, movements, lives, all which come from the inner mechanisms of my mind. Color is frequent, but used in calculated doses. Women and men smile, or sometimes frown, up at you. Their eyes are large and keen, no doubt fanned by eyelashes any sensible person would envy. They are the essence and evidence of an artistic soul, wild and creative and unattainable.
My sketchbook, now bent and floppy, with frayed edges of pages, goes with me wherever I go. Like a hefty shadow, it bounces against my hip in my favorite sunflower tote bag, or rocks to and fro against my back as I trek through the halls of school. But this is different, because my sketchbook is the shadow I choose, and its shape and size does not alter depending on where the sun stands in the sky.
I didn’t quite hear that.
I promise I’m listening,
My mind just forgot I wanted to hear.
I forgot the task you gave me.
I promise I was going to do it,
My mind silenced my promise.
I don’t mean to ignore.
I don’t mean to forget.
My mind just runs from place to place
It never seems to stop
It’s a careless one,
Which leaves its possession to be stolen away.
My mind works in ways,
it’s hard to remedy
I promise I’ll try
Even with the forgetfullness,
Or an unattentive mind.
My poems are written with an accent
It is one I’ve heard before.
I’ve copied the mannersisms
The tone is what I replicate
It makes me sound as though I deserve to write
My normal tone feels insufficient
For the rhythm and precision
Which these poems seem to require
I don’t know why my normal tone,
Doesn’t seem enough
It isn’t as though I want to plagarise
Steal words which aren’t quite mine.
But that need to excel
To create art no one can dispel
Forces my voice into tone
Trying hard to harmonize
With words which aren’t quite my own.
Bee is an artist and a friend; she reaches out her spindly legs and nests in the golden fleece of pollen. She is always available, always waiting. When the birds chirp the shrill heralding of a new message from the butterflies, she is eager to hear it first. Because the butterflies are very treasured by her.
Even when her miniscule ears are shut in sleep, her mind is abuzz with the possibilities that come with the inevitability of a new dawn. And though the dragonflies settle in a different grove, they are never far from her conscience. Just as she is never far from theirs. It is the intimate exchanges that link them, and the mirrored experiences they share. No pollinators have different lives simply because they do not sleep in the same beds of roses.
Bee sends the bluejay to tell the butterflies of what she has done, and what she will do. Her hopes and her futures, her loves and her heartbreaks. And the butterflies send robins back, who detail their escapades to her. Sometimes, the birds’ claws will be full of the prettiest leaves. Just for Bee.
Bee is the name they gave to her. It has evolved over time, and was born from affection. Time spent in simple talk, addressing one another, sprouted into new titles as slowly as the bud of a walnut. It is a privilege, Bee says, to be given a name befitting of a friend. But if you ask her where the name comes from, or why they chose Bee specifically, she will not answer you. That is between Bee and the butterflies.
