To the Captain of R111: an Ode to DW

Not much needs to be said to introduce this poem I wrote today.  It is dedicated to one of the best professors I've ever had.  Without his extreme teaching methods and without him pushing me in practice and class just like any sports coach would, I wouldn't be the musician or the person I am today.  He may not have been gentle, and it may not have been pleasant at times, but I needed every bit of it.  Dr. Wilhoit, we, the few seniors of the music department, miss you.

Professor of dread,

Wielding mighty baton,

Stealing souls, leaving dead,

Will to proceed gone.

To some a threat,

To the older a friend,

On your soul bet,

Else life comes to an end.

Office's icy blast,

As door opens wide,

A student's lambast,

Mere husk of their hide.

In spite of his terror,

I love him still:

Cloak passed to new wearer,

Only one trump on the Hill.

Leaving horcrux behind,

He'll infinitely live,

Echo of his horn's wind,

No more wisdom to give.

A new conquering force,

Imploding our home,

Cry till I'm hoarse,

Made bow to their throne. 

Soon away I'll fly,

Away from disgrace,

Ignoring their lies,

Destroy this place.

Dearest professor we love,

We'll follow you soon,

Seniors booted with a shove,

Refusing Stevie D's tune,

There may be only two,

Standing on these desks,

Nothing else we can do,

To prevent this ugly mess.

Standing tall, cap in hand,

Farewell younger bliss.

O Captain, my Captain,

You will be sorely missed.

The Setting Rising Sun

I’m sitting at my kitchen table, at the home in which I’ve spent most of my life.  I’m sitting in my Dad’s chair at the head of the table.  I’ve been doing that a lot recently.  It isn’t because I feel more powerful or anything here…I just get to watch the sun set.

I am watching the sun set on my last day at home, of my very last winter break.  It’s sinking very low in the sky, reaching the point where it makes all our trees look like silhouettes on the horizon.  The sheer poetry of this moment drives me to write to you, after such a long absence.

I have no poetry for you this time, as has been the case for the past couple times.  I have spent my winter break meeting new family, sharing good times and good traditions with old family, caring for a sick girlfriend, and thinking about my future.

Tomorrow, I head back to school for the last time.  This May, I will leave that period of my life behind, and as I watch the sun set from my kitchen window, I feel as if I am hiking along the edge of a cliff.  I can see my life splayed out below me, gloriously basked in the golden setting sun.  I can see far enough from this cliff that on my right, to the east, the tip of the sun begins to rise even as it sets.  It is an awe-inspiring sight.

It is cold up here, but it is beautiful.  The glacial winds of the past blast at my back, but the bright rays of the future spring up before me, beckoning me to press forward.  This year has simultaneously been one of the most difficult and terrifying yet wonderfully fulfilling years of my life.  And I would not have it any other way.

Two days ago I accompanied my father, brother, and littlest sister to the stock yard, where we sold eight of our goats.  There, we were the youngest by at least 30 years.  We walked through the old concrete and wood halls and stalls of the stock yard which was rustically stuck in the 70s.  We listened to the talented auctioneer speak in a near-incomprehensible language (to us), to his listeners who silently communicated back to him with the wink of an eye or the small twitch of a finger.  I looked over at my Dad, who grinned at me.

“I’m glad you’re a country boy, son.”

I am too.  I am proud to be a Southerner.  I’m proud to be a Creasy-.  I’m proud to be my father’s son.  And I’m proud of the way the Lord has used this year’s trials to make me a better man.

Tomorrow, I start the end of an old journey, and look forward to a new trailhead.  One down which I cannot clearly see, but am positive will be magnitudes more fulfilling than what I have experienced so far.  Old traditions are coming to an end.  But new ones are about to begin, and that makes me excited.

Dear reader, thank you for putting up with my rants.  Thank you for crying with me, for laughing with and at me, and for understanding me.  Thank you for supporting me.  Words cannot express how eager I am to share this New Year – this new path of my life – with You.

Tightening my belt, hefting my pack, and take the next step into the future.  My world is basked in a unique, golden light; all around me the land turns a beautiful hue.  It is the setting, rising sun.

Our Tree

Every year when I was a child, and even into my
younger adult years, my family would travel to my grandparent’s house of the holidays.  Depending on the year, we would be there during either Thanksgiving or during Christmas, and I believe the first recollection I really had was during Thanksgiving.  It was warm that year, and I had two male cousins, one older, one younger.  And right outside in grandma’s yard was Our Tree.

Our Tree was a special one.  No one but us was allowed to climb into its lofty branch.  No one but us was allowed to scare our parents to their last wit with our monkey-antics.  And no one but us was allowed to know the secrets that were shared in Our Tree.

