Starting from here; going on from now. A fresh start is at the heart of all that is to come. A brand new year came to call, and all that transpires grows from the seeds planted in those twelve month prior. That fire in your belly spurs you on, a prodding giving the nod to better things. A fresh start is at the heart of perfecting your art. It all up to you to begin anew.
You come and stay for hours,
amidst the psychedelic flowers
and impossible scenarios.
Running past streets and barrios
with Joses and Marios, looking
for solace in a nightful of frightful
turns and plot twists. You’ve wished you
can finish a complete thought,
but your REM cycle keeps running out of gas.
In the foggy distance, a wail. It never fails.
It seems just when you get
to the good part of your dreams you have to depart,
trying to restart every nine minutes for an hour
until your snooze alarm comes back to call.
What’s the difference?Running to or running from,the shortest distance between two pointsis still an escape in any book.Separating oneself from the frayplays upon your angst and ire.This poetic fire in your bellyleaves a smelly taste in your mouthand there’s no way out except up.Corsica has sent her eviction notice;malcontents are not welcomed!So remove your hand from your waist-coatand smoat the day you decidedyour muse was more important than the process.A beg of forgiveness and a sharp wrist slap,every mishap screams for release.Exile is as puerile as you may not have imagined.Standing on the periphery serves no purpose.Escape from your ego.Take off to your refuge.It is the textbook “No Lose” scenariowritten for a poetic Lothario!
why hide away words?
your actions speak just as well.
Tell the world you’re here!
Tarnished and dented; a bauble of a bygone day. In a wooden cigar box; keepsakes both, with little more function than that. The stem fused to the casing, the workings have retired. But,
it has inspired me to find the link. The contents of the box play like a road map; clues to unravel the mystery that is my history. The key, worn and encrusted with years of dirt and oils from feeble fingers.
It lingers in my hand for a moment, its uncertainty secured. Papers, folded and bound with a frail rubber band line the bottom of the box. A visa document, possibly a first issue wrapped in a tissue to protect
what it meant to an old Polish immigrant determined to become all that America had to offer. Naturalization documents, meant to pronounce his acceptance of a lifestyle long sought, and their acceptance of him
as one of the free and brave. The camera buried amongst the treasures, bellows cracked and torn, a forlorn instrument with which a part of his life had been preserved. It all deserved a better fate, but it is too late to shed
a single tear from your eyes for its demise. The puzzle is splayed before you, the detective of your past. A torn swatch of a fabric, hues faded but shades of blue and red and white pressed between pages.
Finally, one last piece remains. A photograph. a dark and handsome young man; heavy jacket and a fedora pulled down across the brow. Intermingled with other similar folk unconcerned for their purpose.
But the subject stands tall. Proud. Posed to save this moment in memory, and upon this daguerreotype for long after. In the background, Lady Liberty stands strong. In his hand an American flag clutched to his chest.
A chain from buttonhole to vest pockets and a key as a fob, a cinch to keep his pride from bursting. It insinuates the only part missing was the watch that sat tucked close to his left hand. A trinket; a remembrance
of the father he had left behind in Igolomia, Poland to claim his dream. It remains strong in your own heart as the box that holds your Great-Grandfather’s declaration secure. You are sure the timepiece marked his life as well as your own.
On the edge of reason, we watched and waited. We hated being helpless, and I guess we hated being the target of hate. Many were functioning as they normally had, but then every man, woman, mom and dad had much to explain to minds that could not comprehend. It had sent a strong message, that we should be ever-vigilant and can’t let down our guard. It is hard to preach trust when the thrust of such extreme proportion penetrates our collective spirit. They thought they’d split it in two. It is true that we fight amongst each other, like any “sister” and “brother” but let another interfere and we’ll be here united to fight it tooth and nail. We had stumbled, but did not fail. May God continue to Bless America!
Raleigh to Buffalo in eleven and a half, that was the plan; designated and approved. A noon departure, destined to render us home near its midnight counterpart. My heart wasn’t in for the drive, but I strive to follow an itinerary that felt hollow and vacant. Down the on-ramp to the highway, I stay five mph above the limit making up minutes; false victory in an age old story. No glory on a Sunday afternoon. I swoon as I watch the traffic thicken, and it sickens me to see red brake lights illuminated, making me irritated and disgusted. I trusted my GPS to bring us home, but I come to a complete halt. Fifteen mile back-up and hours in arrears. My greatest of fears is realized. A desperate maneuver from the center lane to find an exit. Closer to “come from” than “near home” we return to the accommodations to wait for the early morning “night” to restart our flight to the promise land and a warm familiar bed. Can’t wait to rest my head. If I can only keep my eyes from making me fall asleep. A change of plans; not in my hands.
* Note: On being selected the 2010 Poet Laureate for the April PAD at Writer’s Digest.com/Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer. I seemed in a hurry to get there, and humbly find I still have much to learn and accomplish.
Incessant memories pervade
as I wade through this life
searching for an identity
I can claim as my own. Sown
and nurtured are my poetic seeds,
and yet I get no satisfaction from
their lack of flourishing;
not nourishing my heart like
I was used to having.
But all these thoughts must be written
I have been bitten by the bug,
a hearty shrug and a hope
that a smitten poet can regain his passion.
The heart is willing; the wile is weak.
Fighting a battle often lost in the darkness of a weary mind. There is no rest there. Cursing the single candle lit to offer its illumination; to infiltrate this mental stagnation. Accursed slumber why do you wage against my will? Will you release me like the leaves of October’s colorful flurry, left to scatter in the cool winds from place to place; a migration to discover the peace that I crave. You have found me, October. You have extended your lifeline in fine fashion, a saving assist for one clamoring for control over heart and soul, over heart and mind. I clutch your hand as I am flung over the edge of reason. Your season is here. You want me near, October, where I belong. Anything else would be just wrong.