tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-106620182024-03-13T21:33:48.813-06:00Undiscovered PoetryA place for my undiscovered poems, thoughts, and pearls of wisdom.Adrian Neibauerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07141883534073122903noreply@blogger.comBlogger306125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-59085833647095538202020-03-18T19:15:00.000-06:002020-03-18T19:15:16.560-06:00Red sneaker haikuOne red sneaker jut<br />
out from beneath the white sheet<br />
at a dead angle.<br />
<br />Adrian Neibauerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07141883534073122903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-45611136818409739592020-02-24T17:47:00.000-07:002020-02-24T17:47:17.540-07:00Shame HangoverI'm still hungover from last night's anger.<br />
I didn't sleep well -- kept tossing my sheets<br />
this way and that -- I was hot & uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
She barely speaks to me this morning<br />
in the shadows of the kitchen. We sit<br />
in morning silence waiting for the coffee pot to finish<br />
spitting out her caffeine. Now she is upstairs.<br />
<br />
I felt suffocated with stress; I panicked<br />
& jumped from bed screaming & slapping doors.<br />
(I'm grateful I didn't punch a hole in the wall this time)<br />
I don't know what to do.<br />
<br />
When the sirens go off, I have a few seconds;<br />
the lights flash and my system erupts.<br />
My kids always find that one red button:<br />
DO NOT PRESS & then press it on repeat.<br />
<br />
Last night it was constant interruptions during a movie.<br />
Before that it was ....... I don't remember;<br />
such is the power & course of amnesia and regret.<br />
(I'm sitting in this shame hangover this morning)<br />
<br />
Today will be a long day:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
awkward silences<br />unreplied texts<br />shame is no response</blockquote>
I don't know what to do. I sit<br />
in my shame & wait for the sun to set<br />
& my past has passed.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
Adrian Neibauerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07141883534073122903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-4069978998022221962018-10-21T11:23:00.001-06:002018-10-21T11:23:29.920-06:001959I feel as though it is 1959 -<div>
the still of black-and-white &</div>
<div>
the scratch of my sartorial-splendor suit:</div>
<div>
charcoal Stetson;</div>
<div>
smoking a cigarette with Robert Lowell,</div>
<div>
Rod Sterling narrating my thoughts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These quiet days of superstition and privilege</div>
<div>
comfort and unsettle my 2018 sensibilities.</div>
<div>
Bourbon should be displayed in my living room:</div>
<div>
crystal glasses surrounding a crystal carafe.</div>
<div>
That's about all that should remain from </div>
<div>
this dusty era; this post-WWII movement of time</div>
<div>
TOCK....TOCK....TOCK....TOCK</div>
<div>
or maybe I'm reaching for the Yorkshire Dales</div>
<div>
in the 40's, sitting by the warm hearth</div>
<div>
watching the dancing flames with James Herriot.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Soon, it will be time to nap. Perhaps shower and nap. Maybe shower, shave and nap. Or just to sleep. Either way. I want to draw my best-fit line through all of the interpretations of this Fall day.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-24071083393572701752018-10-15T13:22:00.000-06:002018-10-15T13:22:21.702-06:00SonnetThis sonnet sucks because it is hard to rhyme.<br />
I have no idea if it's worth it<br />
to use my ink-brain in effort and time<br />
when there is reason to think it is shit.<br />
<br />
This sonnet sucks; silence does surround me<br />
the soundless, dew-wet cold pulls me toward<br />
a million night-stars -- shakes my burdens free<br />
how I reexamine: my faith restored.<br />
<br />
This sonnet may suck and sitting untouched<br />
grow mold and dust as the sun sets tonight.<br />
Poetry readings allow unclenched<br />
amateur writers to open up tight --<br />
<br />
fisted, balled-up poems trying to read<br />
sonnets and verses planted from a seed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-84600439457928001212018-09-03T06:30:00.000-06:002018-09-03T06:30:10.090-06:00A fly in my teaA fly in my tea;<br />
a blister on my lip: both<br />
appeared this morning, uninvited and unannounced.<br />
The fat fly floated quietly,<br />
spinning clockwise: a new concept car with wings<br />
on a rotating platform.<br />
I can dump out the tea<br />
and start again, but the cold sore<br />
remains. Such is life: you can start over<br />
