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Tuesday, June 30, 2009

At the Coffee Shop




There is an entire genre of poetry dealing with frozen moments of time, slices of life caught like a jewel in a web, spun out of words and images, trapped in the mind of a poet and then laid bare for all to see.

Any poet worthy of the name will tell you that we are all constantly surrounded by such moments, all one need do is to look with eyes that see, and then tell the world.

This is one such poem, a moment locked into my memory.

AT THE COFFEE SHOP



Her lip quivers
Shivering at the injustice
he threw her a few minutes ago.

I stand quietly beside
The red chair
Watching crystalline people
Pretending I am not waiting for you

Back to her he went
Like a child to a favorite toy
Forgetting how many broken toys
Are in his past.

I watch him as he uses her
A weapon against any kind of love

I see her, flaring tender jealousies
Willing herself to love harder

I want to gather her
Hug her like a child
Ask her why he captivates her.

And then I remember,
Being fourteen.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

A Dream of an Early Spring



I've always been interested in dreams. Their meaning, shading, moment of context in our lives, and the brains need to digest and process various bits of our conscious understanding into something we can handle, in a way that we cannot control.

This particular poem is a direct representation of one of the most powerfully personal dreams I have ever had. This dream rocked me to my core, and I woke up with a profound sense of change.

I hope you enjoy reading of it.

A Dream of an Early Spring

This is no lie.
I saw my father fall
down before my eyes and watched,
as the ground swallowed
his clickitey-clackitey loud feet.
The ground swallowed him whole.

The man smelled my skin and laughed.
“You smell like fresh meat,” he said.
“You smell like you expect to be killed
and eaten alive.
What kind of boy would run around this fog like that?”

The men of the earth hungered for my people’s flesh.
If I did not provide them with a sacrifice
to abate their sorrows,
they would take my body
and walk amongst my people
like one of the undead.
They would find ways to sip their lives
into their own empty souls.

I saw the devilish look
in the serpent’s eye
as his spiny tongue wrapped around my body.
My legs felt as if they were being stabbed
with a thousand tiny needles.

I tore myself away
from the life-threatening needles and spines.

I fought blindly
as callow youths do,
a white bird flew by my side
and attached a feather to my bleeding wounds.
They began to heal instantaneously.

The mists cleared away
and the soil grew cold and silent.
In place of the menace that blinded my sight
was a small jade figure of my father,
wearing his leather-bottomed shoes and ring.
So it was there that I put my father’s bones to rest
and took the jade figure in his place.

Without hesitance I lifted my pant legs
began to dance in father’s leather bottomed shoes.
The soles breezed across the floor,
cutting the mist with rhythmic motions.
I then turned the ring on my finger
and watched my father rise,
soil shedding from his skin.
His shaved face and clean hands
stood against the paling crowd.
This impressed the people who stood before me,
as did the fact that my tongue
did not bleed from the needle it held.

My family pressed their hands
on various swells of my body
as they embraced me with joy.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Rule Breaker




OK, so I have been called a rebel, a criminal, a reprobate, a bad boy, a nonconformist, an iconoclast, and a douchebag, and in some ways all of them are true. (except maybe the douchebag one, I dunno)

But I never really took to being told what to do.

My brother was a Marine, and while I thought that was cool, I knew that would NEVER be for me. They would have told me to make my bed, and I would have said, "Why?, I'm only gonna get in it again in a few hours." I'm sure that would have gone over like a fart in church.

My point being that I never really gave a damn for instruction, or rigid discipline. I used to joke that I got thrown out of Boy Scouts for eating a Brownie, but the truth is I left because I did not like all the rules.

I hate rules. I have always colored outside the lines, and I always will.

If I never cross the line, how in the Hell am I supposed to know where it is?

Anyway, that brings us to this poem...


Rule Breaker

Rules were made to be broken,
or so the old saw goes,
some folks live their entire lives
without knowing where the road goes.

Do not tell me that I can’t
because I will have to prove you wrong.
You have no business telling me
how to sing my song.

I am the captain of my own fate.
I go which way I will.
Sometime I want to sleep in Rome
and wake up in Brazil

I’ve made mistake, I know its true,
and I will make some more.
But they will be my own mistakes,
not the same ones I’ve made before

You say no I can’t, I say yes I can.
I will kill myself trying.
For living without stretching my wings
is another kind of dying.

Progress is made by the unsatisfied;
the complacent sit safe and sound
I cannot stop to explain myself -
for I am horizon bound.