Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 29 and 30

Well, here we are, Day 30, and I have my final two poems of this year’s installment. Normally, I’m relieved when the final day of the poetry project comes around, but today, I almost find myself feeling a little saddened. I’ve simply had a great time this year, and even though some of my stuff may have seemed garbled or unclear, I’ve still enjoyed writing it, much more so than I ever have before. That is a very refreshing thought amidst my sadness at having finished out the month. Very refreshing indeed. So, without further ado, let’s get on to the last of this year’s poems!




The First Mile

Feet pounding the pavement,
Legs heavy, steps smaller than I’d like,
Breathing in sync on a two-count.
In, in, out, out, in, in again.
I turn down the street,
Unsure if I can make it to the end,
But I press onward.
I must keep going,
Keep moving,
Keep breathing,
Keep living,
Even if only for the next breath
Or the next step.
It must be.
Giving up is not an option,
Quitting – an avenue I’ve traveled before
And never want to take again.
A short rise up ahead,
And I lean into the wind,
Out, out, in, in, out – it fills my head until
I hear magical words
Telling me the mile is over.
The first of many more.





Corner-House

A house can be sad.
Broken windows boarded up
Tell the story of a place
Where love used to rule
And smiles were currency.
The roofline is still straight,
It could not have been too long ago,
the grass is long and overgrown now,
and the yellow brick of the walls,
with its red mortar,
looks like the tulips
still barely surviving in the yard.

So, there we have it: another year of poetry challenge done!  Some good, some...less than good...but I hope, in all, that you enjoyed this part of the journey.  Maybe you've even decided to start a journey of your own, I dunno.  I only know that I've enjoyed having you all with me on this ride, and, as always,   Thanks for reading, The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 26, 27, and 28

Ahh, the weekend.  Time to do things around the house, spend some time with my honey, and forget to do poetry for a few days.  Ummm...oops.  But hey, it's the final push to get all these things done, I've made it this far, and so, once again, it's time to buckle down, finish this month of poems up, and get ready for the next great adventure!  Yes, this has been a good adventure thus far this year, and even though I've not exactly been wonderful at coming up with a poem a day, there will still be 30 poems in 30 days, and that's what really matters most of all.  It's not easy, and this little challenge is something that I have grown to love doing.  As we finish this month out this coming week, I hope that you've all enjoyed taking this part of the journey with me.  I thank you for your participation, your putting up with me, and most of all, your friendship and support through this.  But...I've still got a few days left to go, including a three-fer today!!!  So let's get to some poems!!!!

Praying

I, a traveler in a land far from home,
came upon a most unusual thing;
a man, saggy skin and bone,
sat with eyes closed upon a frayed carpet.
He was alone,
and but for my presence there, unknown.

I could not look away,
this strange fellow held me so,
that I wondered if he were not some
grotesque, carved from the sandstone
over which I traveled,
and painted with hues from the earth.

He did not move,
the desert-flies alighting upon his skin
in such a way that makes a horse flick his tail,
but the man stirred not to deplace them.

I stood, amazed.
I could not see him breath, hear any sign
that he was living,
so complete was his trance.

I know not what made me do it, then,
but I sat there on the ground,
though I had no carpet to sit on,
and I attempted to copy the man.

I struggled to be as he was,
resolute in my posture,
calm as the very breath of a newborn babe,
as still as a cloudless night sky.

I failed.

Ashamed, I made my way,
turning my back on that place,
I fancied for a moment that I heard something,
a sigh, a laugh - which, I cannot say,
but when I turned, the man was gone.


Secret Flame

Quietly, it burns,
there, deep down, in the empty recesses
between what is and what was,
in the silent moments between memory,
lies the Power.
It does not like to be shown,
to be heard,
to be known or seen,
but when called upon,
is ready to be shared with those in need.
It is the true self,
the deepest part of me,
where no one can touch,
save One.
It is the secret that I carry,
heat and light from without and within.

Song of Life

Music pours through me,
a constant barrage of phrase and note,
of rhythm and rhyme,
endless  torrent of ideas.
It will have no end, no time to cease,
no stop, save my own coda.
It plays, constantly on,
propelling me to dance,
keep the time as it changes,
ever moving through the steps,
the song of life.


hmmm...possibly a little heavier in thought than I initially set out with in my head today, but hey, not everything can be lighthearted and simple.  This is part of never knowing where poetry is going to take me, and on the whole, even though I don't understand some of today's stuff, I'd say it's a pretty decent effort.  It's part of what I enjoy most of doing this project.  I know I'll hit some out of the park, and others will...well, they'll suck.  But I never know what's going to happen, and I'm glad just to be doing it. 

