Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Hi, Everybody.

I have another poem for you this week. I wrote it fairly recently. I hope you like it.

Happy Tuesday, everyone.


The book spilled open on the blanket
underneath the willow tree
pages pushing through the wind
now speeding to page 53

Words falling into the breeze
for a moment all sentences mix
but the book slams shut the next instant
as the picnicker comes back to sit

In the distance he hears the ocean
The wave song now lulls him to sleep - 
He's dreaming of days gone past;
Dreams never were his to keep.

He wakes up and blinks at the twilight
The breeze lulls him back to the car
He picks up his book and his blanket
And drives beneath gallons of stars

Driving home he feels a bit better
from his day spent reading, alone
The sun has set now, off yonder
And his heart, it pulls to be home

The breeze gently pushes his bumper
The moon calls his name o're the bend
 Book bindings squish words in the backseat
And the stars light his way home again.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Well - 

Here we are. 

It's been a while, right?

I've been writing. So, I thought - 

I'd like to include my old friends....

I'm going to try to post on this once a week. 

 I just, I want to write, 

and keep writing. I've been writing, re-writing, and editing my novel.

If I were sculpting it, the thing would have shape to it, and from a far, far

distance, would look like a beautiful thing. But up close, however, especially if you were equipped with bifocals, a flashlight, and a scratch to the head,  this sculpture

would clearly need things like arms and legs and a birthmark in the shape of Idaho 

on his left big toe.

I've been chipping away at it, nonetheless.

And when that novel is out, and free, and ready to be read by other readers, who are not you,

(but most especially you)

you can say you knew of that book before it even had arms or legs or a left big toe.

And that is my gift to you, because you are my reader...and because it's been so long, hasn't it?

I've also been typing out poems, with a Ticonderoga pencil in my teeth, or my hair, or next to my foot.

They are the best type of pencil, you know.

And I've just been thinking about this one thing, in the back of my mind, all the while:

I am a writer, and so, I've been writing on my own for a while, and, well, hows abouts I share

a little bit with you again? My friends. My readers. My audience.

My friends.

 If we were in Alice in Wonderland, you would be Alice and I would be a tiny strip of candy, with the words "Read Me" in large typeface, all over the packaging.

And then you would read me, and so you'd grow to be 100 feet tall, and, everybody would be all like, "I always knew that guy [girl] would grow up to be something."

That's how it would happen, I just know it.

I do hope you forgive my leave of absence. I do hope you are still reading this very sentence.

I have a feeling that you are.


I'll start off with a poem I wrote, about a month ago.

I was going to start off with a little anecdote of how I dreamt of a dinosaur-zombie apocalypse two nights ago, but, I'll keep that one in my pocket.

 That one's for keeps.

I hope you like this, oh readers {my readers}.

And away...we...go.


The family’s shoes are in the kitchen, stacked luminously,
These soles, they stretch and grasp at the moonlight, 
but the light, it hides, thin and wan behind the clouds.
Tepidly they sit, and wait, through the long sigh of the starless night;
Each soul is beaten and tattered,
Too many pathways,
Too much scuff.
Boots and sneakers alike, sandals and peep-toe lady shoes, they are all
the same, and
 of days past:
this smell does not smell like the glamorous wiff of daffodils or
You see, they do not stink of beauty,
but of restless nights and days walking in circles.
These penny loafers hold the stench of keeping up, two by two they
step up 
into cars and out
 onto the ruthless, empty gaze
of parking lots
 in the heat of a staring sunlight,
or the office kitchen, where coffee spills and falls like
acid rain.
Two by two they stop short beneath a desk, or a table,
beneath a sigh or long lost gaze,
 or suddenly these closed-toe pumps must face
 the unforgiving stare
of what lurks beneath the couch
for hours as the family stops
to take a moment
to take it all in.
No, these shoes do not smell of roses, but, 
instead, their leather is worn, like a grandmother’s soft hands,
a grandmother who kneaded a life out of nothing but
prayers whispered to a starless sky
just like tonight
just like many nights
but these soles, these souls, they wander and wait
Waiting, wading, through another day.
I can almost hear the footsteps, I can almost taste the pavement –
Too much pavement, too much of the same, too much of the unexpected -
Perhaps, Perhaps.
These soles, sitting in the dark, seem wary of another day; 
but still they wait, still they wait
still they are ready,
so come what may.

September 10, 2013