"You're free
to be
as creative as you are;
or so they say.
Yet.
Every time,
the artist guided,
unwarranted.
Unnecessary.
Why is the artist
so restricted?
IS it concious?
Do those who commission
Art
know they can be stifling it?
Or,
is it a lack of trust?
Not enough of it
to go around, knows
the budding artist
with lack of portfolio.
No trust
goes to those
with no reference.
So often are we told
we are free,
when we are not.
Their own opinion
trusted first,
unintentional or not,
before the artist,
the one who creates.
When one asks another
to create,
to stifle the flame
is to put it out completely.
Trust is a must,
we must learn to
give our hearts and minds
and souls
to others
to mold.
And that's the hardest thing to do."
"No excuse,
but the metal has rusted.
An unkept armory.
Barrels with red,
triggers peppered orange.
Springs stuck,
pins, unmoving.
Bores obstructed.
The whole weapon set
useless,
to the trained eye.
But
a gun is still a gun,
the potential it has
to kill,
ever present.
Rusty or not,
it is still recognizable,
months of no use
not enough to erase
the sizable impression
of the shape,
the indication
of the handgun, long gun.
The task looming,
Armorer,
keys in hand,
sighing.
Unlocking
the cages,
duty tumblers turning,
locks coming free.
So long,
had it beem
since maintenance
had been laid
where it belong.
The familiar metal
began to fill hands,
twist, turn,
rifles broke down,
pistols slid apart.
Rusty was the
mind,
as were the firemans,
but both began
to be broken
free.
Rag, brush,
break-away sprayed,
assemblies oiled.
Pieces began to click,
operate smoothly,
unlike language,
where lack of use
means disappearance,
past tense
isn't the demise
of functionality of things,
like bike riding.
or an armory.
The Armorer will be busy,
it may take some time.
But he will pass inspection.
With work,
with determination,
desire
and time.
It takes time
for things to rust.
It takes time
to fix such a lack of use.
The best solution
isn't busting rust,
but daily use,
rather."
"First, he says,
first and foremost,
the cub has it's roar,
or did I mean Lion?
He tells me,
performs for me,
the vivid imagery
of the courage and strength,
trying to give unto another.
No script, no paper,
off memory, his poetry
is in his heart,
and apart from my written word,
wow, can i perforn like
the one singing bump and grind?
Well, I most definitely have
not the voice.
But,
the artist has instead
his art in his soul,
and no pen or pad
or book in hand, man,
this man has it.
So does She
giving me sweet epiphany,
alliteration and onomatopoeia,
hyperbole, dreams of red velvet,
a memory of perhaps
succulent treat,
and after a beat,
another artist approaches,
such powerful words.
All of them,
potential no longer blocked,
mind unlocked,
her voice giving me thoughts.
I am home,
I am surrounded by poets,
artists, lovers, dreamers,
those who have suffered
more than I,
hearing some of the pleas.
It would indeed be
enriching, more imbued positivity.
And perhaps comical
as I watch one poet
almost run over another
on trip to couch.
I grin, laughed,
laughed more when asked
to rurn to page 24.
Hands, the color red,
subjects being poured about
by all these great writers.
Such emotion,
they read,
I listen.
Tonight isn't about me,
this is about them,
and I am humbled again.
Tonight is about you,
and you, and all of you
who pour their soul,
so vulnerable.
Lessons, being preached to me,
wise words, being brushed
across my canvas,
their paint so vibrant.
Their pain so real,
like my own.
What I strive to do,
being done unto me.
They want to write,
they make me want to
write, right now.
Never stop writing,
requesting got returned keys,
being alive.
Poetry has kept me alive.
You, artists, breathe into me...
life."
"Feel it,
the sensation of breathing,
with a new friend.
Not
the addition,
but the release of a union
of muscle and sinew,
effort
cast to the side.
The breath
enjoyed
with the support
of the floor.
The ground,
the dirt below,
thinking now
of feeling the green grass
in between your toes,
the Earth,
our Earth.
