A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires; casting words like seed worldwide.
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: Shining Brighter" , 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:
|I could sing you a fire,
rage, lick your skin but
never burnt, because I simmer
beneath your heavy lid, placed
on the back burner. I'm charred,
hot and a mess you don't consume,
soon to be dumped in the can.
I boil over when my words riot,
until your ears combust inside,
but I'm not that hot, because
you control the temperature, while
I clearly sit on the untended stove.
just rambling a few metaphors to see where it goes. sharing this just because...
|you remind me, tell me the narrative
over and over. but, somehow
I can't learn the story, because
I have lived what is real.
on your autumnal trails traversed,
what seems a lifetime ago,
I looked for you in the trees, clutched
what you gave the ground.
on my autumn harvest, remnants of decay
fed a fool looking for truth,
now only despises your lies
what could I know about what you know,
if you keep spinning
on an invisible axis, rotating away
from one true fire?
you remind me, I'm ignorant
of the truth you hold away from my prying eyes,
unable to detect
any true evidence.
at the solstice, washed in enveloping ice,
I persist throughout many cruel winters,
dreaming love, how my life
would be re-inspired
What do I know: raw feelings with description but no true aim to understand why I feel this way, still learning as I am investigating your truths to separate the fat from the good, lean meat (truth).
|from the bath, the fog yielding
a thin, white vapor, a clear path
lays before a fumbling boy,
a dreaming child, not yet fully born --
meets a mirror for reflection,
only sees what he wants, returns
to bed to dream again and again.
from start of time, or around five AM,
eyes open to the same scene, returning.
to the same mirror he lingers, bemoaning
time's infinite winding, winding a soul.
from the eyes that held visages of old
he see time to time the past emerging,
rather than opening doors to the future,
as he keeps returning to the death bed,
waiting for the day he won't re-arrive.
|My Rote Models
Isn't it sad?
Actor taught me
How to behave
As if true
Is it true?
Mannerisms I lack
Eventually rote learned
I take a cue
From that scene
Did I elicit?
The right response?
Your expressions contort
No follow up
To appease you
I run away
To fill up
On seasons, now
I can binge
Eyes burn dull
Store it all
I come back
Can we play?
You're not sure,
I can see
But actors teach
The right way
For me to behave
So, you'll like me
After trust earned,
Then I'm really lost
How to follow up?
Need more stories
To carry me forward
To the end --
A hollow life
On what actor
My rote models?
I'm still learning...I wrote this. Approval needed?
|Think something, forget something.
Think something, forget something.
This add in, add out life has me trapped,
spiraling through a boundless funnel.
Always collecting information
and purging information,
as if it’s important to something
or someone or to myself.
And then I forget --
what I was doing;
what am I doing?
and on to the next
distraction. Thought something,
soon to forget something.
Think of another thing to do,
idle, addled boy.
I'm glad my growing dementia
funny to you.
Looking for purpose
before I'm fully vulnerable
better make light of my plight since
I can't do a thing about
the direction I'm steered
now viewing an equatorial scene
in awe like a child
|Another year older
I get vampires now
Now seven hours older, my eyes open.
It's Father's Day and I have to decide
how we'll celebrate.
No one wants to get up.
My wife prattles about this or that
and all I can think is hammock,
served mixed concoctions, woozily sleep
in the warmth, shade, whatever I need
during the quiet Sunday hours, to not think
of the college dropout,
the girl who became a boy,
of the woman who diminishes me for neglected chores
a day before my key to a city of redemption.
I can rule any way I know how --
chose a meal fit for a king. But, I idle in bed thinking
how can I appease them, make a right choice,
have a guilty pleasure, or two, like
a cigar I'd never smoke, fine liquor I never imbibe.
I can't choose. More alone, uncelebrated
and ready to be another day older like a vampire
who seemingly never ages because
he doesn't linger over a washed out image
in a steamy mirror -- a mix of blindness, forgetfulness
and deliberate fogginess to recollect a man free of family,
free to wave fully collected, blond follicles
and flex a steel body over four cylinders on two wheels,
to push this machine to 90 -- wheel beyond
well-traveled roads and find the hidden creek
where she laid on a river bank, drunk on beer
until stars melded into one raging fire,
fire I could stoke...
dim-lit, I draw the shades for another hour,
but not until night like a vampire, because
it rains this afternoon and they have other plans.
36 lines, free verse
I don't know, just went with it.
Thoughts of aging, worth, etc. as a man whose is supposed to be king for a day, I guess? Sounds like a character build up for another post 45 Tim Allen movie.
|Now that I’ve learned all the dance moves (that I care to know), I freeform rather than conform.
Rhyming structured poetry is conforming.
Free verse bends
the minds of simple analytic into
places you’re mind won’t go,
conceive because you need the
one, two, three, four,
step! measured time,
dip your sweetheart on that dime,
spin her back again
you don’t know,
you don’t know
where I could go,
check yourself out and wait
for the next band playing a rhythm,
some harmony and you think you'll give it a try, but
because this is not your kind
of poetry party.
