National Poetry Month, V.7.0, Day 30

Well, once again, I have survived the month of April.  Thanks for reading along this year's journey.  I know it's difficult for many people to "get" poetry, so thanks for indulging me!  I hope you've enjoyed this year's offerings as much as I've enjoyed writing them.  Some, I think, were pretty good - and others......well, there's a reason it's difficult to make money writing poems!!!  That has always been true - and it's why I don't quite my day job!  The unique challenge in this yearly endeavor is not just writing something every day for 30 days - it's exploring the many different angles of life - from the mundane to the sublime.  It's exploring the spirit of the writer, and in some small way, communicating that spirit to others through the written word.  Yes, prose can do that, too, but not in quite the same way.  Poetry - unless you're talking the epic stuff like Beowulf, the Iliad, etc - is about taking the reader along for the ride, usually quickly, and bringing them back again, hopefully changed for the better.  Maybe I've managed to do that this year, but whether I have or not, I know it's changed me, and maybe that's the seldom-heard part:  it's the poet who, in trying to change others and say something important, ends up the most changed.  

Today's offering is an homage to my father, who plants his garden every year.  He loves it.  This year, for the first time ever, I am planting my own garden.  It's been a very cathartic experience, and thus far, I've loved it.  Maybe I finally understand this aspect of my father.  It's pretty neat.

So, for this year, once again - 

Thanks for reading,

Me

planting season

i never understood his passion for it,
planning meticulously how many feet
it might take, 
how much to put in the ground.
how far apart each row must be,
knowing just how much space the late-bloomers 
needed, and when, 
so he could remove the early ones before they were overwhelmed.
now, i understand - 
when planting my first garden,
just what it was my father always did
and i took for granted.
my hands remember how,
after many long years of avoiding the work,
they remember how to plant a garden.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Day 29

Sometimes, poems need warning labels.  Today's comes with one, though it's not because it's anything explicit.  The warning is this:  there is more than one way to read a poem, and you should try multiple ways.  I was reminded of this when my guest poet shared another work with me - one that I don't think I should share here because it's not my background to talk about.  I was generally confused, for it came in two parts, looking like two different works.  If I took it as two different works, it became two different ways of dealing with an idea.  If I took it as one work, it was a transition of thought and feeling - through experience - into a vastly different sense of being.  And I didn't know which reading of it to follow.  This is good, because it forced me to ask how it was intended, and got me thinking about it.  So, when today's idea came to me, I realized that here, too, there are multiple way of interpreting my words.  So I encourage any reader to look at this one in multiple ways.

Thanks for reading,

Me

tombs of my fathers

you are resting, at long last,
your journey done,
and all that's left are memories
good and bad.
i needed you, and you were there,
as a father should be for a child,
to nurture and grow and discipline -
to be an example.
and now, 
as i have done many times before,
i lay myself to rest,
another version of me taking up space
in the cemetery of my forbears,
all laid to rest with the same loving care
as a new me takes his rightful place.
i carry the torch, now,
and know that one day this will be my home, too,
as another generation will 
take up this standard.
my son, i lay no burden on you but this:
live with the heart of the fire,
love with the depth of the oceans,
fight with the strength of the mountain,
and speak with the breath of the wind.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Day 28

Wow - it really is day 28 of 30 - the month has flown by, and the ideas are constantly coming at me!  That is, of course, one of the many benefits to doing this yearly exercise:  it stimulates the mind, and challenges me to come up with different ideas - or different ways to express old ideas, for that matter.  One of the most common images/ideas is that of water.  It's a basic human need, and we understand it intrinsically.  Countless poems about waves, storms, ships, calm seas, baptism, washing, floods, etc - forgive the obvious one here - it's like a (wait for it) TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR!  Yup - we're THAT close to it.  So if we're that close to it....maybe I'll write about it, too!!  That is my offering for today.

BUT WAIT - There's more!!!!!  Guest appearance today!!!  Yup, a reader has submitted some works for your perusal, and I am sharing them here because I like them - and someone took the risk of putting themselves out there to share themselves with me - they deserve to be rewarded.

On behalf of myself and my guest,

Thanks for reading,

Me

to be as water

to be as water -
the gentle rain that seeds the earth,
and the stinging blows of cold spring,
a peaceful glassy surface,
and the wind-ripped waves of the storm,
the life-giving flow of the river,
and the merciless flood as it pours ever downward -
all are within my grasp,
the form i take
is mine to choose,
and each day calls me to make that choice.
i have been them all,
and i know the spring that swells from deep within my soul.
i know my choice.

