A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
I've read poetry that opened my eyes, realize now mine have been closed when I write.|
The drive north is easier than south in summer.
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
A new start for an old blog -- replaced by "Black Hole Super Nova Afterglow" , now at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:
Having no specific aim going forward...
I've hammered away at this glass with forefinger since resurrecting in 2014. I'm always ready to say too weary. Compulsion compels me, instigation informs, and still here I am...bright, full of light and dark, revealing hidden colors and shapes. That was before...
I hear what you are saying...but especiallly...what you are not.
Yes, I struggle. But I'm getting through it. How are you?
I've gone by other aliases. People remind me of that. Sometimes restrained, it's hard to understand what I write. It will be clear some day. Hard to hide what's in my heart. I'm making no apologies going forward for my feelings. Not interested in the trap of stereotypes. Not sure how we'll feel about that.
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 that I've figured out the ever changing rules of your game, you take the ball away, no longer engage me to play. You pay a price for this kind of friendship. I lose, I guess.
You can't just read the parts that confirm (or can be construed as such out of context) your opinion of me, you mentally-stunted Neanderthal.
What? Oh, that? It's just a, ah, self-motivational speech I've been working on.
What? Yes, I should try to make it less negative.
|Informed, written while thinking I'm broken already. Cannot be destroyed, because one part still perfectly functions with love.
Words written atop my head
She hammers like a nail.
Passion strikes my hard anvil.
Sparks fly to the weary breast,
Weak from night odes dreaming
For one with heavy sledge slung.
Bell-rung-disaster for pensive organs
Dark with the matting blood,
The cavern insulates noise
From ears deafened by life's blasts.
The truest organ alive fires anew,
Attuned by touch of blue instruments --
Compose bittersweet again.
Shattered songs just vinyl,
Forged by mother's steel last
Maddening when your villain won't die, emerging re-inspired...?
Carmen Blazing Hair
Taught me the intensity of fire
Under shady elm when I was ten.
She unfolded paper on which she drew
Flames in Crayola:
Red, orange, white and blue.
Our virgin lips compressed fully.
Her platonic trial: how hot?
Blue, without hesitation; and as
We experimented more, fire grew.
Our leafy vault would be cinder and ash.
So we flew down the block
Like eureka to Mother.
The scrub woman viewed
behind screen door
Two innocents teaching science.
We devoured oxygen between us.
I think red was her color,
Seeing her son a Montague.
Carmen Blazing Hair, driven
Beyond the neighborhood trees,
Was last seen testing gravity,
Hanging from monkey bars;
Skirt upside down before me
At elementary school.
I would never be as blue.