Tag Archives: Spoken Word

On Being Bold – draft Spoken Word Piece

There is a conversation going on inside you
a discussion of where to go and what to do
the simplicities of youth
in a flurry, you are left with choices
and no right answers
no simplistic solutions canned and coined
in pre-packaged kit of do right
be right…
I say be bold
The heroes of our days gone by
are really just you and I
we, standing here, with the will
and courage to stand
against a tide of Consumerism
fogging up the conversation with
ideas like
“wear these shoes and be a star”
“eat this, drink this, smoke this, drive this, do this,
GIVE us your money and we will make you this and drip with this
and be what we think you should be cuz its what every one
wants to be…” Bullshit.
YOU are the master of your soul
the captain of the ship sailing towards the horizon of a dream
created out of the story hours and long showers
of 365 days repeating to where you stand now
15, 24, 36, 40, 65… 90
It matters NOT how many have passed the only day mattering is the one you are holding
now so
Be Bold.
Take the image of capes and bright colored lights to a new level
and be the cape and bright colored lights of your own life.
Reach out and touch the mechanisims of your being with the truth of
“I CAN DO THIS” Dedication
and breathe in the hard work of a tenacious soul
blistered hands and the truth you sought to know and
Be Bold.
I cannot walk your life for you
She cannot walk your life for you
He cannot walk your life for you
these are your shoes, canvasing a road of your dreams
Navigating a world filled with your stars, the constellations of a million creations
coalesing into the will to survive and make your world amazing
Make the world a bit more
Do not need out of greed or
lust for the snap shot moments of paparazzi no privacy
lighting up a bank account where everyone’s hands are in it
just be you and do the thing you were called to do
let the lights find their own way
let the discovery of fame and fortune be what it will be
for if you are bold in your direction
walk the path given
let no one tell you what the end looks
because they lie
they speak without having been there yet
because where you are going is yours and
you are the only one who can create it.

yeah… There is a conversation going on inside you
a discussion of where to go and what to do
the simplicities of youth
in a flurry, you are left with choices
and no right answers
no simplistic solutions canned and coined
in pre-packaged kit of do right
be right…
I say be bold
and Frost your way to ending you dream
no matter what lay in the path
no matter how many miles you must go

Love is, what is love?

[I’ve been trying to get this written, and still if falters from the flow. But perhaps in posting it I can simply let it go. Returning in the morning to see with new eyes – I do hope you enjoy nonetheless]

love is faulty
love is dirty gritty safe
love is wild and wise
it is full and empty
at the very same time
love is lonely
love is deep
love is sinking into
the arms of yourself
when no one else will keep
love is weary
it is intense
and after you feel it
you wish you could feel it again
it is a feather and a barter’s stone
a castaway without a row
a mountain top covered snow
when all the world is melting
it is the warmth of the sun
blossoms first of spring
summer’s only son
and then the chill of
winter when you didn’t mean
all those hurtful spoken ugly things
love is darkness and it is peace
it is duty and somewhere
the sheets of your imagination
lingering in the places
you forgot to touch
it is the peace of mind you never had
it is the road map you left
behind when you were six
teen and tween and older
It is the pace of ages
an old man’s hands grasping life
when all of life is spent
and you know
every one says they’ve seen it
they point it out on subways
driveways, coffee shops and corners
on the cover of every day
they say it is in the places we
least expect
in the places we forget to fix
But then everyone says they’ve forgotten
to hold on tight enough
or maybe not tight enough
and I have to wonder
if love is real at all
I mean is it real at all
perhaps it is smoke on a clear day
light when you can’t find your way
the night sky poked through
with holes of hope
or the one that got away
Perhaps it is the shadow behind you
keeping pace with every wrong
or maybe it is just the melody
you can’t quite remember
but you hum
maybe love is wet
water in your hands
and the only way you know
it was there was
the castle built in sand
Love is rain falling on a summer morn
it is raging like an Autumns storm
it is everything we cannot see
and still it seems to follow me
in the eyes of children
in the speech of every day
and then again
maybe love is simply in
the words we never say

On Writing

Breath is word is breath
to not write what I am
is to stop breathing
Dream is flow is dream
to not spit who I am
is to stop dreaming
Paper is skin is paper
No paper nor keys to write
and I will use the sky
Breath is word is breath
Dream is flow is dream
Paper is skin is paper

