Monthly Archives: December 2017

i checked myself

I would like to have written this.

Sudden Denouement's avatarSudden Denouement Collective

i checked

i have checked myself and seen that i am nothing; 
the bones of poets gone and done 
lay beneath the hills. 
i put on my boots and took my shovel, 
for to disturb them 
would be a lesser crime than to ignore.

i checked myself 
and saw that i was nothing; 
i looked for art 
and saw it slither into bank accounts in dead of night, 
while the dewy brows of poverty’s poets 
tremble in their plight. 

i checked myself
and let myself stand up.
stand up, i said –
stand up, writers! 
stand up for complexity, confusion and colour. 
take your pennies and forget the pied pipers, 
they have led naught but rats.

i saw the riches over realness, 
splendour over solidarity… 
i cried upon my pillow. 
my people, my people!
when the muses so return, tell them why you wrote!

we not one of us free falls –

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This is home

Room full of boxes
still unpacked these ten years
don’t touch my stuff
cat hair infests the air
its filaments float
electrified in the sunrays
will we have them shaved?
clean the furnace filter
shall we save the small carpets that it yields?
nice leather sofa
all shabbiness now
will we outlaw the claws?
violations of perceived personal space
sometimes we snarl, say sorry (sometime)
fumes of flatulence
a Biblical stench in the nostrils
we don’t say sorry
it’s supposed to be funny
separate bedrooms now
she snores so sonorously
I must wear the air mask
Darth Vader, get away she says
she works, I write and play
we go to stores to buy things we do not need
just to have a change
and walk together
we know, I think, everything that can be known
about another person
and we can glean the rest in secret sighs.
This, says an old song,
is the stuff that dreams are made of.

Liebster Award nomination

I am surprised and appreciative to have been nominated for this blogging award by
Ana Daksina of Timeless Classics at  https://timelessclassics.wordpress.com/

She had some questions for me, and so here they are, with the answers:

How long have you been writing?
Less than a year.

What inspires you to write?
Readers who encourage me. Old wounds held inside. Humor found in daily life. Love of expression through poetry. Time to do it, now.

How do you hope your writing will affect your readers?
Give them a smile, a tear, a sense of fellowship. Give a listening ear to others in need.

Which writers have had the greatest influence on your own work?
J.R.R. Tolkien, Margaret Atwood, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Poe. Ursula K. Leguin.

What kinds of experiences have you had with the WordPress writing community?
Very encouraging, and also very concerning (for some who write out of the desperation in their lives)

What are the greatest challenges you face as a creative person in the world?
The battle with self doubt, and those who look upon creative writing as a play for attention.

What are some of your special needs as a writer?
None, really. My needs are fulfilled through the expression of thought, and through my hope to perhaps help some others who are suffering some kind of loss or desperation.

Why do you think people make one another so unhappy so often?
Part of the vicious circle of unhappiness, I think. We have been made unhappy by someone or some emotional trauma from the past, and we unconsciously act it out.

What do you do to make the people around you happy?
Do things for them when I can. Act as a confidant for some who have come to me with their private concerns and stories.

What question do you wish I’d asked here, and what is its answer?
Are the stories you post fact or fiction? Answer: No comment.

Here are some of the bloggers I follow that have made me come back, for many reasons, and whom I would like to nominate for this award:

H. K. Nicholas at  https://myredabyss.com/

https://serendipitiousweblife.wordpress.com/

https://thetemenosjournal.com/

Whistling Far and Wee

https://isabellepan.wordpress.com/

https://emergingfromthedarknight.wordpress.com/

https://captainsspeech.wordpress.com/

https://thepraditachronicles.com/

https://allanesinclair.wordpress.com/

https://projectme1st.wordpress.com/

https://thesilentwaveblog.wordpress.com/

Good fortune to all of you, and here are my questions for you:

1. Have you ever run across a blogger who, based on their writings, seemed to be at risk of self harm? If so, how did you approach it?
2. What are the things that would deter you from reading someone’s blog?
3. If you ever have self doubt about your work, or writer’s block, how do you deal with it?
4. Have you ever taken down a post after having second thoughts?
5. What are the things that have made you do multiple edits before or after publishing a post?
6. Are you smart enough to appreciate some of the puzzling poetry out there, or am I just dull? (Humorous response, please)
7. Do you, or do you not, post stories of a personal nature?
8. Do you, or would you, give your website’s address to a friend or family member?
9. Do you post your work on social media?
10. Do you have a cat? If so, how many?

also, you must follow these guidelines:

ACCEPTING NOMINEES WILL:

1) Create a new post thanking the person who nominated you, provide a link to their blog.
2) Include award graphic.
3) Answer the questions provided.
4) Create a new set of 10 questions for your nominees to answer.
5) Nominate 5-11 upcoming or recently followed bloggers and share your post with them so they see it.

Poetry: Buy, Sell, or Hold – David Lohrey

Sudden Denouement's avatarSudden Denouement Collective


Poetry: Buy, Sell, or Hold?

I sent my new poem to an old friend who replied:
“I know nothing of poetry.”
Another said about the same. “I don’t read the stuff.
Sorry.” It got me to thinking.

Had I sent in a stock tip, they would have rewarded me.
I might have received a bottle of Chablis, maybe even a good one,
had I sent in trading data on Nasdaq or the New York Stock Exchange.
Who would have said, “I’m not into making money.”?

