I.

It’s funny how we begrudge certain things that we inherit from our parents. Hair too curly? Thanks, dad. Butt too big? Too skinny? Thanks a lot, mom. And what about the things you can’t see? The tiniest bit insecure? Or perhaps a corny sense of humor? That can’t be my fault, huh? It must have been mom or dad or, more likely, both. Thanks again.

I bring this up only because of something I inherited from my father. He passed away almost eleven years ago but it wasn’t until about two years ago that I discovered a yellowed old spiral composition book in a drawer. (Anyone else remember Blue Horse Composition Books?) Much to my surprise, it was filled with some of the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever read. What didn’t surprise me was that his writing is almost undecipherable. None of the poems are titled- just page after page of scribbled emotion- to the point that it’s sometimes hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.

I showed it to my mother and she held onto it for a week or so. Then she gave it back to me saying that she’d seen it only once before. When she saw that I was having trouble processing that information, she ended the conversation with “Even in marriage, especially in marriage, people need at least one thing that’s theirs and only theirs.”

Well dad, I’m sorry. You’re still loved and missed. Your wishes are still respected but your words are too beautiful not to share. You understand, right?

Anyway, thanks dad.

I.

If I could wade among the stars

And feel their tingling

About my knees,

Could I but draw the drapes of night

into a dawn of golden seas

Would I find you

bathed in starlight

Waiting- perhaps for me?

Still Here

Hello, my beloved readers. If this is your first visit to my humble blog, I extend my hardiest “Welcome!”

And to my returning guests, you have no idea how much I appreciate each of you. Knowing that there are those who care about my stories, poetry and musings brings me more satisfaction than I ever thought possible.

I realize that I’ve not posted in a while, almost two weeks, and for that I apologize. I write this post to thank you for your patience and explain what I’ve been doing. No, I’ve not run out of ideas- so many flood my mind that at times they’re difficult to capture. There are two reasons for my recent silence.

First, one my stories has grown, or morphed perhaps, into a novel. It is a project has alternately obsessed and frustrated me for the past three months. I have been fortunate enough to discover both a support group and amazingly talented writing coach that have provided the critique and encouragement that I so desperately need. The group is called PenPaperWrite. It’s run by the aforementioned “amazingly talented” person, Ms.Christina N. Ranallo. If you have the slightest inkling of interest in writing, I urge you to follow the link below. If you’re local to the Atlanta, GA area, come to a meeting. If you’re too far away, say in Pakistan maybe, you’ll find some good tips and exercises to help hone your writing skills.

Second, I’ve recently become involved in the start up of a new business endeavor. I won’t go into detail, but it is terribly exciting and it too obsesses and frustrates me. I will only say that it will allow me to further explore the limitless world of the written word.

SO, I’ve been very busy on very positive things.

            BUT, I intend to maintain the commitment I made when I started this blog- to provide whatever entertainment or escape I can to those of you who are gracious enough to donate some of your time to me.   

Thank you and here's the link:http://penpaperwrite.com/

Me Myself

I start myself.
I stop myself.

I’m not myself.

I find myself.

I lose myself.

I’m not myself.

I catch myself.

I throw myself.

I’m not myself.

I begin myself.

I end myself.

I’m not myself,

Just not myself.

Photo courtesy of http://www.red-letterimaging.com/

This guy's really good!



Quiet Wars (Part 3)

            So, trusting each other to expect more from themselves, each lead lives of the suffocating silence that liberated them.

            His solitude was real and almost complete as he went through the motions of life.  He ate, showered, mowed the lawn and read in the company of only his dog, Dave.

            Her solitude was much more select and stole in at times when her husband was out or sleeping and the responsibilities of running a household were discharged.  These moments came and she was as alone as him or anyone.  Perhaps more so because the lonely moments were so arbitrary and she was so unprepared.  She knew a full and wonderful life that was somehow still not complete.  Why else would the silence become so loud so suddenly?  Why could she never see it coming?

            They’d both been through the whole thirty-something, “Who am I and how did I get here and is this who I want to be when I grow up?” thing.  He’d pretty much ignored it because life was a party then.  Money and booze and women came and went faster than he could have ever kept up with even if he’d cared.  Every so often he’d get bored and that discontent would try to settle in.  But back then he thought that there was nothing in the world that another beer and another random woman didn’t fix.   

            But her?  She’d struggled mightily, wallowing in the hole in her life’s meaning.  Eventually, banged up and muddy and bloody with doubt, she’d focused on the “important” things- faith, family, career- and pulled herself back from the depths with a resolve that only occasionally felt like resignation.  But lately faith had failed her, family was faltering and career had turned into a game played by those with too much to prove.  Still, however, the laser focus on being who she’d decided to be remained the source of her calm intensity.  She was only vaguely aware that she’d assumed this air of not quite grim determination. 

Somewhere Between

I raise you up, and build high for you, for me,

            a private pedestal.

I raise you up and am bewildered

                        by your shimmering symmetry.

            Too much comes from you,

                        emergent Mediterranean muse.

                        You sear to scar what

                        no longer lies hidden.

            My child mind that knew not need

                        never again will roam, run in spring slick grass,

                        or float slow streams or lie lazy in fields

                        to see rabbits or robins form from fat cloud clusters.

I raise you up and subtly you slay the boy within,

            the one without want.   

I drag you down and born is

            a man, a man that sees

                        not your sea or stars or daunting dark dawn.

I drag you down and my vile eye

            catches an olive sigh of skin caressed curve.

I drag you down and bare your dusky body beneath me,

            devouring you with sweat and saliva and clawing want,

            seizing your siren’s soft center of my sin.

I drag you down, feed my need,

            And linger lost,

                        knowing nothing

                        but this newborn beastly being.

I live for you, my captor queen,

            I lust for you, my moaning whore,

I live inside a world between,

            That leaves me dreams of so much more.