Writing is life is poetry

The first and the last

Today hangs heavy
bitterly cold through
sun’s determination
piercing cirrus altostratus stratocumulus
to touch the ground
wrapping tightly round
its center to
stave off or embrace
as a robin sings its world
into being
It is every day for every one
a day of spring and passing
by as any other
but for me
it is a day gasping for
struggling to overcome
the last image of the stars
falling from my sky
the toy blocks crumbling
the white hat mowing yard
the blue hat with fuzzy ball
yelling as my skis race
towards the finish line
the long drives to nowhere
leading no where more
sand dunes lightening
river waves dusting
steep 4-wheel drive
bronco-ing up tin-cups
clattering to fade
old stones of old graves
flint arrows and poker runs
friday night lottery tickets
all lingering mistily at the edge
past gates and duplexes
past victorian water pumps
and humming bird nests
it whispers past S’s and
up through Springs
and then it comes
faint and steady
over rocky mountains
and oil fields of wheat
past Chevrolet’s in crumbling
and naked rooms way to clean
past blood and bone
and monitoring machines
past too warm hands
that held soft balls, hammers
used skis waxing and horse vice
it circles round my head
like a worn out angel’s ring
almost to tired to speak
through plastic air flows
and groggy medicated notions
of awareness
up from lungs so large as to
fill a room with laughter
over lips filled with kisses
that now kiss no more
I hear you say
‘I love you too’ and
in that moment two days strike as
the only ones that matter

The day you said I love you first
and the day you said it last

I was there for both.

I am a poet

I am a poet – born of fire and hatred – my world not fluttered with flower, filigree and faithful naivety but instead from affections and afflictions of hearts loved and lost, I found words my comfort and rhyme my resourceful foundation.

I am a poet – born of quicksand and waste – my world not cluttered with smooth, solid, or soluble sainthood but instead secured with impromptus and fill in the blanks of souls built and asunder’d, I found words my truth and meter my unbreakable bond.

I. am. a. poet.

I am a poet – born of hurricane and anguish – my world not covered with blanket, barrier and barren courage but instead by withstand and tenacity of wills hammered and hewn, I found words my armor and tempo my double edged sward.

I am a poet – born of tsunami and fear – my world not worn with newness, name-brand, and never used possibilities but instead from bought-back and additions of hands calloused and bruised, I found words my conviction and rhyme my faithful companion.

Poetic Journey

Slip slither dribble and dry
on the skin of my soul.
Visual verbal veraciously vicious for the truth
of life offer drinks.
Offer to drink.
and I….
take a glass
lift to my head
from brow to toe
absorbing passion as if
I was a sponge taking a plunge
in salted waters.
Being like a stone tossed
upon the ocean floor
in pursuit of dreams
on farther shores.
Voice crying out in fear
but soul solidering
knowing the earth man and the heaven man
in me must find the end
of what I call me…
and when that time comes.
Words will.
Slip slither dribble and dry
on my skin as I toast
the artists who broke
the bottle of their blessings
upon the brow of this ship
sending me off in directions
I can only now dream of.


For the want of it

For the want of it – you spit
for the taste of it – you spit
for the gain, drain, fame of it – you spit
for the spot, the light, the silver coated mic – you spit
for the shock of it – you spit
for the hurt of it – you spit
for the heal, feel, drill of it – you spit
for the stage, the fright, the blaze mastered fight – you spit
but do you spit – for the real of it
do you spit – for the meal of it
do you spit – for the reach down into your soul and
deal with it
do you spit – with reason, season, wisdom and seed
do you spit – with fortune or greed
don’t tell me – tell it to your reflection
get it write and sell perfection
for the want of it

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?


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?


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.

Here it goes again

((have a melody, but not sure this is ready – wanted to post for your thoughts anyway))


Here it goes again

your voice echoes down the hall

lingering out of reach

and beyond the light of it all


I scream but no words

make a sound

scattering on the floor

like broken glass on the ground


my hand brushes shadow

like a ghost in the mist

smoke filtering

from between your lips


I can’t stand this


I must be invisible

I must be unseeable

I must be invisible

a ghost in the heart

of your world



I write your name in the stars

I tether the wind where you are

I gather tears to make it rain

I build castles out of daisy chins

but I am invisible



This side

this side is difficult

this side is difficult to embrace

This side

This side is hard

this side is harder to chase

when all the things I dreamed

are less than what they seemed

still I  try…


Here it goes again…