And Weak

Tags

Fame, Praise, Struggle, Vision, Writing

Both shallow and weak are the monikers
fit me to a T, labels I have earned.
Daily do I write, search for attention,
long to be noticed; stab you with my pen.

Positions I take, issues I discuss,
though they are sincere long for praise’s rush.
How shallow the man daily must perform
just to get a “Like?” Hate to be ignored.

Giants all around to whom I look up:
Know I’m just a hack; write prolific fluff.
Feel a little pang, green eyed monster stirs,
to base emotion; ‘fraid I’m not inured.

Sad enough to feel jealous others gifts
but praise for BS really gets me ticked.
Read a piece du jour that’s but kitchen slop
that earns lots of praise; gets my dander up!

Cannot see the stars twinkling in the night
because my vision isn’t focused right.
Myopically stare at my printed page,
wonder what I lack to get raging praise.

Irony’s not lost that I’m judge, jury
of what’s good and bad that’s presented me.
Inside I’m hollow like the scarecrow’s chest
mea culpaing is poem’s confess.

Gonna leave it here, I’ve story to write,
truth and fiction mix of the darkest type.
Looking through the eyes of my younger son
at the man his dad sadly has become.

Both shallow and weak are the monikers
fit me to a T, labels I have earned.
Daily do I write, search for attention,
long to be noticed; stab you with my pen.

Advertisements

Leaves Me Flat

Tags

Balance, Conflicting Desires, Goals, Middle-age, Work, Writing

I need a job to make me whole; yes, wage slaving entices. I need structure and daily grind to keep me from fermenting. I will dither and waste the day given to own devices.

To stretch and reach for something more is element essential. Writing stories and penning poems is diverting for a while, but truth be told, this stuff gets old; interaction’s essential.

I took a job to have some fun and with people interact, days of toiling for daily bread I no longer have to do, but leisure days spent all alone satisfaction brings me not.

I’ve worked with hands diligently since time I was downy youth, I’m grizzled now, and battle scarred, metacarpus give me fits, but though the roof’s covered in snow hand’s desire useful tasks.

A bicycle is a wonder, poetry personified; “Bicycling Evangelist,” nom du travail she provides. Cannot express the joy I find introducing folks to ride.

Gyroscopic inertia, also known as precession, needed balance I sorely lack and reason for regression. Too much of a good thing it seems can lead me to depression.

“Now there’s the rub!” Hamlet declared in, “To be, or not to be,” and though working I surely love it can rub raw dreadfully. Balance prescribed to ride a bike vital too balance of life.

Round and around go my bike wheels like pet hamsters in a cage, sometimes can’t help but wonder why on this treadmill spend my days. Though bicycle’s close to perfect, fear I have mid-life malaise.

Perfection is an illusion, lesson I learned long ago; with desires quite conflicted not sure which path to follow. Air rarefied as upward climb has me dreaming of descents.

Life of leisure is not fitting, too much toil leaves me flat, to coast through life is no answer need to find road joy begets. “Another day, ‘nother dollar,” with next cycle hope to win.

I need a job to make me whole; yes, wage slaving entices. I need structure and daily grind to keep me from fermenting. I will dither and waste the day given to own devices.

Grand Architect

Tags

Creation, Fiction, Meta, Officer Brad Looney, Officer Chuck Davies, Writing

I killed a good man today that I’d let languish for two years:
Let monster live early this month despite his trail of tears.
I am the grand architect, it is I who gives and takes,
in my worlds of fiction characters pay for my mistakes.

Long-ago past infractions perpetrated against me
I revisit and rewrite; literary fantasy.
Officers Davies and Looney, back in nineteen-eighty-five?
were just a little snippy, as from stories may surmise.

Names of people and places that I’ve met and where I’ve lived
used often as foundations that span my stories’ bridge.
Sometimes serial numbers I do not obscure at all;
folks populating stories? I just let the damn chips fall.

Power to make creations to sit up and just behave
is power I am lacking as they dart through story’s maze.
Is this how God in Heaven feels as Earth He does observe?
Can’t explain why my creatures insist on acting so absurd.

With cameo appearances spring folks from nineteen-sixties,
past neighbors, friends and teachers I remember vividly.
And I spare not former me’s and my past atrocities;
face I hide behind a veil, expose my faults brutally.

I am the grand architect and I dictate how, where, when,
but though stories are my own often thoughts jump from my pen.
I’ve not power in real world to part Red Sea with my breath
though I contend otherwise it’s impotence I confess.

