A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
"The Bone (declassified) Fight the Might with Write?" Disenfranchised writer. This is my pulpit. I'm no preacher, but in 2020 maybe I am!|
I get that I am the common denominator in all unfair aspects of this life by the choices I make, such as, surrounding myself with thorny walls of indifference I dare ascend from time to time. Don't mind my blood. I'll clean that up when I choose to be done escaping conformity. yes, boo-hoo. I realize someone somewhere (everywhere and anywhere) has it worse. You won't hear me drowning out their cries. I just confide, look for others who relate. I can't control what most drives me to share here. I don't request an amplifier or soap box or even a few moments of attention. It's cartharsis this discipline called writing. I assume that's why we're all here...
You're gonna have to crown me before I go back across this checkerboard.
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist.
And here I am
A new start for an old blog -- replaced by "Fading Nearer To Black" , 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.
|This obtuse, underground language
You forced me speak; irksome,
I know --
Like the minds of children,
Unable to express to the busied parent,
In crisis, un-counseled
Un-able to form sen-ten-ces
Your ears disavow.
Never prepared to give answers --
A language you haven't mastered.
So, you set me down,
Regret yet having me?
One learned, the other unreasoned,
Linger beneath tongues
I hide in the wall closet,
Build forts with good blankets
In your home
To offspring like me
Who won't grow up fast enough,
|Like entering your craft that you emotionally invest a personal part of yourself before critics and judges and anticipate awards (the least of which is acknowledgement)...
I'm sorry if I'm obtuse. Such is the language of poet's indirectly inferring their meaning for you to ponder...or not (for the indifferent).
|Fog nestled low in this snow
Curls about like ghosts
In dark, dull, iterated morn.
Street lamps glow on them,
Reveal unexpected eagerness --
My whim to merge in those drifts.
Winter lingers longer than shadows.
Disabusing coffee laps my lips.
I cannot savor hot brew, so
I cast one hypnotic eye out
This fluorescent-smeared scene.
Steam ascends divisive glass.
With spring will come the dew.
But, will I rise from my bed?
I put no pearls in your clutch.
In my gear do not dive
For baubles deep in my chest --
Exhale where I recline
On temperate gold-grained shore,
Sipping shaken fare.
Cool fruits ground alive glide,
Paint my nubile tongue.
Aware of seagulls eternal yearnings,
Winds high in palms
Synchronize with churning waves --
Whitecaps rolling, lulling,
Beach towel draped on
My white, horizontal plane,
I admire thinly disguised
Bronze skin smooth ambling
Toward destinations I long be --
When you need twenty-five hundred words
This isn't paradise
Where be-frecked snots suck
Juice from a box that miss
A wasp-hovered drum.
Shrill shrieks and splashes
Spear air beneath
Diving board groans.
This isn't what I signed on for --
Cold blasts remind
It's a short season
No one even ice skates
When winter comes
I need a new publisher.
I get that it falls apart. Another day when my head is not wracked with...ugh.
Escapes on my horizon,
From my drowning vessel.
Lifts the young heart,
Overinflated, floating Dreams.
You were my liquid
Energy for a weak heart
Inhaled, an addictive drug.
Exhaled, wasted by many.
I wasted a chance
If you could not be contained,
Too precious to possess.
I sought in dark recess.
Eluded my dull eyes.
Gone as time flies.
Where are you now my dark
Will I ever posses you
Subtitle: my obit for you
|Coins (Hidden Spaces)
The first coin you coveted
A touchstone gleaming
With restored memory
Visions of a child who dared dream
Stowed away from grim reality
In a wall closet
Blanket fort with
Marshmallow cookie treats
Comics and pillows
A flashlight with dying batteries
To another dreamer
Who would clutch
And the proper reading material
Hidden in sheltered dreams.
Not true finish to the initial inspiration from this. Just thinking how clutching a few coins felt special as a kid. Coins seemed more valuable than paper currency. The associated nostalgia is how I liked to burrow someplace with prized possessions and be hidden. I don't know why I finished showing as a shared experience. Though, I did sometimes with a playmate or little brother.
|Fragments of my mind
Tattooed on matchbook covers
from borrowed pens heeding
An obedient hand clutching
stabbing at the heart of dreams
Fragments of memories
Of scrawled pleadings cover
A nightstand, fill drawers
With forgotten reminders
Stabbing at my heart through my head
What was I thinking?
