Be Still, My Soul

A poem for those who have felt as though they knew very little about themselves.

Be still my soul!
Thy survival, thy fitness,
dependeth not upon thy existence,
but upon thy waiting, upon thy doubts.
Thy swelling notes soareth above thy ability,
but thou hast no courage,
thou hast sole doubt.
Thou and He, He made men’s mouths,
thou sole made it speaketh.
How, then, dost thy brain findeth
a place upon which I hath yet to
step foot?
Speaketh! And be still.
Stepeth forth, and exhale.
Thou dost not knoweth of thy face,
of thy voice—
If thou dost, thou
sayeth not to me of thy wisdom—
and thus, thy face blindeth
my eyes, and I knoweth not of
thy identity.
Be still, my soul—
Be still.

When I Swing With You

A poem for those still searching.

This is my curse:
I sit on a swing alone
with wind-dried cheeks
the swing beside me alone as well
and the breeze pushes her
but I: still.
I wonder who could be sitting there
my playground crush is
the pretty girl with white hair
and anonymous eyes
with brows like the sphinx
and lips encased in glass—

We have been together since I was a boy
she followed me from the moment I discovered her
but has changed over the years
without notice without permission
I find momentary fulfillment in thinking about her sometimes
because it hurts in a way that reminds me
of the dark hue of my hair
the expanding glow in my eyes
the distracted grain of my brow
the thoughtful texture of my lips—
Reminds me that I am real
that someday, she: still, like me.

I am now on Twitter--follow me @ChanRydWrites!

Ninth

A poem about the transitions between one time and the next.

If I am lucky, I will have maybe a dozen songs, all of which
I will play ceaselessly, out of order, each only for a few seconds at one time,
always looping back to those I will have already heard.
I will be disjointed, confused, afraid—
hesitate at every pause, wondering:
Could this be my last note?

There is fear in the transition,
of leaving one tone, one work,
calling it finished, forgetting almost everything,
and moving on.
The next sound, the next beginning,
a new chorus,
wearisome, exhausting, obsessed,
and suddenly the previous eight symphonies fly through my ears,
reminding me that nine comes after eight, after seven, after six, and so on,
then fin—
It is finished,
and begin again.

Leave your thoughts in the comments!

My Friends on the Lake

A deep poem about the vice of beauty. 

Inspired by a statue in Milwaukee made by internationally renowned artist Jaume Plensa.

And I lived there,

where my seagull floated through the sun and

perched above the lake when the clouds became

swirling orange and thrashing red, before turning to stiff steel.

He reminded me that I was alone.

They all did.

My breath came in clouds, swept away by

the flogging wind surging across the petrified, glassy mirror.

All of the reflection, save for me, was

beautiful, I tell you.

We were all neighbors—the same—for those moments,

but the (scrambled letters) (lies) empty inside my voice.

We sank together, and we died together.

That was why I was on the lake.

I could have written about it.

I could have formed either a raft or a cloud with my bare hands

and a pen

—the raft would have saved my life, the cloud would have given me meaning—

but instead, I heard the ice crack as it fingered my spine,

left me in wide silence.

And I do not hesitate to tell you that I screamed for a second

as I fell beneath the water.

But the sky remained the same, because

the wind had stolen my breath,

the seagull had killed my cloud,

and I had refused to build a raft.

“Call

Call me an

It’s beauty, It’s beauty in death:

we drown, my friends, we

are neighbors now.”

Dreaming to Run

A nice, simple poem inspired by an amazing group of athletes.

I have a sticky-note at my bedside

with a time I will never achieve

so that I can dream of being better than

I tell myself to believe.

I fall asleep with my sense of pride

evaporating with each stride—

not into nothingness,

but slinking down my worn legs

and residing in my socks.

While I sleep I twitch and naturally glide into form

with high hips, toes caressing the footboard,

pattering back and forth.

And as I drift away,

so drift my doubts out of my uniform,

which, by the way, holds

the world record for making me carry my chest high.

I exhale; my tight lungs show the sky how to part like Moses

before letting the air burn down and up my throat.

I run because my sheets, under the tutelage of my rubbed-off sweat,

are crying for me to churn out another set.

And through my quiet murmurs,

my pillow trains me to keep my eyes up,

turnover dialed-in to the frequency of the finish line,

unbending gaze locked on the sticky-note

just on the other side of my closed eyelids.

I'm Here

A poem for those who have a special someone on Valentines Day. Make it magical.

Be sure to check out the lamenting companion piece, "I Used to Walk Backward."