Uneasy

Ideas flow at midnight

upsetting my tired spirit,

tangling with my prayers,

sparring with each other

like dueling epees.

"En garde" they seem to say,

prepare for battle.

settle this once and for all,

which will be the victor?

Should the muse win over

the sandman?

Maybe tomorrow?

Oh, just get to it and see where it leads....

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Day 27

Today's offering is something I've been tossing around for a little while, and has been an integral part of my health and fitness journey.  The idea is simple enough: exploring the connection between the selves:  physical, emotional, spiritual, and mental.  Some might say that's too many selves, but here's my reasoning:  The physical self is easy to understand - the body.  Emotional is pure "feeling," spiritual is that part of us that transcends mere human existence, and mental, is, of course, the logical, practical side of us all.  You can share this concept or not - it really doesn't matter to me - but this is an attempt to begin addressing these inner relationships.  I'm not sure where I will go with this concept - it might be something I take further and do a LOT of work on, and it might be a short-lived project.  I really don't know.  It is still an idea yet in progress.  On my journey, though, I have found these relationships changing significantly, and their interdependence upon one another, a thing of beauty.

Thanks for reading,

Me

less and more

there was more of me,
a long time ago, now.
i saw a picture the other day,
and barely recognized my face,
so young, so troubled,
so full of self-loathing and fears,
round in ways i never liked.

there is less of me, now.
hard work and effort have brought me
back to health,
and though i still carry some of the fears,
and even some of the self-loathing,
though i am less,
i have become more.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Day 26

Today's offering is not something I have experience recently.  In fact, it's only happened a few times that I know of in my life.  Some people are lucky enough to sleep every night all the way through.  I.....will probably never be that person.  I usually wake at least once during the night.  I don't always remember it, or do anything in that moment.  Most nights, it's just turn over and go back to sleep.  But sometimes, there's something there, something in that moment that makes me stop and take stock.  Today I decided to write about that moment.

Thanks for reading,

Me

one small moment

in the pre-dawn hours i awoke,
and all was silent,
the sounds of the city vanished
in the darkness.
i could not tell if it was the first deep breath of morning,
before life began a new day,
or if it was the death-knell marking the end of yesterday.
in that briefest of moments,
only one thing remains certain:
i was there to witness it, 
and i lived fully in that moment,
mourning the loss of one day
and celebrating the beginning of another.

National Poetry Month, v. 7.0, Day 25

I have noticed a trend lately, on social media - in the guise of "being positive" there are a lot of "lists" out there:  "Ten signs you have a blocked colon"  "18 ways to unblock your colon"  "12 signs you need to work on you"  "38 reasons it's not you, it's the rest of the world"  and it goes on and on.  The problem I have with these is not that they aren't TRYING to do something positive, it's that what they are really doing is focusing the energy of the individual inwardly, and making us - as a culture - more egocentric.  Personally, I think it's a trend we should be a little more aware of, if only to keep us focused on the only thing that always has held true:  We need to focus more on caring for one another.  When humanity does this, we prosper.  It has always been true, and it likely always will be.  Anyway, this is my take on all of these lists - and yes, the last stanza is just a little jarring - the rhythm changes enough to mess with you.  On purpose.

Thanks for reading,

Me

lists

five things to never do...
eight traits to know if you're...
three ways to get to...
sixteen methods to be sure...

if he does these dozen...
when she acts like this...
nineteen things you never knew about...
ten different ways to kiss...

it's wearying and harrowing,
it's worrying and maddening,
it's listing all the little things
that really aren't mattering.

all designed to make us put the blame
on others for our troubles,
all designed to make us feel better 
about all our faults and foibles.

and in the end,
we feel worse because,
we are not treating others
with tenderness and love.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Days 23 and 24

Oops!!!!

I was so involved in watching the hockey game and hanging out with some friends yesterday, that I forgot to post yesterday!!!!  So, you get a two-fer!!

OK, so here's some background on today's poems:  I spent some time outside, tilling the soil for my new garden.  It was all manual, no machines, so yeah, it was just a little work - but nothing too bad.  Anyway, it made me think about all the springs that when I was growing up, helping my father till the soil.  Of course, that meant that he worked the machine, and we did all the other jobs that needed to be done, like pick the rocks out of the soil.  Oh, those rocks....there were so many.  we would add them to the "rock pile" that we kept - they came in handy on occasion - when pouring concrete for foundations, etc., but largely, the pile just kept growing.  Every once in a while we'd find a really big rock that we couldn't lift, and my father would have to do it, but this didn't happen too often.  Long story short - too late - in gardening today, I started pulling rocks from the soil, and creating a pile of rocks.