Holidays came and went, and eventually I was old enough to spend part of a summer with my grandparents.  My older cousin moved on to more weighty things than tree-climbing, but my younger cousin and I remained faithful.  I doubt there was a single day that summer our adventures didn’t find us swinging from limb to limb, dashing across the decks of our pirate ship, blasting into space, and fending off the wild man-eating forest people from our tree house.

One day that summer, my younger cousin and I found a large pile of quartz in my grandfather’s store-room.  Why it was there we didn’t know, nor did we care to ask.  Snatching the largest of the pile, a beautifully white and clear specimen, we dashed off to Our Tree, and climbed to the largest crook, a place we routinely lounged and shared secrets.  Not a moment later we were being called to dinner.  Safely storing the beautiful quartz in the split of the tree, we clambered down, ran inside, and promptly forgot all about our newly found treasure.  The next day I traveled the three hours back home, never staying another summer at my grandparent’s house again.  The piece of my childhood weathered many storms, and many years, and I forgot all about it.

Many years later, with my oldest cousin getting married soon (it was near Christmas time, and he was engaged), we all became wistfully nostalgic for our younger days.  Just as we used to, we climbed the old tree limbs of Our Tree and talked about things we had done together.  We were men now; decisions had been made, good and bad, college had been done, and rings had been bought.  I’m not sure who remembered it first – he or I – but our little treasure of quartz was remembered.  Ah, the good ol’ days, where hiding a piece of crystal was our biggest concern.  The innocence of such games we played, the naiveté of the secrets we shared.  What had become of our treasure, we wondered…

Pulling ourselves up to the precarious places that used to strongly support us as children, we found the old V shaped limbs.  The rock the size of my hand wasn’t there.  I was sad; a part of me wished that it had somehow miraculously survived the many years of weather and wear.

At least we could carve our initials here like we used to, my younger cousin suggested.  Pulling out our knives we began to cut away the bark and a thin layer of wood, but almost instantly our knives were stopped.  Frowning, I tapped around the area with my knife, and cut more.  Could it be…?

Sure enough, the large piece of quartz had been preserved in the heart of the tree, being more and more protected each year by the thick bark and wood.

We did carve our initials in the tree, just above where the rock could barely be seen.  I visited the tree alone last year; both of my cousins were away on a different path of life, and I had made some difficult and foolhardy decisions of my own.  The heart of Our Tree could no longer be seen, but I knew it was there.  Even today, it comforts me knowing that piece of quartz, the innocence of my childhood, is sustained as long as the tree still lives.  In some odd way it gives me hope: others may not know, and even my family may not see, but I know that somewhere in this old tree, there is a Rock that will not be lost as long as I live.

Let There Be

Have you ever wondered what the first words ever spoken sound like?  Have you ever wondered why music can be found in nearly *everything* in nature?  Have you wondered why there are more non-Christian artists than "Christian?"  Have you wondered why there's even a separation between the two?

So have I.

So here ya go.  I haven't really wanted to fully explain all of my poetry like I usually do.  Maybe that's because Intro. to Lit. and Analytical Techniques delve so stupidly and unnecessarily deep into things that weren't intended to be delved in.

Anyway.  Newest poem.

First flash of light,

Songs of seduction,

Shouts of intense joy,

Cries of terrible lament,

The clash of bloody war,

The Harp of serene peace,

Saints' chorus in Eternity,

The damned singing their merry way to hell.

A bird searching for a mate,

The Great Canyon's Echo,

Euphoria's ringing high,

An ancient Bard's lay,

The crash of a dropped bass,

The largest mammal's hum,

The smallest creature's buzz,

An avalanche's roar,

Snowfall's quietest note,

The scream of life,

The sigh of Death,

Universe's first uttered words:

Let There Be...

Music.

The Intrigue of a Puddle

I was thinking about the transition of my life from where I was to where I've been on the short walk to music history this morning, and this poem resulted.  Take it at face value.

The Intrigue of a Puddle

It's odd the men who sometimes inspire, 

And today Springsteen comes to mind.

Reliving Glory Days and winding back time,

Ignoring decisions driving down to the wire.

Future career, struggles, and a ring,

But walking to class, a puddle calls.

Video games, for the first, numb grade's sting,

Responsibility stumbles; good health stalls.

Am I young or a decrepit old man,

Rushed through my prime years of life?

A constant fight for Purpose and Meaning,

But wondering if larger letters even matter.

No five-line message in this mess,

What you see is what you get.

What little sleep comes fraught with nightmares,

A mirror darkly reflecting mind and soul.