I built this place and this
is the way I like to dance the best.
That's how I do!
Justin, take it home...
summer in my hair.
tiny sand stones leave remnants of you
mixing with Coppertone,
a humid coconut infusion harkening back
a distant beach of memory.
golden body gleaming,
framed eyes, guarded, reflected
a diligent sun straining.
on your elbows propped,
grinning, immaculate teeth bared,
I shadowed him from you --
yearned to know how
hard press you on soft cotton
covering a square yard,
crumpled, fluttering in eddied,
invisible insistence encircling us,
waving my summer flag of blond hair
straight and unkempt.
just a boy standing in front of a girl.
how could we keep messing it up,
return to shore,
dock on 'what ifs' distant starlight --
the hours later every night,
knowing a black sky would shroud,
envelop and drain every last ounce of summer
for the rest of this life.
I inhale this essence on pale, hard skin,
follicles cling for dear life,
yearn tempting youth
notice a vibrant man
on one more trip to park
on summer sand
with dreams unrequited,
mussing me up.
I'm torn sometimes which way to edit, punctuate and break up lines in a poem, because one method changes one tone where another need apply and vice-versa.
So, I keep hacking at these things without thinking, make two poems of it. Keep the original in a dropnote and see what comes out on the other end? Maybe, I'll give that a try someday.
Lord knows, I do enough pushing of words about these rooms. I could just give myself a rest and stop obsessing with unachievable perfection, go for a sloppy baseline with tight vocals instead...metaphorically speaking, if I lost you.
storm at 3 am
a distant dream
morning light yields
encompassing humid, summer plight
that tender, yellow field crossed
receding at the elm
tender bodies sheltered
toes first dip in swirling stream
cattails witness your form undress
we lie on the bank
cool bodies bared
bake in sun
cool in breeze
open to the world
seek no forgiveness
break from judgment
before the invention of a clock
we promise to return again
but summer ends
for all seasons
|I want a Mata Hari to infiltrate my life.
If someone's going to rob me blind, my privacy to conduct
as if some criminal flying below radar, suspected,
tailed, subjugated to your seedy,
low-life underworld that would dare compare
a morality exceeding, greater than mine,
because I've made my share of mistakes, then
give me the red dress femme under street lamp,
I look my foes in the eyes, some shudder,
blink, back away while I think
where is my temptress to undress in haste,
lay waste to dirty little secrets,
get me spill what little I know for her show --
eyes sparkling like gems hidden in summer sand.
When she balances a petite, garnished drink in hand,
I’m her mark, her man. We dive, drown
in each other’s eyes exchanging passionate kisses.
Her brand of lipstick for my teeth pleasure in her flesh --
all in the name of our love of the badge,
double agents, penetrating intentions by fire,
dishonestly entangled, she in myth,
you in yours watching through blinds,
and me enjoying the game, get your womanly agent
to convert to my side.
Mata in my corner, on the inside, danger courted,
as true criminals pass through the night
while a diversion ensues in empty vocation.
I need some Mata Hari,
if I am going to live this kind of lie.
I'm an unsuspecting Cary Grant who's gotten wise.
Why don't we compromise and have her shave her legs tonight
with a tiny razor.
don't read the following catch line, if you're easily offended ▼
Written for my employer, who doesn't trust me. I figure I should gets some perks out of our association, if I have to put up with their blatant, arrogant ignorance. They've unnecessarily put too many good people through too much.
I want another shot, B.K. I wasn't ready. I've made my mind up.
going in another different direction with these poems.
|Why don't you point your confetti gun at the discouraged,
the underfed, under-served,
instead of the two percent who have enough?
I stand at the line with an empty plate,
ready for a few words,
and see this place isn't for me.
I have food at home.
I could use
company, but not
when there is so much mediocrity
that we can't cultivate the best
from downtrodden souls,
give them a hand in their hour of need,
rather than pity for a lifetime.
Why do we rub elbows with the elite,
marvel at celebrity?
To get a piece of that pie?
Table scraps is all I see,
and thus I put my plate back,
return the tines and sit beneath
the everlasting tree
shading me for an eternity,
hoping they will come visit
to share a few joyous moments.
The sun will fade, a chill will rise,
but not for a flame burning in our eyes.
Insects will bite as we don full attire
and cavort about a fire,
telling stories each has never heard.
We hope somehow we've found a friend for life,
before our tongues tire and souls depart.
If I could just remember your name in the morning,
I'm sure we'd meet beneath that tree again.
I drive by time after time,
as I'm sure you have done the same.
Just didn't get your name.
The search for a friend and true purpose
now that's a rambling piece of prose. Meh.
|You charmed me, my friend.
Never questioned your intentions, when
we stopped seeing each other.
