True Blue

Been a few days since I've posted anything, so I thought perhaps it was time to share something new.  I wrote this poem as I lay sprawled out across the floor in my bedroom trying to work on a different poem.  It wasn't really coming to me, though, so I just started writing what was happening in my head.  It was sort of a brief exploration of my writer's block.

Like it?  Don't like it?  Let me know below!  If you find that you DID enjoy it, I'd love it if you'd share it with your pals.


True Blue


Two hundred and six pounds of mushy me
Lay across this too-blue-to-be-true-blue carpet,
Ankles crossed, large head resting on the pinched vein
Of a restless elbow that feels like buzzing.
The hair croaks “chaos” in a turbulent mess
Of chestnut flames that dance with every breath as these
Graphite words trace the flight of a moth too close to my cowlick,
Then, a mutinous elbow, and with a crash this face falls
Into the blue with a kiss of indifference.

An old wintertime housefly of ideas
Drones lifelessly, until
Thunk.
Sunlight vanishes as it pours through the site of the crash.
Now rouses a two hundred and six pound entomologist,
An insect coroner intent on autopsy
But an intertangled beard keeps his face pinned to the floor.




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Nostalgia

Having been home from my adventure for a while I've really started to miss it.  Waking up and knowing that I was going to do something new and see a place I've never seen was really invigorating.  Now I'm back home and, though I managed to maintain an interesting version of my life for a while, I'll very soon be slipping into a different pattern.  I'll wake up and go to a place I've been before and I'll do things that I've done before.

I'm not totally sure I really know what anxiety is, but I may be experiencing it.  For me, there's a serious discontent which arises in knowing that large portions of my life will be familiar.  I wrote this poem during such a time of discontent.

If you like this poem, I'd love it if you'd leave a comment or share it by way of Facebook, Google+, etc.


Nostalgia


It’s been three months since my friends and I have seen our homes,
Though hundreds of photographs have made their way back to our families,
Those voyeurs who peer at us through the keyhole lens of my 35 millimeter.
Our endlessly smiling faces have become the prisoners of a future scrapbook,
Tapping a tin cup against the bars lining every negative.
My memory is still fresh,
But like a patrolling warden,
I’m looking through them now,
And I hate what I see.
A well-timed pose at a sign near the border,
Another perfectly impossible grin.
These heaps of manipulated memories laugh at me from behind the bars,
Because they’ve known what I now do:
Manufacturing an experience is like framing the accused,
While the memories worth keeping are all on the lam.


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Rain

Sometimes when I'm feeling like my life is becoming too complicated or stressful or compromised, I go for walks.  I don't need to go very far, I just need to hear the wind and the leaves and maybe some water and I'm revitalized!  One day during my walk I got caught out in the rain and decided to just sit and enjoy it.  I like when it rains, like I feel most people do on one level or another, and I wrote this poem as I reflected on it.

As usual, I'm going to shame myself by asking for responses from anyone who encounters this poem, whether they find it enjoyable or otherwise.  Below there are several check-boxes and I ask you to check whatever one most befits your attitude after reading.  If you have questions or comments, feel free to make them below, and if you'd go so far as to say that you LIKE this poem, I'd appreciate it if you'd share it on Facebook or Google+!

"Rain"

Who first claimed weather was the cause of ruin

And shuddered at these falling globs

Ignoring all irony in what they were doing

As they bemoaned their luck in heaving sobs?

Instead, such a preference for the boastful sun,

The eternal burner and giver of light,

Ignoring millions of droplets that act as one,

And are equally significant to the tree of life.

Despite having all the heavens as their source,

Those clear, cleansing waters are humble,

Quenching and flowing and washing with force,

They never are proud nor falter nor stumble.

It is only a fool who could dislike the rain,

Choosing exclusively to favor the sun,

As a wise man would realize both are the same,

For enjoying this life and for having some fun.

To all of those for whom my words are unheard,

I wish I could share what it is I have gained,

How much I have grown, developed, matured,

While learning and loving each time that it rained.

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Good Intentions

I can largely sum up my life in the things I've never done.  Some of those things are grand or impossible or are expected to remain undone.  Other things are the stuff of my promises.  They are the chores I really thought that I would remember to do or the hobbies I truly intended to pursue.  Those who know me can name plenty of things, if they put their minds to it, that I said I would do in a moment of strength and that slipped into the part of the world exists outside of my routine.  This is a poem about those things.

I hope anyone who reads this will take the time to comment on it in some fashion.  I don't necessarily want praise, I'll take criticisms (or Facebook / Google+ shares) just as readily.  It's nice to know that people are looking at all!  Well, without further ado, Good Intentions:


This is a poem about good intentions,
About the thank-you notes which clutter my drawer,
And keep me from finding the calligraphy pen which writes so nicely,
The pen I meant to give to my sister.
It’s about the good china sitting in its cabinet,
Dustily waiting for the dinner party I’ll throw one day,
And my bible, tucked quietly on a cluttered shelf of paperbacks.
This poem is not about the sweatpants in my bedroom,
But about the treadmill upon which they drape.
It’s about the unopened envelopes from charities,
To which I’ll write a check some payday, and
The keys I dropped on the table near the door,
Below the key hook I thought would keep things neat,
But that sits as bare as the sketchpads under my bed.
It’s a poem about the rhyme scheme that somehow isn’t here,
The presidential debate I recorded and never watched,
That was going to reveal the candidates for whom I never voted.
I heard once that Anne Frank believed people are really good at heart,
But as I toss another unpaid bill into my otherwise empty fruit bowl,
I can’t help but think that just isn’t good enough.