I know I promised
Write you an opus
You're kind not to note
One man not a symphony
There will be no performance today
Postponed, when rhythms returning
Beg this composer sing your hymns
At a solemn podium
In vacuous theatre.
And the marquee read?
|Prose and Dead Men
Tiger-striped flannel and matching ball cap,
if slid askew, would remind living family
of the old man --
sitting on the tailgate of his blue Ford,
sheltered amid flocked customers
and other vegetable growers. Cracking wise
in the corner parking lot of the local farmer’s market,
his hat true -- angled in the locked position,
a habit I suppose from serving in military.
Nicknamed Big John, missed death as a sentry in Guam
by just one hour --
relieved of post before another throat slit,
a nameless brother in arms I would not learn
until I was a man. I scribbled these musings
in secret journals, hollow words spun
in my corner booth for hours at mic’ed readings
where no one peruses the printed commitments
amid pregnant pauses.
My endless voice scratchings echo an arena choked --
with tears in my eyes not for him
but some liberal heart bleeding, actualize the purpose of
Flexible on where to go with this. Irony of a life lived transcribed by a life not lived in his shadow.
In our soft wood
His wedge drove
Deft swung the sledge gleaming
Through the heart
Cleaving each hewn member
The trunk of our maple --
Core dismembered and stacked
One by one
Burned to ash, lost
In the fires of memory --
Buried beneath bare,
I wanted to expand, expound on this, but thought, maybe I shouldn't.
|Thanks to Roseille ♥
I can dislodge this concept of a poem that has been rolling about the back of my head. Now that we're driving Alex back to school, timing couldn't be more appropriate:
Sorry, About Life
There's a boy
Who wouldn't eat his green beans
So we also heated
Sweet and juicy canned corn
With every meal
At the table
Rarely cleared to be set
With knife and fork and spoon.
Then, one day
He moved out
And life has been a buffet
Of green beans since.
We apologize only
For the corn.
I'd also like to thank WCW.
Keep/remove 'his' from second line?
Not much depends on that pronoun. Think🤔
|Clearing the white drive
Hymns unsung from
My pink core
I hope the last exhaled
About the housecat
Envious of his revered lioness
Does not know
His devotion as she lies
Tall, dried grass and stick
The heavy blade wielded,
Idle, props beneath my weight
From the clean drive
Songs unrevealed linger
In my heavy lungs
Black with regret
I haven't told you
About her yet
This brilliant event
Blinds my dry eyes
Yearn to view a blue vault
But only view a long street
As the snowplow comes.
It's about longing to commit fully to writing, thinking about telling her what I wrestle with, knowing she will not accept putting my word games above responsibilities that function to serve family first...comparatively, as I shovel the drive after a big snowfall. Lioness = writing craft (also borrowing from a love triangle in Netflix show 'Sex Education'. Snowplow is ominous.
|My ignorance must please you:
Flail arms, squirm, unable
One who'd apply their bejeweled
I'm strong enough
Run a marathon but
Not bendable enough
To ply your obstacle course.
As you sit high,
Or swing legs down,
From your mocking perch
(Steel cage of bars),
Saliva drips from your perched tongue;
Venom to me.
I lace my sneakers
For another run
Through this playground
Knowing the race
Is already won.
But who is the victor
As I prepare for the world,
Leave behind a nemesis
Teeter-tottering with no one?
|Smashing eggshell into
The side of a red, teflon pan
Over moderate heat, not hot enough.
Skull imploding, already dead
At evaporation point --
My nuclear winter --
Fried remains inside
Man-made, coated steel.
I slither and fry, yellow
At the core, a baby
Who never arrived --
Just one of 12 crated,
Carried home from that morgue
called the grocery store.
Though you appear not witness.
Through the fatal cracks, bleed before
Should you clutch my hot corpse in your arms
Keep me alive
A little longer.
Though I never was perfect for anyone.
Through the dull exterior, gleam before
Dream you'll hold my hand, walk out these woods
Keep me safe
A little longer.
I'm already dead, aren't I?
How long did you know, keep the mystery alive?
I'm wrapped in something my blindness won't see --
Longed it would be your immortal arms.
When the dawn comes
And you're not there to hold me, will you sing?