Speaking of doing it....that running thing?  Yeah, right now, I still hate the pain that comes with learning how to do this, let alone do it well.  Today, though, was 2.5 miles in 37 minutes.  I guess that means I'm looking at maybe a 45-minute 5k at the moment.  Not good, by far, but also not too bad, either, for a guy who has never really run very far at all.  So the goal: 5k in 40 minutes.  If I can hit that, I think I've got every reason to be happy with myself.  Where I'll go with it from there.....who knows.  I'll tackle this like I tackle climbing those hills on the bike:  one day at a time!!!

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 25

Fat kids hate running.  I once heard a joke told by a guy who had some extra weight, and he said, "I hated running.  Now, I could go fast enough, but the problem was, it took me 15 minutes to stop jiggling after I stopped."  This is precisely how I feel about running.  It doesn't help that I have fairly flat feet, and really just don't care that much for the sport of running.  I don't hate people who love it, or think they're foolish - after all, I love to get on my bike and go for 20-30 miles as an "average" outing, so I can hardly hate anyone for their chosen love of a sport.  I just personally get nothing out of it.  So, today, the love of my life registered me for a 5k.  Well, to be fair, she registered us both, but that's not the point.  The point is, I'm going to have to run a race.  Dammit.  I hate running.  Yet, the point of this, as far as I'm concerned, is to spend time and energy training with her so as to perform decently (read as, "actually run/jog the whole thing).  It's only 3.1 miles.  I know I can do this.  I think.  Maybe.  Perchance.  It's a distinct possibility that I may or may not be able to withstand the pounding of my feet on pavement for 3.1 miles and possibly even finish ahead of anyone else.  I may be in trouble.  I'm probably screwed.  Oh shit.

Hey, let's have some poetry...you know, since that's what this post is supposed to be about...

The Halfland

Pen to paper,
fingers on the keys,
I know what it is I want to write,
but every beginning halts;
an abrupt stoppage,
and I can go no further,
thoughts stagnate in my mind
fizzle into the abyss from which there is no return.
Where do they go?
Is there a secret place,
of dreams and half-thoughts,
where they combine to form things foreign to imagination?
Is it the land that lives between sleeping and waking,
between our reality and the fae?
Oh, let me in to this treasured place,
this nowhere between my thoughts,
to find the answers that linger there,
between the pen and the paper
where the ink runs.

Hmmm....interesting.  I wonder if I can do anything with this concept somewhere down the road.  I suppose it's possible - we'll have to see.  Still, it's a bit of how I'm feeling today.  While I didn't see some of this stuff coming, I'm glad it's here.

Oh, and for those who are wondering, I may be doing some running, but there is no way the page title will become "Triathlon with the Fat Kid." NO.  I reapeat, NO.  And if you still didn't catch it, you can go here: http://nooooooooooooooo.com/  That is all.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, days 23 and 24

So, I have had a complaint.  Well, more of something that was noticed than a complaint.  It seems that most of my poems are about the same length this year, though I tend to think that my writing is just as long as it needs to be to get my idea across...though I will admit sometimes, it's being stretched.  Well, that's because, with no editing, with no real forethought for most of the poems that get published on here, it's all "ad hoc."  So it seems that I just think in about the same length before I lose the thought every time.  I guess.  I dunno.  BUT, the upshot is that a challenge has been set forth to me to really do something a little more serious, and to try and conform to a little bit of restraint in form and length.  OK, challenge accepted!!!!  The first challenge was to write a poem in six lines, the second challenge, write a couplet. 

It should be known that I absolutely detest couplets, so I may or may not take that challenge.  I dunno, I feel a little less like a poet and more like some white guy trying to rap.  Having made a foray or two into that world when I was young and incredibly stupid, I try and stay out of it, as I am older and only slightly less stupid now.  We'll see on that one.


There is no Beauty

There is no beauty,
                  that hangs upon
                  the sodden earth
                  like the tresses
                  that fall silently
                  to her shoulders.

Ahh, the short six-line poem.  I normally stay away from these types of poetry because, while they are simple and beautiful, in their own right, I get rather bored with them easily.  It doesn't diminish their value, of course, I think I just like to incorporate more things than can fit in six lines.  But hey, it's an experiment, after all, so I might as well experiment away....