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Manatee Marina

We’ve been standing on the docks of the marina for a while now,
Hoping to see the manatees that were promised to us,
Though we’ve been luckless thus far.
Occasionally, we stir as the water swirls mysteriously,
And giant pockets of air rise to the surface with a comical blub.
Yet still there are no manatees,
Nor any other signs which give us hope,
And so we’re forced to watch these bubbles of exhaled air,
Our only proof of the large lungs below.
Several times we have left our stagnant dock,
Running toward some other, more promising spot,
Some spot, my companions decide, where we would breach,
You know, if we three were manatees.

Many times we move about the docks,
Our heels beating repeatedly on the wood,
A siren’s call to the unimpressed sea cows below,
Until, manatee ho!, a beefy creature breaks the surface.
It is with toothy smiles we greeted the blubbery beast,
And with whimpers of adoration that we welcomed its calf,
That chunky, floppy-lipped baby.
Several, then, appeared in succession,
First as ominous red ovals, like drops of my blood,
Before gradually obtaining definition,
And breaching the calm waters.
Gleefully we snap photos with the camera,
An aid for our forgetful minds,
Remarking to one another how lucky we are.
How blessed to have this man-made alcove,
A sanctuary where we can view this herd of endangered beasts.

The largest surfaces now, his size a testament to his age and wisdom.
He moves slowly with the patience of an old-timer who’s seen too much,
And his mood implies he’s only surfaced for an obligatory breath,
Before returning to the invisible depths below this wood.
As he begins his descent, which is less diving than sinking,
He shows us his scars, shaped like our smiles,
And I consider my words,
“How lucky we are.”

Text Poetry Translation

In a linguistics class I took as a student at Penn State: Brandywine, we had an entire unit about text-messaging and the impacts it is having upon the English language.  We were challenged to engage in some of the resulting literary art forms, most popular of which had been Texting Poetry.  Below is the translation of a poem I posted to my Facebook page.

Happy New Year!

One more year has ended

One more to start anew

I’m glad your family is good and well

and that mine is too.

May joy and prosperity

mark this trip around the sun

Once again and again and again for always

until our lives are done.

As always, I invite questions, criticisms, and compliments below. In fact, I'll even accept comments that simply let me know you were here! (I am trying to find out how many people are actually visiting). Within the next few days I'll add another poem inspired by my time in Florida.

Burly Men

While I was on the road trip that I briefly mentioned in my last post, we managed to get down into Florida for several days.  Luckily, we were able to get to the Everglades National Park, Miami Beach, and Key West.  I've decided to share some of my poetry from our time down that way.  These poems are longer than the two short ones I posted about Southern California, so I won't post them all together.  I welcome most compliments and all critiques so don't be shy about speaking your opinion--in fact, I'd greatly appreciate it.  If you find anything here to be enjoyable, I'd love it if you'd share it with your friends, either by copy+pasting it, or simply by "liking" it below!

This poem I don't believe I am yet totally satisfied with.  There are some areas I would like to improve, but I've decided to shelve my insecurities about it and share it nonetheless.


BURLY MEN
It is with the greatest of confidences
That I walk down these elevated footpaths,
And peer down into the slow-moving water below.
I think I could erect a similar structure,
Perhaps something that will wrap around my kitchen,
And my bathroom to showcase my flowers,
In the garden to which I tend every summer.
Surely it’s no difficult feat of engineering,
Lining wooden planks four feet high,
But I am sure it was a callous-handed professional,
Long-learned in the art of carpentry,
Who designed and installed these sturdy beams.
A burly man perhaps, who takes all comers,
Makes vigorous love and has never cried.
Assisting him, I’m sure, would be others,
More lumberjack types, hairy-chested
Fans of meat and sport who can handle their liquor,
Which they never put on ice to chill.
I’m not a man like those, I regret.
Just an hour ago I cried, thanks to a song on the radio.
I sobbed a little, like their wives may have done,
Upon learning the nature of the work.
“You’ll be killed!,” one may have protested,
Afraid of boxing up her husband like the liverwurst sandwiches
She made for him today, and always.
No, I’m not cut out for saltwater carpentry,
With those manly professionals,
Waist high in waters which are not yet the Atlantic,
Where crocodiles have crooked smiles, and
Bathe patiently as if to say,
“Come on in, the water’s warm,”
Even though it’s clearly not.

2 Short Poems

During the Autumn my girlfriend, my best friend, and I took a pretty amazing trip.  We left our jobs, brought all our savings, and hit the road.  Driving over 13,000 miles, through 28 states, and stopping in ten major cities and nearly a dozen national parks, we got to see ninety days' worth of the country.  Surely, I can admit that there is a lot left to be seen (and we plan on it!) but, nonetheless, we had a pleasurable and inspiring adventure.  While most of our favorite pictures and a decent amount of trip recall can be found on the blog we kept (at www.littlebrainbighead.tumblr.com), I have all sorts of stuff which has not been shared anywhere.  


Below are two poems inspired by our time in the Los Angeles area.  The latter is a haikuk depending on how loosely you define such things.


GRIDLOCK 
A bright new day in the city of smog,
But still, I find it hard not to sigh.
As after my shift I'm back in the car,
For another five o’clock five-lane gridlock,
And a scratchy throat as I cough and cough...


CONTRARIAN
Sunny, mid-90s
SoCal attracts the world, but
I just like the fish.