Wisdom from the woodstove

Love is a lot like a woodstove. If you fan the flame, constantly giving it fuel but also air , it will keep you warmer than any other heat. But if you close it up, forget to nurture it, it will leave you cold to the core.
Men if you want to know the secret to a woman's heart it's simple, nurture her. Everyday (try) show her she is the most beautiful part of your world. Don't let the flame die down. Don't put your wood in a different stove. At the same time give her room to breathe. Let her be uniquely her and make sure she knows how beautiful that is. Not the outside beauty that time and life steals, the inside beauty, where the fire starts deep in the heart.
Treat her like the main source of warmth in your life and it will never grow cold.

Lyrical Release: Inside Out

Sharing some lyrics I wrote recently. Can you hear the music? Tell me what you think.

There's an elephant on my chest
Can't take it
Can't take it
Too much stress
You're love is killing me
Eating me up
From the inside out
Can't take it
Have to break this
Trying to find the way out
This life is slow dying
Waiting,begging,trying
No escape
The pain it builds
No release
Praying for peace
Can't take it
Need to shake this
The elphant on my chest
Stress without release
Have to break away
Need to getaway
Runaway from the knife
Cutting with each breath
Can't take this
You can take this
Keep this
I'm out of this mess
Put the ring from my finger
On the elephant on my chest
Lock it up safe
I'm done with your stress
Can't take this
Not going to take this
I'm out the door

©2013 R.M.Brandon

Happy Halloween

The air tuns bitter. Rust,Orange,Burgandy, and Yellow fall at the base of Evergreens. An aroma burnt Oak floats around Ghouls and Goblins heading across town. Hayrides followed by hot chocolate and marshmallows snuggled fireside.
Sit back my darlings and listen to a tale. It is All Hallows Eve.
The mask you wear with such pride, hiding who you are in real life, imagin for a moment if that was truely you.
You, Caped Crusader, will soon be called to save the fair Damsell over there. For when the moon rises full the Vampire by her side will long to taste her blood.
Look up, its almost time. The Portal between time opens wide. The stars blur. Clouds swirl with delight, then slowly their faces come to life.
Ohhh. Hold my hand little dearies I'm shaking with fright. It's Hallows Eve when nightmares come to life.

Have a Safe and Happy Halloween everyone!
2012 R.M.Brandon

Riddle

Failure.
The fear of realization.
Realization of fear.
Everyone fails at something.
Some fail at everything.

Success.
If ever occasion arose.
To some is obsolete.
Some everyday complete.

Value.
Who is to judge?
What measure is used?
When calculating value of life
Who gets to choose?

Some say worthless
Others irreplaceable.
In the great big world
It is easy to feel small.

Journey.
Explore beyond vision.
Trust beyond belief.
Travel through heart
Or simply follow your feet.

Life.
A journey destined to end.
Some experience years
Others, a few heart beats.
Some know only bitter
Yet embrace it as sweet.

Perspective.
The point from which one sees
The journey some rush to complete.
Others sit idly by
Awaiting patiently return
To the other side.

Riddle.
If there is no begining
Where did it begin?
If life is simply dying
Waiting for the end.
The ending does not exist
it simply begins again.
Continuous evolution
No begining, middle, end.

Eyes closed.
Take my hand.
Feel the wind softly blow.
Fall with me now.
For a moment we soar.

The ledge long gone.
Weightlessness
Gravity pulls on.
Taste the freedom
Everything is alright.

Pain.
Impact upon the ground
Has ended our flight.

Fear of failure has gone
Swiflty into the night.
Begining a new life.
The begining is the end
The end the begining.
Failure is success
when someonelse is winning.