Come drown with Bruce and me,

Forget the toll of Death's bell.

We've Come Full Circle

This isn't Scarlequain, but I had to share it.  I attended the Senior Worldview class today for the first time, and pretty much all of my friends are there.  Some of them were even in my freshman worldview class oh so long ago, and one in particular inspired one of my favorite poems that I've written, Through the Stained Glass Window, which I wrote in freshman worldview.  Now, nearly 4 years later, we're together again, same topic, same professor.  But we're older, wiser (we hope), and have experienced so much.  Looking over at me today in class, she mouthed, "Creasy...we've come full circle."  And instantly I was inspired.  Here is the product of that inspiration.  Enjoy!

Circular Stained Glass

To Michelle, in honor of the full circle our college experience has undergone.

A tribute to things come full circle,

Most often falls short of the mark,

Set in stone in the literary canon.

The reflection in your eyes no less stark;

A twinkle dimmed, skin leathered with a dose of tannin,

The innocence of the windows to your soul tainted: stained.

The clear glass of the past colored with pain,

But artfully patterned in a beautiful shape.

We have grown so far from our first class,

We loved people, we have laughed and dealt with hate,

And all this contributed to the new stained glass.

From being inspired by a pair of eyes,

To an ever-shifting inspiration of Poetry,

The sought-after goal has a new prize,

A new Face, a new salary, and a new maturity,

And the progress, though at times extremely woeful,

Has made our eyes a work of glorious Art/

This new phase of Life brings a new serenity.

And even when the way is hard, and perhaps we part,

Remember the Stained Glass, the prize:

And covet something more than the temporal:

Covet one more look into His Eyes.

Write in Your Books!

Write in your books?!  The act was nearly a sin for me when I was growing up.  Books are *special* and they should be respected, I was told, and back then, I believe it was true.  Books are indeed special, and as a child, I had no use for writing in them, as I do now.

When I was in highschool, one of my last two years, I took a Freshman English course (in which I met one of my best and dearest friends).  Ms. Alison Haupert was my instructor, and from the very beginning she required us to underline, write in the margins, and jot down our thoughts in between the lines of our books.  I remember the first time I put pen to printed page; I felt as if I was ripping a piece of my heart out.  I love reading, and so books were and are extremely dear to me.  Writing in them...just felt wrong!  But I followed the assignment, and before I knew it, I found that I began to understand and retain what I was reading far more than I ever had before.  I could articulate my thoughts and feelings about the literature on a deep level, and when I reread the books (yes...even in fiction books), I could see my old thoughts, expand on them, correct them, and look back on my old immature ways of thinking and smile.  Writing in books has become a way of life for me, and I love it!

Just the other day I began rereading The Small Bachelor by P.G. Wodehouse, a book that I performed in highschool as a humorous duo with a great friend.  Now, in my senior year of college, I write in every book I own, but this book gave me pause.  I started reading and, at first, I didn't want to write my thoughts in the lines.  There is so much memory and emotional stock in this book!  How could I write in it?  At that moment, I was pulled into a paradoxical conflict.  On the one hand, I felt affronted by the thought of "defacing" such a dear book...but on the other, I felt as if I was telling the book "I don't respect you enough to share my thoughts and feelings with you.  I don't want to invest in you so that when I look back later, I'll see my influence on you."

Well of course...that got me thinking.  Read my latest Scarlequain and an old quote I have to see what I mean.

Letters, Words,

Sentences heard,

Invest time,

Notes in the lines:

People books.

"There are two people you’ll meet in your life. One will run a finger down the index of who you are and jump straight to the parts of you that peak their interest. The other will take his or her time reading through every one of your chapters and maybe fold corners of you that inspired them most. You will meet these two people; it is a given. It is the third that you’ll never see coming. That one person who not only finishes your sentences, but keeps the book."

-Anonymous

The quote doesn't exactly cover what I'm talking about, but I think you get the connection.  To some degree, people are like walking, talking, feeling, emoting books.  We are a treasure trove of information that is begging to be interacted with, loved, and remembered.  And just as with books, if you actually invest your thoughts and feelings and time, if you underline the interesting areas, take note of them, and if you come back to those things later and see how you have grown with those things, your understanding and your relationship with that person will be just as deep and as meaningful as your deepening understanding of your literature.

Many of us are just going back to school after a long summer break.  Books and people surround us and saturate our daily life.  So here's something to think about.  Want to do better on tests and understand your work more?  Pull out a pen.  Do you want to understand and relate to those people around you to whom you never could?  Invest some time.  Pull out a "pen" and start taking note.  The world not only needs better students.  The world needs understanding people.