but some things remain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-18759046321941411262018-07-25T07:00:00.002-06:002018-07-25T07:00:57.341-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://cdn-ed.haymarketbooks.org/images/000002/316/citizenillegal-f_large-9b54ffb9eea9c63f21e94744984e58a8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://cdn-ed.haymarketbooks.org/images/000002/316/citizenillegal-f_large-9b54ffb9eea9c63f21e94744984e58a8.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
We need (Citizen) (Illegal) now more than ever.<br />
<br />
I am so sick of the news. As a white, heterosexual, able-bodied male (who can even pass for a Christian in most circles), I have the privilege to be sick of the news, turn it off, and ignore all of the nonsense that is occurring on a daily basis. I can sit in my office with a cup of tea or a beer, depending on the hour, and open a book of poetry to escape the endless diatribe streaming from the President of the United States via Twitter. Most people do not have the privilege to shut out the microaggressions, overt racism, and disgusting treatment.<br />
<br />
So, when I saw on Twitter José Olivarez's new collection of poetry due out in September, I knew that I needed to reach out. I knew that I needed to not only read other perspectives, but to hear them in verse. I often turn to poetry when the world (or my life) doesn't make sense. I turn to Dylan Thomas for a strong slap in the face (a<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">vivid </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">and wild barbaric nature of words </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">stirs me to the quick); I</span> turn to Mary Oliver to reconnect with nature; I read Adrian Matejka to reconnect with everything human; I read Clint Smith to self-educate.<br />
<br />
When I received an advance reader's copy of (Citizen) (Illegal), I knew that I was going to read a missing voice in the current world. José Olivarez is the son of Mexican immigrants who quietly demands to be heard. This amazing debut book is exactly the political critique that is missing from mainstream media.<br />
<br />
Olivarez's opening poem, (Citizen) (Illegal) begins straight away with issues of race, ethnicity, language, and immigration. What I found most striking is how he uses the common parenthesis to accurately express the difficulty faced by immigrants.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mexican woman (illegal) and Mexican Man (illegal)<br />
have a Mexican (illegal)-American (citizen).<br />
is the baby more Mexican or American?</blockquote>
<br />
You can hear the hateful screaming in the background as two people begin their family. Should it matter whether the baby is more Mexican or American? Unfortunately, only in America. And when this baby grows up, what will be expected of him? Can he be his true self or must he assimilate? As Olivarez asks, "what is assimilation but living death?" This living death is painfully expressed throughout these beautiful and searing poems.<br />
<br />
Olivarez shows the reader the the rich complexity of the other. In one of his "Mexican Heaven" poems, he gives us a sad and tired stereotype.<br />
<br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
St. Peter is a Mexican named Pedro,<br />
but he's not a saint. Pedro waits at the gate<br />
with a shot of tequila to welcome all Mexicans<br />
to heaven, but he gets drunk & forgets about the list.<br />
all the Mexicans walk into heaven,<br />
even our no-good cousins who only<br />
go to church for baptisms & funerals.</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Upon first glance, a few lines will stroke the implicit bias of many of White Americans, but it is that last line that quietly demands that we, the reader, look closer and understand that immigrant families are complicated. Who, among us, doesn't have a family member that the others judges for only participating in certain familial rituals when it is most convenient for them? We all have a drunk Uncle or cousin that we try and tuck away. It is the privilege of White Americans that we do not have to define ourselves because of one family member. So, too, should be the case for immigrant families. A drunk saint (nor the tequila) does not define our race, culture, ethnicity, families. These "Mexican Heaven" poems give readers all of the Mexican/immigrant stereotypes neatly on the page, and juxtaposes them with beautiful language that is real and tangible.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For example, on one side, St. Peter is only letting Mexicans into heaven to work in the kitchens. On the other side of the page, Olivarez's little brother is getting accepted to grad school:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
he threw<br />
his cap into the sky & it fluttered like a bird<br />