R.M.Brandon 10/20/12

Be as You will

Life was given.
In its birth dreams, hopes, and promises formed.
Yet the act of living impedes.
Time slips freely away while everyday planning is made.
Bystanders cast their stones.
The path walked feels ever alone.
Intent falls victim to pain by false judgement.
Who dare estimate the cost of a load they do not bare? Compassion long gone.
Like the door to home.
Stolen memories nothing more.
Yet the gift is still given.
Will be forever.
The foundation to live a life worth more.
All life is precious yet so rarely valued.
The world pushes down those who struggle to carry on. Where do you stand when the long night is drawn?
Are you helping to achieve dreams or ripping them from someone's arms?
Be as you will.
Be careful as you are.
Empathy is a dying breed in a world lost to greed and war. (C) R.M.Brandon 2012

Around the Corner

Beneath the city skyline two old men watched the world walk past on the stoop of an apartment building. "You are so lucky. I wish I could still hear the sweet call of the birds as they frolick on the lawn." Said the old man to his mate.
His mate turned in astonishment, "What I wouldn't give to see the glisten of a black birds feathers or watch the sun as it falls from the sky, just one more time." His voice was a shout to accommodate the old the man's hearing defecit. Tears welled beneath his darkened glasses at the corners of his cloudy eyes.
While the old men sat talking a buisness man walked by. His gait hurried, he shuffled his brief case from one arm to next while holding a cell phone to his ear and chewing an apple between "Yes "and "sure". With a nod he passed the men a look of envy on his face. Whimiscally he uttered, "What I wouldn't give to spend my day just watching the world pass by."
The buisness man rounded the corner, the apple he half heartedly chewed slipped from his hand into a trash reseptacle as he fumbled between phone calls and files. Between the buildings he briskly passed a young woman in tattered clothes eyed his discarded treat. She rushed to the trash reseptacle on his passing and plucked the half eaten apple into her heavily dinge covered hands. Retreating to the darkness of the alleyway she pressed the juicy red to her lips with a far off look in her eyes, " What I wouldn't give to have enough food to waste half an apple."
From an adjecent building an old woman peered from her window watching the young girl chew a delicious red apple. A low hum filled the air in the room around. Faint electronic whirls and beeps of the machines that kept her alive. Trapped inside four walls with only a birds eyed view of the world walking by she thought to herself, "What I wouldn't give to be able to feel the wind on my face, the dirt beneath my feet, taste food once again. Even being a beggar would be better than the life I'm in."
Just up the block the sound of sirens filled the air. The static filled chirp of a first responders radio, " MVA vs bicyclist corner of Broadway and Pine. DOA." Shaking his head he placed a sheet over the remains of a tiny body. Pink Barbie handlebars jetted from the tire of a sideways sedan. He looked from the apartment buildings in the area where onlookers emptied into the streets. The Sedan's driver stumbled drunkenly around the roadway towards the EMT's oblivious to the severity of the scene around him.
The Medic spoke quietly to his partner wiping tears from his eyes with blood soaked hands, "She couldn't have been more than four. Will people ever realize how precious life is?"
Life is but a fleeting moment in time. Don't let it pass you by.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

Beast in the Bedsheets

It is an odd comfort, knowing those I have admired the longest in my life were little known before their demise. Apparent now in retrospect, word must travel slowly if it is to have any length to its stay.

"Fifteen minutes of fame" commonplace. The in, the here, the now. Those are the faces and names that rise quickly, then stiffle without a second thought.
Yet, the names who live in eternity, the sweet words that comfort generation upon generation, never experienced fifteen minutes while breathing.
So what then of aspirations? Is there comfort in the future even if it is not lived?

But writing is a torturous beast. It is not to seek fame. Nor is it truely to be heard. Those are things of second thought. Writing is an outlet, an escape from the pictures, sounds, faces, that fill the waking mind. It is the pressure valve that segregates sanity from ridicule.
The nature of the beast is all consuming. Tiny snippets stored through out the day that flash in the mind's eye at sunset begging their tale be told.

It is the whisper of the wind amongst the trees, the light cascading on a pile of fallen leaves. It is the tenderness in a mothers eye, the look of a father with pride. It is life in its light, and even more so in darkness. The tales of those long forgotten.

The beast consumes me, or do I it?
Never dance with the Devil if you value your soul but what if by the making your soul if pure coal? What if by design you created your own undoing? What is life but the process of dying?

Yet into the light once again life is far more than breathing in. So writing too must be more than mechanics, more than grammar and schematics.
For a house to stand it must have a foundation. For a story to sell it must weave a tale worth saying.
The story never ends, merely begins again. For life with the beast is a merciless journey.

