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

The Year

I posted this one on Tumbler as I was able to actually write it in stanzas on that medium, rather than in my usual way on WordPress. Seems that copying and pasting from Apple Pages only lets me do it one way. As for myself, I’m still trying to get a hang of this poetry thing, trying to find the words that express what I see and feel. Being a novice, I know that I don’t write classic poetry but I feel that it’s better to at least try and write something, rather than hide in a darkened space allowing my creativity to fade away and die. Does this make any sense? Oh well, enjoy this latest as I continue on this journey of self discovery.

The year is slipping away

faster than ever before

or so it seems,

as I press on forward

into the featureless landscape

that lays out before my eyes.

I seek to find

in poetry and song

that muse 

instead I hear machines

crunching on the bones

of was once a dream.

Peace and love

we sang and danced

filled with hope

now a darkness pervades

truth is buried

under the dark soil

its funeral going unnoticed

as we carry our spades

to throw more detritus

of our failed lives onto the pyre.

Underneath our soles

the ground is moving

carrying us ever forward

relentlessly.

Truth may be buried

yet death cannot hold

that which is light

as it slips between the cracks

breaking down barriers

seeking to divide.

Trying

Trying to write poetry

requires that I dig, deep.

Deeper than ever

to find the right words

to make clear metaphors

setting my feelings free.

To look at the world

and see inner beauty

even in the grime

that coats everything

with a dirty film

obscuring the truth.

Poetry, is hard

for one not so smart

whose inner world

is a littered landscape.

Trying to piece together

these little bits and parts

a jigsaw puzzle of memory

twisted by life’s tornados.

Am I making sense

in these words I write

or is this all a jumble

of mismatched thoughts?