While doing this, the neighbor put his pittbull puppy outside, as he often does.  Levi.  Levi.......is a very social puppy, and he wants his people.  That is Levi's world.  It's pretty small, but he's pretty young.

So, there you have it.  I hope you enjoy! And, as always,

Thanks for reading,
Me

rock pile

at the corner of the old red barn,
on old pile of rocks,
taken from the garden every spring.
we'd walk behind, waiting for his big boots
to kick them up, 
and pick them up in the white buckets that hurt my hand.
we added them to the pile, 
they looked the same as the other rocks
encased in concrete that made the foundation.
the barn is gone, i think,
and the pile with it now,
but as i tilled the soil today for the first time,
my big shoes kicked up the stones,
and i began a new pile of rocks.

little Levi

little Levi is bored,
his toys no longer serve,
his imagination and playfulness
too much for his little realm,
so he stands in his backyard,
alone,
and dreams of being with people,
inside or out,
just a kindly voice to be there,
is all Levi wants.

National Poetry month, V. 7.0, Day 22

Well, here are again!  I was given a challenge for yesterday, but by the time I was given this challenge, I'd already written yesterday's poem, so I'm taking this theme into today.  Mountains.  Great imagery is available here, and it can be treated in a lot of different ways, to be sure.  Mountains are a common element in my preferred genre literature: Epic High Fantasy.  Why?  Lots of reasons:  things can be hidden in mountains, or lost there, mountains are natural barriers, they're scary and foreboding for many folks, "the gods" live there - these are just a few of the reasons, and there are always more, but mostly, I think, mountains are used a lot in all kinds of writing because they represent struggle to climb the mountain, to make it over the challenge - whatever that challenge will be.  A professor once gave me some really good advice when I was complaining about a class:  "Don't die on the side of the mountain."  She meant, of course, to keep going, don't give up, never back down, and to conquer the obstacle - in this case, a class.  It was some of the best advice I've ever been given.  But there was only one thing that went through my mind, and, from the film versions of Lord of the Rings, I thought, "I want to see mountains again, Gandalf!  Mountains!" - Bilbo Baggins, Fellowship of the Ring.  And there is where today's poem begins....

Thanks for reading,

Me

i want to see mountains again

i want to see mountains again,
to look upon their heights and feel small,
and run my hands along the seams of rock,
flesh meets granite, limestone, and earth.

i need to travel the hidden paths,
up ways that only the wild goats can find,
skip-jumping from precipice to boulder,
careful and careless at the same time.

i must be atop them,
to view the world from the underside of clouds,
and see as the falcon does -
the world in its magnificence.

it is the conquest of self -
man, made from the mountain
he seeks to conquer,
only to know himself.
i say i want to see mountains again,
but what i really want is to find out 
what the mountain will make of me.

National Poetry Month, V.7.0, Day 21

Today's poem began as most do: a picture in my head of something I have seen, heard, experienced, etc. I rarely go with themes, and yet, one appeared.  I think it's a common theme, and a lot of people work with at least one aspect of it - sacraments are common to the experience of most of us, after all, in some way shape and form.  Even if we do not consider ourselves religious, we still use them in speech regularly, and thus, encounter them.  Today's poem takes it just a little bit further than dealing with one sacrament.  I would explain more, but I think that labors the point to far.  I hope you enjoy!

Thanks for reading,

Me

sacramental

the night closed in when i shut my eyes,
a blackness like none i know,
everything shut out,
a communion,
standing barefoot in the grass,
as the rains fell, baptizing me,
a marriage of soul -
mine with the universe -
confirming that which i knew in my heart,
a new holy order begun 
as my path was set straight,
my past sickness anointed and blessed,
taken away
as i was reconciled to my God.

National Poetry Month, V.7.0, Day 20

Two thirds through this month, and going strong!!  Today was a sad moment for me - at the end of my street I passed an old basketball that I'm pretty certain wasn't there yesterday.  It wasn't just low on air - no, I'm pretty certain the ball is no longer usable in any sense.  Anyway, it looked lonely to me.  A sign of growing up - an adolescent no longer content with a ball, perhaps.  It sort of got me thinking about how disposable we tend to view our environment, and it made me feel just....sad.  I occasionally like to play with form, though, and I thought the image of a half-deflated ball might just be the ticket to indulge a little of that today.

Thanks for reading,
Me

deflated

there is something to be said
              about the way
                                a deflated
                             ball
                           sits
                        at
                     the
                end of the
                   street,
             beside the rain gutter,
             too flat to have rolled there by itself.