with a broken wing. </blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This image contrasts with the reality that his brother is broke: </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
being razed or to stop by dad's steel mill from closing or<br />
the foreclosure notice from landing at our doorstep,<br />
& here we are, my brother going to grad school:<br />
another promise, the familiar fluttering.</blockquote>
<br />
We need (Citizen) (Illegal) now more than ever. Especially for its risk-taking and fantastic language and form. Olivarez experiments with line breaks, punctuation, and grammar. Instead of code-switching for readers, he shows us that the immigrant identity is always fluid and changing; constantly negotiating identities through social interactions. These identity repertoires give us a rich socio-cultural perspective. In our current society, rife with systemic oppression, how can those marginalized navigate the dominant culture without specific tools (i.e.: language, grammar). Olivarez's poetry does not conform to society (frequently reminding us of the double-standard for those marginalized); it pushes the reader to accept multiple facets of Mexican immigrant culture. Whether giving us tamales, tacos, huaraches, horchata, listening to Selena sing<i> pero ay como me duele</i> or "rippling up the middle of your ribcage--/love turns those shirts into accordions" the language Olivarez uses is effective. To paraphrase Jamila Lyiscott, instead of borrowing the dominant culture's language because his was stolen, Olivarez uses an extensive language repertoire to show the power of being Mexican and coming from an immigrant family. He is tired and angry that Mexican immigrants are "fold[ed] into a $2 crunchwrap supreme" from Taco Bell, and asks us why we are not more angry.<br />
<br />
<br />
I wish that I could discuss each and every poem in (Citizen) (Illegal), but that would deprive you of forming your own opinions. We need (Citizen) (Illegal) now more than ever. We need it for its code meshing: showing us that you don't need to give up your linguistic identity to be poetic. We need it for its critical look at the double-consciousness of being Mexican and American. We need it for its purposefulness and effectiveness. We need these poems because they empower young immigrant poets to enter any language power differential with choice. Jose Olivarez is a writer that beautifully takes on issues of race, immigration, and language with the elegance of many American writers, and can do so because he as American as Carl Sandburg and Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
we were so American it was transparent.<br />
Southpole hoodie & a i-could-give-a-fuck type<br />
attitude. french fries down out throat.<br />
blood pressure bursting. thin, fair<br />
white women in our fantasies. in our faces,<br />
our grandmothers' faces. so what?</blockquote>
<br />
It does not matter what your political viewpoints are on a variety of issues. I highly recommend reading (Citizen) (Illegal). People need to be able to stand alone without fear. Innovative, equitable and democratic learning experiences cultivate a reader's willingness to take risks for the truth and for good ideals. That is exactly what José Olivarez, que guapos, does. He takes risks, and I am glad that he has.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
__________________________________________________________________</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
José Olivarez is the son of Mexican immigrants. He is a co-host of the podcast, <a href="https://soundcloud.com/thepoetrygods" target="_blank">The Poetry Gods</a>. A winner of the fellowships from Poets House, The Bronx Council on the Arts, The Poetry Foundation, and the Conversation Literary Festival, his work has been published in <i>The BreakBeat Poets</i> and elsewhere. He is the Marketing Manager at Young Chicago Authors.</blockquote>
<br />
(Citizen) (Illegal) is due out September 2018 from Haymarket books. To pre-order a signed copy, visit <a href="https://www.volumesbooks.com/pre-order-signed-copy-citizen-illegal" target="_blank">Volumes Books</a> or order a copy at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Citizen-Illegal-Jos%C3%A9-Olivarez/dp/1608469549" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.breakbeatpoets.com/uploads/4/6/3/6/46363515/5414101_orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.breakbeatpoets.com/uploads/4/6/3/6/46363515/5414101_orig.jpg" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="800" height="101" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Adrian Neibauerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07141883534073122903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-31279804307035644202018-06-03T11:03:00.001-06:002018-06-03T11:03:31.518-06:00She walks awayThe quiet mother laps the neighborhood<br />
(where she is new to both)<br />