Nay, she is not ours,
we are instead Hers.
Your breath...
given strength by Mother Earth.
Do you feel it?
The ebb of the Earth,
the beat,
the ancient, encompassing embrace.
Do you feel the flow
of the Ocean,
the breath of Mother Earth
made manifest?
Do you feel the presece
of the energy,
in this room,
right now?
The energy that is still,
the energy that links us,
neighbor to neighbor,
the energy of the mightiest wave
crashing onto the shore,
the wrath of the surf
felt as fury by the surfer
that Hell hath no.
The energy of the exhausted canine
resting finally on couch
with the child who so tenderly
ran it tired.
The energy when Autumn comes
when you're not quite done
kissing Summer
goodbye.
Do you feel the breath?
Do you feel your mind
spiraling all over this
whirl of whimisical words?
Do you feel the heart?
Your heart?
My heart?
The flow of energy
of the one to your left
or right?
Us all, limited not
to labels
or categories,
not by old, young,
American, skin tone,
the foolish boy or the sweet lady.
Try Human,
Homo Sapien,
try Earthling,
giggling practitioner about spirit fingers.
But,
you know what?
I do not
need to instruct,
because I feel it.
I feel you.
I feel joy,
stress, searing pain,
us joining as a whole
with our Om.
So beautiful,
you people.
This is it.
This is you, this is me.
This is Mother Earth.
I feel it.
And maybe you do too."
"Tragic,
tragedy can be,
with repeating sounds of words,
or screams and cries;
pain is a universal language.
Everyone knows it,
this I believe.
But,
even then, there's plenty
of discontent for which has and has not
been felt,
as though suffering is to be measured.
I've seen it, you have, too,
the pain of the neighborhood,
tires slashed throughout,
just another siren,
crying,
at my end of the city.
Such a pity, and then
the loud clash
of the car crash,
one having smashed into the other,
and in this moment of pain,
this tragedy,
comes unity,
Humanity.
The unprovoked question
of the desire of assistance,
the rush to the scene
seen by me
of the people who live on this block,
calming the sobbing mother,
bringing the young ones out from the cold,
the old man sweeping the broken glass,
no police having arrived yet.
Yet, nothing but pain
bringing us together,
celebrating that everyone is okay.
Silver lining,
pain unites,
every little thing
is going to be all right,
the radio said so."
"Again,
again, it's been so long,
yet the feeling still runs
deep inside.
As though not a second
separated this and the last,
my heart racing
my fingers fluttering.
To spin a tale,
weave a rhyme,
picking up a rhythm
lost to time.
The reason?
Inconsequential,
or unimportant,
rather.
It's been so long,
it seems,
but currently at ease
letting flow out
what some call the soul,
others call just words,
or poetry.
The goal
in the end is to spark a flame,
light up a mind
with imagery.
Personified,
the thousand miles
traveled,
just to have another light
come into my life.
Again,
the slow boil of the machine
turning over to toil
and burn and smoke
and chug along the engine
of mine,
the mind
that writes.
Taking corners too fast,
imagery still spinning
left and right,
picking up speed
and becoming a runaway,
such mass and inertia
turning energy
into nothing less than unstoppable.
To write again,
to sing, or dance,
to do what you have done
because it is who you are,
it's every fiber of your body,
every sliver of your soul...
is intoxicating,
gratifying.
It's heaven,
absolute heaven.
When you're below the beloved Ocean
of Life,
it's waves and currents
holding you underneath.
That moment you see the surface,
the ballet above
of the light dancing
and beckoning you up for air.
That moment you swim up,
the sun becoming brighter as you draw closer,
the cold water becoming clear,
you're so near,
the warmth of the top
felt through,
but you're not quite there yet.
Swim!
Swim harder,
reach for the surface,
because that exact moment
you burst through,
inhaling that open,
sweet, succulent air
of inspiration...
filling lungs, body,
mind and soul...
it is
absolute heaven;
to be inspired again. Gorgeous."