She runs against the night

She runs against the night,
from or to
an overbearing lover,
her deepest need a change
from her daily abuses.
Does tomorrow begin anew?

Slightly depressing, perhaps, on the last one, but then, I suppose that if poetry doesn't make you stop and think, wonder, and look at it, then it might not be doing its job. 

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 21 and 22

Well, I get one day right, and then....get too enthralled with Grandma's stories to get to a poem the next day.  You know,  I think I still win.  But it's a bright sunny morning here, and the day has begun anew, full of promise.  There's only a couple ways in which it could be better, so I'll take it and be happy.  And write poems. 

Sun Salutation

In the stillness of
the dark morning
the pre-dawn sky is pierced;
a shrill whistle of
waking life
that signals the new day,
an orchestral cue
a tuning note
that begins the overature
of the morning
ever building
a crescendo until the sun
peeks over the trees
and through the window,
bidding me to wake
to new adventures and possibilities.

Little Child
Little child,
how come you here,
amist the changing world,
the raucus tide,
to be a shell of Man,
and empty inside?
Were you listening in your school-days,
were you learning,
were you trying,
were you away from the land of dreams,
youth and fancy dying?
How come you here
to this place and time,
a prescribed venture your worn route,
when there is so much
for you to dream about?


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 20

Wow! I'm actually getting to this post on the day I'm supposed to!  It's like a Christmas Miracle!!  You're welcome for that earworm.  But you know, sometimes, life turns out a few really great moments, and I have to share one with you today.  See, this weekend, while my family is gathered to celebrate my nephew and one more milestone that he's taken, I'm staying with my grandmother, which allows my parents to attend said blessed event.  I love my Gram.  She is an amazing lady at 93, and speding time with her is somethng I cherish.  She's bright, witty, funny, and has lived a life so full of activity that frankly, I'm a bit jealous.  I wish, even though she tells stories of the depression-era problems, of the way that life was so much harder than it is today, of the differences in community, responsibility, societal niceties, that I could have lived through half the things she has known in her days.  She is awe-inspiring.  Her strength and wisdom are things I can only hope to one day achieve.  And she is the inspiration for today's poem.

Grandmother Stories

My grandmother tells stories.
I hear of people I'll never meet,
of tough lives that only made sense,
of the flood that turned a ten-mile walk into seventy,
and of the time her hand was caught in the washer.
The list is long, names of strangers even my mother never heard,
but they did something that meant the world to a now-old lady.
She smiles a lot as she talks,
living in the days of her youth,
as a young woman,
a newlywed,
a mother,
a grandmother,
memories that begin 35 years ago
and only get older.
Sometimes, amidst the circular telling of tales,
I hear the same one over and over.
And I wonder if that will be me someday,
telling stories of my life.
I only know that I will tell the stories
my grandmother told me today.
They're good stories,
and they make my life worthwhile, too.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Callenge, v.4.0, Day 18 and 19

OK, so I'm not sure why April is being such an odd month this year, but every time I have time to sit down and write, there is....nothing to write, no wayto organize my thoughs into something that soundslike anything other than gibberish.  And then I am reminded f e.e. cummings, who turned gibberish into lyrical art, and many of the other great poets who also did fun things with wrds (hence, "great poets").  It reminds me that, while poetry is expression of thought, it is also an experiment with multiple facets:  sound, word economy, thought, popular culture, wit, grammar, tempo, and perhaps most importantly, feelings.  It's an experiment the poet takes on to make the reader fel something.  Sometimes, it's good things,and sometimes...not so good things.  The point is to illicit a responce from the reader.  Very important to remember this...especially when reading this first one!

Chaos Theory

Order la ckin g,
R ando mnes s appears
and i s g one agai n,
when y ou lea st exp ect,
it grabs a t you,
stee ly blad es shar pen ed
t o raz or edg e,
cut ting loo se t he re d
tid e o f li fe.
You're no thin g, an d som eth ing,
al wa ys going to a nd f ro,
kn owin g hate a nd fe ar
mea n li ttle.
"Me" i s lo st i n th e shu ffle.

They say that en creating poetry, you're not suposed to take on such grand topics like love, hate, despair, anger, fear, etc.  The idea is that these topics are too large to even try and explain, so "don't do it" is the rule.  Given this week, though, and the events in Boston, and in some few lives of some people I know, it sems somehow appropriate to deal with one of these larger topics.


