The Dialogue. (poeTry)

by: a.paige

and the dialogue grows

the irreconcilable, uncontrollable creature knows

when another voice calls out

everyone screams out

for everyone else to tame

the beast that had awakened their fear

but who is left to hear?

the ongoing conversations leave me with

a funny feeling, hinting

all voices converge at some point. ’tis time

“we are here, we are here,” we chant till nine

then fly to the moon and back, wishing

that heaven listened, even as the stars glisten

but who is there to hear?

This Life. (poeTry)

by: a.paige

it isn’t black

or white.

or yellow.

or brown.

it is all of that.

it is gray.

it is pink.

and red.

and the sadness of a blue sky

on a cold winter day.

it is rich.

it is poor.

it is the comforting shade

in the scorching sun,

or the warmth of fire.

it is joy.

it is chaos.

it is the sparkle in a child’s eyes,

or the grief

behind your smile.

it is magic.

it is tragic.

creation and decay,

a cleansing rain,

or scorn.

it is birth pangs

it wakes,

and grows. and teaches.

or refuses

and walks asleep.

or plays dead.

or lies down dead.

or drops dead,

while consuming in between,

its appetite, keen.

it waxes and wanes.

it rises and falls.

a blessing and a curse.

an ebb and flow.

like the tide, this life.

Back To The Day (poeTry)

by: a.paige

I can toss up some metaphors over sushi for dinner. Still, my heart’s no match for thee, for your candied words are always free. The sky’s too proud, but I've learned to teach. So why do you preach as you sip your tea? Just grow a peach. But I’d rather crawl and take a trip. To the moon and back, since the stars are out of reach. Back to the day when my freedom reigned. You didn’t know me then, and you still don’t know me well.

what is Love?

***I wrote this last month but don't think it's too late to post.

I know of it. I have seen it, and tasted bits and pieces, chewed and swallowed what might be considered love.

Love is enclosed in a love letter, or consumed in a box of chocolates or a valentine poem. It has the scent of a spring bouquet and morning coffee, shared. It is imbibed with wine, or champagne, at special events. Or taken with veggie, or what have you, over company at a summer barbecue. It tastes salty at times, in tears and sweat, and sweet in joy.

Love is the family by the hospital bed; the dad in awe of his newborn. The womb that cradles her baby, the butterfly kisses and raspberries... From dawn to dusk to the late night hours spent over milk and cookies, and stories.

Love is a story. Of humanity. The good and broken parts.

Love is a seed held by tiny hands... Immense it grows when planted, and the elders sit by its tree. Seasons come and seasons go. Love grows.

Love is wisdom, both silent and loud. She walks her child and guides her through the night.

Love is a mystery. It evades systems and ignores time. It holds and warms; it quenches our thirst for life. Like water, like air—it feeds life—it is life. For without love, life is but mere shadow.

Love is a color—all the colors of the rainbow, and the grays in between... It is the silver in the lining... Our hopes and dreams and well wishes for one another. The rain showers. It is the dews that glisten and the leaves that autumn christens. The wonder bestowed by a winter snowflake.

Love is a doctor that takes away the poison... The apple everyday. The tight embrace and soft whispers. Your silent words and knowing smile. The time we held each other and the stars illuminated the sky. The moonlight when the sun is at rest... Love is a stronghold in a storm. Love is the light in the dark. Love is hope. They were right—I agree this time: hope springs eternal isn't just a cliche. Because hope is love. They are one and the same, and in its absence is despair.

Love is a circle; it returns where it starts, back to its giver. If not, it is the risk taken, unrequited. Love is an arc, from one to another. Love is a shared umbrella.

Love is magic at work all the while. It injects the mind with reason and bleeds the heart...

Love is you ripped apart when someone you love leaves... It is a piece of you taken by the person. Love is your broken heart. But love frees you from your prison.

Love is the crimson running through your veins... The tears shed over the death of someone loved; love moistens the barren ground, and the same tears shed waters a new beginning. Love is where you start again...

Love moves. Love continues. It always watches, if in silence sometimes, but laughs loudly and unrestrained at happy times. Forgetting is irrelevant, for love forgives and lets go. Love lets you spread yours wings, and if not, love will walk with you, crawl with you... Carry you. Love is with you, if you let it.

Love is seen in action. It is lived, though love takes a lifetime to learn. Love is your mission, regardless of your passion. Love is your breath, each of which counts. 

