Slow (Apr – Jun 1999)

slow

not like those multiple shutter, frame-by-frame films
of nature discovery, the flower bud
yawning and stretching open, bursting
with color as clouds speed in the sky
and day and night change every few seconds.

slower

not like a candle’s flame flickering
fanatically, skittish, racing nowhere,
rushing, fire crackling, drip popping,
disappearing wick and wax.

real slow

not like the endings … more like the beginnings …

but even slower still

SLOW

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Pretending Otherwise (Apr 1999)

peel and feel
with me here
tell me your real
and do not fear
be near
no matter where it takes us

everyone hides themselves and me
who do we think we’re supposed to be?

crack the stone
break your mold
help atone
our lies of old

like purple haze whispers
of screeching halt vespers
hint of edges brushed behind
out of practice, can’t find
our cliffs of dover
to even think about diving over
sailing into what we are
and how we feel
not what we pretend
but what is real.

peel and feel
don’t hide, ride
and trust the fact that the true you
the free me
will either be or not
but we will not be lies
wasting time pretending otherwise.

I took this picture myself on 14/05/05.

Spell (Apr 1999)

walk with me for a spell
let’s head off down the seawall
tell me all you have to tell
let’s share things great and small

give me a call
ring my phone
i won’t fall
and be left alone

we are friends
that’s where it ends
no sob stories ahead of us
we’re better than that, just
believe me

hold my hand as we walk
smile at me when we talk
be close to my true
let me be close to you
without going through the motions
of building lifetime devotions

we can need without needing
we can share without heeding
perceptions of what we are together
or whether we’ll hold hands forever

walk with me … at your own pace … for a spell.

Galveston Surf

Galveston Surf (Photo credit: Tom Haymes)

Cheating with NaPoWriMo

National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) came along at the perfect time for this blog.  I’m using it to cheat.  Let me explain.

I made a pact in March that I would stop making excuses for not following my dream of becoming a writer.  I do have a good ones like working 50+ hours a week and being dirt tired and brainless when I get home everyday.  But I put myself in a little self-tough-love-hold and created a blog with the intent to write something, anything, no matter how bad – everyday.  I created a pseudonym for numerous reasons:  I’m a wimp; I love my paying job working with youth and don’t want third parties confusing artistic license and political views I might express with how sincere and passionate I am about helping youth succeed; I don’t want some of my family or even friends to see this side of me … yet … especially since I think some of it is no-talent mush.

But then I hit writer’s block.  I tried to jog my creativity by reading around and discovered NaPoWriMo and the challenge to write a poem every day this month.  I’ve got notebooks full of poetry.  So I am taking the easy way out until I can get back on track with my … other stuff.  But I feel I need to explain why I call this cheating.

To me (don’t be offended my poet friends), poetry is like telling a non-painter to create something, so he does it by pouring paint cans over his naked body and rolling on the canvas.  Nothing particular skillful about that, but he’s certainly provided something personal and interesting when he’s done.  He cheated.  Unlike great painters, he ignored style and form.  He’s no expressionist; his work doesn’t adhere to cubism, realism, surrealism, or impressionism.  Perhaps there’s an argument for Pollock-esque “action painting” but let’s be clear – I like his stuff, but I think Jackson Pollock cheated a little too.

Still, when this non-painter is done, he’s submitting to the world a product of his stripping down to his most vulnerable self, stepped out of his comfort zone, to provide something marginally worth seeing.  No one will probably stand in front of the final product and stare at the thing for long like a Monet, Kandinsky, Degas, Cezanne, or even Picasso.  But his work is still worthy of a glance or two, and certainly someone will no doubt find in it colors that click in their minds and really love it.

That’s poetry for me.  I don’t worry about form usually.  It captures the fragments that are in my skull and I don’t have to make any sense of it like with prose.

So I’m cheating with poetry this month.  And much of it comes from years ago when I was a wet-behind-the-ears punk and life was full of drama.  If you like my other stuff, keep checking back because it’s my true love.  When it returns I will continue planting it here.

Composition VII—according to Kandinsky, the mo...

Composition VII—according to Kandinsky, the most complex piece he ever painted (1913) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)