Hurt

There is no sense,
no reason, no truth,
no need,
but we do it.
Kill, maim, destroy,
disrupt-
anger and resentment the drug,
adrenaline flows unchecked.
The rush we're addictd to -
to make us feel better, like we're in control.
but we're not.
We do it with words,
actions, lies;  with fists and kicks,
with guns and bombs.
There is always collateral damage,
the curse of the selfish.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 16 and 17

Life as never so good as automobile troubles can't get in the way, and my life is no exception.  Yep, brakes gave out on the way home from work the other day.  Oh fun, what joy.  No worries, I'm safe, but it sorta puts a few things into perspective, when you're just not sure if you're going to be able to stop your moving vehicle.  At any rate, all is safe, and all will be fixed shortly.  Adam, Fate is hating me at the moment.  You can have Fate's ire back any time you want it!

Despite Fate not being my biggest fan at the moment, though, was asked today what I thought of the Boston Marathon bombings.  And I must say, I'm sick of it.  I'm sick of the way that we feel the need to destroy each other, to hurt each other, to maim and dismember one another, over things that are, to be sure, petty.  It makes me ask the same old question, "How are we the ultimate creation of this planet?"  Whether you believe in evolution or in creationism, we simply have to ask, "how is it that Man was chosen to progress?"  How did nothing beat us out, if this is how we treat one another?  It offers little to hope for.  So I take hope where I can get it:  from my imagination.  These poems have nothing to do with current events, other than perhaps the mood and tone.  I hope you enjoy.

Dreaming

Sometimes, I lie back and watch
the clouds move about the sky,
forming and reforming time and again,
and make them into shapes in my mind,
that fight and collide in kingly battle,
yet no blood is spilled.
Visions of gods and men,
nature and industry,
go forth, playing out their fate
on a background of blue,
Only to form into something new, beautiful,
boundless.
I envy the clouds.



Love Is

A mother holds her young,
born without arms,
pink and wriggly-wrinkled
in a soft blanket,
She does not care,
she speaks to the child,
caresses the tiny face,
nuzzles it close,
knowing life will be hard all the while.

A woman and man hold each other,
dance timelessly,
while onlookers smile and remember,
and worry about the future,
knowing that they have only a few short months
before she dies.

A grandfather rests,
a football game on,
while his wife makes dinner in the next room,
only to find out that she made dinner for one.

And it's not fair.
Not fair that all these people
learned, in the simple day-to-day moments,
That even in the midst of tragedy,
Love still exists.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v.4.0, Day 15

And this should finally get me all caught up.  Yep, it's that day, every year, when all kinds of people start scrambling to get those taxes done.  No matter how early I intend on doing it, I usually end up waiting until at least April 1st.  Oh well, I got them done in plenty of time this year, and everything is hunky-dory.  I hope that all of your tax prep went well, readers, and that you are having celebrations of getting your refunds, if you haven't gotten them already.  After all, who knows what the next year will bring.  I'm sure it's going to be a lot less fun for all of us, economically speaking.  But enough politicking, let's get to the real reason we're all here: poetry!!!  Why else would you tune in to a blog about a fat kid on a bicycle?

Sometimes, Something Else

Sometimes,
I lie awake at night and think
about the sad and lonely people I see each day,
and how some of them don't even know it.
I wonder if they would see it if I showed them,
if it would matter,
if they would do something about it,
or if they're so used to it they would defend
the sadness, simply because they are afraid to try
something else.


Today also happens to be my mother's birthday, and so I wanted to take a moment to give a shout-out to my mom, who taught me how to look at the world in awe and wonder, and to express myself.  I owe you so much, Mom, that words cannot do it justice.  THank you for the opportunities you gave me, for the encouragement and understanding through the years, and for the never-failing love with which you and Dad guided our family.  You did take the road less traveled - and it has made all the difference.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v.4.0, Days 13 and 14

If it seems like this is a day later, and the theme is become week one: every day, week two: every other day, and week three: every three days.....you're wrong.  I actually was able to write days 13 and 14 on time, but was having a few problems getting online, so I'm forced to wait until today to publish them, even though they were done on time.  Oh the silliness of life!  Well, so life's not perfect.  So what?  I say, "let it go, and live for the day anyway!"  Carpe Diem!!!!!!