The line between sanity and insanity is occasionaly drawn by those without imagination. In a world of walls why barricade the mind?  Only within the pages of a book can one travel the worlds beyond in any form.
The beast is a beautiful friend.
~After the release~ R.M.Brandon 2012

One Moment

Silence

The silence
Deafening
The shadow of a memory

Watching as the wheels turn
My heart
Drives away from me

What is loss
But the ending of a time
The parting of a smile
Even  if but for a small while

Silence consumes
Where laughter once rang
The skies once blue
Now darkened grey

Like the bitterness of winter
Cold, stagnant times
Awaiting spring’s sweet revival
Flowers and sunshine

My heart drives away
Tears stream  down my face
Yet it is only for a moment

Sacrifice one
That many more may come
Even after winter
The sun warms the earth again

The shadow of their memory
Clings tightly to my mind
Like the ringing  of their laughter
Promises for better times.

R.M.Brandon 8/13/12

Quiet One

It's always the quiet ones. The blacksheep that walk through life like a shadow against the movie screen. They try so desperately to fit in, moving in and out against the chaos of life. Blending, watching.

Mousie blonde hair hung across her pale face. The edges curled where she wished they would fall accenuating the manly features she longed to conceal. Dull hazel eyes darted around the crowd like an animal cornered. "How the hell do I get out of this one?" She pondered aloud. There was no need for her to worry, no one noticed she had spoken, they never did. A misfit. Like a beggar on the corner, everyone noticed it's existence, but no one cared enough to acknowledge it with kidness.

"It". A nameless face in a sea of stars. She inhaled deeply as a large man crowded into her. The aroma of sweat and weakening aftershave nauseated her. Clenching her eyes closed she counted silently to twenty. It was a trick she had learned to keep the panic attacks at bay. After the count she would breathe again and everything would feel spacious. The walls formed by large crowds would open and she would again be alone on the outside looking in.

Watching. Watching was never uncomfortable. Well, maybe occasionally. When a parent became to forecful with a child, a woman weeped thinking no one would notice, or an elderly person struggled, that was uncomfortable. Watching, wanting desperately to help, but knowing any action would only make things worse. She had been good at screwing up with the best of intentions. Her mental rolodex was filled with memories of chastisment, and utter embaressment resulting from speaking or acting outside of the "popular" way of thinking.
It was far less painful to simply observe, even the attrocities of humanity's sheer oblivion to their own cruelty.

Twenty. She opened her eyes and exhaled. The room had gotten smaller. The large man bore down on her private space. Tightness rose from the pit of her stomach into her throat. Constricting, stealing away any hope for air. Darkness began to fall in her eyes. She felt the world slip away certain in the back of her mind when she collapsed they would simply walk over her corpse. She would be there, on the ground, trampled to a pulp like roadkill on a backroad when the midnight cleaners came in. Gasping for air she surrendered.
Her body lunged forward into the burly foul smelling man who recoiled in disgust. Slamming head first into the cold tile floor, a flash of red filled her mind.
How could he do that? How could he, even a stranger, just allow someone to fall without any basic human compassion?

Like a wild fire in the wind the crimson spread through her mind. Anger, rage. A lifetime of watching, a lifetime of allowing pain, culminated inside her.
She didn't rise slowly from the ground, she leapt like a lion onto prey. Blood trickled from a two inch gaping slit in her forehead, merged with two streams from her rapidly blackening nose, and flowed freely off her chin. Arms flailing wildly in the air, she ripped at the strangers face. Claws open, she gouged away sheets of flesh. Fists balled, she hammered like a butcher to a steak.

Silent chaos. A slow motion blink. Suddenly there was space. Redness diminished. Rage receeded. Beneath her, a stranger, bloody, motionless. Shock. She tried to determine where all the blood was coming from. They sat in a river of crimson banked by terrified watchers.
Dazed, confused. What happened? Did I cause this? Why didn't anyone stop me?
They watched as the medics arrived, the police took statements, her life ended. They watched silently from the distance.
From the back of the police car she looked from face to face. Fear. So much fear. But no one dared to laugh at her now.
It's always the quiet ones. The ones that suck it all in and try to stay out of the way, that make the biggest mess in the end.
 