with her subtle ssh-ing shadowing her.<br />
<br />
She's trying to keep the baby sleeping,<br />
so when I loudly wish her a good morning,<br />
she quickens her pace,<br />
a faint smile: polite and painted<br />
and walks away.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-70225188806818206892018-04-01T19:45:00.002-06:002018-04-01T19:45:56.161-06:00#NaPoWriMo #UndiscoveredPoetryOne year ago, I challenged myself to write and post 31 poems: one for every day in March. My goal was to self-publish these poems into a book of poetry by April 2017. I posted one poem each day to this blog in hopes of getting my work out of my head and my journal and into the hands of anonymous readers. I didn't receive a lot of comments, feedback, or criticism, but I did write and post every single day. I did not publish a book of poetry, but I did accomplish an unwritten goal. I kickstarted my writing practice, forcing myself to write every day. One year later, my writing practice is stronger. Yes, I have dry periods where I don't write, but for the most part, I journal every day and try to write as many poems as I possibly can.<br />
<br />
So, one year later, where does that leave me for NaPoWriMo? I think in a pretty good spot! If you are a regular reader of Undiscovered Poetry then you have noticed that since then, I have continued to post periodically throughout the year. Most of my poems are rough and I periodically take them down to either edit, revise, start completely over, or recently to submit a few to some literary journals. For the month of April, I plan to write one poem each day, however, I don't plan to post them each day. Instead, I will keep them in my journal so that I can rework them and revise them and get them ready for public consumption. Don't distress! I will continue to post; it just won't be every day. <br />
<br />
For a daily dose of what I am reading, writing, or working on, check out my Twitter profile: <a href="https://twitter.com/UndiscoverPoem">https://twitter.com/UndiscoverPoem</a> I may even turn some of those random tweets into a larger poem! <br />
<br />
Happy writing!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-91475720275523557412018-03-30T04:30:00.000-06:002018-03-30T04:30:09.590-06:00When no one is lookingPigeons descend on me and take<br />
minutes away, seed by seed, before I reach<br />
for more to share and give away.<br />
<br />
I may be an amateur poet and not<br />
the real thing -- Time is my excuse:<br />
Everyone takes minutes and I gladly share.<br />
<br />
A mess of minutes disappear in seconds<br />
until I'm left with zero. No time for myself.<br />
So I steal away; steal them back:<br />
<br />
Forty-five minutes before the sun and kiddos wake up;<br />
20 minutes before I'm called into the kitchen;<br />
Ten minutes in between loads of laundry.<br />
<br />
It's not the best system, but it's what I have:<br />
a condensed time frame to get my art out.<br />
No time to listen to my soul;<br />
<br />
No time to still myself and watch<br />
for the words, not wait, but sit and watch<br />
when no one is looking.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-12856077306108702372018-03-27T14:05:00.002-06:002018-04-01T11:22:50.308-06:00Answering Emerson's Questions<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.</i></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
--Plato</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What is day?</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
twenty-four hours that pass by<br />
in minutes if not present,<br />
with no sense of purpose nor direction</blockquote>
What is a year?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
reckoning time in the ordinary;<br />
wake-up call for missed resolutions;<br />
revolving around your centre</blockquote>
What is summer?<br />
<blockquote>
aestas -- long and lazy<br />
marked by intermittent naps,<br />
family field trips and rosé in sweating glasses (in aqua sanitas)</blockquote>
What is woman?<br />
<blockquote>
fierce, soft, warm, and not to be trifled with;<br />
daughter smelling sweet and sweat and dirt and sun;<br />
wife companion never underestimated<br />
family stabilizer.</blockquote>
What is child?<br />
<blockquote>
innocent can be taught to hate;<br />
innumerable questions; interruptions and<br />
perfect timing to scream while I'm on the phone.</blockquote>
What is sleep?<br />
<blockquote>
much needed never enough;<br />
the cure-all for any tantrum;<br />
difficult to come by when angry, anxious, or drunk. </blockquote>
What is truth?<br />
<blockquote>
In vino veritas<br />
painful and biting it comes from my children<br />
witty and wise it comes from my children<br />
repeatedly found and continually searching for<br />
