Higher Power.

This was the very first thing I wrote in my high school senior year English class. I have no date. We had to start with a line from one of Andrea Gibson’s works. I chose the line “I’ve learned the only difference between grace and hell, is who you were praying for when you fell.” in her piece “Traveling”.

That line really struck me at that moment. As someone who lives their life mostly based on evidence and science and was still really figuring things out. I really wanted to take that line and make something else of it.

Especially since I literally recently had someone ask why I don’t murder anyone — considering I don’t believe in the existence of hell. Well, because I am a good person, that’s why. I don’t need a reward or the fear of eternal torture to make me so. I am because I want to treat my other humans with respect and love.

This is one of the only religiously and politically charged things I have written, I am hoping to keep it that way. It almost feels like it should be two separate pieces, but like before I am trying to preserve these things as they were written in that time.

Higher Power.

“I’ve learned that the only difference between grace and hell is who you were praying for when you fell.”

— Andrea Gibson, “Traveling”

If God loves his people, will I be punished for not praying beneath his steeple?

You’re right, I don’t believe.

I’ve seen too much anguish and pain to see what you see,
to be a man kneeling and feeling a grace,
that matches no face,
that has no place in my world.

A place untold,
that resides in the deepest place I hold close.

I feel gross at this notion that all people can reside in one ocean,
religion has set too many wars in motion.

I feel so closed in,
tired of being judged because I believe in nothing.

I believe in life, live it the way you wish.
Living like a fish out of water is no way to be a mother, father, sister, or brother.

A wise man once said until the power of love overcomes the love of power we will not know peace.

We as a people protect the love in our arteries with artillery and destruction,
it’s seduction,
tough and rough with no way in to what we naturally gravitate towards,
hate in our words,
closing all doors of opportunity to peace and tranquility.

It’s killin’ me to see these bodies on the floor, ravaged by a mentality that breeds war.

My heart is sore at the core of my soul!

It’s a travesty to see these scenes of misery and blood,
faces shoved in the mud,

praying to the end of cocked guns.

 

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2016

Send Love.

No long article today, didn’t have the time as there was real work that pays the bills to be done. New poetry, though!

Had a conversation with a friend yesterday. I was being supportive but truthful. He wasn’t exactly happy with me but I wanted to tell him I care in the only way I can, honesty.

I told him I love him and care about him multiple times, regardless how angry he may feel at my words. He didn’t walk away from the conversation and we ended it on, I feel, really good terms.

I got to thinking about how often I use the word love, which is quite often. I love to use the word, and I mean it when used. This is about being more free with the use of the word love. The kind of difference I think that can make.

Send Love.

A word held so close to the chest,
it’s as if it was directly in tune,
with your heart’s,
best —

beat.

What if we didn’t hold it so close?
Sure, a higher chance of being morose, romantically —

what if we toss that stance,
romance.

Love of family and friend,
let it be free,
allow it to support,

give it a lend.

There’s a lot more can be done with a kind hand,
eye,
or voice.

You just might find in due time,
if you give love a send,

darkness you may mend.

 

Thank you for reading.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Megan Elms, artist unknown, ©2016

Vinyl.

I just wrote this about… ten minutes ago while watching Alan play Metal Gear Solid Five and listening to Maurice Jarre’s magnificent score for Lawrence of Arabia, on a first print vinyl.

Took a great motorcycle ride to Ma & Pops’ house and finally got a hold of my moleskines from when I was in college. Those always prompted me with their size to write the very particular kind of poetry I love to write. I was sitting on the couch and begining to wallow about still not being able to write poetry.

So I said, “why not?” to myself, picked one of the unused ones except for a single line — crossed it out and began to write beginning with today’s date. This post will be going up at 4:00PM Sunday, but I am typing this out at 11:50PM Saturday night. May 5th, 2017. My second poem now in many years.

Vinyl.

These records we listen to give us such bliss,

With many a note,
or just a few.

The obsidian architecture spins weaving the sweetest of nectar.

For the scene we see in abstract is an indoor campfire,
with no matches,
but tracks.

 

 

Thank you for reading.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2017

 

Long Nights.

This was written August 7th, 2008. I used to have so much difficulty sleeping. Even during nap time, I would stay awake and make finger fights.

