Monthly Archives: March 2013

The World Is Still Theirs

They sit there alone in

The silent, still park with

Rigid trees all around them

The sky is still dark but

The stars keep them

Warm in the cold winter’s

Morn and although their

Hearts fly their faces

Are forlorn because

Soon the world wakes

And the noise will be

Loud and heavy and

Dull like a full

Thunder cloud and yet

Still they sit silent enjoying

The stillness and oneness

Of knowing the world

Is still theirs

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Following Paths

I set a foot in the

Wilderness, a blindfold over

My eyes, and felt for the

Trees in the twilight as the

Moon began to rise.

Your palm flattened out

All the mountains, splashed

Down and bridged the

Seas, filled the deepened

Canyons, splintered whole forests

Of trees; your fingers scrawled

The horizon and clawed

Deep into the earth, etching

Paths my feet could rely on,

Spanning the whole of

The girth of the country. Me,

My ankles, thin and frail.

I grope in the night for your

Fingers, I seek to

Follow your trail.

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Mr. Woodword

Note–This is a writing exercise I began a while ago, to practice creative writing. I find a picture I enjoy, mostly off the internet, and then I write a caption to go with it. My favourite thing to write about is people; I love fabricating characters, although they scarcely make it into any of my stories. This character is Mr. Woodword; although the man in question does not exist, to my knowledge, he’s real in my head. If you know anyone of this nature and name, I probably don’t know him personally, but maybe he’ll appreciate this. The picture I used is no longer available; you’ll have to use your imagination.
I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Woodword:


Mr. Woodword was an older man; sometimes I wondered if he ever left the library. He smelt like candle wax and crisp old books, and there were usually ink stains on his tweed jacket. His movements were slow but his eyes were quick, and although he hardly spoke I knew he had a lot to say. His mouth was always caught in a half-smile, like he knew something that nobody else did, some unknown secret that he kept hidden away in the back of the library.

There was hardly any hair left on his wispy head, but he always had a full moustache hiding his upper lip. Mr. Woodword spoke with a stutter, and sometimes he had a hard time forming words. I suspected that’s why he liked books so much, because they could speak an endless amount of words without uttering a sound. But so could Mr. Woodword; his watery eyes could say anything to me without the use of his mouth, and his smile was probably the loudest sound I’d ever heard.

He leaves unfinished books all over the library for me to find, with bookmarks and underlined chapters. I guess it’s his way of communicating with the world. On good days he leaves out poetry, like William Wordsworth’s Daffodils; but when Mr. Woodword is having a bad day he leaves out historic records of World War Two, or the Korean Police Act.

Some days, when it’s raining, Mr. Woodword leaves out picture books. I find bookmarks left in the children’s section, of red dragons and brave knights, and I find pages left open to the green landscapes of Scotland and England. Sometimes I wonder where Mr. Woodword comes from, and if there’s anyone who misses him. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Woodword misses anyone. On bright sunny days, I suspect he does, for I find William Shakespeare’s love sonnets laid open in the sunbeams by the windows, with his glasses laying next to them. Then I would pick up his glasses and search the library for him, to find him dozed off in the overstuffed furniture in the back, yet another book open on his lap. I would carefully place the glasses on his book and he’d snort and open his eyes. From there, he would nod at me and shakily return his glasses to their place on the tip of his nose. He’d give me a meaningful glance with his watery old eyes and look back to the silent wonders of his book.

I admire Mr. Woodword, whose world fills the corners of the library. I practice in the mirror, to smile like he does, and to respond to the hard times with eyes like the all the languages in the world.

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2nd Corinthians 4:7

This is a painting inspired by the verse 2nd Corinthians 4:7, in the Bible. This isn’t the original painting; I made the first one, on a slightly larger canvas, for a dear friend of mine. It was on display for a small while at a café our youth group holds every now and again, and someone liked it and wished to buy it; however, because I’d painted it for a friend, I couldn’t sell it. So I painted a second for her; sadly, I didn’t think to take a picture of the original, and this one isn’t all that great either, so I apologize for my crappy photography. I’m still working on that area of my non-existence expertise, and now I have neither painting at my convenience for a re-shoot, but am still very glad that both people enjoy their paintings!