National Poetry Month, V.7.0, Day 19

I was puzzling over what to write today, and decided to go for a little walk.  That always seems to clear my head a little and get me back to where I can put myself in the frame of mind to write.  It's something I'm getting better at doing, understanding how to put myself into the right spirit to be able to write, in order that I can, some day, simply pick up a pen and begin writing at any moment, and be happy with the result.  That's part of what this poetry experiment is all about - learning to find ideas, inspiration, and all manners of assistance in writing, and turning every day into something to experience - both for me, and for those who might read my words.  Some days are more inspiring than others, but that, I like to think, is where the "art" of wordsmithing takes over.  So today, I took a stroll and was reminded a little of the rural area in which I was raised, and the time I spent there as a child.  This was the result.

Thanks for reading,

Me

stroll

strolling,
letting the not yet hot breezes of spring
blow 'round me,
i am taken somewhere else,
escaping on the perfume of blossoms
as on a magic carpet,
to a meadow lush and green,
where the heady breath of hyacinth 
holds me close,
and i am a boy once more,
on adventures terrible and grand,
saving the world one day
and conquering it the next,
my wooden sword and imaginary allies
at my side,
as the breezes blow the blossom-petals,
a softer snow to surround me,
the stuff of legend 
in an ordinary world like this,
where i simply went for a stroll.

National Poetry month, v. 7.0, Day 18

After an absolutely gorgeous weekend, weather-wise, it looks like Spring has finally arrived here, and I could not be more glad!  More gorgeous weather to follow for the next several days!!  The fun part about weather like this, is, of course, that it's really easy to be out IN this kind of weather - especially over a lunch break.  In the middle of the day, there's nothing quite like getting in a walk in the sunshine....or sitting in it, or basking in it, or just enjoying it....really, as long as it's sunshine, it's good to be out in it - even if you were out in it yesterday and have juuuuuust a little touch of sunburn on the back of your neck!!  Best of all, is when you can get together with an old friend for a cup of coffee....so naturally, I wrote about it :)

Thanks for reading,

Me

coffee and conversation

sometimes,
you just need an old friend,
someone who knew you when,
with whom you can sit down
and share a cup of coffee,
and talk about the blessings of life,
and the pains, too.
no expectations,
no need to impress -
just a cup of coffee and conversation,
two old friends 
listening to one another.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Day 17

Today I built a garden - something I have not done in a very long time.  Removing sod is perhaps one of the more unenviable parts of gardening - clearing the grasses away is slow and painstaking - especially when you are doing it with only two shovels and elbow grease.  But, I did it - and now, there is a bare patch in my backyard of approximately 200 square feet, which will yield vegetables galore - I hope!!  As I was doing it - and brewing tea in the sun at the same time - I began to think about gardening as a whole, and, from that, I went straight to physical labor as its own separate thing.  It made me think about a book my father gave me a long time ago, wherein the intrinsic value of "work" and why we need to do it is ultimately necessary to the concept of humanity.  At least, that's the cliff notes version of the book.  It's a lot more in-depth than that, of course.  BUT, as I was thinking to myself how I now understand the reason for having those motorized/electric sod-cutters, I also began to understand the reason why maybe it's more important that, even though those machines DO exist, they should not be used every time.  The value of my labor in performing the task makes the harvest that much sweeter.  And so, as all this stuff was running rampantly through my sun-addled brain, I began to write this poem.  I hope you enjoy!  I know I did.

Thanks for reading,

Me

garden of choice

my body aches,
hands and feet are pierced with
the pain that comes from labor,
muscles sore from lifting 
the leaden weight over and again.
how easy to say 'no, i shall not do it'
and let this day pass away like any other.
but the aches and pains have meaning,
a small bit of suffering endured
for the better,
one i will make again and again,
because the work is more important
than the pain and the discomfort -
it is the act of working that 
brings honor to the labor,
because I do not have to do it - 
i choose to.

National Poetry Month, v.7.0, day 16

Yesterday, I held a newborn.  I've never held a child quite that new before - seriously, we're talking less than 10 hours old.  He is amazing, and I could not be happier for my friends who have been blessed with this little guy coming into their lives.  Holding the little fella just made my heart happy, and sharing in my friends' joy was even more special.  Naturally, that's what I used as inspiration for today's poem.