If there was god, then Love is God. If for nothing else, then I choose to worship Love.

For you and me. From me to you. Because if there was a hole in your sock, I would mend it for you, if you ask me to. But don't ask me to, I might not have the time. I might even laugh at you and/or buy you red socks. Because love is real like that. But I'd try to help mend your broken heart. If you ask me to. Because love is not imposed but offered. Yet it is always present. Only it will take a lifetime to metabolize it. Can you do it—Love?

Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

This Is Our Song

 by: amica paige

Just because you’re caught

Doesn’t make things right

The people are hurt,

the children are dead

When you pulled that trigger

and lit that cooker.

Just because you’re dead
Doesn’t make things fine

Those who remained—a part of them died

When you pulled that trigger
and lit that cooker.

But because you‘re caught

There’s one less dirt

No one gets hurt,

no child will die...

until one of your kind

looses his mind...

And because you’re dead

There’s one less scum

Nobody gets hurt,

no child will die

Until one of your kind

looses his mind...

And because we’re here

All of US hear

The havoc you man,

the destruction we see

Yet for life,

we stand.

For Boston, we stand. For Newtown, we stand. For New York we stand.

For the children, we stand. For the women, we stand.

For the voiceless, the helpless, and the blood of the innocent, we stand.

Because despite all our differences, we stand. For life.

This is our song. Though our bodies may fail, our spirits prevail.

Life overcomes evil.

Ode to Life (poeTry)

***In honor of National Poetry Day

by amica paige


Uplift us to your heights
We'll ride the winds of time
upon your eager wings.

Take us to your depths
Adrift, we only kiss
your face when lost at sea.

Pull us past your dirt
deep within your hearth.
We'll fan your dying heart.

Then shoot us out of here
Spring us up with fire
into the open haze...

where the clouds will cradle us
if only for a moment,
as in our mothers' wombs...

And through a hundred cycles,
we'll tread the sea again
until the end of time

when Earth decides to hurl
our silent ashes up,
spent as offerings.

Did God have joyful tears?
We're glorious winged specks,
creation's golden dust.

We'll shine it, all the light
we muster from the heavens,
reflect it to each other.

Because even the spineless worms
can see the senselessness
in your rampant absurdities...

So fill us with thy breadth.
We'll ride your fickle wind
and spread our hidden wings.

Bestir. (poeTry)

by amica paige


Be still, my fear
we're fine, refined
our actions speak
their words that don't

Bestir, my dear
our spirit's free
the heart doth see
whose minds are blind

Be strong, dear one
though oceans rise
we, both, we'll ride
the tides of lies

Be well, dear friend
we'll strive and thrive
illuminate
the darkest nights

Be mine, beloved
we'll wine and dine
we'll sing and dance
they'll chant, who can't

Abide, let us
please stay, I pray
though kingdoms fall
we'll live it all.

Decrepitate.

Decrepitate. Define it, you say, being a person of youth. Well, may I say that I've trodden the sands of time, marching through my childhood years-hopping, skipping, dashing, involving some fists at times, sometimes sobbing...all the way to manhood, braving its tides, to taste and savor all of life's nectars, including matters of the heart, which can prick one's soul with a thousand needles, and that's just for starters, an endless appetizer, if you will. Because should you delve into the heart's affairs more deeply, you'd soon find out that the heart has swords for teeth; it cuts and grinds as sharply as it exalts in exceeding and inexplicable ways one can hardly believe sometimes. And if you fear a thing called love, as others may call it, which I rather refer to by its very act—of care, compassion, or affection—you might not want to go there, that is if you expect your beneficiaries to reciprocate all that you extend. But you might miss something so simple, yet so profoundly significant at once, should you skip over it.

I, however, am in my third act, traipsing on this stage called life. I've seen a thousand moons and witnessed stars shine and recede into oblivion, if not first immediately ushered out by the depths of time, which spares no one, like stars that merely fizzle right after birth. I've climbed the highest peaks, each attempt maims so severely at times, one falls in the deepest valleys with such dismemberments unheard of in still callow, incubated minds, and you ask me to define decrepitate. I've bathed in the sun's radiance and roasted in it all the same; its luminance stings, like salt to a worm in a slow burn. If I crackle when I roast in fire, I can't possibly hear the sound of my anguish, as I languish inside, can I? So, you tell me—do I crackle and pop when you see me roast in fire? I've seen and heard of unnumbered souls, both young and old, suffer unspeakable torment. Deprived of any means of protection, they are powerless, and their lives are all they have until their blood is shed by savages. By the way, did you see it too—the endangered species on the news last week? The harmless rhinos do naught but roam the fields in peace, unsuspecting of predators, and still, they're poached and bled to death for their quaint horns. Such horror reminds me of the pink dolphins and human nature, and makes me wonder which animal is the real beast on earth.