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

The Tide

The welcoming auroma of barbeque fills the cool breeze. Laughter echoes into eternity. 
Standing in the sweet embrace of the summer sun wishing this moment could carry on.
Time is such a fleeting and fragile thing. Life and it's counterpart death waltzing. A moment of tragidy for one. In the same blink a child is born. Time waltzes on.
In this moment, I seek a pause. A pause to reflect before life carries on.
How much has changed since the last blink of an eye? No more tears have I found to cry. While pondering here I realize, the change has all been on the inside.
Locations, situations the dealing of which only hang on the depth of my grit. Strong shoulders, wide like a line backer, long legs for speed, compassion, understanding. From all of these are formed me.
A whistful dreamer floating at sea. The sea of life carries me from barren shores,to white sand beaches, and the shade of emerald green trees. Laughter, tears, challenges unseen.
The water is life, it's tide is the guide. In this moment life flies by.

(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

The Wall

The wall. Running at full speed down the chosen path, eyes focused intently on the ground as it rises and falls beneath you. Ahead a shadow rises obscuring the sun.
Doubt clouds the mind. Indecison. The wall fills the eyes. No way around, only over. But the wall is slick and over seems hopeless without help. Nothing to stand on. No rope or ladder to climb. Is this the end of the path?
Has the journey really ended at obscurity?

It is in this moment when true character is formed. Some will turn and return to the point of origin. Others will veer walking along the slick surface of the wall searching for a way around. A select few will use their will power, bloody their fingertips, and exhaust themselves giving every ounce of themselves to the climb.

Standing at that wall I question, who am I? Do I climb or sit on my ass and wait for help? My feet are already tired, my legs scream for a break, mind is numb with endless quandry, hands callused from the path behind.
The wall rises. No I will not stop here, I will climb. When this journey one day ends the view will be a much better place.

Every life has obstacles, it is how handle those obstacles that defines who we are. Today I hit the wall, tomorrow I will climb it.
(C) R.M.Brandon 2012

Waterfall Trail (Prelude)

All she wanted was a release. An escape, any form of reprieve, from the monotony of everyday life. Her lips drew up at the corners in a permanant grimace. A plastered smile that reflected closer to disgust than glee.
Her body moved mechanicaly, like a wind up toy that never fully unwound because the key stuck. All keyed up. The perfect description. But this weekend was going to be different. She was going to escape it all.
The custom wheels of her Hybrid SUV left the state blacktop as the sun turned past noon. Gravel dust coated the flawless paint christening her adventure.
Emerald green cliffs filled the windshield as the tires crept into a quaint dirt parking area.
She wanted away from civilization and she had found it. Far away. Slipping from the drivers seat, she pulled a brown canvas trail bag from the backseat, flung it across her shoulders, and pressed the door lock button to alarm the car.
Her half dead eyes sparkled with life for the first time in months. The dirt parking area faded beneath her feet. To the right a wooden State conservation sign marked the entrance to Waterfall Trail. 'Hike at Your Own Risk'.
How true that warning would prove to be.
The robotic movement of her body melted with each step into the Fern covered cliffs. Within 100 yards she swayed with a leisurely grace. Her stealy blue eyes absorbed the contour of every rock formation.
To the right of the path a navy blue baseball cap poked from beneath a rapidly decaying pile of leaves. Splattered from bill to brim rust colored stains further camoflauged it from the casual observer. Her mind vaguely registered its existence, tucking away the sight in her mental rolodex of needless observations. In the distance a dog barked.
The warning signs were everywhere, but when a person is wound from both ends the only pressure they notice is in the middle. (C) R.M. Brandon 2012
To be continued.......

Measure of A Man

What is the measure of a man? Who defines the value of a life? Is gold worth more than a grain of sand? Peace, tranquility, devine understanding, are these immeasurable traits or attainable goals?