virtue of wisdom</blockquote>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-1109288889449668782018-02-06T19:42:00.001-07:002018-02-06T19:42:28.793-07:00The Tempest<div align="left">
<em>slow motion</em></div>
<em> heart pounding</em><br />
<em>sweaty, shaky fingers dialing my father</em><br />
<br />
A mistake realized is a heavy rock<br />
that hurts when it hits the bottom.<br />
<em>(Fight of flight is not a decision)</em><br />
Wanting to run, but "Wait! He's my brother!"<br />
casts concentric circles<br />
in the pond of my mind,<br />
as the mistake sinks<br />
deeper...<br />
deeper.<br />
Stopping,<br />
I face Tyson.<br />
I want to laugh because he looks so funny<br />
when he's angry.<br />
<em>(Tyson disappears)</em><br />
His shell punches me in the head.<br />
<em>(The shell of a man is no less strong than anger)</em><br />
My throbbing head feels no pain.<br />
I dive into Tyson's waist<br />
for protection.<br />
I'm angry. I'm scared.<br />
<br />
A storm is invented,<br />
producing bowling-ball sized hail<br />
crashing down on my back.<br />
"If I play dead, the storm will stop."<br />
"Where's Tyson? Why won't he shelter me from this storm?"<br />
<em>(Wrath)</em><br />
Instead,<br />
the storm rises from the ground<br />
kicking me in the stomach.<br />
(Shoes hurt)<br />
I want to throw-up blood,<br />
so it will stop. "Will I die?"<br />
<br />
<div align="left">
Silence</div>
<div align="left">
<em>(The storm has stopped)</em></div>
<div align="left">
I want Tyson to pick me up.</div>
<div align="left">
I don't think he's coming back.</div>
<div align="left">
<em>(It's dark)</em></div>
<div align="left">
I can't tell if my eyes are open or not.</div>
<div align="left">
I want to drive home</div>
<div align="left">
to Ellen.</div>
<div align="left">
I can't see.</div>
<div align="left">
I can't remember the drive.</div>
<div align="left">
<em>(Ellen is crying)</em></div>
<div align="left">
I can't hear myself.</div>
<div align="left">
Ellen doctors my wounds,</div>
<div align="left">
while I wonder</div>
<div align="left">
what happened to my brother.</div>
Adrian Neibauerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07141883534073122903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-71295003736763221792017-12-16T11:23:00.001-07:002017-12-16T11:23:22.629-07:00no words coming outa month since a post<br />
no words coming out<br />
<br />
quiet room<br />
hum of heater<br />
<br />
quiet mind<br />
hum of distractions<br />
<br />
hot tea<br />
no words<br />
<br />
frosted concrete<br />
no words<br />
<br />
no leaves on the trees<br />
no words on the branches<br />
<br />
awkward typing<br />
forcing words to come out<br />
<br />
forcing thoughts to come down<br />
out of the clouds<br />
<br />
a month since a post<br />
a few words coming outUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-36366200738205704582017-11-13T08:00:00.000-07:002020-03-24T19:25:12.307-06:00This: In TuneWest Indian Sandalwood<br />
on the back of my neck.<br />
Roman Chamomile<br />
on the soft underside of my wrists.<br />
Be still.<br />
<br />
In harmony: an agreement<br />
of pitch and intonation.<br />
My soul-engine<br />
humming in step, in sympathy<br />
with the poetry of this quiet house.<br />
<br />
Unknown names breach<br />
this frailest silence:<br />
our ruptured trust lasts 32 seconds,<br />
but there is always another pen<br />
available in this suburban Walden.<br />
<br />
The moon is but an evening light.<br />
I embrace this monotony, pulling myself<br />
into this rich sameness: this<br />
soft silence, such long stretches<br />
of Frankincense.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-71429635710409726422017-11-10T08:00:00.000-07:002017-11-10T08:00:00.229-07:00Letter to my brother in prisonDear Eddie,<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You were twelve-years-old </div>
<div>
when I left you to grieve alone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You were in the seventh grade</div>
<div>
when I left you to raise yourself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You were just a kid when I left.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mom was 45 when she died.</div>
<div>
I left to start my life at 19.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What the hell did I know?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I knew our family was broken,</div>
<div>
bongs and Bob Marley silkscreens adorning </div>
<div>
the kitchen table.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I knew our house was unsafe for any child.</div>
<div>
I knew you would be just fine.</div>
<div>
I knew that I had to get the hell out of there,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and believe that you would be just fine.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was wrong.</div>
<div>
You were just a kid when I left</div>
<div>