I am the grand architect, it is I who gives and takes,
in my worlds of fiction characters pay for my mistakes.
I am the grand architect, it is I who gives and takes
I am the grand architect, doomed to rewrite past mistakes.

Covfefe

Tags

"Great Leader", Brinksmanship, Bully-Pulpit, Camelot, Catcalls, Court Jester, Covfefe, Creativity, Donald J. Trump, Fire And Fury, Four Horsemen, Leaders, Peter Principle, Primordial Slime, Richard M. Nixon, Round Table, Writing

Enjoy creating pictures
and drawing scenes
so all might witness
the things that I dream.

I don’t draw with colors,
I don’t sculpt with clay,
it’s words strung together
with which I love to play.

No doubt I’m a dreamer
building castles in the sand
that with inundating high tide
will again disband.

I hear a thousand voices
whispering in my ear,
begging me to listen
so I draw ever nearer.

Beauty I envision
that I try to recreate
is but pale reflection;
my work is second rate.

But the voices they keep calling
asking what’s gone wrong,
how did we fall to madness,
mistake weak for strong?

Gone is bully-pulpit,
now it’s just bully,
with a path to greatness
that is sickening disease.

With contempt for his brothers
and nearly every mother’s son,
declares that all are losers
while he’s the sickest one.

He threatens fire and fury
to fall from the sky
his treatment for our problems
will not help us survive.

History’s full of leaders
that advanced mankind,
folks who raised us all up
from primordial slime.

But some will trumpet fury
and deliver vitriol
confusing great leadership
with immature catcalls.

Pygmy who can’t see horizon
no matter how hard he looks,
whose main objective
is to play the crook.

Peter was a disciple
who denied his boss
but this guy’s Peter Principle
may be US’s greatest loss.

I pray voices that I’m hearing
are but nay saying nabobs
But DJT, like RMN,
is unfit for presidential job.

A Brinksman as Great Leader’s
been called by Donald Trump,
with four horsemen from the heavens
pray we don’t all wind up on our rumps.

Safe within his silo’s
no doubt where he’ll make the call
and with his damn covfefe
may just end us all.

Camelot’s no longer guided
by great errant knight
at head of Round Table’s
jester who lacks insight.

My voices have gone silent,
guess they’re underground,
if we survive this crisis
perhaps they’ll come back around.

Scribbled Words

Tags

Creativity, Futility, Obsession, Writing

Who am I kidding with my scribbled words?
Footnote that I’m creating smaller than obscure
Castles in the air keep me so remote
My created fairy-tales ain’t keeping me afloat

Is my head in the clouds or is it up my ass?
Not a single one of my dreams has yet come to pass
Got voices that holler at me every day
Though I write their dialogue can’t control what they say

Tamika and Misty, Joni and Deb
Women I created who’re stuck in my head
None of ‘em living but each of them so real
Their words and actions expressing how they feel

Memphis blues, Atlanta dreams, Chicago tears
Along with a mother’s deepest darkest fears
Tony Kneel, Joe Kleen, John Knopick, what do they say?
Each with their stories; plays within plays

Silly little word games designed to entertain
None of it is real, just made up by my brain
When daylight returns and we’re under that bright sun
No doubt I’ll end as I started with a zero sum

My mind is an imagination machine
I just follow the threads of my daydreams
Asking me not to conjure literary spells
Like telling a parched man, “Don’t draw water from the well!”

I am a simple scribe; scribble with all my might
I attack with pen rather than sharp sword flashing bright
Though I cut and dice, eviscerate with words
When my chopping’s done only thoughts have I disturbed

I have been a story weaver for many a year
All my stories leave bank account still in arears
Jesus tells us we live not on bread alone
Story writing makes me a king upon his throne

I decree laws, tell my subjects what to do
They’re defiant of authority just like me and you!
Maybe someday words that I write down
Will make you cry or laugh, be deemed funny or profound

Seems as though all I do is type and pray
Keep throwing out my stories hoping one day they’ll pay
Who would have guessed how lonely is the king?
As an Angelou caged bird, all I can do is sing

Who am I kidding with my scribbled words?
Footnote that I’m creating smaller than obscure
Castles in the air keep me so remote
My created fairy-tales ain’t keeping me afloat

Maslow Clash

Tags

dither, Employment, gilded cage, Nine to Five, Security, Self Determination, Writing

Tether, tether, dither, dither, which choice is one less sicker?
Security of gilded cage or try to fly, self engage?
Tales sung to entertain? Keep me afloat or go down the drain?
What’s the payout, what’s the cost? Dreams unbound, security lost.
Never one to let dice fall, still muse so tempting, heed her call?
“Should I stay or should I go?” Clash countered with old Doc Maslow.
Wings for soaring are quite robust; why can’t I in self just trust?
Nine to five as way of life? Time to cut cord and embrace strife.