"This is it,
the last time.
Not my last time,
for there will be many more,
but before I go,
take a second.
Or two.
As though leaving a humble abode
for the last time.
Or realistically,
one to be proud of,
one no need for humility.
A tendency to be crass,
the one-stop coffeeshop
that was the first building
foot stepped in,
the exact final destination
of a journey
across from
one Ocean to the next.
First impressions,
wild differences between
vernacular and tone,
'shaka brah',
and an immediate inquiry
as to where the hell
I come from.
Brash,
but immediately warm
the very first contact
turned out to be,
only to observe
more than a year of stumbles,
pieces scribbled,
baristas in and out,
one to be a brother
calling this location
headquarters,
locomotives blaring by
in a flash of red
everyday.
Bicentennial
the count not of years,
but of poetic conveyance,
written in the soft glow
of this shop,
this shop the subject
times so often giving
detail to who,
what, where,
and how that one girl,
that one time,
smelt as she walked by.
Edited,
the time spent
since the Spring,
but some things never change,
and that's how at home
I feel in this booth.
Bottoms up,
here's to you,
one last brew,
one last time.
No more lines
to be written
here,
skate to the next place,
though it won't be the same."
"So hot headed,
but heavy is the hand
that is kept from raising.
Which,
being how soft
the surface below
it would fall upon,
it is al and well
no hand was raised,
indeed,
but there is no praise
for such common sense.
Uncommon men
and situations
make for comics
and comical accusations,
life's a joke
so sometimes I laugh at it,
but this time around
I keep frowning.
So here it is,
laid on the table
the meal made,
with much forethought.
And in the end,
all it causes is heat,
feet stomping,
no use for a cooler,
all around fire is sprayed
and it keeps trying
to catch,
skin not lit.
Whatever the reason,
be it power or to tower above,
stepping in increases rage,
decreases range.
Within striking distance,
add more fuel to the fire
burning deep inside,
taught to never lay a finger
on the fairer sex,
but the moment tests all control,
reveal, resist,
total consequence in the rearview.
SLew of words,
which hold meaning
spoken out of love or anger,
babble dipping into ears
is all tuned out;
been inside my head for hours
already.
So you go,
but not before raising your own hand,
no pain felt with the blow,
no weight to it.
But damned if the point isn't realized,
asked to leave
only to come once I'm gone,
leaving my abode vandalized.
How dissapointing.
An anger so roasting
kept cool with a conversation
with a friend,
longboarder, car hoarder,
keeps one in check
before diving into a bitter
back-and-forth.
The bitter look
thrown with an intense glare
with one more pass,
feeling sick to the stomach,
but if one wants,
just ask.
I can be more specific.
Penurious of kindness,
parsimonious of respect."
"The coffee shop,
where in the middle of the block,
it had started;
where they met.
Their headquarters,
where they rested
over iced drinks
after a long skate.
Old friends,
young men,
two, not the same blood
or kin
shake hands
and embrace the others grin,
a tight squeeze
given to each.
Brothers,
such a tight bond
with so little time,
sealed the deal
of interlocking
storylines,
adventures and shared
scrapes.
Escaping near death,
falling off boards onto wrists,
downhill descent
screaming past parked cars,
wherein that itself
is a rare occurance
when once was daily.
Temperature varied,
as did the places they'd
hunker down,
sweating,
stopping to have a drink.
Seperated by little,
attached at the hip,
it seemed. Until
life happened,
having sent the older
away for summmer,
the younger away for the rest,
testing himself and his brain.
Drumming away,
marching on by,
the two had lives
blur on by,
spiraling in different directions,
story arcs and sidequests,
conquests coloring the night,
but by and by,
when guest apperances
would transpire,
everything dropped
to meet one another,
the bond was made stronger
with the short time
it had to cure.
Not to say
neither were lost,
but both stepped in confidence.
Always looking ahead,
but once they were together,
unspoken,
to each love was gave.
Brotherly love,
concrete waves."