stuck between a state of pathos </div>
<div>
and a synthetic happiness.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Are we reduced to just one line at the time of our death?</div>
<div>
TJN of Denver, a daycare provider, died Monday.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What is your line?</div>
<div>
ENJ of Denver, a drug addict and frequent inmate, died.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What will be my line?</div>
<div>
AEN of Aurora, apotheosized sibling and lionized long-distant relative, died on Friday.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We are all trying to gain some insight or perspective</div>
<div>
that will serve us when we put our pens down for the last time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-44795856098454674262017-11-06T08:00:00.000-07:002017-11-06T08:00:06.443-07:00The presumption of opening my journalThe presumption of opening my journal<br />
to write a poem:<br />
<br />
I notice the rock,<br />
an autumn character<br />
who hurries between difficult languages.<br />
<br />
Imagine the pattern<br />
connecting two clouds<br />
centimeters apart.<br />
This season speaks with worry<br />
knowing that Winter water is heavy and near.<br />
<br />
I found this silent rock<br />
and opened my journal to write<br />
in the moonlight: my process protects me.<br />
This presumption and experience say<br />
<br />
little about my practice, but<br />
much to my passion.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-4402983620891840112017-10-30T09:47:00.000-06:002017-10-30T09:47:14.163-06:00Scratching...I don't have much to say,<br />
but I'm saying it anyway;<br />
<br />
And so I continue to fill the space<br />
between my thoughts and the end of the page.<br />
<br />
Scratching...<br />
<br />
Scratching, scratching, thinking and<br />
scratching until something comes out.<br />
<br />
Either I'm profound and clever<br />
or just sad and desperate.<br />
<br />
And so I close my journal for the evening.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-88208014899789094652017-10-23T07:55:00.000-06:002017-10-23T07:55:36.868-06:00Ornithology, or how to identify your feelingsI am but an amateur:<br />
my Pathos sits in the shade of a pool umbrella<br />
as a yellow-breasted swallow performs<br />
schizophrenic swirls upon<br />
aquamarine translucence.<br />
<br />
These are the dimension of love that are difficult:<br />
full commitment to the dive,<br />
then changing your mind abruptly;<br />
Kamikaze Logos - my inward thoughts<br />
performing as a handsome aerialist.<br />
<br />
We use science to understand the world,<br />
but I am still an amateur<br />
misidentifying my regrets as I sit<br />
by the pool watching this bird<br />
eat his breakfast.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-47804352057479710312017-10-16T07:05:00.000-06:002017-10-16T07:05:19.422-06:00Song of MyselfAh, Whitman!<br />
<br />
The leaves of grass may be dead, yellow and brown,<br />
covered with a littering of sharp pine needles,<br />
but the ground is warm<br />
and smells fresh and new.<br />
<br />
I chose to sit in the shade, on this side of the tree<br />
that slopes upward toward the concrete school.<br />
I want to face downward, downhill, but I want to feel the strong,<br />
rough bark of this tree hold me in the breeze. I feel safer here,<br />
so I try to avoid glancing at the school.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>In order for you to understand,<br />I must look, but understand<br />I am doing this for you.</i></blockquote>
<br />
It's depressing, really, to see<br />
the sun warm its cold, white walls.<br />
The sun does not differentiate<br />
between concrete and grass<br />
(although it should).<br />
It shines, warms every body,<br />
tree, building, and child's head.<br />
<br />
The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,<br />
city to nature, warmth to cold,<br />
is understood by us all.<br />
Thoreau is not the only one<br />
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.<br />
Nor Whitman,<br />
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass<br />
capturing their in nity<br />
for us to understand.<br />
<br />
The difference:<br />
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),<br />
continue to notice and<br />
continue to write.<br />
But they are dead, you say,<br />
They cannot write!<br />
Ah! But they do, for<br />
they write through me and in me,<br />
and by me.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Thoreau: in every drop of water;<br />
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.</blockquote>
They are still here, and so am I; glad I chose this side of the hill;<br />
Glad I chose this pen,<br />
