Visions of Yester-Year

Photo by: Sean McCormick.

 

We laid the foundation of our hearts

And spread beneath an open sky

Where neither walls nor whims

Knew limitation to licentious surrealism;

The clouds, like little rabbits framed

Running through the soul,

Stood as libation

In silent spring.

 

Weeds rack the roots,

No resurgence in the recalcitrant puberty,

Midst rustled horses and wrangled roses,

What saw us raise our heads to dream;

The foundation remains, regal rock

Walking beneath the sunlight

Where crumbled walls cracked

To visions of yester-year.

* My submission to part two of a special edition the One Shoot Sunday Photo Prompt, with that breathtaking frame shot provided by one Sean McCormick, a Canadian Photographer that is the focus of my latest interviews for One Stop. Great guy, with some truly stunning nature photography…it absolutely breathes with life, history, and all the shadows of memories gone before. Have a look when you get the chance, and check out all the other poets inspired by the prompt!

This Plane’s Going Down…

Little bird let fly

Don’t you dare lie

Beside me in the grave,

I dug this cave

For me and not no other,

Smothered myself and fled my brothers;

Enslaved, if you will,

I know it’s no Seville,

But it’s my soul at the reckon,

And that wreckin’s beckoned,

And try as I might,

I’m dying of fright

Of life and of you,

Engrained on me as a stinging tattoo.

Won’t do us no good to wonder,

Tip our heads to call the thunder;

I’m already killin’ myself slowly,

Me, wholly unholy

And I’ll not see you follow me whereby

Your own bitter end supply.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well–they’re a skilled bunch of poets, with a strong and supportive community.  Enjoy!

I Still Have a Voice

Just because I cannot hear

Does not mean I have no voice.

My hands are my words

Flowing out like rivers

And these eyes,

They see

Though you look at me as a man blind—

Blind enough to see

Your hands in motion

Signing off my rights

Signing off the hope

That brought me here today.

I am not silent

But you silence me

Bury me in paperwork

Another numerical nonentity

Less a face than a dollar sign—

Black ink rain down

And you break my world

With a pen for a sword—

How can you look at us this way

Hear our pleas, hear our cries

And still sit, as statues

Unmoved, unbroken

Drowning us

With care.

This Wednesday’s post has several dedications. It is first and foremost dedicated to the Deaf Education and American Sign Language students at MSU, who this year, as part of budget cuts, had their programs completely cut from the academia here. I also dedicate this to the deaf community at large, who all have felt the pain of this loss. Eastern Michigan University is the only other University in Michigan to offer such programs to the community.

As usual, it is also for the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays–once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!

Photos by myself, Chris Galford, from the final MSU Board of Trustees meeting last school year. The alphabet presented below is the alphabet of American Sign Language–a language certain board members previously claimed was “not a real language.”

So You Want to Be a Writer

Today’s quote of the week brings us to a poem, regarding the aspirations of the creative. “So You Want to Be a Writer” is a poem by Charles Bukowski, and it may not rhyme, but it is an eloquent description of the pitfalls of many calling themselves writers, and of the things you need to rightly call yourself one:

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

~Charles Bukowski

Blackest Blood

Black blood breathe

beneath the rocky deep

burn bright and high

waves broil, frothing

into the flames of your passing

but the gold-toothed smile

burns brighter still.

Sizzle, sizzle, boil and bubble

worlds part before

the tremble of your passing–

send tremors to the core

of all the staunchest hearts

come hell or high water

There will be Blood.

Wounds fester

like blisters burst

your fevered pitch defies

the madness of their dreams–

the sky and the sea weep black tears

and all are consumed–

come Death or Life.