Fractal packets of. information
A greater Wisdom.
Matcha ReveriesTurning pages,Matcha Reveries by Resplendent-Dawn
dusty old pages,
words written before
your grandparents were born…
If you're not careful,
the pages will crumble;
the ideas will fall away
and become dust.
Hold on to the words
as long as you can
before your memory grinds them up
A SongI look up into the magnificent oceanA Song by Resplendent-Dawn
This aquarium of stars and planets,
of black holes and CBR–
–who can appreciate the shimmering coral nebulae?
Who can comprehend the farthest reaches of existence…
Who but the Lord God,
He who created the currents,
the bending and expanding space-time,
He who bridges the gaps between parsecs
with a love that makes
hungering to cease.
But the Word of the Lord remains.
Praise the Lord.
RainClouds imperceivably tall and wide veil the moon and stars from sight. Rolling, seething within and without one another, plotting for turmoil to descend upon the mirrored obscurity; a chilling, forlorn wind whispers secrets the sky would rather wait to reveal. Words preconscious — scolding the cobblestone laid wide, a cruel caressing of the street-chasm. Emptiness. Vast, open darkness. Not a single light from a window. Will-o’-the-wisps. Only staggered orbs of lamp-flame provide waypoints on the street.Rain by Resplendent-Dawn
Footfalls fall silent. Left, right. Left, right, one after the other, metronomes contemplative in their pendulum arcs. Pressing forward, past buildings, across intersections… Drip. Pause, looking around. Emptiness. Wind grows, buffets, and begins to sing a song of ghosts. Drip. Of course there’s no one out; the sun had long since left. With reluctance, begin moving again, each step laden with regret.
Small flame in a hastily made pitSmall flame in a hastily made pit,Small flame in a hastily made pit by Resplendent-Dawn
a lonely flickering on the great grass tapestry,
answering the call of innumerable stars
in the moon’s absence.
warm light illuminating its makers
who both watch the leaning pillar of smoke
meld into the darkness – the distant sound of crickets,
an indifferent ostinato.
If fire could see,
it would see the two
sitting near but apart
with faces full of longing and grief.
If fire could know,
it would discern them
introspecting fear of the unknown,
awaiting the fate of all and the Second Coming,
feeling like a small flame under the vast moonless sky.
The tremorflame dances under the midnight sun.The tremorflame dancesThe tremorflame dances under the midnight sun. by Resplendent-Dawn
under the midnight sun.
the descent of snow
and cooling cinders,
moving to the beat of static
a collapsing skeleton of wooden beams
that shake the ground on impact —
—in its fervor,
the tremorflame destroys
that which it cherishes the most.
|The first poem in the set "Of Light and Darkness."|
I've learned to love the weight of your palmYour hand rests lightly on my shoulder andI've learned to love the weight of your palm by daybreaksmiles
I cannot decide whether to shake it off
or curl my body into the hollow nest of your side.
I wait. Stare ahead. Think -
I swear my thoughts are so loud
you must be holding back a million smiles
a hundred chuckles, soft and low,
to know my trip-tumbling mind.
I cannot though I want.
I will not though I could.
I do not though I would.
And so it eats at me - your hand,
the whorls of your fingertips dissolve
the thick cords of my sweater.
I am still as new-snow driveways
afraid to tilt and send the instant teetering,
but I can feel the heat of your palm
melting my resolve.
So I pin my quiver-slip lips shut tight.
Landlocked in a moment, I am stuck;
all boats and paddles and life-vests
but not a drop of water in sight,
while the anchor around my neck tugs me down.
And then it's gone, and you laugh,
you smile and recline and
act as if the world hadn't stopped spinning;
as if my heart hadn't hammered out-
what if? what if? what if?
life, waiting. i.life, waiting. by LadyMurasaki1
behind this wall of skin-ghosts
five-thousand years of
dusty existence. a reflection
our stone-souled selves.
a conch shell is squeezed
between frost-bitten hands.
waiting for a call.
sea-thirsty land, we
laughter rings out
from the silence.
broken brochs and sticky
|The music and literature of Traix Heiden reflect many interests, including Japanese poetry and court music. Consequently, Traix’s music often involves expanded musical gestures that manipulate time and timbre, and his literature shows the influence of narratives originating from Japan. His output includes works for small and large instrumental ensembles, choral music and keyboard music. Much of his music is directly or indirectly related to his creative literature output. An ongoing project is the composition of a large multi-movement work for wind ensemble and narrator, based on one of Traix’s original stories, a novel in progress, which is part of an umbrella project codenamed “Saralied.” This project seeks to encompass many genres of both music and literature, often intertwined and cross-pollinating. Myriad styles and genres influence his work, notably the Western and Japanese classical traditions, metal, and literature from the science fiction, fantasy, and horror traditions. Traix is currently studying composition Truman State University under the tutelage of Dr. Warren Gooch.|