and this day and this sun.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-59203625198269272672017-10-13T09:00:00.000-06:002017-10-13T09:00:07.620-06:00MateraTake me out of this moment,<br />
this place in time, and<br />
invite me to your home,<br />
smooth and quiet.<br />
We can take my boat and<br />
<br />
float down this milky-white river<br />
and pass the rows of yellow tulips.<br />
I will speak to the raven<br />
overhead and ask him to fi nd me.<br />
<br />
Take me to your cobbled streets,<br />
and show me wide buildings<br />
crowding the shops. Let me<br />
<br />
sit in the cool corner<br />
under forgiving basil plants.<br />
I want to smell of mint and basil,<br />
so let me bathe in Romanesque sun.<br />
<br />
I can feel us nearing<br />
the bright, green clearing, malve growing in Santa Lucia;<br />
smelling the stones<br />
of the short, wide homes.<br />
I can see the raven calling<br />
and the rain falling.<br />
<br />
I am here;<br />
we are near;<br />
I do not fear<br />
anything.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-2752814070089565932017-10-11T19:18:00.001-06:002017-10-11T19:18:32.971-06:00No more draftsAfter receiving my latest rejection email, I have decided to put the rest of my poetry online. I have been holding onto a few poems, some old; some new, that I have been afraid to publish on my blog because I am holding out hope that they will be published in various journals. Yes, that would be amazing, but I am tired of holding onto these poems. I want to release them out into the world for all to read and comment on. I am not coming from a place of high-and-mighty: I do not feel that I have been depriving you all of my amazing poetry! Instead, this is about release. I need to let them go so that I can stop letting these poems hold be back. I am only as good as my last poem and I have not written anything for a few weeks because I have been holding onto these poems. No more!<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stay tuned for a slew of regular poem posting. Thank you again for everyone who reads. As always, I appreciate any comments you are willing to make for my poetry. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-23221462739361297892017-10-06T08:00:00.000-06:002017-10-06T08:00:31.135-06:00Where is love stored in the heart?I can feel it, starting in my groin, my inner thighs,<br />
rumbling. It isn't desire, love, nor sex.<br />
It's dull scratch elicits nausea<br />
as it rises to my abdomen. I ignore<br />
it's pull, tugging a my intestines, focusing<br />
instead at the children around me, waiting for their<br />
swim lessons, crying as rubber swim caps<br />
get yanked over tangled hair.<br />
Children waiting for their turn to splash:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>chicken -- bird -- soldier</i></blockquote>
Different lives surround me and I can<br />
still feel it growing, a direct B-Line<br />
to my chest. I stare<br />
at the other mothers trying to distract<br />
my brain, for once my head and heart are<br />
connected, the rumble has won.<br />
It is difficult to go back once it<br />
has grown: full-blown longing, insecurity:<br />
sadness takes over.<br />
<br />
As a last resort, I dip into my reserve<br />
supply of gratefulness, stored in the left<br />
atrium, pumping oxygenated blood throughout<br />
my body: a temporary shelter, a lean-to.<br />
<br />
It's time to pick up my own children from the pool.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-73762572601906748702017-10-03T19:38:00.000-06:002017-10-03T19:38:35.381-06:00I may be untitledI really would love to tell you that I can never<div>
find the words to say:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I'm a poet/writer/coach/father/husband</i></blockquote>
I don't know why I drink whiskey<br />
at night except to understand<br />
and seek for understanding.<br />
I love this album!<br />
Sipping whiskey, I feel connected to<br />
Yeats<br />
Whitman<br />
Heaney<br />
and others....<br />
<br />
All the other writers.<br />
<br />
I'm drunk; or may be, but my pen is still moving.<br />
This is the space I need and want<br />
to transport me to a deeper, higher<br />
level of everything.<br />
<br />
I may be untitled, but I'm still writing.<br />
