i had dreamed of wanting to get away from everything and everyone. just to become myself. to find myself. to create. no distractions. no interruptions. a romantic life.
never saw myself as an office bee. felt more of a free-spirited soul. yet that was not the journey charted. went inside and most everything died. a lack of sunlight i guess. yet not quite all. a pilot flame burned on.
strange how life wonders about. never in a straight line. never how we planned or expected. so here i am nearing the end of my office career. looking for something to help fill that void.
in my spare time began writing poetry. plans call for that to continue after leaving the hive. i am as surprised as anyone at this turn of events.
being the first to say i can not spell. never liked english classes. never have enjoyed reading. speaking? pronunciation always trips me up. never was good at writing. long it still takes to write a single line. going digital must have saved a million trees from landfills.
writing poetry brings enjoyment. i do publish to websites for anyone to read. if they like my works great. if not they move on.
my mind is not as sharp as it was. truth be told. never was it sharp to start with. with writing i hope it helps.
a few scores later no longer wanting to live a hermit’s life. not on the side of a mountain. nor upon a wind and rain swept island.
realizing interaction is needed to draw inspiration from. being surrounded by and observing life is always better than imagining.
making a small home my retreat. where i can slip away to but not isolate. in a scottish village. in the english countryside among the lake district. on a florida key or a barrier island. within a tall hobbit home.
someplace where i can stretch my legs. open the windows and wonder with bare feet.
hemingway had it right. so here i sit happily writing.
a lost soul that dreams oh to live a poet’s prose life pen and pad in hand
i grew up knowing of the doomsday clock. hearing it tick. accepting it, but knowing people were working to make sure never would midnight ring.
today people seem to be working hard for midnight to sound. ones that would have tried to avoid such an event before. wanting to have the world slip back into another era of evil. though they will deny it.
another era whose legacy will be millions of faultless lives extinguished.
after all cried, never again, the world has forgotten, become distracted, begun living in denial. it sits ready for the command to reignite the flames of destruction.
here i stand nearing the end of my time witnessing mankind’s journey. dejected and wondering, what have the reasons been for in overcoming countless struggles.
when they become forgotten. when lessons are never learned. when sacrifice no longer matters.
so much good wasted. so many innocent lives taken. so much pain and heartache endured.
always for personal, megalomaniac, grandiose reasons.
the clock ticks forward never again now ignored midnight is at hand
This was meant to be a haibun. After the first sentence, I folded the list of rules into a sparrow. I go for a walk, pass by the place where people write haiku and roll juxtaposition into irony as they eat their meals with the wrong ends of their chopsticks.
he lifts gari with his left hand— a slot machine jangles
A patron’s nearly full dish of wasabi sits amongst sushi platters that, except for the left behind rice-explosions, have been emptied. Around the corner, a shaman stands near the clocktower where the grass has died from a winter’s salting. The shadow of a ginkgo leaf flutters on his face like the wings of Buson’s moth. I want to turn off all the lights so that it can see.
The systems are broken. ****. The systems are failing.
Further up Beverly St., an autistic boy plays with Lego on a front porch. I try to remember his true name, and hope that he can help break down the foundations, raindance his mind around the blocks’ angles and lines to solve an equation with a variable that is the shaman understanding why the boy pretends to not see us.
Turn off the lights so that we can see.
06 14 2017
First published in SWITCH Poetry/Prose No 4, 07 2017
Being my own worst critic, I'm offering myself some love in tinkering and modifying. I need to reformat pieces as the original formatting can't be replicated here.
as a family. we took a trip to washington dc in the year 1968. the year it burned. the year i turned 9.
i carry memory fragments of that trip. washington monument. lincoln memorial. mount vernon. the smithsonian. national guard troops stationed about.
most importantly our solemn visit to Arlington National Cemetery. a hallowed land far removed from the chaos engulfing an outside world.
from that day i carry memory bits of three wonders.
endless white headstones in neat rows.
the grave and the eternal flame of President John F. Kennedy. it would be seven years later while in dallas we would stand where he was assassinated.
watching The Changing of the Guard at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
all witnessing stood silent and still. any sounds came from the guards. giving orders. acknowledging orders. presenting firearms.
once completed the crowd slowly went their ways to other parts of Arlington.
i have wondered what my father was thinking. how he felt silently standing there. it had only been 23 years since his service had ended with world war two’s conclusion.
probably of the guys he knew that never made it back now buried at Arlington. the ones that had made it home but are also buried there. that he could have known the pacific theater Unknown. thoughts of the world he had helped save. how much it had changed since his childhood. how much it had changed since the war’s end.
he never said. i never asked.
i was 9 years and a tourist. unable to understand or know the importance or magnitude of all that i saw that day.
i am in awe knowing the painstaking work continues of identifying our fallen heroes. those lost during service to their country. relentlessly searched for. finding and identifying. for they have not been forgotten.
one of them being the Unknown from the vietnam war. a family was given the ability to gain some sense of closure.
that is progress.
major progress will be achieved once sons and daughters no longer have to fight. leaving terrified mothers, fathers, wives, and husbands behind to wonder.
no more wars. no more Unknowns.
for freedom they fought in Arlington they now rest known to god above
it had been a dark and stormy day in the small fishing port of ship’s haven. a forgotten town barely clinging to its rocky shore with rotting timbers.
most lights remained lit during the day. the heavy rains had passed out to sea leaving behind a damp, chilly and blustery night.
residents remained inside their homes all day. few had reason to venture out during sheets of rain. night brought different reasons to feast upon their fears as they continued staying behind locked windows and doors.
no one with clear thoughts would be walking streets littered with puddles this night. streets mostly shrouded in sea mist.
anyone out possessed nefarious reasons. those that can disappear in between the randomly placed light poles with dim illumination.
compounding the poor lighting, half seemed to be out. while others irregularly flickered on and off. unnerving already frightened people that much more.
the collective fear and knowledge was not everyone would remain indoors. winds of the cold night called the others to wake. they would appear, yet never be seen. only heard. in coming days their handiwork would be discovered scattered about.
those at sea were safe. those trapped on land knew what the churning waters meant and what soon would be spit out….
tales with twists, terrors believable unknown fears live deep in our souls
parts are needing a change. to become willing and learn the art of letting go of worries and history. ending the useless scenarios of looping the unknown. moving past the fearful prospect of stepping out of the zone. overcoming all those that create meaningless stress.
it boils down to avoiding the usual suspects. great discomfort and embarrassment. mostly embarrassment.
easing the mind’s mantra of never can the wall, the facade, or curtain become compromised. never can the real person become known.
usually, nothing really bad ever comes after days of needless worry. some discomfort, but not truly bad.
i know this. i see this. i get this. frustration lies in knowing but never being willing, able, or understanding how to overcome.
learning to believe in myself. moving past trust issues. because it will be all alright. it will be all ok. it will turn out fine. maybe not as hoped, but it will.
taking to heart what luke tells rey, "this is not going to go the way you think."
casting private doubts worried becoming exposed is a daily fight
Today I sit and think about words. They are hesitant. I am at a deficit of emotions to harness and understand. Other poets ring true and sound curious. Is it so difficult? A plane sounds overhead. Maybe passing my thoughts in those clouds, full of rain and judgement. A bolt of lighting could strike at any moment and threaten the serenity of which my mind hallucinates.
Opaque skies of grey Wounded thoughts mix with raindrops. A storm approaches