Only in the Sweet Summer surrender am I able to find a tranquility in life. When the sun beats bright across my skin wrapping it in golden kisses. When laughter rings through the air and exploration is commonplace.
The things we find in this, the shortest of seasons, must cling to the mind during the bleakness of winter.

So how then do we measure a quality of life? Is it in the moments spent in sunlight, laughter? Is it the things we aquire through labor? Is it the memories we collect?
A dinosaur on a picnic table, a row of geese playing on a dock, a rain storm relinquishing the blight of a 100 degree draught, a day filled with collectable memories. Just a moment in one life. No money obtained, no great world changing discovery. Just a day.
Yet this day far more precious than a gem. More beautiful than Gold.

This day is peace in the madcap of a life in motion. So to answer my own question; the value of life is what you give it. What YOU make of it. If the value of your life is memories, share them and you will live eternally.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

Dinner Date

At the end of a broken concrete road in the middle of nowhere waits a long forgotten beach. How does a beach become forgotten? Lost at the end of the tide, catfish remember its name. Cranes dance across its overgrown sand, stalking the scaled visitors. With silent 
magesty the curves of their necks bend dipping their razor sharp beaks into the cool green water. With a flash of movement, they retreat to the tree tops, an impaled fish as a mid day treat.

Sitting at a distance I watch the dance. Swooping from the heights of an oak tree violet black vistors land beside me. Yellow eyes twinkle with mischief as the feathered fiend sizes up the bologna sandwich in my hand.
Such a funny little thief he is, mouth parted between a grin and a laugh. I toss the bread crust to him and wait. Quickly he takes the bait. Snatch and grab, up into the trees again. Another crust of bread, this time he brings a friend.
Soon I am surrounded violet wings everywhere. The thought occurs, I don't think there is enough sandwich to share. Slowly I rise, meandering to the beconing sand and gentle tide. When I turn to look from whence I came, I realize the blackbirds decided the same.
Dropping my clothes with the wrapper on the shore I float on the hands of the gentle tide. On the lost beach my new friends wait. Violet and black wings my dinner dates.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

The Stacks

Desert heat in the Midwest. The Summer sun sears the very breath from my lungs. Ribs bruised from the previous nights strain heave beneath the pressure. Nausea rises from the pit of my stomach. Acid hovers at the base of my throat' just low enough to feel like a shot of Jack from the wrong direction. Intestines threaten to empty their acidic contents onto the dashboard of my car. What I wouldn't give for some relief. The lake twinkles in the back of my mind. The gas light flashes warning the tank is emptier than my pockets. Where to go?

So many decisions to be made, but my body revolts against reason. I just can't think when I feel like my insides are falling out. When was the last time I ate? Have to remember to eat. Not right now. What little there is in my stomach is trying to jump out. Okay mind over matter, if you don't mind it doesn't matter. A twinge of pain in my ribs. It lasts just long enough to feel like a dagger sliding in and out.I have to find somewhere to cool off and hydrate or when anyone finds my body it'll be days in the hospital with IVs .
Maybe a restaurant? Free AC. No, fast food places lack outlets for junk laptops to be plugged in and right now finding a way to make up for gas funds is the priority.

That's when I saw it. Rising from the ground it's looming three story brick frame beckoning me through the doors. Like the arms of a mother to a wounded child, The Public Library. Walking through the double glass doors I felt like a kid again. The old familiar smell like Grandma's Attic filled with hidden treasures waiting to be discovered, wrapped its fingers around my mind. The book covers looked at me from the shelves. Long forgotten Friends, new lovers, mysteries, travels, worlds as yet unknown to me. The colors and textures reached out to me as they had in childhood, "Let us be your friends. We will never let you down.".

How many days had I skipped Algebra 1 and that hideous blob of a teacher to wander among these stacks? After practices and duties I would hide among them, enjoying their company until close. The Greats, the little known, the narratives, all still here. So I find myself once again lost amongst the magic. Only this time I am not a child. While tempted to curl up in the old wicker chair and read The Workings of Poe for the thousandth time, I will instead write.