I will see you on the other side.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-14106605519740002452017-09-26T09:00:00.000-06:002017-09-26T09:00:10.568-06:00Decision<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">The boiling water,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">fresh from the whistle,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">splashes onto</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">the black, glass</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">stove-top,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">and I wonder</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">if I need to slow down,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">possibly read a book,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">or just stare</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">into the cool evening</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">waiting for dusk</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">to whisper into my ear.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-1112126182761923732017-09-22T08:00:00.000-06:002017-09-22T08:00:00.176-06:00Waiting for Inspiration<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I find myself waiting for inspiration. I journal each day, sometimes at the end of the day, recounting the details from the time I awoke, to when my pen hit the paper. I am detailing these banalities hoping something poetic will arise from the ink. If I go back through my journals, I can find an archaeological phrase or poem that I can post to my blog. I flip through pages and am reminded that many of my days sound the same. Perhaps this is why the days seem to blend together. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-1d766960-97b2-fbb4-e23e-413b744c3bd6" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still I write.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I believe that it is important to write through writer’s block. I think that with any work, there will be plateaus and times when you don’t want to continue. If I repeat the motions, go through the movements, I may not have a book of collected poems or pearls of wisdom, but I will have written every day. I will have written my life; documented it for my children’s children and all of the nameless, faceless Internet readers.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still I write.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I received a few more rejection letters last week. I should clarify that they were emails, not letters. People don’t write letters anymore. One of the emails was an obvious form rejection letter; the other one was more personal. I appreciate the personal letdown, but sometimes the form rejection is easier to accept: like when you carefully insert a wrinkled and torn dollar bill into the vending machine and it is immediately spat out again. There is no tiptoeing around the issue. The bill was rejected. So I try again and again and again and again until I get my damn candy bar.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still I write.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The personal email feels more like a breakup than and rejection. It is like they really wanted to accept my poems, but they just couldn’t: don’t worry, you will find someone out there who is perfect for you; not me, but someone out there is perfect for you. So, I feel wounded, but not angry because they </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wanted </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">me, but the universe said no. I think prefer the quick dollar-bill rejection instead.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, here I am write a short blog post that is part journal confessional, part insightful essay. I think I need a few hundred more words before I am allowed to classify this as an essay. In the meantime, I will read my daily emailed poem, try and get through Alexander Hamilton’s biography and Beowulf’s saga, and go to work each day to change the world. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I make dents in the universe.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thrive on inspiring others to greatness.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love questioning the status quo.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a shaper.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I create cultures that release the creativity and originality in others.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am an independent thinker; nonconforming and rebellious.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ask lots of questions.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I push the boundaries of what's possible.</span></blockquote>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still I write.</span></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10662018.post-88672178048556756512017-09-19T08:00:00.001-06:002017-09-19T08:00:19.640-06:00Still I WriteI will continue writing<br />
until the lines run out;<br />
then I will grab another journal:<br />
more lines<br />
more words<br />
<br />
This is not a goodbye;<br />
(so cliche, I know)<br />
just a see you soon<br />
<br />
Still I write<br />
And still I write<br />
Bowed head and lowered eyes<br />
weakened by my soulful cries<br />
<br />
But still, I write.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1