Prayer

Vene Sancte Spiritus

Simple words, running under a haunting descant,
the simple repetition
of a complex need for something
I do not understand,
but feel in my bones.

Vene Sancte Spiritus

A meditiation,
an opening of one's self to
something greater, something powerful,
a oneness with life old and new.

Vene Sancte Spiritus

I allow it to envelop my senses,
to carry me up like the perfumed air,
to empty myself,
only to fill up again.

Vene Sancte Spiritus

The rhythm continues,
never ceasing,
there in the quiet moments,
that simple thought
that propels me forward.



The Climb

It was my enemy,
in another life,
when I was someone else,
when I was afraid.
I cursed it and called it names,
because the climb beat me down,
held me back,
tortured my tired body upon its sides.
I was battered, torn, beaten and tired,
and I gave up.
The pain was too great
and I could not endure it.

I returned to my enemy,
a year older, a year stronger,
and met with it again,
in what I thought would be a battle,
and it was not.
I was the conquerer.
I was not afraid.
I have been re-made,
and my enemy has become my friend.


Today's first poem is something that stuck with me from the week of Easter, and I've been struggling/ enjoying trying to put it into words.  It's not so much that I had this poem planned, per se, more like something that's just been running around inside me, and I had to get it out...this is what happened.

The second is a true story of an experience on the bike, and for those who care I will tell you that it was the North Park Lake Loop, in particular.  The first time I did it, that hill my the boathouse was a doozy for me.  I didn't have an idea how to even try and climb a hill, let alone succeed without causing myself undue pain.  I wanted to quit.  I was afraid of the pain.  Now I see  ahill and I know that it might be painful, but that I can climb it.  Even though it might hurt, and even if I have to stop in the middle or change my pacing, I know I can make it.  But I still hate hills.  I recently witnessed someone struggling up a hill that i rode easily, and was reminded of this particular climb that once seemed huge to me, and now seems like just a small bump.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 11 and 12

Well, if you haven't guessed yet, this is the week of two-fers!  Yeah...Yeah, that's what it is!  I'm doing on purpose!  Of course I am!  It's not like I just keep forgetting to do a poem, or don't have inspiration when I'm near a computer....noooooooo, that would NEVER happen!  Ha!  OK, OK...it happened this week, and honestly, I can't figure out why, but the point is still that I'm doing 30 fresh, original poems in 30 days, and I'm not pretending that I'm in high school and doing it all at the last minute.

At any rate, today's first piece goes out to my friend, Meghan, who is dealing with a rather unfortunate loss.  That's all I'll say on the matter.

What Else to Say

Numb.
An empty void that is
terrifying and comforting at once,
when you feel too much and too little,
and all those thoughts come rushing in,
flooding the mind with a torrent of snapshots,
all flooding down around you like so many snowflakes
amidst a chorus of people all saying they're sorry -
because they don't know what else to say.


And, because we all took that lesson in hihg school/freshman english in college where we had to compare and contrast two poems that represented both sides of the spectrum (I'm remembering "Little Lamb" and "Tiger! Tiger!" personally) Let's look at the opposite side of this issue.

Childish Dreams

Sometimes,
I daydream of one day,
any day,
when it will be the norm
to think about the future,
any future,
that a little hand in mine
would like to choose,
any choice,
and I can answer
with a look,
any look,
at the child who calls me "Daddy."

Yeah - I can admit it: I want to be a daddy someday.  I'm cool with that.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, days 9 and 10

Life gets distracting, and things happen that make you sometimes forget that it's 11PM and you forgot to write a poem today.  Boy, it's handy that I allow myself the occasional two-fer, huh?  It's still 30 poems in 30 days, and that's really the point, after all.  Besides, doesn't it say more if I can come up with two post-worthy poems in a day???  Yeah, give me enough time, I'll find a way to justify it!  But enough about me, let's get on to some poetry!!!

Healing

it begins with nothing.
that is all you can feel,
that pit inside, voided of emotion,
pain, suffering -
the cauterization of all feeling,
like someone burned the ends of the rope
you are clinging to.
nowhere left to go.
no hiding.
no running away.
it's just you, in the void.
and you understand, then,
in that moment of perfect clarity,
there is nowhere left to fall,
and healing can begin.