Can it be melancholy? You don't have to care,
Just let me know you saw me once alive.
Though you never tell me so.
If the chill I feel arrived from your ventricles.
There might be hope of rescue from another who'll
Keep me dreaming
A little longer.
Written on fly, as yet edited...now edited a little more...
|Step Into The Woods
Amid lush hardwood
We summit a solemn dream
Shadowed by harsh reminders
After the river bank swum
Steps hewn by our fathers
Creak beneath bare, wet feet
My sandals, your clogs
Invisibly imprint like ink
We climb in ease
My cooler, your clutch
With sunscreen and vagrant sand
Shells crunch in jeans' pockets
Your suit clings, drips a trail
Our ascension only begun
Step into the woods
To our favorite picnic place
Bug spray ready for that one leafy spot
Then dine on egg salad and wafers with
Just enough soda pop. And
Quiet, return to the woods at night,
Glimpse pulsing stars, long serenades
From the vigilant, hidden owl
Our summer cavern a vault
Amid hardwood giants lush
We return down noisy beams
To the riverbank to dip
In night's clothes, lustfully
Laugh carefree while the moon
Creeps close, silhouettes our scene.
One of three poems I am to write in response to art at a public showing in May (still working on...picture prompt unavailable for muse/oil painting, 'Step Into The Woods.')
|I've been freebasingforming my poetry, again...
Get My Drink On (Before It's Gone)
I know I'm supposed to sound sophisticated,
Like I know my way around the bar --
Advanced past margaritas and 7&7s
To savor rye whisky from a jar.
As I sip discount bourbon
With Dr. Pepper from hydro flask,
I have to ponder then ask;
When did I stop drinking diet beer,
The kind commercials touted?
And what's this hard seltzer in a can
That tastes like overripe melon water?
I'm dared to mix Monster with UV vodka,
Stir Kombucha with spiced rum.
Yet, where is the fun?
If there's no party to tout these drinks at,
No memory aftermath --
Just a garbage puke bath?
I imagine, because
I'm at home in bed after 50,
Getting my solemn buzz on;
Though I'm ready to party 'til dawn,
I'll view celebrities responsibly drink,
Watch my waistline, I think.
I'll still be pretty at 60, but
I still need to eat. Have you heard
About these low-carb, whole-wheat wraps...?
Meh, who gives a crap.
|As I hold you over the water
Better learn to swim
My little pebble --
Your dreaming center
Hollow or hard core?
Be like driftwood, though
I know the untested result.
Waters swift could rage,
Roll you ashore --
Your destiny to meet
With another pebble and more.
I do not cast you further out,
Test your ability
To find a home --
Because you are my pebble --
I place you where
The waves obey
The white moon,
My eternal love.
Hope you roll home soon
With stories to tell.
He starts his second semester of college. Hope it goes better than the first.
|This short story is really a mystery to some who've reviewed. I clued in those who wanted to know it's meaning. I could have been more obvious, at least with the ending. I reworded the description line and will tell you he is monologuing to a therapist. There's still one vague element to the story that helps explain his behavior, if you'll explore.
It's not long or cumbersome to read. I could use a different font:
|I could till this poem all sorts of ways...from a childhood memory:
Behind The Harvester
He gave me his second pair of boots
that were too big for me,
crusted with dirt inside.
I shoved them on over white socks
before we walked behind the farmer's harvester,
collecting neglected potatoes
in gunny sacks like charity.
Not lucky enough to be shadowed
by tall, wispy pines to one side of the field,
we gathered in the striations gold we could sell
from the tail-gate of his Ford
for five cents a pound. Unless
the spuds weren't good enough, boiled
in a pot with cabbage and carrots.
Shriveled, a few stored in the root cellar
sprouted tubers like pale arms and legs
before planting in our own backyard
next season, when I'd learn to hoe and dream
of my own work boots.
|Not To Dream
I love what you do to my head
But not my gut
My lips could consume you
But not my heart
Wish I could see you with me now
But not my love
I return to my doughy-warm bed
But not to dream
All the ingredients will still be waiting
When I wake up
This is as close to form as you'll get from me....though...I'm toying with traditional rhyme again. Damn you!
I hate emjoicons too! You heard/saw me!
God, why do I do this? Obsessed, you say? Unfulfilled, you think? Lunacy, more apt?
I can do this ALL DAY!!