Musings in poem on what inspires, casting words like seed into a world wide wind.
New 2021 Quill Nomination for this blog (best poetry collection):
Blog Won 2020 Quill for best poetry collection:
Disenfranchised writer ▼
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist. -NEIL GAIMAN
And here I am
August 28, 2006 ▼
A new start for an old blog -- replacing "SuperNova Afterglow: New Zenith" , at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:
No specific aim going forward ▼
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.' Now I say:
|No one knows how to sew anymore.
There's a thread that got loose,
snagged and tore
woven to form the shape of your body
that you look at now
with such scorn
that it must be thrown out.
It's not easy to repair
with a needle and complimentary thread
by hand or machine,
not even worthy of donation
to some charity
but to rot in some hole in the earth
that heavy equipment bury
with so much more sorrow,
lost in a landfill of bright hope,
Mother is buried there, too.
there is always some new fashion
to try on,
rather than seek the comfort of
an old sweater.
Perhaps, some of us
keep these mementos of the past,
filling drawers with regret that we never
learned from her
how to sew.
Pull that drawer open,
look and sigh
and wait to die,
wishing you had courage,
to have to look anymore.
36 lines, free verse
of life after death
dreaming of some
dream of some
a lone refugee.
to free my brain?
and bond and
clouds of steam
producing enough water
a surging river
freedom of thought:
will I flow then?
|Hazel eyes widened,
became amber-glowing —
two suns rising on our horizon.
I wanted to behold longer
but my own eyes wandered
to the spreading smile —
two soft, red lips,
shapely like her heart.
Did her cheeks blush,
body elongate to receive
this solemn figure?
Her chest puffed,
as did mine with pride
that this woman would greet
so fondly a solemn man
standing on the bow
of some great ship.
A spool sputtered inked tape.
A chance transaction ended
before newfound courage
could discover a route
to her hidden Atlantis.
12.31.21 edit plus add
borrowing from another writer to perfect amber eyes description.
|From The Sideline (Watching Cancel Culture)
My life is unlearn everything you know,
or components of it,
but figure out on your own which parts. Or,
just throw yourself out.
Or, just accept you’re defective, reduced to public scorn,
labeled a Karen or Boomer, some kind of racist.
Just conform already
(when you figure it out, straighten out, resubmit yourself for consideration)
and get with the flow
(or fake it perfectly),
keeping your head low
(knowing ageism is around every corner),
and maybe, no one will call you out.
You might survive this
(or it redirects, changes mid-stream in 15 minutes)
as you eye the cellar of your thoughts.
There’s no escape from drama or indifference.
Be neither protagonist or villain and watch and cringe
or laugh from the sideline.
Let’s not learn their game, okay?
half-time, fourth quarter, two-minute warning, heading to overtime?
You, with your sports metaphors. Take a timeout.
|I can save the world, civilization, with a pen stroke.
mankind survives on my words, illuminated, projected
in a universe, inner sanctum -- postings from an underworld
where words are flesh-eating monsters ravaging all.
my pen is bright Excalibur wielded in informative fashion,
that I might save the ignorant, defenseless against famine
for words bleeding on luminescent pages like ink
but don't stain, revolve on waves of intermittent light
wavering throughout these shared galaxies of rubble,
shine through channels and portals mirrored and deflected,
bouncing off each rock into a black space without gravity,
boundless for some other cosmos in hopes someone will hear.
I can save the world if I write these odes to someone who'll listen.
I am not infinite, trapped in a bottle of time, cast to a sea
that rolls away from this orb on waves out to a heaven somewhere,
should it exist, unlike the purgatory I now realize
eating me and all mankind from within while we look out.
is there some message of hope out there like mine? wait.
I haven't said anything yet, because it's all just a dream.
all of this is the collective imagination of something greater,
if you listen to mouths with way too much money, like elon musk.
just some nonsense. or is it? unedited or edited. let me go back to sleep and if I wake up...
|I'm going to tell you why I don't need your love
and then turn
as if to someone else for a hug
and remember why I'm alone
why I slumber in a blanket fort of dreams
constructed in my child mind
clinging like those clothes pins
since you dragged me out
asked me to play
taught me your games
told me I played wrong
told me I let you down when we lost
told me bluntly everything
that was wrong with me
then treated me indifferently
when you had other friends
to think what I had done
forcing others to feel my pain
relived again and again
with every grubby face
evilly staring back at me
how to purge this hatred
you taught me
how to live in a fortress
with someone who'll help me
take down the pins
fold and store the bedding neatly,
sparing a few to sleep on
and dream like I did when I was a kid
but as a grown man
I only see forward
and a grave
and no flowers
because you killed everything that blooms.
finding myself and not blaming me, or others, but the cruel, vicious life cycle I wasn't prepared for.
to say I have a new tormentor is erroneous. but, say I discovered the truth about mean kids and how they set out to destroy you, thinking it would make them bigger people for swallowing innocent souls. My soul has long since been taken, succubus...succubi?
|Flurry at twilight, snow capped heads brushed
to the stomped upon mat
Waves of Autumn wash out,
as a fading sun collects black volume.
All our warmth in smiles, marrow-wracked,
legs gather by the stone mantel
The eager quick-claim chairs at her call.
Hunger sated with a final feast.
Harvest's remainder, shelved through Spring
on cool cellar shelves like treasures.
Beneath her quilts, reclined,
stuffed stiffs chew mints and marshmallow dreams.
Confections adorn the fireside table
for the tipplers and sippers of hot chocolate milk.
14 lines, free verse