I find it interesting, in looking at some summer films that are coming out, there there is a great emphasis being put on self-protection.  Yes, I'm looking at you, makers of "The Purge" and "You're Next."  Both of these films are "home invasion" scenarios, each set in slightly different circumstances.  It's a theme that pops up every once in a while in film, and is usually very predictable: well-off individuals with extensive security systems become victims of a home invasion, whereby almost all are killed except the kids.  Well, ok, some vary that format slightly, but really, it's the plot to "Home Alone" without Christmas songs and with swearing and a bit of blood.  But I digress.  I find it odd that in the midst of the popular weapons ban talk that's going around, liberal Hollywood is putting out these films, which seem to imply that we need assault weapons in the home to protect ourselves.  An odd stance for Hollywood.  Anyway, it has me thinking about this issue, and if it might work in poetry.  I dunno, maybe I'll explore it.  Not today, but maybe.

View from the Hill

One day you will come
and sit with me awhile,
and be reminded of things long past -
moments that do not matter now,
washed away with the passage of time
like water over white marble dulls the chiseled cut.
And we will sit in silence,
remiscing of all that was,
knowing it can never be this way again.
A great banquet is here,
serving the most delicious meats,
and the guests are welcomed readily.
There is plenty for all.
Here, when you sit next to me
upon the hill,
And the world forgets you
and your monument.

And that's all he wrote for today.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 8

Allrighty - we're back on track, right where we should be!  After a great weekend of fun in the sun, it was back to work today.  Complete drag, as the weather was really nice out, but hey, Monday happens.  Unfortunately, Monday is also always right on time, while its younger sibling, Friday, always seems to be dragging its feet in getting here!  Damn you, Friday!  Be more punctual, or arrive early for once!  We now return you to your regularly scheduled poetry update.

I Seek a Space

I seek a space,
still and silent,
a celebration of emptiness
where soul and spirit survive
on silvered moonbeams that sift through
the clouds of a summer's eve.
There I thrive,
thrum-thumping heart and breathing
through the thin-walled evening melody
of the trilling thrush in the thicket.
Somewhere, sighing in the brush-border,
circling the space I've set aside,
is my old self, who cannnot enter
the sacred space of stillness
and silence.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge v. 4.0, Days 6 and 7

Oops, I did it again!
Yes, friends, I went and had a great weekend with my dearest love which included hiking, biking, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, beer sampling, and a bit of wonderful food.  All of which means that I forgot to write a poem yesterday, and today, I'm having to play catch up with a two-fer.  I know, I know - some of you are asking where my commitment to art is, and I will say simply: She is cuter than art.  She wins, hands down, so there.  Don't like it?  Deal with it!  So...onwards to poetry!!!

Quiet Forest

Not a creature stirs
amidst the waking woods,
the dead-dry leaves of autumn last
cover the still-cold ground
that holds within it the secret grasses and ferns
only now begun to wake,
but still too young to push through
the decaying carpet.
As I walk by,
padded, measured footfalls, my tempo,
trying to find a rhythm that matches nature's own,
the still cool sun beating down upon me
as I march on through hills, woods, and fallen trees.
I have no part in this,
I am not needed,
And yet, I am called to see this time and place,
the Observer to recount the passing of
just another springtime
amidst the waking woods
where not a creature stirs
but me.


Today also happens to be my father's birthday.  I won't bother to tell you how old he is.  Besides, even if I did tell you that, his siblings, my aunts and uncles, if they bother to read my ramblings, would tell you I was lying - they consider him much older than his real age.  But, having just spoken with him a short time ago, It put me in the mood to write a word or two, say a nice "Happy Birthday, Dad," and close out the day.

Hands

When I look down at my hands,
I see history.
They are my father's,
strong enough to build anything,
large enough to hold anything,
gentle enough to know when a soothing touch is all that's needed.
They are my grandfather's,
crafty and quick,
sure of their purpose,
warm and welcoming,
knotted with age and small scars and stories that keep young boys amused for hours.
They are my hands,
their own scars and stories still forming,
each time in the retelling, getting greater and greater,
until I become a legend to smaller hands that I will someday hold,
when I will build anything,
hold anything
cure a child's hurt,
be crafty and quick
and sure of purpose,
warm, welcoming,
and knotted with age
All for another generation to remember
when they look down and see their hands.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Poetry Callenge v. 4.0, Day 5

There's a lot of hubbub lately in the news.  In fact, it stretches a lot further than the news, and it's become a viable part of our everytday lives.  No, it's not gun legislation.  No, it's not gay marriage.  No, it's not North Korea.  It's not the environment.  It's also not poverty, our economy, womens' rights, religions' rights, taxes, death, or even the question that can never be answered in this lifetime, "is there a god?"  It's none of these things at all, though it has a bearing on each of them.  Frankly, I don't understand it.  Oh, I understand that people feel differently about the "issues" and everyone has "THE answer."  That much is plain.  But I have to wonder that if everyone has THE answer, why no one seems to be practicing it.  The problem is anger.

