birdwave.

From the tree sanctuary, in the evening hours,

when the sun is a slanted ruby on the horizon,
you may see a thrush-wave erupt, violent and beautiful
from the shadow-trees, spilling an ocean of feathers,
that swirl and twirl and rush in flight,
while rhythmically splaying and washing the night.
Are you washed in that feathery tide?
Sit down in a grove. Lie down below the trees,
for beneath those silent leaves waits the birdwave,
ready to wash you.

sex.

A poem I wrote on Sunday and revised a little today:

"Union Intoxicated"

Beauty once begat herself, in August

storm, a bedroom dizzy with hypnotic

heat that swelled in rhythmic waves, as breathless

lovers, tangled in the layered cotton,

soft and searing, glided, lost in murmur.

Light was dim. They shimmered brilliance

every time the lightning filled the ether.

Thunder rang, aloft, and fueled their cadence;

mounting with an outpoured flood of colors,

rushing with a final surge of ardor.

There atop the canvas: exhausted lovers

coruscating hints of sexual splendor.

meander.

I wandered about Washington yesterday and it was quite refreshing. I walked a little over 8 miles, seeing all the monuments, except the Lincoln Memorial.  I read T.S. Eliot in the Sculpture Garden as "jazz in the garden" was going on.  There must have been more than a thousand people crammed into this tiny garden.  Everyone was drinking wine, sitting and talking with friends, or just listening to the jazz.  It was wonderful to sit and listen as the sounds floated in and out.  I wrote a free verse poem that I'll probably expand and finish later. I have no idea what it's about , but it came out of me and I went with it. It started out about the girl singing jazz in the yellow dress. Here's a short part from it:

"... I've seen her here,

and there, in the drawn out reflections of 

restless lovers and friends, the greens of ducks

on the water. A closer look, yes, I'm sure.

It must be her. The gentle evening wind,

and ripples flutter.  The image fades as it flies, low,

past the ducklings and the copper coins

that lie in wait for the hand of a boy,

chubby-cheeked and eager for the shine.

It blurs, but all the shades of what I know,

of what I remember, are there."

Anyways, I finished reading "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving while sitting in some bar watching a guy play blues guitar... he couldn't sing, but it was nice to hear some good blues. The book is excellent and if you haven't read it, I would recommend it to you.  The evening was interesting and incredibly peaceful.  I ran into Kelly Gillikin and all the ACA seniors, so that was cool and weird at the same time.  I was walking and heard, "Chris Nystrom? ..."  I was thinking, "Who on earth is at the FDR memorial at 8pm on a Friday that I would know?"  Sure enough, it was Brian's sister.  The evening ended with a long walk, to the tune of Sigur Ros' Heim, east on H Street to the house. 

Uno mas.

I wrote a song for people afraid of the dark...

it's called periwinkle.  go here.

musac.

Two new songs! (sort of)

"Winter Cap"--> I like this one.

"Animal Crown 1979"--> About Idi Amin

I'm going nuts...

Some pictures from my spring break road trip.

Walking across the brooklyn bridge

Statue of Liberty

From the Rockafeller at night

Inside the Met.

The Kimmel Center in Philly

The rest of the pictures are on Flickr.

coffee and poetry.

Major key.

Life is pretty much at "Go, Go, Go" level right now.  I'm going crazy as homework continues to pile onto my head.  Fortunately, I have still managed to maintain my sanity.  I am freaking out as I prepare to do my summer internship with Grace Presbyterian Church for my major... I'll be helping them make decisions about starting or participating in affordable housing programs in their neighborhood, which is very close to the capital building in D.C.  It should be a very busy and blessedly wonderful summer.

I wrote a song last week I really like, called "Color Coded."  It's on Virb.com.  The chorus might seem trite or too simple... but that's the point.  I've also written a few poems since January that I really like... 

This first poem is about a girl I know...

"Nora Lee"

[Borrowed from "Hesitating Beauty" by Woodie Guthrie]

Her hair is like the sleepy, brilliant still

in mornings when the light refracts off pools

of water left by rainstorms the night before.  These cooled

reflections flood the room.  She sparks and flares,

she gleams about and showers sunlight fast

with every flip and turn of golden hair.

Her hesitating beauty shows its face 

in fleeting moments. (Rippling, watered skies

that merge with oceans, flashing swift by chance

in my direction.) Oh! Her subtle eyes,

the shade of glassy, rolling seas that dance

as light treads soft their surface, seize me. In

that moment she is beauty.  All else dims.

This was inspired by spring break and the wonderfulness that it was.

"Road Trip

(The Miracle of Grass)"

We streamlined south to north and spring's new breath

infused my lungs withe the crisp, blossomed air.

That creeping, leafy smell had filled my breast,

and it was good.  We drove so free of care

in reckless, silver streaks past things that are

and were the greats, the lifebloods! Road-veins pulsed

and pulled me through the country.  I felt pulled

by sights of shining, rooted towers, shot

from concrete soils, ever upward grown.

The open road had beckoned me with shouts,

with rolling hills.  The blessed, sun-lit ground

was drenched in lighted greens, that flowed like gowns

in loosened form, and sped me past the barns

with hallowed wooden frames!  The silos, burnt

with spectrumed glints and ancient termite blaze,

were brimful with a seeping violet glow

(the royal shade the sunset sometimes bleeds

before she dies).  I wondered what they grew

when sweat drops watered earth, when time was slow

and friendly, not a thing to keep, to fight,

or fear.  The annuals gently shook with fright.

The wind blew harder, harder.  Barnyard reds

came crashing down to earth.  These tumbling bits

collected there and nature's ancient rites

then salvaged new from old.  Invoke the buds!

Beyond the scrolls, a Chinese garden sits

in silence. Slowly I begin to see

that old and new are closer than they seem.

have a good week.

love,

chris.