These days it’s not so consistent, and it has been better since I have been writing again. I feel like I have accomplished something and therefore sleep finds me more easily.

I do still have nights where I do not sleep. I will stay up until 1:00 AM of the next full cycle before it wraps me in its embrace. However it is nowhere near as bad as the poems  I used to write represent.

I actually don’t need to be driven in a car or otherwise, and it didn’t take someone doing that, though Megan would — for me to find the person I want to spend my life with.

It is still a nice thought though.

Long Nights.

I didn’t sleep last night.

Just like any night where I lay, exhausted body to sleep.

My whirlwind mind keeps attention in a dreamless reality.

Clinging desperately to unfinished, un-analyzed, arbitrary thoughts.

I will not find sleep, until the sun falls again.

In fact, I never find sleep, it finds me.

I can control it a little more than before.

Sleep used to find me in such opportune times as every class in school.

Every day.

Sleep shies slyly,

smiling, and slipping away.

As my eyelids close and my brain fires into a bustling metropolis.

The one place I have always been able to find rest,
almost instantaneously,
is in the backseat of a moving car.

Maybe one day I’ll meet someone,
just crazy enough,
to drive me around until sleep takes its hold.

On these wonderfully long nights.

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2017

Lullabies.

January 5th, 2009. I think this may have been the very first thing that I wrote after getting out of Kahi Mohala. There’s a lot in these words I am still trying to make out. Thinking about it I am pretty positive that I was wondering if my substance abuse and halting of dreams at night had anything to do with making me crazy. And my dearest friend would be myself, the former self.

I still don’t dream very much any more, and when I do it is usually a nightmare. I am comfortable with that reality these days. That when I dream it is often pure torture. I think many have this problem.

Lullabies.

Dreams…

Real?
Unreal?
Or Surreal?

Nightmares.

The haunting eclipse that has daunted the narrow path,
since before I can remember.

I used to fall to my death multiple nights of the week,
to wake up right before I hit the ground, on my bedroom floor.

I used to be scared shitless, of the open closet door.

Though supposing the halt of these subconscious realities every night,
made it hard to deal with the problems I never knew existed.

Was it you? One of my dearest friends, that made the reality back home, so much harder to bend?

If it was, just know.

That I will go farther in life, than you could ever go.

One step back I may have taken,
but from this crack, my bones won’t be breakin’.

So from those deaths in my dreams,
I will always be stronger, than when you were scheming.

 

Thank you for reading.

©2009 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2016.

Scattered.

Something I wrote September 17th, 2008. This, for me, may be the most beautiful poem I have ever written. I am not sure if I am capable of writing anything like this ever again, and it pains me.

I was so terribly broken when I wrote this. I wrote in this poem what writing means to me in a way that actively makes me feel the pain I was feeling — and how writing wouldn’t help, no matter how hard I tried.

Scattered.

I thought it was gone,
but now it’s come back.

As I lay down, my thoughts begin to snap.

I cannot find the peace and tranquility —
that is to thrive in dream-filled continuity.

Then to pass the time away,
scribbling, scratching, thoughts — ’til I decay.

I eventually crash when the sun arises,
a new day.

Though I despise this repetition,
what I reap in reprisal is refinement.

Reflectively recording all rational thought.

On scattered shreds of my soul…

 

I wrote recently about gaining my love for music back, and I did also write my first poem in years the other day. However I have not yet unlocked poetry within me. I need that again, it’s my favorite thing about language.

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by John Elms ©2014

Don’t Run.

A piece I wrote October 2nd, 2008. I think I wrote this after a disagreement with my parents about something. I got super upset and was called “angry man” again.

For the longest time I thought the way I was expressing myself was okay, and this poem is proof of that. There’s an idea within this poem that is good — but there is still a level of health and safety when it comes to expressing ourselves that I was not capable of at the time.

It’s interesting to look back and literally see me writing about my bi-polar without being able to understand or accept its existence.

Don’t Run.

Emotions ebb and flow, you can’t control where they go —
depression, anger, sadness, they flip flop to and fro.

Frustration fails to forest freedom frequently,
fundamentally factualizing my frequency.

Killin’ and fillin’ me with doubts,
sometimes it feels I got a good-day drought.