Memory In Kind

Tags

Acts of Kindness, Memory, Writing, Youth

Lately reminiscence and remodeling have been on my mind. I am writing a novella about wayward youths which  has me thinking back to the early 1980’s when I was a freshly minted twenty year old. Memories of travel, nightclubs, romance, emotional angst, high adventure and foolhardiness flood back as I fictionalize, glorify and exaggerate events from my early adulthood. Real life events and locales form the foundation for my story’s construction as I tap into events that happened and use those to create a world that is a highly stylized and refocused version of my misadventures. Remembering is fun, but creating my own world where I choose who is hero, louse, champion or chump gives me the powers of a god, at least in print!

It is also fun for me to create and recreate castles in the sky. My wife and I have decided to add a three season room and to expand the size of our home’s garage. Throughout my day I keep visualizing how I want to transform our home. Can we expand the master bedroom closet in the space above the garage extension? Is it possible to put a small balcony on the top of the three season room? What about adding an exterior door to our basement, thus creating a walkout? How much is all this going to cost? As we are still in the dream stage of remodeling anything is possible, just as anything is possible when we recall events from our past.

Revisiting of people, places, events, loves and hates is what everyone does in his own head. Memory is a liar. Even when we try to be accurate in recalling an event details fade, previous revisiting of our reminiscences color our thoughts and we intentionally or unintentionally minimize unpleasant details and give greater emphasis to the grand times as the mundane cast of characters with whom we shared the stage of life are recast as A List stars. This rewriting of life is something we all do. Whether we make a remembered event more glorious, degrading, or life changing as we look back with new knowledge, perspective and emotions our stories change with each additional intervening year.

Getting together with old friends that one sees perhaps once a decade or less can be an eyeopener. When sharing memories we learn that one person’s recollection of an event or a place differs wildly from our own. A quick comment made half a life time ago that was intended to be humorous may have deeply wounded the target of the joke and we only learn of the pain that we caused years later, or conversely, a small insignificant act of kindness that we thought nothing of may have touched someone so deeply that it becomes a cornerstone of a friend’s belief in the fine caliber of our character.

The what ifs of a remodeling project run parallel to the rewriting of memories. Until we break ground and pour a foundation the changes to our home are all in my head, just as the memories from long ago are too. Shared vision, discord or harmony over the importance or significance of a memory or a home feature all represent us trying to wrap our brains around realities past, present or future. Once the remodeling is done it will transform from a ghost to a structure as surely as a past memory has passed from reality into a phantom. Each exists but each is also a construct of the mind that comes with attendant baggage.

So as I go through my day I will dream of the past, of the future, but most importantly I will try to live in the now. After all, the now is the only thing that is real, everything else is just in our minds.

Writing to the Ether

Tags

Writing

Writing to the Ether

I have often heard it said that letter writing is a lost art. When I was a youngster letters were a low cost way to communicate with far away friends and loved ones. As a child in my parents’ home whenever we received a long distance phone call there was such a fuss made about it- “Be quiet! It’s long distance! Hurry, it’s long distance!”- that I assumed long distance calls were astronomically priced and should only be used as a last resort method of communication.

This was an unquestioned stanchion of my formative years and my absolute tenet in this regard only began to erode as I neared puberty and incoming long distance phone calls were downgraded to merely being worthy of heralds commensurate of urgency rather than their previous state of grandeur mixed with terror. I doubt anyone under the age of 35 can possible understand how important letter writing was until the arrival of the late 1980’s. For untold centuries it was the letter that almost single handedly allowed us to communicate with people at a distance and at a rate that could be afforded by most.

With the advent of cell phones that did not charge extra for long distance calls, the internet, texts, Skype and the ever increasing host of inexpensive ways to communicate with people from afar the letter has steadily lost meaning in our world. Or has it?

Writing allows us to gather our thoughts about a subject, organize, edit and share. Seldom do I print these words, place them in an envelope and mail them but I write letters frequently in the form of Blog posts, Facebook status updates, letters to my newspaper, and emails to both strangers and folks I know. It isn’t that letters have died, they have simply been transformed and given wings.

So feel free to drop me a line, I’m sure we have plenty to write about!