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