Dance of Life

I rather like the life of a poet. Traveling and writing; telling stories and meeting new people. Dancing. Okay, perhaps that last one is not necessary to be living the life of a poet, but it is necessary for my poetry.

For me, dancing is the missing connection between hearts. Sure, we can speak words which allude to feelings, and we can hold hands as though treating the other as a transfusion, but dancing creates a rhythmic connection as though the body is moving within the beat of a universal heart – add to this that two bodies are moving together connected by hands to make a circle unbroken – dancing is alchemy for transmuting music to movement through hearts powered by feet.

The common metaphor for life in today's culture is one which refers to life as a race. We are all trying to get somewhere the fastest. I'm still not sure towards what we are racing, but it promises to hit us with the casual snap of a broken ribbon. I am not so sure I want to know what is at the end. Races never really end. People are always running. Or training to be able to run that much faster than their opponent in the next race. What are we running from? To what are we running? Where does this all go? Why do we look so beat when we cross the finish line? I can't make sense of a metaphor in which little is left to interpretation. So, instead, I'd like to turn toward a different metaphor altogether. If one doesn't like the concept with which he is faced, one must invent new words or supplant the old ideas with one more fitting. So, I turn back the hands of the clock into a time less focused on time but more so on timing.

In the Middle Ages, the prominent metaphor for life was that of a dance. I feel as though this makes more sense because music is ephemeral. It will not last any longer than the vibration of a string, the stirring of air. Lungs power music as much as hands do. Music has a definitive ending point, but we can replay the song in our minds a million times over without – melodies get stuck in our minds like stories. Music ends, but it can be replayed, and no one wins at the end of the song except for those who danced. If life is a dance, then we only need to tap into timings in order to tap into time. Feet don't have to move, but when they do to a rhythm, a beauty emerges. And it expands in every direction.

Life is not linear.

Music is not linear.

Dances are not linear, and music is interpretation rather than command. A poet speaks in rhythm just as bodies speak in dance.

Races have a right answer and a wrong time.

Dancers need not apologize.

So don't apologize when your feet feel too tired to move, you are not running a race with points to its end; you are engaged in a dance where the universe holds your hand. Listen to the rhythm and fear not the end of the song; we all will be dipped, but this dip is one of beauty and is not to be feared because we will not be dropped. We will not be dropped. We need not compete to get underground faster.

And I will remember to live, breathe, love, and dance.

Time Flies

Today marks the day that we officially have seen more days in the year than we have left to see. Days unfold. Hours fall out like loose leaf paper. But at least we have a chance to write our hours into poems if we so choose before they're crumpled and lost.


Sometimes I think hours fall off like dandelion seeds when we make wishes. Perhaps an intention gets intertwined with the seeds, and our wishes intermingle with earth when the pods finally find somewhere to land. Maybe this makes the wish come true for the fields. Then someday when someone lays his or head down to name the clouds, maybe a new dandelion will whisper that wish into his or her ears, and that person will be inspired to do something.

Sometimes, I think that the wishes we cast upon far away stars don't just burn to a crisp. I think that our wishes, like the dandelions, plant themselves in the stars and then wait.

Sometimes, I think you are the amalgamation of someone's forever ago wishes come to fruition.

Sometimes, I think we are all someone's forever ago wishes come to fruition.

I know that we all used to be stars. The earth on which we walk used to be 10 million degrees or more. I find it fascinating that far less degrees separate humanity from universe. All love is falling for stars.

Dandelions take our wishes and plant them in fields which used to be stars. We take our wishes and plant them in stars which used to be one mass until the Big Bang separated itself from itself. If wishes grow in fields like seeds, imagine how bright wishes must grow in stars. Unfortunately, stars have to die in order to add what they were to the universe like dandelions have to die for us to make a wish, and we are composed of the bodies of stars, so maybe trillions of years ago something made wishes and the stars held them inside until they died and had their wish-intermixed molecules flying through the universe to plant themselves on planets like dandelions plant their wish-filled seeds in fields.

I like to think I'm something's trillion year old wish come to fruition. I like to think that the best things are worth the wait, and I like to think that even as time passes like seeds falling from dandelions, we still do something with it just by existing. Maybe that's being optimistic, but I'd rather think that my presence is both a wish fulfilled, and way to better the universe's future.

Even if I am merely making wishes with my spare time.