Thanks for reading

Me

little life

i wish i could tell you
everything will be ok -
you will never worry,
you will never want,
you will never know what it is to suffer loss -
but i cannot.

i wish i could say
that this was your most difficult day,
and that things will only get better -
that you will never know failure,
and that every day henceforth will be as gold.
but i would be lying.

no, little child,
i can only promise you that this life
is fraught with challenges,
that your heart will break,
that you will find failures and successes both,
that there are many things you will never understand.

and i will be by your side for as many of
those moments as i can be,
that i will offer you any support i can,
and above all,
that i will always love you,
throughout all the triumphs and trials of your life.

little life,
you can be so big,
and i look forward to sharing the journey.

National Poetry Month, v.7.0, Day 15

So, yesterday, I was just being quiet and sort of enjoying some solitude and it hit me:  WHAM, out-of-the-blue, there it was:  THE PHRASE I CAN'T GET OUT OF MY HEAD.  Usually, for me, this is a good thing.  There have been some bad phrases over the years, and some downright scary ones at that, but this....this is one of those rare occasions when it was right - like the world made sense all of a sudden, in all the ways that in your hopes and dreams you can scarcely imagine.  Yeah, it's kind of a great moment when those things come along - like catching lighting in a bottle.  It's pretty amazing.  I wish I could share the particular phrase with you, but I can't yet.  It will happen, and hopefully not too far off in the future, but for now, I have to keep this little gem to myself.  BUT - I can share the experience - and THAT is today's poem.

Thanks for reading,

Me

phrase

there are times when,
sitting alone in the peaceful garden of the mind,
a few words come together,
that seem to have no meaning,
until they are said out loud.
they form a phrase,
a mantra,
a code,
a philosophy -
a way of looking at things that suddenly makes sense,
and it's not always good - you have to look out for those ones.

but when it is good,
and the words drip from your tongue like fresh honey from the comb,
and it reaches in,
deeper than you thought it could,
and grabs the root of you,
holding fast and shaking with a rapturous violence
unlike anything you've ever felt,
you look on the page or screen
and know instantly
that it is beautiful,
and that it came from inside you.

National Poetry Month, v. 7.0, Day 14

When choosing literature, I'm a fiction nut.  A lot of us are.  For me, it's simple: It's a form of escapism, an exercise at looking at the world from a different and completely safe point of view, because, of course, none of it is real.  I can handle things like politics and the various social justice issues we have in our lives better by viewing through the lens of fiction.  Why is this important today???

I'm glad you asked!  Today's poem came to me on my commute, which was quite lovely, even for 36-degrees on a bicycle.  The title is a concept very often seen in the latest trend in the summer blockbuster superhero films: Origin Story.  Simply put, "how did the superhero get his/her start?"  Superman, for example, came to us from a dying planet.  Batman was born from revenge.  The Flash got hit by lighting and chemicals, the Incredible Hulk was hit with radiation...as were the Fantastic 4, Spiderman, and a slew of other characters.  Radiation was big in the 50s and 60s, after all, when most of these characters were created (I think...I didn't research the creation dates, I'm only SO big of a nerd, after all.)  The whole point of the genre, in my opinion, is to encounter something larger than life, and overcome it.  Sometimes, we need to become out own superhero.

Thanks for reading,

Me

origin story

the sun rises up behind me,
casting longer shadows on the pavement
for me to chase,
a new day,
a new image,
a superhero form done by Picasso or Van Gogh,
everything there, but perception slightly off,
proportions differ,
but i see something there 
that is new -
untiring, sure,
cadence strong and confident,
in a way i have never known before.
who i've been is still there -
it is my cover,
my secret identity,
the private face of a public superhuman.
all i need is the uniform.

National Poetry Month, V.7.0, day 13

I've noticed this year, and was commenting on it to a friend of mine, that the poems are coming more easily than they ever have before.  I find myself with ideas, sometimes more than one a day, that arrive with a striking clarity - it's not just a phrase, but a complete image in my head, and sometimes, that differs from what gets written, but the point is, the beginnings of it are there, and quickly.  I suppose that it's really a mental exercise of paying attention to things and looking at them in a new way, and that in turn makes it easier to find poems in the everyday things.  It makes me more open to looking, and like most people, the more I look, the more I find.  That is, really the point of this yearly exercise - create the habit of looking for things, of writing about things, and of seeing something in a light that is (at least to me) new.

This morning, while I was still slightly groggy from sleep, I heard a simple sound from outside.  A woodpecker.  I imagined an entire orchestra, with different birds filling in the different instruments.  Perhaps today's offering will offer part of that glimpse.

Thanks for reading,

Me

sunrise concerto

it started this morning,
a rhythmic tapping on a tree not far away,
the percussive march-beat of the woodpecker,
followed by a syncopated chirping,
and the occasional flutter of wings
before the chorus of chickadees chimed in,
the morning symphony that greets the sunrise.
Even in the city, nature's 
six-ounce orchestra is present and performing,
if one only tunes the ear to drown out the
concrete sounds of man.

