Temper
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Photo: Guayasamin mural}
No. No. No.
You say it with an evil tounge,
flying high on an adrlene rush.
Holes are in the walls
and the tv’s eating a shoe.
No. No. No.
Life compressed with stress,
pumping through my veins.
As the high slips, breathing regains,
looking around I see only me.
My beast no longer in control,
I stand alone cleaning your mess.
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Fire
Dancing on my oxygen,
heating my desires.
I admire all your sin,
your fire that never dies.
Sparking my attention,
they fly high in the air.
The memories that mention
all my friends who care.
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ROSE
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Romantic and warm when you are red,
covered in the blood of Nature.
Cut and pruned for our pleasure,
making one smile with a sniff.
All your mystery amuses me,
many uses for such a flower.
I give you away to the girl I love,
and one day she cuts you long
and tosses you upon my grave.
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After many years of just scribbling things on paper I was surprised to discover that my passion has been writing poetry. It took me a while to realize what poetry is, at least what it means for me. I am a writer and write daily, not online as you can see by the missing dates in this and other blogs that I constantly tell myself I will continue to post. The thing is poetry is a language of its own, a short and sweet gesture, a daring tool to strike people down. It can be harsh, dangerous, deadly or sweet, caring and innocent. Depending on words.
I believe that poetry is what captures our imagination, and everyone has a poem that we’ve got lost in at least once in our life. For me I posted the first one I got lost in not long ago (Fear No More) but since then there has been many more. Writing poetry and writing in general I have found four little helpful tools, hints as some may call them.
Brush away another poem today.
Writing is my passion,
My way of living in the moment.
A gift I give to the world,
one character at a time.
I hope all who read this continue with there writing daily in any form they can. Its important not to give up on the dream, not to give in to the stresses of modern life. Stay focused and in the moment and keep the passion of writing alive.
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Stretched and thin
Six packed within
Where are you?
The round ball below
The figure of youth gone
This curse of age a sin
I wish away at the gym.
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I will try to post an inspirational poem each week from a favorite poet. The first is one that I have admired since my first read in the 9th grade. Maybe I didn’t understand it as well as I do today and of course Shakespeare is a little over used with the world of poetry, but Fear No More is not one of his over-done poems. With the way the world is today, war, poverty and everything else the same as the day Shakespeare wrote this sonnet, I feel rereading it again makes me interpet the meaning differently. Is it about love or death?
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun;
Nor the furious winter’s rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
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Still. Quiet.
Her beauty takes me away
Picturing ourselves far from here
Swimming in
Or sky diving over the desert
Maybe even in outer space
I can see myself in the glass
Pictured perfect next to her
Framed by the sounds of the city
A plastic smile and painted eyes
Never changing an expression,
Never challenging my world
The dream is over
I stroll down to the next window.
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The blood leaked out of its native packet many times before.
Nothing seemed to be different on the surface and for a minute or two it streamed unnoticeable.
Black spots invaded my vision
Fear laid upon my door
To late for a band-aid, as the red puddle next to my foot grew.
Only a finger, a small narrow part of the body.
Only a piece of metal that pierced it blindly.
Only me alone, heart pounding as the spots grow.
I look down to see what beauty my splatter makes.
Smile its only a cut on the finger.
‘Cover it’, my ghosts whisper to me, ‘cover it and it shall heal’.
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On my recent trip to Ecuador I visited the north side of Cotopaxi which was about a two hour drive from Quito. We hiked around the foot hills of the mountain and at times were slightly above 14,000 feet above sea level. The picture above was taken from about that altitude. The following is a poem I wrote about this mountain and Quito.
Standing in the middle of the world
looking toward the mountain base
the wind takes my fears
the clouds fall around me
and slowly take me in
I close my eyes, I am back there tonight
white with mixtures of grey
nothing but soaring birds, nothing but pouring rain
pouring
I do not make it to the top
each breath will no longer take me
but those visions
like looking down from a star, forever
and so I find the air too thin,
descend
10,000 feet above sea level
the face of god carved into a mountain
an addiction the altitude bleeds
and I am free
flying, flying from the heart of the city
I close my eyes, landing on
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{by Terry Culkin}
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Green eyes squinting towards the sky,
a deep breath in, her mind escaping back inside.
Only moments ago she was on the far side of the glass.
Her memories linger on words, black type
letter by letter; traveling a thousand miles per second.
Never saw her lips move, a two-dimensional
picture sent and received, typed and entered.
Years of conversations in ones and zeros,
smiles and laughs echo in cyber space –
never met the girl on the far side of the glass.
Sharing our secret stories, those
dreams and fears locked inside,
a confessional booth through telephone calls
cyber chats over a digital line.
Never to hear her voice from the next room,
slide my hand through her hair,
smell the smoke when she cooks,
watch her eat from across the table.
Is this reality or a virtual hell?
Can you remember a face of someone you never met?
Can you find love thousands of miles away?
Even though our hands never touched,
pushing her further away is a sin.
However, our lives physically apart,
countries bordering between,
the gravity of the Universe,
keeps her on the far side of the glass.
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