Micah Park Biffle

 I Had Forgotten     Red smoke plumes in the air. A brilliant, yet daunting sky of clouded crimson thickens the sky in sheets of billowed cotton. It rises with no sense to stop. The atmosphere frightens, yet heightens the senses with a strange tingle of pleasure.  We are losing our homes to the natural order. Yet I am not taken by tears, but by an odd joy of entertainment. For too long have I adhered myself to these pieces of physical wealth. Yes, through struggle, persistence and consistent efforts I have dawned myself with such rewards.  But for too long now, I have forgotten the path I had been taken. I had forgotten the many beads of sweat I spewed from the exhaustion to gain such things. I had forgotten the lonely misery I had fought. I forgotten the friends that lifted me, the moments that tore me down only to bring me higher.   I had forgotten the delicacy of a flower. The aromas of nature the beauty within myself and the beauty so n...

A Ranchers Love    Another day at the hands of hard labor. His heart loved, but his body trembling with exhaustion. Age is finding home inside his brittle bones as pride takes his logic. His hands as calloused as his first years. His body, ruffled by the heat of the sun.  His eyes embellished by the circling of darkness, the perching of crows. His hair, as ghostly as the morning mist. His face, worn, with years of dust, dirt, and grim. But his smile still remains, his heart still beats as if sixteen.  Jasper, opening the door to his lodge house that sits dead center upon his land. Steps inside and removes his boots. Holding each in one hand he turns to the opened door and clacks the boots together. Clouds of dust waft from the bottom of his boots. Chunks of mud fall to the heavy vibrations of the repetitive collision.   With the boots cleared, he places them to the left of the door just inside. Jasper turns to the door and shuts it. Turning back to...

 Carry Barden's Tragedy   Everyday Carry Barden lays beneath an old oak with a book in hand. Here eyes are of golden brown and skin of galaxy cream. Her hair hangs like gentle threads of cotton. Everyday her eyes glow as she turns the pages of her book.   She savors every droplet of imagination presented before her. Her hands gentle, tickling the corner of the page just before turning it. Her face explores with vivid expression, no emotion is left without notice.   Tears, smiles, and joyful laughter spring from her. Tension of anticipation clasps to her chest leaving her of shallow breath. Her face with grins with anger as villains swarm many pages of her books. Their deceitful and vile ways plunge Carry into a imaginative rage.  Playing out thoughts as to what she would do. Pretending to conjoin her reality with the book. Stretching her imagination not only within the book but within her world. Creating side stories in her head. She even plays...

   A Spanish Paradise  It is a start, a new seeking of life. Her heart has never been the same and how badly she wants it back. How dearly she wants to caress the moon with her lips and the sun her heart. Delicately letting her soul unfold like the blooming of a flower beneath the cool rain of spring.   And so Melody takes to the skies with a one way ticket to her paradise. To a small town in South America where she had gone once before as a child, visiting her grandfather. She remembers the buildings, how warm their sandstone colors were.   How elegantly the sun danced off the artistry of the horizon against the mountains covered in the lushness of nature. How beautifully the glow of the moon glittered upon the stone streets after a rainy day.   So much beauty, so much history in each curve, each arch, each stone. Everything is painted so well in her memory. She looks down from her seat through the window of the plane and sees the cascade of fl...

Painted A Blue Heart I painted a heart today, a heart to remember you by. A blue heart, why blue? I am not exactly sure, maybe to show the sadness I have. Or to remember all the cold winter nights we shared by the fire. A bitter sweet case of love. I glazed the edges in a shallow blue, a light hue. Why, I am not sure? Maybe to remember the more delicate times we had, where we shared tears yet happiness ensued. As I drew this heart, I thought of the warmth it brought, though it be blue. But are there not flames of blue? Color is a mere abstract of feelings, often I find what others find sad, happy. That is why I painted this heart blue, at least that's what I think. After the shallow blue, I drug the far edges of the canvass in pure blackness. I created a shroud of darkness to encase the far edges of what I painted. Why? Maybe to reinforce my belief that you are still out there somewhere, living where we could not. That what is at the center of all this sorrow, can expan...

His Splitting Heart  Its madness, I quake in fever of your love. But I am stretched like a victim of Renaissance, slowly separated in two halves. Each yearning for something else. A tragic scene I have become, a mad creature of the desolate. Dragging my halved corpse like a sickly dog by its collar. No strength to hold its own, only whimpers of defeat. I argue as if I am two, looking to my reflection as I am stained in the blood of my heart. I look of famine, my soul, desperate in the tears of love. While I am lewd in my craving of what is denied of me. Corrupting my own lips upon black roses, straining the world of any color. Creating bleakness to be my romance. Candle light and lonely screams now fill my nights. It's horror I wish to leave, yet, like an addict to the itch of narcotics; I pleasure in its familiar appeal. Though in the waking moments I plead for comfort. For peace in this delirious heart. For you shadow my mind with every passing thought. You are a sc...

Tragedy Holds A Key  Tragedy- a lamentable, dreadful, or fatal event or affair; calamity; disaster. Tragedy, an unfortunate circumstance that is never punctual in its arrival. Always arriving when it suits its desire. Never in the perfect moment, where stability meets horror. It appeals to its own derivative of existence. Bearing no idealistic compassion for its unsightly contributions to those it harms. But, beneath its unorthodox approach to its instruction of its self. It bears something no other event can bring. Though it brings much grief, misery, and entrails of suffering; there is a seed. A tiny seed, which can neither be touched nor seen, only felt. A seed that brings opportunity, character, resistance and, wisdom. But these gifts are not without tribulation. Many may think tragedy is but a selfish creature; maybe so. But if greeted by heart and not of the mind, one can receive great abundance of spirit; life. For what is lost, is never truly lost. It must go...