National Poetry Month, V.7.0, Day 12

Good news is amazing.  I received some last night that I cannot share too openly - mostly because I'm not sure I'm supposed to know it yet - but it's very exciting for me, personally and professionally.  It reminded me of something that is very simple, really, but that I know I don't do all the time: Say a kind word.  It dawned on me early this morning that our world is a very sarcastic and cynical place, and that it's very easy to fall into that kind of lifestyle.  It's easy to make the joke that shouldn't be made, go for the cheap laugh that hurts someone, etc.  It's not so easy to remember to say the kind thing.  That's something I need to do more of in my personal life, and maybe something the world as a whole needs more of:  Let's say the kind thing, and do the kind thing.  Particularly in our current political climate, kindness is lacking.  So, today's poem is my way of reminding me to be kind, always.

Thanks for reading,

Me

when kind words are spoken

nothing changes, really,
but in that small moment,
a few words make all the difference -
make the light a little brighter, 
and life a little sweeter,
give the strength to continue,
and courage, too -
courage to hope and believe that
no matter what,
all will be well.

National Poetry Month, v. 7.0, Day 11

I don't know why I thought of this today, but I am drawn for some reason to one of my favorite quotes in all of literature: from Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream" Act 5, scene 1, as Hippolyta and Theseus are discussing the strange events that have occurred beforehand.  Perhaps it's my favorite because many years ago, I got to say those lines on stage.  I don't know, truthfully.  But for some reason, I have never forgotten them.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact.

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold—

That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.

The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven.

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy.

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

Today's poem isn't about these words, specifically, but more about the wish that I have today: that I could have understood better what I was saying so many years ago, and truly "gotten" the idea.  As always,

Thanks for reading.

Me

lunatics, lovers, and poets

my young mind knew not what i was saying,
so many years ago on a stage i used to own,
where my heart and soul were put forth 
so many times.
would that i could return to then,
oh, the performance i might give,
with the understanding of years,
what "compact imagination" means.
but, would the audience know it -
would they feel what i do now,
would it make sense to them?
would they see the devils, or Helen, or heaven,
or all?
which title would i have?
i have been all three.
perhaps that's why the words stick with me today -
i have been living them all along.

National Poetry Month, v. 7.0, day 10

It's been a quiet day, and those are always nice.  Days like this put me in a pensive mood, and when I write, well, I never know exactly what I'm going to get.  So - today's intro is short, and we're getting right to the poetry.  As always,

Thanks for reading.

Me

language of water and birds

there is a place i know,
where back in a hollow,
the crisp cool water runs over the boulders of ages past,
the evidence of a time no one remembers,
but everyone can see.
it's quiet there,
the birdsongs echo in the early mornings,
and the constant babbling of the water
soothes the spirit of those who come to walk.
i go there from time to time,
to sit in the quiet and think
and dream and pray,
for in the silence,
the answers come to those who are willing to listen
to the language of the water and the birds.

National Poetry Month, v.7.0, day 9

So, here we are in the weekend, and it's a chilly day.  So, why not write about it?  Yeah, it's a simple task today - not for any other reason than to explore the small thoughts.  I like writing about the small things.  A bird, a sunset - it doesn't matter what, really, but I find that small things and little moments make the world look a lot different to me.  The grand times are wonderful - there is no question about that.  We define our lives by how we perform and what we do in those larger moments - when we shine for all to see, but we do most of our living in the small times, the brief things that perhaps go unnoticed.  I don't feel like I'm changing the world when I notice the little things in my life, but I do enjoy those little moments.  They make a sometimes dimly lit world a lot brighter for me.  Even on a snowy spring day.

Thanks for reading,

Me

snowy spring day

silent giant clumps fall to the ground,
beautiful and deadly,
a look celebrated in december
and loathed in april,
when the crocuses are poking through
the first of the verdant grasses
and the birds are nesting in the 
just-budding trees.
outside my window, 
the world freezes as it turns today,
and i long for the warm thoughts
that come to me in dreams.

National Poetry Month, v. 7.0, day 8

So, a challenge came in yesterday, and it's a good one.  I've been thinking about it, trying to find a way to make it work, and it's tough.  No, it's nothing silly like trying to make a ball-point pen, ennui, the Statue of Liberty Play, and a fine single malt work together in a poem.  Sure, I could do that - particularly if partaking of the single malt - but this challenge is much harder.  It was noted to me that I write a lot in the first person, and in the third person, but spend very little time in the second person.  I have a secret: a lot of my stuff starts out in the second person, and I usually end up changing it to the first person, because to me, that lends it a "concrete" quality, rather than a "talking down to another person" quality.  I think it's simply more authentic to write poetry in the first and third person.