You ask a decrepit man to define 'decrepitate'. I say, stop searching too hard for meaning in mere words. Look and observe around you instead. Perhaps you'd discover something, if there be any road worth traversing, a wave worth riding, or a meaning to derive from life at all. Then tell me what you find. Hear me now, go on. Live.

Wonder...wander... What's your story?

I'm a not a fatalist. I do believe in willpower and magic and hope...for a better place and justice. I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play...while we try to survive the best way we can—some of us in yachts and castles, and others beneath bridges...in tunnels...or on benches, and still others stuck between walls in the middle. And still others...the helpless ones imprisoned in silent rooms...who are silenced by those who are drunk and deluded with power, like God...

Hunger...

I just cannot think positive away the demons at play. But I can help keep human garbage at bay and pick up my share the best way I can, and maybe tune in and lend an ear to see the inaudible, invisible cries...that I, too, might understand their pain...that I might extend a hand or walk a mile...perhaps. And when that still isn't enough, I hope for a better place.

Will power's persistence in this befuddling existence—that is magic. And only because of love, without which what other means must we employ our ultimate will? Where did we get it from—this love?—who instilled it in us humans? I used to think I knew so well, but the wind changes course... Now I only think about it too, sometimes. But I, like you, won't know the end of the story until I get there. Until then, I must keep going and live this thing...this role...this play...on this stage, and not waste so much time thinking about the director...since the time given us is short.

Yet I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play. But don't hate me. I'm just a realist, not an enemy. I am not against you, just maybe your ideals sometimes. Meanwhile, I still smile and look up at the sky, whenever I'm not tripping on and picking up garbage.

J.R.R. Tolkien said: "Those who wander are not always lost".

And so, I wonder sometimes.

Cliche. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I know it's such a cliche,
but if you knew tonight would be your last
just what would you do today?

Paint that picture.
Write that story.
Sing that song now.
You may just see the world singing along.

Dance!--to your heart's delight.
Love. Even if you think it insane.
Love anyway.
If not, it will all be over just the same.
You and I know it.
It'll all be over before we know it.
Yet we all know it,
though we choose to forget it.

So tell your story.
You may just see that the world has been listening all along.

Carpe Diem!

"Without Love I won't survive"

I've forgotten about these guys until recently, courtesy of their newest song, "Black Heart Inertia".

Incubus may be onto something here...

Incubus - New Music - More Music Videos

Unrequited (poeTry)

by amica paige



Love doesn’t reciprocate
Loving acts and kindness
Then it’s mere repayment
And a social merriment

Love turns up unexpected
In the deepest sorrow
And the darkest hour
Unrequited.

The Heart Becomes a Butterfly (poeTry)

by amica paige



The heart becomes
A butterfly
When the ego dies

Love lowers it down
To the ground
Only to lift you up

The soul thrives
And the spirit flies
When the Love that transcends
Descends.

Vitamin

I love stories and poems about the unconditional love of a child. And for a parent like me, nothing can top this totally free and genuine love displayed in a child’s hug. A simple but genuine embrace demonstrating the unconditional love of the little person with the big heart sometimes even confounds the adult psyche, especially when you’re able to catch the moment it happens right before your eyes. This is an embrace apart from the guilt-driven ones from children who think they owe their parents unconditional love for raising them, regardless of their upbringing. It’s apart from the extra tight ones from children who are extremely excited and entranced with their presents. This embrace is easy, undemanding, uncomplicated, unfussy, sure, and true. It’s a simple hug that says I enjoy you…I like you...I love you. And it feels so good when given to you unexpectedly by your child. It’s the best vitamin any parent must take for sustenance by being completely cognizant when that moment occurs and your child comes your way and throws one right at you. Seize it. Feed off this vitamin and feed the nourishment right back to your child.