Write to Heal

Writing and poetry

are lifelines

as shades draw down

upon my inner thoughts

blood the ink

laying naked

hoping it will help

to heal the wounds

of a broken child

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Words

Words drip

one by one

filtered

through gauze

a hazy weave

that strains

each word

that drips through

removing impurities

of my own thoughts

breaking down

into small pieces

each another word

born from more

creating

a new word

joining in

the long conversation

between self

and the soul.

Porcelain Thoughts

I sit here

on the toilet

the porcelain throne

wondering,

how many seconds

minutes

hours

days

have I spent

doing just this,

sitting

contemplating

wondering

what to write

having brilliant

and I do mean,

brilliant ideas

only to watch them

flush down the drain,

some folks get anal

(you see what I did there)

others get concerned

the color

shape

even smell,

becomes important

like ideas

that I have

their color

shape and yes, smell

and I think of time wasted

just sitting here

not doing

not writing

just defecating

pushing out the toxins

and then it hits me,

writing poetry

my brains way

of pushing out the toxins

that pollute my thoughts

and so here I sit

writing this poem.

City Life

Yes, it’s noisy and infested
filled with dark, dingy abodes
streets littered with cast-offs
both inert and organic.

A place of despair for some
of light and delight for others
this is the city
crowded, unkempt, dangerous
a kaleidoscope of sound and color
overwhelming the innocent
enticing the adventurous
boring the dwellers within.

The city, bears it all
under the strains of the masses
that hurtle down its streets
walking through its alleys
with heads down
pushing against
tides of indifference.

The city takes,
the city gives
we are its children
and its future
we carry its fortunes
in our valises
sharing our dreams
waiting for the sun to rise
and for hearts to sing.

The Headache of Zeus

I’m looking for that perfect sentence

the one that will open this poem

the perfect metaphor never used

so that you will read my poetry.

I even bought a book or two

to help me on my quest

to find the right combinations

of those words that I seek.

Poetry for Dummies is one

that claims to help demystify poetry

only will it help demystify me.

I dream, dreams of words aligned

all in perfect poetic order

then when I sit to write they are a jumble.

Outside the sun shines bright

and I hear the birds singing

the world is slowly waking up 

as I emerge from the dreams.

Now I sit here writing once again

looking at the blinking cursor

on the blank screen of the iPad

trying to remember what I dreamed

in the midnight hours

because what I saw was that sentence

all pretty and perfect

just waiting to be birthed

a sleeping fetus

enclosed in a darkened womb

of my mind

the headache of Zeus

that refuses to be born.

Poetry Class

Well, I did it. It didn’t take that long, just a few quick key strokes and it was done, finalized, completed. Looking on what I did, only time will tell if this was a good decision or the fantasies of a maddened mind. What I have done may seem like nothing to many of you, those of you who seem to write with apparent ease. Those whose words are oft quoted and quilted onto throw pillows to be sold at the local Home Good’s store, in various shades of fuchsia, tangerine or one of a dozen pastel colors, to one day end up on some thrift shop bargain table. 

 I have signed up to take a poetry class, yes, a real class on writing poetry. It’s a GrubStreet offering entitled; 6 Weeks, 6 Poems. A challenging class that will require that I write 6 poems over the 6 week period that will be workshopped in class, either to show I may have a slight sliver of talent or prove me to be a total and incompetent fraud. The class starts in January, after the holiday rush, so in a way I should have plenty of ammunition to write something, then again, in the seasonal rush my mind may just turn into mush. I’ve only been writing, or trying to write, poetry in the past year. My original thought was that poetry would force me to describe a scene or feeling using few words to evoke in the reader a sense of being there, after all, that is what the really great poets are able to accomplish. 

 In the meantime, I will continue to spew out more of my own poetic nonsense and post them onto my blog, exposing them to the light of day. Being a writer, or trying to be a writer, takes a certain amount of courage, to put out one’s creation is like watching your child going to school for the first day. There’s that lump in the throat, the anxiety that maybe you missed something, or said something, or did something that will be dissected like a frog in a high school biology class, messy and incomplete. Yet, here I am, writing away in my own messy, incomplete, and ponderous style hoping that one day all of this writing will make sense