Here in the safety of the only friends who have been with me my entire life, I will aspire to join their names. One day maybe a wide eyed little girl will escape the world in the arms of my pages. Maybe one day a teenager will walk through the world of my mind to escape the bitter reality of the world in which we live. Maybe one day a two time Divorcee who is struggling to fill the gas tank to make it to work, dying inside because of the innocent casualties of bad marriages, and suffering from heat exhaustion will walk in and smile will take the place of worry at the comforting familiarity of my name.

I write because I have to. Only so many movies can through the mind at one time. A heart can only hold so much emotion, I write to release. I Read because the stacks are the arms that have held me since I was a child. (c)R.M.Brandon 2012

Thoughts and Unanswered Questions

Thought of buying a pool. One of those big in ground numbers with a slide and a diving board. Then realized someone would just fill it with trash.

Thought of building a fire pit. Not just any fire pit, an out door kitchen. A combination of bricks,recycled aluminum and steel, and a touch of imagination. A gaping mouth through which to create tastebud hypnotizing meals. Then realized it would be knocked down as soon as to work I had gone.

Thought of surrounding the yard with flowers.
Daisies, roses, orchids, fragrant beauties that would dance in the summers breeze. Their scent would combine like fresh honeysuckle and invite you to sit among their petals. Their colors would bob and sway singing to the wind. I would keep them hydrated with a meandering stream. It would encircle the yard fed by fountains. Clear blue water filled with golden fish would cast rainbows against the presisely placed stone walkway. The walkway would lead to a secret garden walled in by climbing beauties. Centerpiece, sitting stools surround a solar powered Hot tub. At night surrounded by warm bubbles laying up the sky would be filled with stars. Then I realized the flowers would be cut, the stream filled with pollution, the fish would die, and the hot tub would become lost to overgrowth.

Thought of dancing on the edge of the moon when the stars came out to play. Dangling there, watching the world spin away. Then realized the moon is too far away.

Thought of leaving. Wondered why I hadn't thought of that before. Then I realized I had. I never bothered to walk out the door.

There is a resignation when dreams begin to die. Suddenly you realize you no longer ask why.

Time slips steadily past. The chance for change too long gone. Still the question remains, when did life go so wrong?

(C) R.M.Brandon 2012

Jill in The Box

Jill in the box. Yeah; they said it was Jack. But Jill was the one trapped in a life stagnant. Body in a cage, heart on her sleeve. Smiling outside. Internaly she screamed.
A memory of the sun.The warmth of a real smile. That ray of sunlight gone for quite awhile.

Jill in the box. Waiting to be wound up tight. When the spring releases, briefly, she'll feel flight. Then, above her will shine happiness, better times. Fresh air. Light.

Soon followed by darkness once again to despair. Jack always pushes her head back underground, just when it feels like life has no down. Consumed in her cage she patiently waits, the melody, the wind, release.

Oddly enough it is the freedom that keeps her caged. Fooling herself maybe oneday. Maybe one day the spring will break free.
Eternal release.

Jill in the box, Jack forgot to come back today. In the darkness is where you must stay. But memory will keep you, hope will be your guide, until you die. Still trapped inside.
(C) RM Brandon 2012

The Ball

Standing in a crowded room all alone. Laughing as the show plays on. Tears trickle beneath the laughter. Unseen. Blend. Belong. Supress the desire to scream. Would it matter if it did? Would it cause a scene? Chameleon, conceal every bit of real. Blend. Belong. This won't last that long. Smile. Nod. Grace, fake it, hold still, don't fall. Standing in a crowded room all alone. For a moment, did you feel it? What was that? You belonged? No. Not really. Thank God, it's done. Get me out of these clothes! Layers of artificial. Nothing in this place is real. Smoke and mirrors. Plastic people. Just for a moment I want to feel real. Not a golden child. No precious metal at birth. No grande giveaway in a little white church. Smoke and mirrors trying to pretend. In the end just a fallen, forgotten, waste of flesh again. Standing in a crowded room. Alone. 
(C) RM Brandon 2012

THE GREAT ARTIST

The most beautiful canvas ever painted, is painted new each day. Take the time to appreciate the art of nature. R.M.