Archive for the ‘Creative Writing’ Category
You
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it’s as if I was trying to see behind me
without turning around
was it something I had passed?
or someone from my past?
maybe someone who had yet to arrive
I expect I could fill in the blanks
the way a mind is prone to do
like what happens with a familiar song
anticipating the next note
even though it might not get played
you don’t see where this is going?
you might want to close the door
there’s a draft
I can feel it blowing
this seems to involve a lot of waiting
where days turn into weeks
and weeks into eventual years
with ongoing periods of restlessness
that speak volumes
making up for other messages
perpetually left unsaid
basically left for dead
like an awkward silence
of the kind that could fill a room
essentially, there is a reason
and I can’t quite grasp it yet
but it keeps coming ‘round
like a season, ‘cept without the usual regrets
a way of doing things
that makes a lot more sense
despite anything else going on around us
a snapshot of a moment in time
maybe one just behind us
fleeting, and completely sublime
but important
in a particular way
filled with sound and exceptional color
saturated and brilliant
like the most vivid of dreams
the kind of dreams that can happen
beyond just wishing they were true
even though they almost never do
unless we finally decide to stop
and turn around
to see if it’s really you
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Sleep Deprived
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crafted
by the last thing I remember
in the microseconds
before I would inevitably forget
there was pure nothing
absolute nothing
which is something
in an unlikely sort of way
rapid deceleration
smiling wryly
in my general direction
placid attitudes
with no reason to be
wordless wonderings
wandering aimlessly
waiting weightlessly
beneath whatever was lying around
dripping delicately
the way vague ideas do
blowing in with little momentum
to fill a void
that never really existed
a transaction of inevitability
forged rather forcefully
from fashionably feasible concepts
intercepted unexpectedly
in the final hours before dawn
when babies are prone to cry
and sleep suddenly goes b’bye
acting in nobody’s better interests
one passing moment at a time
the thing that was never there
disappears rapidly
suddenly filling what was once
only mostly
nothing but thin air
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Paralyzed
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it’s all news to me
unconsciously clenching my teeth
one headline after another
none of them offering good
I have to remind myself to breathe
instead of tensely holding my breath
how long is this going to last
this slow motion slide going sideways
a slippery slope of regression
back to a less developed state
when being rich, white, and male
was why america was great
with a king in imaginary robes
in a kingdom afraid to complain
having seen what happens if you do
bullying Tweet tantrums that ignite
legions of haters happy to take the bait
doing the dirty work unleashing their hate
as the majority stand paralyzed and wait
surely someone will investigate
good people will retaliate
the unfathomable can’t continue to contaminate
will good sense ever again dominate
most of us certainly hope
it won’t end up being too late
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How
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that light
is too bright
especially at this time of night
I can feel my eyes
putting up a fight
with hopes of saving
some small shred of sight
despite the unwelcome fright
of seeing what just might
transpire
I cannot understand
how so many people
would knowingly raise their hand
in support of one particular man
who has demonstrated time and again
so many traits unpleasant
while he repeatedly fanned
flames of hate, fear, and banned
good sense or even
complete sentences of real plans
just a catch phrase or two
bullying braggadocio
rising on the worst
his cultivations rehearsed
to prey on some rabid thirst
void of real love and honesty
what remains is some kind of curse
how?
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Now
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what we don’t know
that waits around the corner
is not there
until we show up
if we do
with our bells on
it is our time
our moment
notes of a song
real
happening like laughter
singing
because timing
that is everything
is actual
like now
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Revisiting Drops
From the Relative Something archives, last night I randomly popped in on March of 2010, from which I have selected a poem for reposting today. With no particular reason in mind, I (re)-present: Dew Drops.
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early today
when it’s hard to decide
whether to stay in bed
or get up instead
and go outside
there is a part of me
that already knows
plan as I might
all the time just goes
somewhere far
away from here
and that one chance I had
up and disappears
like a wispy wet cloud
of dew drops and tears
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.It is possible that my unconscious mind is contemplating the fact that I have a weekend brimming with potential ahead of me, and a simmering trepidation that I might let it slip away without accomplishing much in the way of rewarding results. Or maybe it’s just that I am too tired to think through writing something fresh and new.
I drove George and Anneliese to the airport very early in the morning yesterday, at the expense of a long night’s sleep. Now I’m on my own for the weekend, which could mean I won’t have any distractions and will get a lot done, or it could lead to a loss of motivation that spawns an excessive amount of sloth-ness breaking out.
I feel as though I wouldn’t have any difficulty in framing a few prolonged bouts of sleeping as a much-needed and highly valuable thing to do.
Even as all the time goes and chances to do things up and disappear.
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It’s Silly
It’s silly, I know, but I can’t help thinking maybe somehow that is the secret to what makes it so. Silly, that is. Like a dream that makes sense, only it doesn’t at all. Time gets all mixed up, and the characters, too. How can the ages of people get all misconstrued? Even those who’ve passed on show up, still doing what they do.
Well, there are those who see this as not dreamy at all. It’s actually explainable in their point of view, with time being hardly linear and spirits always present, yet mostly unseen. It is exactly what is happening, like a coupon being redeemed. There for the taking, if we choose to direct our attention in the general direction of effect.
To be aware, or be not. That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler to notice what is there all along, stumbling and rushing through mere air without care, or bumbling along just the same, yet with a certain savoir faire.
It’s energy, is all. An emanating, radiating field of unscientific particle waves. It’s anger or love that flows with abandon in directions intended, or not, at speeds and distances that defy what’s made sense since the time we left caves.
See, feel, and touch all you can possibly reach, then know, like the molecules too small to detect, there is more making contact than we’ll ever be aware, even those who detect what most of us perceive as not being there.
I choose sending love, whenever I can. Forward and back, even through time, just in case it might work. To those whom I know and even more, those I don’t. It would be silly, I think, to believe it a risk. I’m sending love, yes indeed, even while writing all of this.
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Relative Something 