There is a whole field of them
I have walked amongst them
and kicked their blossoms over my shoulder
was recovering was tripping
now quiet calm I’m here
I’m here.

Realizing took time
eyes dry real
I found myself there
red is for blood but if I don’t bleed
I might as well be alone
so are roses
a whole field of them at my disposal.

Shivers in my fingertips
lips of the sun is eclipsed by your smile
red too as we tremble together.
There is a whole field of them, I swear, I swear.
I don’t care.
I’m here.

Be sure to share "I'm Here" to loved ones and friends. 

And remember, friends: wherever you are, be all there, and always be there.

Image Source:

"Red Roses Valley at Sunset." Wakpaper. N.p., n.d. Web. 12 Feb. 2014.

 <http://wakpaper.com/id93015/red-roses-valley-at-sunset-wallpaper-and-photo-download-by-photosof-1000x665-pixel.html>.

I Used to Walk Backward

A poem for those who are blue and bitter of heart on Valentine's Day. 

Be sure to check back tomorrow for the more positive companion piece, "I'm Here," for romantic hope and butterflies.

The myth told I walked forward.
Your smile taunted my eyelids
like the words you never loved back.
One more day, one more day.
I ignored your preserving backwards step
to tell myself I was front-facing,
twisting my body with an about-point until
I believed I was walking forward.
Your teeth clenched as I kissed and slipped
I knew your lie.

Tears destroy our innocence because you know the feelings
because no matter how strong my hands
my love cannot stretch like rubber bands.
Life doesn’t plan like I dream
and slaps me slowly
—shining diamonds to which I am quiet and dead—
down on my face that
I only want to hide in a pillow.

Be sure to share Chandler Writes with your Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus friends and followers!

Image Source:

Steffen, Dirk . "Index of Images."Technopunk. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Feb. 2014. 

<http://www.teknopunk.com/images/2012-05-10%206x6%20portraits%20first%20pre%20scans%20Bund%20Andrew%20Dave%20Sebastian%20Barthelemy/Capture0003-walking%20backwards.jpg>

Teaching a cat to Play

Chandler Ryd

I began by rolling a ball of catnip,
covering it in bubble-wrap from the mail (to give her a surprise,)
and old painter’s tape, for heft, and security, or, for a price,
shining wrapping paper, her ticket.
I wondered for a minute

whether or not to include a string…
A piece of rubber was denser,
and harder to bat around, for the center.
Her toy was a brick and she’ll work

unnecessarily will teach her, at least,
I wondered for a minute.
(Minute details like above are written,)
but I made the toy with my hands.
Maybe the wrapping paper—

I didn’t need layers, she chased the ribbon with no bells anyway—

was unnecessary.
For what?
I wondered for a minute
whether wondering was a waste of a minute because
wondering is

unnecessary,
for what it is worth—nothing—
because wouldn’t catnip be easier won with
no wrapping paper at all?
Though, I could tell, she
definitely enjoyed the ruffles.


As always, be sure to share the poem with friends, and leave your thoughts in the comments.
P.S. What does grammar have to do with poetry? Hint: study the picture.

"Footsteps We Leave Behind"

Chandler Ryd

Footsteps bring us close.
“Breathe aggressive clouds into the space before our lips
while a slop of mud slows us down:”
(my glasses fog—
I’m cold out here)
“Slower, but over our shoulders
We can see the meteor footprint because
We were there.
We were there,”
(but I am here)
“Through the pit and valley but stronger!”
(but tripping?)
“From the mark in the mud,
Marking time only kills the flowers beneath our feet.”
(how does it make me less of a man?)
“He would step forward,”
(walk for walk)
“But do we see the trees, towering and with such spirit?”
(I only see them leaning over)
“Our land is not here.”
(but I am here and cold)
“So we step forward.”
(is it really stronger?)
“—Is that a dare?”
(I watch them grow)
“Walk, woe”
(to he who stops, but
does it abolish me in the sound of)
“Come and go,”
Do I know—
Do I know.
(               ?)

Image Source:
Blythe. "Footsteps in the Mud." Flickr. Yahoo!, 4 Apr. 2012. Web. 10 Dec. 2013. 
<http://www.flickr.com/photos/daysofdream/5527807041/>.

Enjoyed the poem? Let me know your thoughts, musings, and questions in the comments. Share it with your social-media followers, because what good is poetry without friends with whom to share it?