And when I gather, I frown
to think I sent you away unhappy.
Never my intention.
I never want to be without
your knowing look,
wink of approval,
a friendly hand at my back
willing to guide me to the right course,
a true destination I though we shared
before I realized,
it was our parting.
You did not follow or run after me,
calling, 'wait up!'
What is this strange place
I'm staring out now,
as the sun goes down?
Crickets could be charming
a full moon right now,
with a porch swing
and lemonade as the heat
subsides, but you don't
lend balance to a wobbly thing
too large to guide
a solitary body.
I could reminisce,
but what's the point?
I keep writing when I should shut up.
"Note: I'm only a better writer because I've been..."
|The abused and neglected
will stay confused and rejected,
because they will start hurting themselves,
when you stop out of guilt
unable to ease their pain,
unable to realize they will
go through it again
with or without you,
My hands as big and strong
as those that squeezed
a tender wrist,
couldn't hurt another.
But a mind that went through
that daily grind
is still tender, like putty
in your hands
when you realized
a gullible soul seeking
a harmonious life only found you,
and now handles a knife,
since you left
to shame me for daring near
a sunny disposition.
Your only aim was to
manipulate and leave me
in the cold again.
Isn't it bold to blame me,
as I blame myself
for being a tender soul
who never grew up,
and always wanted to believe
I could pick up where I left off --
stuck in an infinite loop --
in people like you
to lift me up, while
...if I could punish you...disconnect, resurrect and try again for myself this time.
I'll keep writing these five minute things.
|You're unwilling to suspend disbelief,
as you parse,
because you do not believe
in the perfect metaphor,
plying lines and words
for a hiccup.
yet, I'll keep trying,
verse after verse
to hook you and make you
a believer of imperfection
and the value of the interplay
between what we can't achieve
like returning to Eden.
We root for the losing team,
so why not me?
I'd entertain a scholarly Nazi
for hours, idling
at my bed, ready to dive
beneath the covers,
read past dark,
when in the wee hours
you see what I struggle for...
Write like you? I don't think so, but I'm wiling to compromise. How do you think I came this far to greet you?
when I divide this 'shoe leather'
with a serrated knife,
a thin, hard beef marinated hours,
bought with my bottom dollar,
seasoned to perfection
to raise my fork in triumph,
as it settles on the tines.
Dripping meets the watery mouth.
Molars have their work,
as it turns and turns,
savored, a tough life
I will enjoy much longer
than those fools dining on
tender meat pleasantly presented
amid steamed broccoli,
carrots and cauliflowers
on an oversized, thick plate,
their wallets emptied
and long out the door, while I'm
on my third raspberry sangria,
washing down a merciful cow.
but I smile because I know
I got my money's worth.
and I didn't even need steak sauce.
26 lines, free verse
Another five minute write while listening to "Slow Burn" by Kacey Musgraves
My wisdom might be showing
|We liked to take pictures when we were young.
Do you remember the ones?
Do you know the binder that held a history,
we couldn't share when she died,
divided up? Partially in tact,
We liked to snap the trees in Autumn,
but wondered why we couldn't capture
a feeling, moments long past
recalled from point of aim
at a horizon daring,
burning and bleeding out
sunset after sunset.
Do you remember when I called you my friend
forever? What were we thinking
by not preserving?
Where will I find you now
on that horizon?
I'm staring at rivers and lakes,
blue skies and the prettiest trees,
and can't remember a single moment.
I can't see me there with you, because
you're not here to stare
at this incipient void
between the pages of decay.
26 lines, free verse
written in five minutes listing to "Hold On" by Sarah McLauchlin
If you learn what incipient void is, you'll get the context further
what I want to do
I write, because
want to do
what you want.
and it still doesn't make me any happier.
|Every moment is a movie scene locked
in indecisive emotion, watching you
walk away again, out every door into any arms
other than mine, because I can't
give you what you need until this story's end --
if I can get you there with me.
Every story starts with sweet serendipity,
like you and me, when we discovered
each other. We've had highs and lows
since then. And now I'm stuck in my own story.
How can we get to the end, without you
here to see me through this intermission?
Why would you leave now? Where
is that special vision you use to see
right through a sorry soul like me,
help me realize, actualize and be
what you deserve? The story's not over,
even if you never come back. I'll struggle
to carry this to a sadder conclusion.
|Men who write poetry don't
create metaphors for tampons until
she asks him to add it to the shopping list and write
"sandbags," but think
of oil spills from ships on rocks,
run aground by
drunken captains whose negligence disturbs
fowl with black crud
in pristine waters, or, or
that turn sewage into drinking water
and, yuck, yes add
with head spinning and spinning, think
I need another metaphor,
google this thing, because
what do I know about tampons, except
never discuss them with a woman.
just off the top of my head, a five minute write. I'm not even going to look back. Close my eyes and prepare to wince.