We are all so busy being angry over the injustice we perceive in our daily lives - against the environment, against foreigners, by governments against their people, by neighbor against neighbor - that so many of us have lost what it means to find peace and contentment where we can.  Instead, we just get angrier and angrier with one another.  Friendships are tested, families are torn apart, relationships fail.  All because of anger.  I just don't understand it.

But - it's great fuel for poetry.

Tired

"I'm tired," said the man.
"Of what?" said his wife.
"Just tired."
"I'm boring you?"
"No, I'm just tired."
"I'm not important?"
"Just tired."
"I'm not smart enough?"
"Just tired."
"My thoughts don't count?"
"Just tired."
"I'm less than you?"
"Just tired."
"You're not all that smart, you know."
"Just tired."
"You're no better than me!"
"Just tired."
"You always fight."
"Just tired."
"Why should I have to do what you say?"
"Just tired."
"I'm just as important as you!"
"I'm tired - I'm going to bed."



Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Poetry Project, V. 4.0, Day 4

I often find it tempting to just simply pilfer from poets one might actually consider "great."  No, not for an entire post, but more like stealing the first line of a poem and seeing where I can go from there, if there was an avenue yet unexplored, or, to put it in poetic terms, a "road not taken."  I suppose, in some strange way, this is a good exercise, but probably one that I will never attempt to really fall back on.  It feels like cheating, even if it's just a couple words.  Actually, now that I think of it, it seems like it really could be a fun exercise to do some day - a "poetry gone wrong" sort of experiment.  You know, like a "reader's digest condensed and malformed poetry - A primer on what not to do."  I would hate to see what might happen to nursery rhymes at that point, or fairy tales.  Of course, with my luck, that just gave someone the next idea for a Tony-Award-Winning Broadway production, for which I shall never receive credit.  C'est la vie.

At any rate, that's something I still don't feel like I should do in this venue.  It's irresponsible, and really not challenging me much at all to start with something someone else also started with.  Kinda not the point.  Despite evidence to the contrary provided to us by Wierd Al Yankovic, that is not how you become a legend.  Yes, becoming a legend is my goal.  How it happens...well, as long it's not a cautionary tale like an E! Tur Hollywood Story or the next newsclipping starring Lindsey Lohan, or a mention in the Darwin Awards, I don't much care how it happens.

Moves
e4 - obvious start
c6 - are you sure?
Nf3 - solidify
d6 - not aggressive
Bc4 - calculated opening, safety assured.
Nf6 - finally!
Ng5 - I don't think this can be stopped.
e6 - except by that.
a4 - secure the flank
Be7 - I've played this game before.
What was the answer here? 
I don't remember!
Why am I always in the same place?
This isn't progress.
I'm playing the same thing I always do.
The result is the same.
I need to invent something,
change something,
come at the problem from the other side,
ANYTHING.
I know how this ends.
O-O.

OK, perhaps this one's a little enigmatic, but for those who do like the game of chess, it might actually make some sense.  For those who don't....what a great time to learn, yes?? 

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid.

Poetry Project, V.4.0, Day 3

I had a conversation recently with my father, in which I mentioned when it is that I'm the happiest.  It turns out that I am the most happy when I am creating something.  It doesn't matter what the medium - I'm simply happy when I create.  Te very act of creating is both relaxing and stimulating simultaneously.  Whether it's a the simple action of sanding a piece of wood until smooth, or writing a poem, or painting a picture, or even just cooking dinner, there is something about me that is inherently connected with the act of creating things.  On the whole, I even tend to be decently good at it, too.  Not the best, but certainly not the worst.  On the whole, I think that's a pretty good place to be.  But it was this conversation that got me thinking about the act of creating, and that I wanted to write about it.  Thus, we have today's poem.

The Blacksmith

I miss the sound-
 hammerfalls,pinching hot metal against cold,
 a ringing in my ears
 and the muscle memory of the shock in my hands.
You learn to absorb it,
 see through the sweat as it drips,
 stinging the eyes as the metal cools all too fast
 and the shape begins to form.
Heat, motion, iron, sweat -
 a meeting of man and metal,
 giving soul to the earth
 and strength to the body.
One cannot be without the other -
 the interplay of will
 their combat
 on a field between this world and the next.
What was, what is, what can be -
 as each gives his all
 with every strike
 to forge something new within the other.