"Tock"

Chandler Ryd

Can we pass the churn-flexing muscle our legs run on?
And ticking ticks
as blue skies reside beyond the storm,
But our stride carries us long—
Tick. Tick.
Passive like sleep draws us wrong,
So we stride strongly forward—
Tick. Tick.
We see them reel like fish on our rod
and fall underfoot in the gravel we trod
We pass as—
Tick. tick.
My sweatbreathandpain become short because—
tick. tick.
stay steady but we will pass
them.
We stride strongly forward.—Past
has nothing to Echo when we are in front.
Because yesterday we glimpsed lightning,
And today we know the thunder
of pounding feet racing Past the ticking beat
with God’s hand cracking in the skies
This is the Moment we Race—
This is the Moment we Rise.
so
Tick.
Tick.
Tock.

Like the poem? Let me know your thoughts in the comments and share it with your friends!

Image Source:
"Time HD Wallpapers." HD Wallpapers Inn Full HD Wallpapers 1080p Top HD Wallpapers. N.p., n.d. Web. 27 Nov. 2013. 
<http://www.hdwallpapersinn.com/time-hd-wallpapers.html>.

"The Bugle"

Chandler Ryd

i hear the distant bugle blows,

i can’t escape the echoing call and i can’t remember

the tunnel the train comes nor the home the train goes.

i feel, but i still move through the viscous air

that clogs my judgement.

trust your heart, my mother once said.

from my chest the rope then led,

tugging me to the station.

Rumble thundered through my feet,

advancing under the engine’s beat.

The bugle called me forth--

calling me, calling for me now.

the tug i felt i can’t explain,

yet then I board that bugle train.

I hear the distant bugle blows.

Her name is Fate, some say,

travelling a wrought-iron track.

But I hear the nearing bugle, feel the rumbling train.

Fate is coming back.

I take my steps and guide my eyes.

I climb the train because here I rise.

I map my track with faith, mind, and heart.

And we are wed ‘till death due us part.

Like the poem? Let me know your thoughts in the comments and share it with your friends!

"The Child's Eyes"

Chandler Ryd

Simplicity comes early, and leaves soon after.

We are complicated by the time we turn twelve and a half.

But seek out the Child and look in his Eyes—

that Simple Truth seems to leave our minds.

As we grow, we must reverse

the brilliant innocence time has perverse’d.

Simple Faith, we must realize,
lays itself in the Child's Eyes.

"Flowers of Mortals"

Chandler Ryd

A dark night under the sun

with a frigid breath down your neck.

Hot shadows should make you warm,

but warmth is sparing on this life-long trek.

These--

these the flowers of mortals.

You hear a leaf screaming as it falls,

and feel its veiny bones snap beneath a rabbit’s foot.

Distracted by the Devil’s calls,

you may wander and trip on some spindly root that happens to be where your foot is landing

but No! of course it’s not your fault.

These--

these are the flowers of mortals.

What was it like before the sky turned grey?

Were your eyes any different when you looked to the clouds,

the puffy white cotton balls that became

a puppy or the baseball mitt that smells of your father?

Your flower grew up too soon,

And now you have time to wander and drown in the Red Sea,

your Apple rolling from the hilltop city.

The path is long, you tell yourself.

Time enough to die with an empty bed, and a plastic funeral.

These are the deaths of men with no flowers.

You’ve seen the man with a sign splashed on the curb:

the boy crying on foreign shoulders because

his daddy ain’t commin’ back.

The daddy who never sees his son cry anymore because--

they don’t talk about it much anyhow.

Delicate, yet trampled down,

His petals live separate, yet he gave them all to that one girl

whose name perpetually lies on the tip of his tongue.

You see his face but never the tug

that compels him--me--to run and jump and write to live

with the hope--the dream--

that the next bend will not be the end,

and train-wrecks will sprout another flower,

a rose,

that is the life he chose,

the drum he beats and the heart--the hope--that pounds in his chest.

These--

this is the Path where the snow melts and an extravagant, alleluia sunrise

fondles your weary complexion.

these are the flowers of mortals.

"How it feels to own a Car"

Chandler Ryd

Moments pass in a blink or two.

Sniffle, and you’ve lost a quarter.

Sneeze, and you miss a smile to the girl you wish you knew.

Disillusionment of the day before—

the one that’s already a blur

on your horizon—just a splat on the windshield,

ready to get wiped away at your next breath,

then lost from your field of vision

by the rainstorm that hits each evening.

A year passes before tomorrow waves in the wet mirror,

and your memories follow

like the cans on strings unraveling one by two.

Sometimes I forget “tomorrow” is a hopeful word,

that hope and horizons can share the windshield,

because maybe the next town will hold a bed and breakfast.

Highway signs singing: Someday—

You drive because your foot hits the floor,

because Someday—

Someday might come sooner than tomorrow,

just around one more bend in the road.