But I won’t pout.

I may be drunk, trippin’, or in a six-round bout,

’cause I live life to the fullest, and isn’t that what it’s all about?

I have my morals my friends and my brain,
shit one day I may have some fame.

But as I stand now not every day is the same.

I live, love, and have fun.
And these emotions of mine, I don’t run from.

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2016

Friggin’ Chicks.

December 14th, 2008. Ugh. This is one of those things I look back on and go — “Well, sure, it’s written decently, but damn. I was really angry at something, and someone.”

I scared a lot of girls away growing up, and I think I got tired of it. I honestly don’t know why I wrote this though. This was written legitimately days before I went crazy.

I honestly have no clue who specifically caused me to write this, but I was clearly upset at her. There is some explicit language in there.

Friggin’ Chicks.

Okay, to the girls, not women who don’t understand.

Instead of cutting me off, ask me why I don’t act how you plan.

I’m a caring person, I like my relationships.

So when it comes to spittin’ game, I got none unless I’m interested.

 

You need to be straight up, and not out of touch.

Ask me, what do you mean? by she talks too much.

This doesn’t mean I need a girl, by no contrary.

I’m perfectly fine, with fuckin’ and strawberries.

But I want a girl who knows how to do it.

My teacher said, the cock never lies.

So no need to get cocked, and wake up with surprise.

 

Damn girls look in my friggin’ eyes.

When I tell you, these ain’t no lies.

 

 

I went crazy, and then I met Megan. So this is probably the last time anything like this will be written.

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo taken by Trevor Elms ©2016

Why Do I Hate Mondays?

From a 5-minute writing prompt in my college English class about why we hated Mondays. Written September 22nd, 2008. I think a Sunday is as good as any other to get this one posted. I don’t distaste Mondays nearly as much any more, but this one was a particularly frustrating one. I was a pretty angry person in general at this time as well.

Why Do I Hate Mondays?

Because I have a case of the Mondays.

My anti-Christ alarm clock makes my hungover head bleed!

I smash it over and over to shut the fuck up but eventually am forced to stumble out of bed,

to fulfill my Dumbday obligations.

I shuffle out of my boiling-hot dorm room to take a shower,

I forgot the friggin’ key!

Now I have to trudge downstairs in my boxers, shampoo, towel, with freakin’ luffa in hand to grab a spare.

When I finally get into the bathroom,

the same asshole has left his stuff everywhere again!

Sucks to be him, I’m pissed so his shit gets thrown,
maybe it broke, I don’t care.

When I finally get out of the shower refreshed and calm…

I realize I’ve smoked all my green the nights before.

No wake and bake?
Fuck Mondays!

Finally have everything ready, headed to class on the moped,
and the damn thing breaks down half-way.

Seriously! What kind of bad karma could I have attracted for this day to go ANY better!

 

 

I still remember scribbling this down furiously in my class. I couldn’t wait to boisterously recite it. It made me feel much better, as did my friends later that day. My friend, Gavin, got to hear this in person the day of.

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo taken 8 days after writing this poem. Photo by Kisa Vanderford ©2008

Natureless.

August, 2008 – I believe I wrote this just before moving to Hawai’i and was in my parents’ house. I wrote this after smoking a cigarette on my parents’ back porch and having a hummingbird flip in to take a drink.

I was not sober at this time, but it was well before things got out of hand. Not that I don’t agree with what was written here, but I was also going through a very typical anti-establishment phase at the time as well.

Natureless.

What the heck was that?! A Helicopter?

I turn my head and stop breathing the moment I see it.

 

A Humming Bird,  hovering inches from my nose.
It pivots,

one-hundred-and-eighty degrees,


zips upwards and lands no less than one foot away,

on the feeder just above my head.


And here I am, standing.

Frozen.

 

Wide eyed and gaping mouth,

watching one of the most beautiful and special creatures,

on this, our Mother Earth,

inches from my pupils.

 

It makes me wonder,

why we drop bombs…

 

But, I guess you don’t know what you have, until it’s gone.

 

 

With my supposed message here, the irony of me smoking cigarettes as well as littering with them at times is not lost on me. The featured photo in this post was taken during the summer that I wrote this poem.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo taken by Trevor Elms ©2008