But what is the rarely seen second person?  You.  Yup, it's "you."  Rather than write about "the man" or "me", it's about writing in the "you."  It's seen a lot in what I will call "Instructables."  Recipe writing, business writing, basic instructions like you would leave for someone to follow explicitly, etc.  are all places where you will find it.  It's an art form, to write this way, and it's one I rarely practice, perhaps because to me, it feels cold an impersonal - and as anyone who knows me can tell you, I am anything but cold and impersonal.

I'm still left with a question:  what to write about in the second person?  I hope you like what came to mind.

Thanks for reading,

Me

you must go on

you must go on -
on the stage,
on the trail,
on the path,
through the scary woods alone at night.

you must go on -
in the storm,
in the calm,
in the dark,
even though you are weary with fright.

you must go on -
at morning,
at mid-day,
at suppertime,
when things don't feel right.

you must go on -
from then,
from now,
from hence,
because it's the only way you will find the light.

National Poetry Month, v. 7.0, day 7

I am not normally sentimental when it comes to articles of clothing.  Today, though, I am expecting a package in the mail, containing, of all things, a new pair of shoes.  These are not ordinary shoes.  No, these are new cycling shoes!  I can hear it now - "Wait, you have shoes just for cycling?"  Why yes - yes I do.  Why??  It's simple, really - power transfer.  The shoes come with cleats, and the cleats fit into the specifically-designed pedals so that my feet don't just slip off them mid-stroke, and I can better transfer the power from my legs through the pedals and the chain, gears, etc.  For those of us who are avid cyclists - read as, "clowns on bikes, spandex mafia, weirdos with gears, or my personal favorite, whores with dignity" - new shoes and cleats are amazing.  So, I am awaiting these in the mail.

WHY is this important?  Because - in getting this new pair, I am finally retiring my old pair...the first pair of cycling shoes I ever bought.  I am amazed that I got this much wear out of them.  I probably should have replaced them a few years ago, but alas, I didn't.  Every fit specialist, cycling coach or trainer is probably rolling his/her eyes at this fact right now.  Yes, I held on to them for too long, and it is time to say farewell to these old and tired shoes.  AND THAT is the inspiration for today's poem.  Yup, and ode to these shoes.  I hope you enjoy, and as always....

Thanks for reading.

Me

another man's shoes

they are dirty,
ripped and torn in places,
the treads on the bottom long ago
lost their roughness,
so the footing is no longer secure.

they are comfortable,
stretched out along the contours of me,
a familiar sight among my belongings,
a color my eye is trained to seek out
even in the darkest of nights.

but these shoes do not belong to me -
they belong to the man who bought them,
for whom they were an inspiration,
a way out of a previous life,
a means to further himself,
to become more.

I have been trodding in his shoes,
feeling his pains and triumphs,
knowing his path,
for it was my path,
and i am no longer the man who bought these shoes.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, day 6

So, yesterday afternoon wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold, either.  It was a nice day to spend a little time just sitting on a park bench.  I promptly got out my phone as I did so, and realized that I don't just sit very often.  I'd recently read an article where an acting student was told to "wait on a bench" as an exercise, and she couldn't do it.  She didn't know how to just "wait and do nothing."  So, with that being said, today's poem is about just that: sitting.  It's something I think I am going to have to work on.

Thanks for reading,

Me.

sitting on a park bench

it sounds simple: to sit.
to remove the weight from one's legs,
and relax the body,
and enjoy the simple act of doing nothing
but sitting.
no phones,
no music,
no voices,
no books,
no activities.
just me and a bench in a park -
time to think,
time to reflect,
watch the people going by,
observe the birds flitting about,
see life unfold,
and understand -
what it means to sit.

National Poetry Month, V. 7.0, Day 5

So, sometimes, I am in a somber mood, or a peaceful one, or a playful one.  Today's entry is a true story of how my morning went.  As I was prepping to head out the door, I sat for a moment or two, and my little cat came up to me and dropped her string.  This is just about the clearest invitation there is - outside of her chirping at me (yes, cats can chirp) - to play.  This cat LOVES her string, and she loves to play with people.  I think the string is simply more amusing to her when its interactive, and really, who can blame her??  At any rate, all she wanted today was just to play for a couple minutes.  So we played, and it reminded me of just how simple solutions can be, sometimes.  And that is when the following poem was born.  Enjoy, and as always -

Thanks for reading.

