Saturday, April 19, 2008

A separate space

So, I’ve felt conflicted about writing extensively on the blog that’s linked to my website. It’s mainly a place to display my recent photography work, and posting some of my poems and musings just didn’t seem like a good idea. That’s why I now have a separate blog for my writing. Since I completed my creative writing class Thursday night I’ll start with a couple of poems I wrote recently.
And from there?
Who knows?

The Secret
I am the air of success
oxygen deluxe
a card-carrying marvel.
I’m richer
and dead.

I am the king of the suburban
caste system
one leg brashly climbing
over another;
the haves and the have-nots shimmying
up ladders
elbowing past others
bragging and shoving
parading money (or kids) down
the runway
like a taped-up
beauty pageant contestant who is certain
to win.

I am a best seller
an epic
whom everyone has read
a fiction account
of how you wish your life
could be.

I’m a number one hit
a catchy tune
that everyone’s humming.
I am the flying colors
That everyone passes with.

I am a grand slam
the winning point.
I am the 10th inning
of a nail-biting game
and you
are on the edge of your seat.

I am Easy Street
a long lane of luxury
you wish you had the money
and the guts
to stroll down.

Are you an art dealer?
A PhD?
Don’t bother applying
if you don’t have the credentials.
You may stand outside, though
gazing from afar,
marveling at the power
I brandish
like a make-believe musket.

Nostrils flared
chin raised
eyes narrowed and set
I picked my team.
I have posted the list
on the locker room door
and your name is nowhere
to be found.

The brushes
swirl and twirl
turn and churn
blotting our lives in strokes
impossible to understand.
Some are stout and bold
others wispy, like a single strand
of hair swept up
in a capricious wind.
It’s a gradual becoming,
light and color melding
in hues of deep sorrow
unimaginable joy
in an extraordinary blast
of splendor.
Every canvas has a jagged edge
a crown to wear
a cross to bear
a hungry hope that we do matter
after all.
These lines can’t be traced
sloppy patches of indigo and auburn
striking the page
like a hammer pounds a nail
like a whisper
that rolls softly
into your ear.

Sometimes it’s a thick mess
a story with no rhyme or reason
mostly treason.
It’s a debit card that
allows you passage
to whatever is next
toward whatever is behind the wood and cloth
the great mystery of disarmed time.
We are incandescent flies
buzzing around the earth
looking for ointment to land in
somewhere we can make our mark
exchanging our days
for a chance
one opportunity
to take our place in the sun
and beat down
on this terrestrial template.
What is your plate
your matrix
the imprint of you
the world needs to see?
How many will be signed and numbered
before you take your place
in the recycle bin
nourishing the earth
with your matter
what matters
to you.

1 comment:

stella05 said...

This is Janelle from CAM! How the hell are you? I hope you had a safe trip home. Hey you left a notebook and I have it. Give me a call.

I have a blog too. You might want to look at it. Not very fancy but riddled with my feelings after my daughters post suicide attempt.

We are in Branson today and finally have internet. We had a great time at the concert last night and I took alot of photos and video. I'll let you know where and when I post them.

Keep doing what you are doing! YOU ARE AN INSPIRATION!!!