But one comes to learn an awful truth about one’s friends.
Not just their indifference; that’s painful enough.
No. It’s that for them poetry is something akin to masturbation.
They don’t want to hear about it. It’s an embarrassment.

My friends are always buying or selling. If I had produced a tomato,
I’d have been advised to set up a stand on the sidewalk.
The…

View original post 318 more words

For You

what makes a nightmare for you?
says the man who’s been stunted
’cause his whole life he’s been hunted
what makes a nightmare for you?

when cold comfort is all you can find
all the time you must be wary
and the heavy weight you carry
means the devil’s stalking you not far behind
and you may become entangled and entwined

what has your conscience done for you?
when you care for all your brothers
but they give their love to others
what has your conscience done for you?

when those who seek your confidence are few
and the troubled souls who’ve found you
with their sorry hearts surround you
and the burdens that they carry are so true
your conscience is what marries them to you

what is a man like you to do?
when you’ve been through so much sorrow
and you’re swallowing tomorrow
what is a man like you to do?

your spiritual strife will be undone
and your suffering be ended
and your weary heart be mended
when you call upon the mercy of the one

who knows your soul and cries his tears for you
who knows your soul and cries his tears for you

photo credit to:   https://charterforcompassion.org/becoming-compassionate/compassion-accepting-life-as-it-is-without-sorrow-or-emotional-reaction

Ms. Featherhead

I’m late, I’m late
For a very important date
was my thought this morning,
while rushing to pick up last minute things.
Someone said hello from behind.
A woman, who used to be our neighbor.
We’ve known her for thirty years.
She and my wife always talked
when we met in the stores.
They would jabber away beside the bananas,
or something.
Seeming to me to talk
about nothing.
This woman could have won
a rapid fire speaking contest,
as it always seemed her thoughts were tumbling out
as quickly as her tongue could go.
I would hover politely,
or maybe impolitely,
jingling the car keys.
They were two peas in a pod
when it came to the chit chat,
neither one wanting to release the other.
I would wander off and peruse the coffee section,
and so she and I never really had a personal conversation.
Today, she started off with pleasantries, asking about my family.
Something about her look made me lose
the inhibition I had felt about our first conversation in thirty years,
and forget about the false deadlines I had set for myself that day.
I asked after her family, and she became a little downcast.
Lost her husband to the drink.
Not dead, just separated, living in different towns.
She still drives there and takes him to work sometimes.
Drunk driving, no more license.
Their kids, now grown, were two of the quietest people I have known,
almost unnaturally so.  Still are.
She did not go on about her marriage, but instead talked of other events in her life,
and people that had come and gone.
What she was getting across was feelings, not events.
So articulate.  Such an open soul.
She is the first person I have met in a while
That I felt was talking to me.
Not looking for sympathy, just an ear.
Her last name is Weatherhead.
I used to refer to her as Featherhead.
I am so sorry.
Not just for my own ignorance,
but for a missed friendship of all of those years.

Items to check off my list

Read volumes.
Get lost in them.
If you don’t, pass them along as mathoms.

Let a cat keep you company.
It’s the icing on the cake.
If you have no cake, it’s still icing.
Yum.

Walk when you can.
It keeps those Tin Man joints from rusting up.
You might meet the innocent open gaze of a three year old.
People will say Hi, and give a wee smile.

Give what you can of your time.
Especially to children, and those troubled of soul.
Even if you yourself may be such.

Tell someone, somehow, that you love them.
Even if inappropriate.
When words fail, or may be unwise,
Actions will show.

 

 

 

 

Lose the Carnation, please

Should I be ashamed of creating, and of taking a little pride in it? (Cometh before a fall). Of making a poem, a story real or fancied, and putting it out there? (Don’t do it on Facebook, you’re seeking attention. Yes, I am.  Look, I have done this.  Is it not better than looking at pictures of my breakfast or my cat, or endless political flame wars?)

Of being in a musical ensemble, wanting to sing, be heard, create songs, but being called out for performing? (We prefer a singalong, so don’t take center stage).

Why do painters paint? (Rhetorical)

When I see someone else’s beautiful work, I am sometimes at a complete loss as to how to show my love and appreciation of it, lest I appear clumsy or redundant or high-handed.  (Note to self: if you like something, don’t read the comments, just go for broke.)

(Another note to self:  false modesty is sickening.  If someone gives you public praise, just smile)

Once, I was at a wedding reception, dressed to the nines, with a carnation (I think) pinned to my lapel.  I was the best man, and had a prepared speech about the groom.  Afterward, our band played off and on for the evening.  Someone came up to me, looked at my flower, and said something that cut to the quick, and therefore perhaps has some truth:  “You should be wearing the Narcissus”.

A Blessed Bench Of Boredom

This post spoke straight to me, and evoked the islands we sometimes need to be.
By Paula B. at https://thetemenosjournal.com/author/thetemenosjournal/

paulaB's avatarby PaulaB

Some days I sit here, after scrolling through the multitude of things that flash by and find myself drifting off and staring at this framed print I’ve had for years. Noticing the details of the flowers, the way that one flower in the lower right-hand corner looks like it’s dancing. How the artist used the blank spaces, how the alabaster type vases are different, and how with the strokes of light and dark I can almost imagine their weight in my hand. Can almost imagine the room they are in, with light streaming in through an open window, perhaps in the morning, or late in the afternoon. The wall behind with its rustic wash of plaster could be a room within some ancient dwelling, far away, such as an Italian Villa, or a Parisian apartment.

The last couple months I have wandered about, picking at the fringes, ran my eyes…

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