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White on Black

This series of drawings began a few years ago, when I found a particularly beautiful black and white picture of a lion while browsing online. It began a series of black and white African wildlife drawings done simply with a white pencil-crayon on black construction paper. I did four or five of them, however these were the only three I liked enough to post; perhaps I’ll get around to redoing the rest.IMG_0147IMG_0145IMG_0146

Categories: Art, Drawing | 2 Comments

Leap of Faith

Papery wings are easily torn

and yet these wings were made to fly.

These wings can’t soar without support

and yet my muscles urge to try.

I leapt from heights with fatal falls

and let my paper wings fail me

just so yours would beat the winds

and catch me before my wings

did kill.


I drew this picture before I wrote this poem. I guess you could say it was the inspiration. I’m sure you’ll notice how disproportionate the man’s hands are to the rest of his body; I didn’t do that purposefully. When I finished the drawing and looked back on it, at first I was ready to erase his hands and redo them; then I caught myself, thinking how wonderfully perfect they were for the message of the drawing, and the poem. An accidental point to be made.

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Goodbye Future

Goodbye future, Hello past,

Leave me present, I won’t last.

Situation, Apprehend,

Lost ambition, Useless trend.

Time is frozen, Just like hell,

Soaking wet like empty well.

Ghosts of future, Here to haunt,

Decisions past us, Crossroads taunt.

Another turn I can’t undo,

I don’t know where I’m running to.

This rut has turned into a maze,

My hands still grope, my visions haze.

My heart, this place I strive to discover,

Will surely end me, The homesick lover.

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Jeremiah 12:5

Why does it matter what they do?

For you

are who I’ve set unto

a greater task

from what you knew.

Don’t race mere man;

you’re so much more.

Don’t let their sprinting leave you worn.

For how can you expect

to be

the height of your identity;

to brave the forces

through the courses

pass the men

and race the horses.

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The Quiet World

Piano, Saint Albertus SchoolAnd there did death come, a sole thief in the night, and stole ‘way the keys of ivory white

Rid of fresh sound, no birth of new noise, no more feet tapping dances or heart-skipping joys

Now lost in the silence are notes on a page, black dots, recognition of once better days.


…but still, as minds wander, they find sweet old hopes, all packaged in echoes and stained paper notes

Of favourite tunes that radios played while waiting in stations whose train was delayed

Bitter faces turned light as the sound gripped their heart and adjusted the beat so the pulse could take part

In a symphony’s life, as the feet start to jump, the notes fly like blood cells, the heart starts to pump…


The rhythm plays on, though the music is dead, the echo can’t die while songs live in your head

The empty halls beckon, so fill them with sound, and bring back the music that made life’s heart pound

The strings might be cut and the keys have been stolen; the silence is death, but this spell can be broken

With echoes of past lives, reverberate strong; bring back the music, where my soul belongs.

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Prayer in the Desert

Relent to me, relentless land, of which I made my home, whose pounding pulse still carries me, me, wicked and alone.

You are, Oasis, within me, the land of sand and bone, you are, Oasis, keeping me, Oasis, you are Home.

Home, outside, Oasis, in, Oasis, flesh and bone, whose breath still lingers on the wind, whose soil is richest loam,

Now grow in me, Oasis, grow, grow in me tree, a tree whose roots come up from you, Oasis, within me.

And keep this tree alive and well, within my barren land, and keep with it, Oasis, keep it safe from heat and sand,

Until this tree brings forth the fruit, the fruit that you have sown, to you, Oasis, I will be the greatest thing you’ve grown.

You are, Oasis, within me, Oasis, you are Home; now spread, Oasis, with your tree, the seeds that I have sown;

Relent to me, relentless land, of which I made my home, and Oasis, jealously, will ne’er leave alone.


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