Perhaps a bit vague and enigmatic - probably more simplistic and silly, if you really want to look at it.  I can't decide, personally.  But, that's part of the point of doing this thing every April: to take a journey, and to share it with those who might be willing to take a few minutes to read. 

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Poetry Challenge, V. 4, Day 2

I was asked today if I found it a challenge to get back into writing a poem each day.  In truth, the answer is not really, because for the last 11 months, I have been thinking from time to time about poetry, and what kinds of poems I would like to write.  I don't put fingers to keyboard on these ideas, but every once in a while, I entertain a few topics.  When the time comes to jump back into the daily challenge, I've got a few ideas of some of the things I want to write, and now find myself with the excuse to get to write them!  It's kinda nice how that works out, isn't it?

Some things, like yesterday's, are things that I see every day, or experience often enough that I can entertain them a lot.  The Twi-Lite Motel is actually something I pass on my daily commute, and I often think about what the place might have been like, since the building is gone now.  It's things like that, encountered regularly, that might make it into poems.  Often, I don't know what the poem will look like, and that is half the fun.  But the challenge of staying into the method of poetry writing beyond a week or so...that's when it gets tough.  I've been stockpiling ideas for a little while in the beginning.

But that's enough about the origins of some of my ideas.  I know you're only reading this so that you can experience more poetry!!!  Today's offering is in honor of an old friend who is a little disheartened at the moment.  Life has been less than lucky for her of late.

The Unlucky One

On the keychain is a rabbit's foot,
a silver dollar rests under your pillow,
a dreamcatcher over the bed,
thread and feathers and hoop.
Near the door, a horsehoe hangs,
over the peg that holds the lucky hat,
that leather jacket you always wear out nearby,
it goes so well with that red shirt to offset your hair.
Trinkets.
Faith in them misplaced,
trust, a thing of folly.
It is not enough to hear your worth,
it must be known and lived,
amidst the storm of denial, rejection,
that feeling that you are utterly alone.
It is the test for the Unlucky,
and those who never face it have not lived.


Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

National Poetry Month Challenge, Version 4.0

Well, in what may seem to be the cruelest April Fool's joke of all, it's the beginning of National Poetry Month, and so, the beginning of the 4th Annual challenge to write a new poem every day for the month of April.  Yep, I'm at it again, as was recently promised!! 

This past year has been a whirlwind of things for me: moving, a wonderful new relationship with the most amazing woman I've ever known, and some new ground personally - both in emotional growth and a sort of spiritual renewal - have put me in a place that I haven't been in quite a while.  I'm grateful for all those that read and share in my journey.  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.  Your friendship, understanding, love and fellowship have been a large part of my personal growth, and I dearly hope that you enjoy this installment of my yearly journey. 

As always, comments are welcome.  I don't ask that you enjoy everything, or that you "get" everything - merely that you read and hopefully get a glimpse of my encounters with the world.  Participation is good - feel free to send me anything if you become inspired, and I will post your work alongside my own.  I ask that you please keep criticisms on the constructive side.  "I hate this" messages just don't do anything but inspire resentment, and who needs that?  If you hate it...at least tell me why, or you can keep your opinion to yourself.

Largely, what I put up here is very rarely edited, though I usually do check for spelling.  While I believe that editing and re-working poems can be a good thing, it takes away some of the raw energy that comes with simply writing.  Sometimes, it's that unpolished feel that really brings out emotion.  So that's what you're getting when you read my stuff.  Now that you know what you're in for...let's get started, shall we??


Twi-Lite Motel

Three lone pines stand sentry
beside a cracked basin, stark white against the weeds,
rumors only of the Twi-Lite Motel.
Beneath the boughs, a stubborn pile of concrete and rubble,
refuse someone carried over the decaying bridge.
I pass by the rusted sign pole with its faded plastic words,
the only reason I know what used to be here,
and see the past: a low building with loud air conditioners that left
puddles on the sidewalks outside the doors
while high school proms ended here,
and new lives began.
Small things, they seem now, that once were monumental dreams,
lost in a pile of rubble beneath the boughs of three pines,
over a bridge no one can cross again.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid