i just wanted to write this short post to apologize for not
being online much the past week, i know i’ve missed a lot of
your posts but there are some personal issues that are demanding
all my attention right now that need to be resolved before i can return
to writing and reading full time. and to my many new friends, ty so much.
i will visit you and say hello as soon as i return.
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peace all.
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for years suspended
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in the crevice of between…
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regret or forget…
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speaking or silence…
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numb silhouette safe between
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love and protection.
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shadows disappear
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in the white of fallen snow,
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each Spring forgives the
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impatient crocus.
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Time erases shadows and
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Love resolves the wounds.
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dear new friends and old,
so it’s April 20th and as promised Bianca (B.G.Bowers) posted my poems on her blog as part of her gracious, month long tribute to NAPOMO. i rummaged around in the attic and found a few poems that in hindsight were a little leap forward, some personal favorites that i still remember the excitement of writing every single word.
i thought this would be my regular Sunday post for today, hope you enjoy them and ty again Bianca. it is an honor to grace your pages.
http://bgbowers.com/2014/04/20/who-could-know-then-guest-post/
dear friends.. i felt the need to write some prose while i worked on the co write poems i mentioned in my last post, the song was chosen not for the title or video but for the close your eyes experience.
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The Bridge of Time and Promise
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Chaos was the default setting in my family. The earliest memory of my uncertain future, was me sitting in the sturdy chrome legged high chair that provided a perfect mezzanine level view of the kitchen table. From the relative safety of that private perch sitting plush as a prince behind my oversized formica tray, I could hear and see everything.
It was a cruel foreshadowing of how I would eventually view the world.
Wednesday meant spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, and not ’50’s style Americanized Chef Boyardee spaghetti either. No, not in our house. I can remember watching for hours while my mom made the meatballs, prepared the ingredients and slow cooked the deep red fragrant sauce on the stove. With her large spoon disappearing into the open topped aluminum pressure cooker to take a sip then dolloping some into my plastic bowl, I was a red saucy mess by dinnertime
Though I was much too young and preoccupied as curious kids are,
to understand exactly what all the words I heard actually meant, I knew something was amiss that night. Kids learn by repetition and it wasn’t until my personal spaghetti feast was suddenly interrupted by a very loud thwack followed by my father yelling at the top of his lungs, did I realize the words ‘not good enough’ was…uhm, not good.
From what I could gather, his ‘not good enough wife’ had once again tried to cook a ‘not good enough sauce’, not like his mother would make it and said sauce and spaghetti ended up on the ceiling in so furious a motion, my mom and I sat in stunned mouth agape awe.
Lost in my kid reverie of seeing something new for the very first time,
I don’t recall hearing the plate crash down on the table but the white porcelain shards were everywhere. The inevitable commotion and chaos trailed quickly down the hallway without so much as a glance from me, I just couldn’t take my eyes off that Rorschach red splatter on the low ceiling.
So there I sat in our little kitchen alone in my high chair, howling with laughter as one by one a spaghetti strand would peel away from the ceiling only to flutter and plop on the linoleum floor.
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Apparently the spaghetti was cooked to perfection, al dente pasta will cling if you toss a strand on the ceiling; an old school trick I learned from my few years as a chef. The recipe is memorized now I’ve made it so many times though I wish just once, mom could have slow cooked
it for her grandchild. Shining that red saucy face grin, my daughter has been happily wearing that sauce since she was in her own high chair.
Mom deserved to live that memory… the world and our lives are less that she didn’t but the regret has tempered with time, and knowing mom would have been tickled that her recipe was still being savored.
And there is solace in knowing the weight of her life has lifted some,
that the generational abuse in our family finally ended with me…
a promise I whispered in my daughter’s ear
the miracle night she was born.
in whatever I have or may succeed,
I find joy in the vast and
tranquil oceans of her innocence.
and my life’s full reward
witnessing the budding dreams
of clean and open sky…
of song and flights of angels soaring…
of pure… in her adolescent eyes.
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as the Universe intended.
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i woke today to an earlier light,
slicing sun… between wooden blinds.
Spring soil…it shifts and yearns
in shy murmurs… of shoots and wings.
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how the wind is alive
with the long forgotten calls
of weary immigrant birds,
floating currents… returning home.
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and maybe… my day is here
to shed this curfew of skin and doubt,
finally… free myself forward
shutter eyes that lurk behind my head.
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let my instinct… map a ready sky,
a fragile trust and mysterious as flight.
let unfurl… these inadvertent wings
and surrender my will to each unknown.
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there is stubborn in my bones
a rain worn feather remains as resolute,
and how much fear… i’ve let fly
oh, sweet wing of creation… take me home.
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thresholds
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When I began this little blog a year ago, I had such meager and modest expectations that anyone would pay any attention to what was being written here, let alone take the time to leave a comment because of something I happened to write.
I wrote short stories then, a memoir of sorts, recollections of a kid from a troubled family living in a poor and forsaken neighborhood in Brooklyn. And that’s all I had plans to write until I just happened to see a link to a poetry site on someone’s blog. It was the first week of April, and just happened to be the first week of National Poetry Month.
I still can’t explain what compelled me to submit a poem, I’d only written one until then just a few months earlier. But I did, flying by the seat of my proverbial pants, against every fear and anxiety I wrote renewal. I was so heartened and overwhelmed by the response, I wrote another.
And the rest, as they say is history.
But I believe our history is a living thing, and so very humbly here I am… 150 poems later. This past week this little blog surpassed 16,000 page views and recorded its 5000th comment and on days like this when I sit back and reflect on this profound improbability, I have to clunk myself in the head with the heal of my hand in a “I shoulda’ had a V8′ moment to make sure this isn’t a dream.
Me, who feared poetry all his life… is now obsessed with its writing.
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shoots and wings
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And now I think it’s time to ‘unfurl these inadvertent wings’, cast aside the fear and doubt and accept the gifts that are being presented. In the coming weeks and months I’ll be busy with some collaborations and personal projects I wanted to tell you about.
A dear friend and most talented writer Bianca (B.G. Bowers) is dedicating her blog for the entire month of April to invited guest poets and challenges. She has very graciously asked me to participate, and I was honored to accept. On April 20th my poems will be featured and I’m really excited at the prospect. Thank you again Bianca.
In the next few weeks, 3 poets who are held in very high regard for personal and important reasons, and I will be working on co written poems. The themes of each of these poems are so dramatically different, the challenges will likely take us all to places we haven’t been before. With the enormous energy and talent these poets possess, I have no doubt co writing these poems will be an exciting and rewarding creative experience and I thank them all for this opportunity.
When you have a chance please visit
Melanie (Wordifull) Chloe (Sirena Tales) and teardropsofink
And lastly, many of you might remember that this past summer I was invited to apply for residency to the Ragdale Artist Retreat. Considering the prestigious alumni that have and still spend time there, it is an honor for me to even be considered. I’ve hesitated to apply because the one requisite the board asks you to have, is a worthy goal, something you can or want to achieve while you are there. I didn’t…until now.
In a recent comment thread with my wonderful new poet friend Nomzi (Nomzi Kumalo), she mentioned that she’d like to have a collection or a book of some of her favorite poems of mine. And of course I gave her my standard ‘oh I’ve never had the dream or desire to be published’ response. She hasn’t been the first friend to tell me this…
well… I finally got the courage to ask ‘why not a book?’
So I will apply now and whether I get accepted to Ragdale or not, a book will be self published in the coming months. I do have a tentative title ‘poems of Hope from a wounded heart‘, and dear Chloe has so graciously accepted to write an introduction. Thank you Nomzi for the spark and thank you Chloe for being generous with your valuable time. Love and Hugs to you both!
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thank you all
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And of course none of this would have or could have happened without all of you, who have read this poetry of mine and written so many profoundly heartfelt and encouraging comments. And a very special thanks to Melissa Hassard and the 20 Lines a Day community.
What an incredible gift this Circle of Encouragement is!
so ty, ty, ty, from the bottom of this very grateful heart.
Love and Hugs to you all!
parked on I 65….
what a rude awakening
to reality.
a few hours ago
lollygagging in the lake,
floating on our rafts
blissful, unaware
that this world still existed,
and here we are now
In a wall of trucks
on every side of our car.
we all have to pee….
‘where is the next exit!?’
‘there’s some tall grass over there…’
‘are you kidding me!!!???’
car doors are open,
people are walking around
on the Interstate,
‘hey, what’s going on?’
‘hey, do you know why we’re stopped?’
‘heh, it don’t matter’
says an old trucker,
‘that grass there Is just perfect,
my pup has to pee’.
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alone and still in
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my Chapel of Solitude,
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i worship silence.
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echoes of Autumn…
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voices like leaves rustle and
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scatter to the wind,
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yet another poet’s pen
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has sadly been set aside.
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a wordless farewell…
like the brightest leaves they fall
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when their season calls.
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but just as the memories
of true love always lingers,
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creativity
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and their inspired poetry
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forever remain.
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dedicated to thesilentfingers, Tanumoy Biswas,
Memoirs of a Dragon, cubby and Tiffany Coffman. ty, all.
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let the world do as it will…
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what pale light lingers of endless Winter days
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fades from these eyes averted,
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far away from this reluctant silhouette’s
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anonymous imprints in greying sidewalk slush.
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let the world do what it has…
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i measure my walk lightly here in frugal steps
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and speak less amidst the throng,
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not belonging where i don’t an eager
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trade of so many years in such meager wisdom.
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so let the world do what it must…
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that our words and value lie less in volume
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than in selfless devotion’s daily intent.
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this grateful heart returns Home
warm with aromas of pine scented candles and
food so lovingly prepared,
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the eclectic comfort of all we’ve collected
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of familiar voices and heartbeats
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and know there is no world i need but ours.
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a summer favorite, and a light and breezy
soundtrack to read this poem by::::enjoy::::
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summer us
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how you try in vain to shield such lovely pale soft skin
with your lotions, umbrellas and wide brimmed straw hats
while i crave this Mediteranean sweat and bask in the burn
how you must swim in every fresh water or rolling surf
while i just dig my toes deeper into any warming sand
content just hearing your giggles and joy
how you refuse to wake up your sleep in vacation mornings
while i stay up sleepless nights penning you my poems of love
listening for the sighs and mumbles of your overtime dreams
how you dutifully RSVP each planned event and bbq
yet smiling face rush to any impromptu backyard party
while i ask you again and again please say ‘hey’ from me
how you always order your iced decaf Americano black
while i need extra soy in anything caffienated latte’ style
and who will really believe that we both sans the sugar?
oh darlin’!
my warm weather twin
and who would really believe our eleventh summer is almost here?
and why would anyone really hear the truth we simply can’t deny
that anyone can possibly share our summer joy more than you and i?
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who could know then 