Me

fishing for...

i cast the line out,
trying to get that perfect roll,
where it lays out just so, 
and it looks like the fly on the end just fell there,
presenting itself to the creature lying in wait,
just out of sight.

i start to pull back on the line.

swiftly moving,
the strike comes,
the line goes taught,
the weight on the other end pulls
and i hang on to pull it in.

and the sheer joy on her face 
reminds me that it's the simple things
that matter most,
a simple act of playing a game,
with a rumble-tumble ball of fur
who brought me her string this morning,
so i could go fishing for kittens in my living room.

National Poetry Month, v.7.0, Day 4

I find that in my poetry, I am often inspired by the stuff that is around me - that which I see.  In fact, if I had to define my poetic style, I would say that I am a sensual poet - not as in, "Fifty Shades of Grey" sensual, but rather, that I use my senses to garner inspiration, and then take what I see, hear, touch, taste, and smell and process that through thought.  In a way, all poets do this to some extent, whether in metaphor or simile, in order to make their point understandable and relatable to the reader.  In my case, though, I almost always do this.  The imagery in my poems comes from my surroundings.  What I do with it - that's the creative aspect.

In sharing my poetry, I find there are a few themes that run in common: the simpler my images, the simpler the thought, the better the response I get.  I find it interesting, because my temptation is to try to emulate the classic poets that we all grew up studying: Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, Shelley, et al.  After all, if they are so great and we continue to study them as paragons of the language, then to achieve such things, I should copy them, yes?  It makes sense, to the student.  And therin lies the problem: They were masters, not students.  They wrote the way they did because it was their way, their voice, their progression.  More simply, Their poetry.  I could copy the style, the meter, the phrasing, the flow of language, everything, and it could be textually perfect, but this is not the essence of poetry.  The essence of poetry - and therefore, the job of the poet, is simply this: "can you make the reader feel what you feel, even though they (the reader) were not there?"

This question is why I write poetry.  Sharing our experiences, our joys and pains, can draw us together, to feel what each other feels, and maybe one day, to learn not to hurt each other.  Would that I could accomplish that through simple poetry, born from the senses.

Today's offering is spurred by my morning commute today, and was at once a thoroughly delightful surprise to behold.  We often use the metaphor of a building - it's a rather old trope, that you can find as far back as biblical days, "...the stone the builders rejected..."  and if I could read ancient sanskrit, probably back even further.  Yup.  It's still around, and I hope you are able to relate to it.

Thanks for reading,

Me

renovation

on my commute there is a building.
facade worn and dirty,
the brick needs to be replaced in places, 
repointed in others, 
but it's solid.

they've been working on it for months, now,
and today i finally saw
that they've been working from the inside out,
and now it's time to open the building,
and let the hard work be seen.

as i went by,
i was awed by the care they took,
to preserve the old brick that needs repointing,
because the outside is worth keeping - 
when the work within shines forth,
augmenting the past,
renovating the future.

National Poetry Month, again. Day 3

Wow, kids - it's been a long time since I've posted anything, and here it is, already April - so you know what that means: YUP, National Poetry Month!!!!!!  This is where I challenge myself to write a new poem every day and post it here.  Some are good, some are bad, some have serious potential.  But, if you read the title, you know one thing is true:  I've missed days 1 and 2 already!!  This is how it works.  I will miss an occasional day here and there, and so I have to make it up, by giving you extra doses of poetry.  Today, that means a three-fer!!!!!!  I will confess that these ones, because I am playing catch-up, are simply things I have written previously and shared anonymously before.  None have really been edited, so what you're getting is, at least, authentic.  From here on out, though, you're getting the original raw stuff.  I hope you enjoy!!

Thanks for reading,

Me

listening to the rain

i like to listen to the rain
on a day i have nothing to do,
and let the sound of each droplet on the window glass
water my naked soul as it would the ground,
refreshing and new,
life springing again from within me
from the gentle coaxing of the rain
as it falls so willingly to the soil.

new music

finding new music to dance to,
new themes to explore,
new sounds to begin my day,
and lead me into the quiet nights,
where i can lose myself 
in rhythm and melody,
reach into a part of my soul and rip it out,
feeling the pleasure and the pain of it,
all through a new song
by a new artist -
new music that soothes the old me,
and helps me find my rebirth.

old tools

the feeling of an old tool,
dirty handle smooth from use,
numbers worn off  the sweep,
and i cannot call it by name,
other than to say "my favorite"
because it has more use
and has become an extension of my soul.