Tag Archives: me

In one year

In one year

I raged, wept, laughed,
stumbled, flew, dived,
and drowned.

names carried

like selfish, friend, love,
blind, cynical, hurtful,
and superficial.

words languished

became silent, seeking, slippery,
sharp, frozen, cataclysmic,
and rude.

places survived

found regretful, hurt, lost,
pity, lonely, worry
and sink.

and still I seek

I rage, weep, laugh,
stumble, fly, dive
and drown.

a prayer to whisper

hopeful for compassion, longing,
loving, faithful, fruitful,
and true.

to abolish in the next

uselessly just, intent, fear,
doubt, victim, lonely,
and self-inflicted.

and remember

to float, breathe, lift-up,
forgive, forget,
and be

unsinkable again.

Kiss me

Kiss me, Life
and give me breath that I might
fill my dreams with your beauty
be wrapped in your passion
the embrace of risk and the
cry of the daring poet.
Kiss me deeply
and cause my heart to swim
in the eternal spring of curiosity
that I might dive deep into the world
and raise up my soul to the
heavens, to be welcomed
among the stars.

Separate

We
Slip into sheets under the same
roof but we eat in separate rooms
we
pass each other like ghosts in
the hall whispering
familiar phrases but
we
sit divided by other walls
just down the hall
while we feast on meals
alone
and I can’t help but question
the the meaning in we
much less the words
spoken in passing
We
The clock ticks for me but
does not draw you in
the tears on my face
the words of my lips
the sound of my voice
the we in me is
sitting in
a separate room
working on separate things
under a separate set of rules
and the me in we
wonders why
this formula is not just you
and not just I

separate.

Yes, even poets fear.

I have not written a ‘spit’ in quite some time. Plenty of material has landed at my feet but nothing has dragged me kicking and screaming to the door of my mind ready to slam conviction at a piece of paper and thus an audience.  I have written pieces inspired by the people who have ventured to my facebook and wordpress pages.  Words both holding messages and some simply off the cuff little miracles. Some slip over the skin like a lover’s longing and others simply warm the heart like an old friend sitting with you on a cold night.  I have been writing, just not slamming.

I have wondered, am I afraid?

Perhaps.

Even poets get scared. Poetry exposes the author and the reader. It is one of the few ways to tap both sides of the brain and come out the other side beautiful, exposed, and vulnerable. Poetry IS the poet and hopefully becomes the reader. It is an intimate dance without touching – connected only by words and visions, painted sometimes skillfully other times not.  I digress.

So why can’t I write a slam piece? A spit. Plain and simple. I am afraid of something.  When fear happens, the pen hesitates. It shifts to safer margins. It avoids edges.  It seeks blue lined, wide ruled, pre punched holed paper, and waits.

I question, what am I afraid of?

Truth? perhaps.

Spitting is about truth. Poetry is about truth. If you really look at it. If you really dig deep there is no poem not bathing naked in a poet’s truth. Every line slips out a secret. Every period, comma, or lack there of, undresses her without care to the state of the poet at all. But that is the lure of poetry – that is the poet’s obsession. How to move, be moved, and stay one syllable ahead of the reader or audience.  We are a morphing bunch. We are a soul few who long to trip through the world, taste it, devour it, caress it, love it, flip it over and dive into it. So what the hell am I afriad of?!

What if. perhaps.

What if truth is not what I want it to be? What if, I discover some of my long standing beliefs I no longer believe? What do I do with this?!  How do I proceed?  Is this even about writing a spit or is this about finding out I am lost and traversing my way back to my path?  Is this about someone else finding me? Is that what this note is about? Would someone even look? or know where to? Who would it be…. and if they knew the truth of me, would they try?  Would I?

Why am I afraid?

Me.

I am afraid becaue I know, without a doubt, I am not being completely truthful.  That is not to say it is intentional, that is to say I am just aware.  I realize I am holding my pen to the middle of the page and hesitating.  I am not sure how I got here.  I am not entirely sure what courses of events or “lies” even moved me to this position, but it is clear I am not pursuing my passion to its fullest potential, which is Poetry in its hardest form. The hardest form of poetry is truth.

One truth is – I am afraid but I am going to figure this out anyway. I have championed #Be_____  courageous, awesome, authentic, brave…  and I must, without a doubt, be willing to do the same things I ask / demand of others.

And so I shall.

What am I afraid of?  I am going to find out.

Stain my heart

Stain my heart with gladness

let it drip with joy and cover the ground

in reds and oranges

indelible reminders of hope

when the tempest in my

soul forgets to be contained

and runs around my world

like a chaotic weed

hell bent on stiffling

every

thing.

Stain my heart…

please.

I AM

Cerulean peace

mascarading verimuei of

persian plum bing

echoing in mind’s sky

like a gypsy moth

motorcycle gang,

looking for lightswitch

raves and hued

tinboxes of marmalade

memory

speaking with

coquelicot tails of truth

and shipwrecked words

hung on springtail

shiz ogg ony’s

orange weighted thoughts.

I am stones set against the hills

Aztec black

achromatic

pirate motorcades

worming through

otherworld roads

pillaging ghost hall verbiage

turbid mocking bird calls

in the hopes electric violet

dreams

glow brighter there.

There were my Oak tall darker

self waits patiently plotting

to feast on the Elder silver sung

failures

of a golden aluminum mind.

Mint mingled with meaning

tangled

forks pushing straw braiding

creepping vines of

mental loops retracting and

reacting to the envolope

of time marching backwards

and spell crafted lines.

I am rythem

I am rhyme

I am london calling

Bell tower mourning

the loss of porcelian

knowledge

book covered middles

and shoes sole mustered glory

I am walking low

and hiding uninvisible

fae almanac verses

I am color me chrystal

tranglewreck borders

laughing at the horders

of words in head

that bears a sign

flashing Red

open for business

but I

I having nothing to sell.

I am sour pill bitten

snakeless tooth smitten

electric force cork drumming

mental note strumbingover

Moroccan pyrogen

seducing ubiquitously

like a neruotoxin

in silky perfection

a glue tin ation

verilent in

the prusuit of

faith

and calling the mice of fortunate

ransom to

stationary spilled out on

earthen green tables

laid to rest and memorialized

on sombre ink and ivory paper.