I Came Upon Some Flowers

While walking through the neighborhood of Wichita yesterday, I saw bright, beautiful, pink, fake flowers. Pictured at the left are not those flowers. Lilies sprouting up unassumingly out of someone's garden.

Someone in my family likes to talk about how the United States is in trouble because of all the shady things that the government does... and the companies.

I'm not so sure. We are still a government by the people. At first glance this sounds absurd – nearly atrocious, perhaps not lacking a firm grounding in reality. This idea is like those fake flowers – beautiful but ultimately pointless. Trouble is, the fake flowers looked real enough to be real. And if I had gone about assuming that every single flower I encountered from then on out was fake, then I would have missed a lot of beauty. This is a trouble with people – it's not so much that we forget to stop and smell the flowers; it's that we assume we already know what every flower smells like.

But life changes everything. No flower can smell the exact same, and you miss out on opportunities by assuming. I've missed out on opportunities by assuming. We miss out on the opportunity to interact with each other when we assume that beauty is fake. Not all of it is. These flowers are living proof of this. Beauty grows out of the dirt; it doesn't live a comfortable life because beauty can't be beauty unless it intimately knows ugly, and fake flowers will never know ugly like fake people will never admit ugly, and it's a tragedy. And I know I'm saying two different things now, but the ugly truth is that we have to fake some beauty until the world can see what we're trying to show it, and we have to be real with our own ugliness or else someone someday may confuse it with beauty. And there's nothing worse than realizing, upon close inspection, that what you thought was real turned out to be nothing but fake.

So here's to being real despite the "ugliness" we think it brings. Everything is a matter of perception, and realizing this is, in itself, an act of great beauty.

And called it Poetry

Where does poetry come from?

Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.

Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.

Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.

I am a poet.

I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.

I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.

These Are Things I Learned

This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson.

Today, I went hiking.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but hiking is at least 48% more beautiful if the person or people you're hiking with are comfortable letting their minds wander like the clouds.

Hiking is at least 65% grander
if you have the opportunity to hold someone's hand.

Regardless of which way the fingers intertwine, your hands suddenly have as many stories to tell as your legs do. A palm reader should be so jealous.

When you're hiking and holding hands with someone who has an open mind, this person will comment on the scenery that wanders through her mind, will let you know the kind of beauty she conjures up in words, and her hands will tell stories of sweat and personal triumph to each one of your fingertips. Your hands will be happy they have something so gorgeous to travel and connect with. You, in turn, will also be happy because holding hands is the nonverbal way of saying, "You're worth it" or "You've got a story worth telling" or "We've really got a shot to make this whole trip memorable."

Maybe this is why I like dancing – I have three minutes to share with someone the feeling of "You're worth it." I get the feeling "I am worth it."

This weekend I learned that being a poet allows me to hold hands with the audience.
This weekend, I learned that stages extend their palms face up and ask anyone who steps upon them, "Would you like to dance?"

Some stages phrase it as a statement. Something like "Show me your moves!" with all the bravado of a falcon.

This weekend I learned that I
am allowed to ask stages to dance.
This weekend I learned that poetry is my basic.
This weekend I learned that I really missed
holding hands like I do when hiking today and that
no stage was substitute for that, but
this weekend,
I learned that I deserve
to be on stage, to ask to hold
my audience's hand, and this
weekend, I learned that
every person has a story to tell, sometimes
they just need someone
to hold their hand and say,
"I love the way you wander."

Drew Discovers The Universe

I learned recently that magic happens. The heart moves faster than eyes can see, so when two hearts which had been moving along parallel lines change their direction to intertwine, something magical happens.

We went to Three Margaritas. I ordered a Macho Burrito. Perhaps for its name sake I wanted to embody a stronger image. She ordered off the appetizer menu – Chicken Floutas, I believe. They brought chips and salsa. Our conversation unfolded coolly to counteract the spice of the salsa. We talked unapologetically while laughing. I could've sworn we unraveled at least one mystery of the universe that night – perhaps that was because she was the epitome of my universe. I think we unraveled into each other over topics like music, like past, like God. I don't think I ever told her how beautiful she is, and to say that I'm not good at compliments simply doesn't seem excuse enough to justify such a glaring omission. When you've got the universe sitting next to you, a few things are going to be outshown by its stars.

I learned recently that magic happens. Hands move faster than eyes can see, so when two hands' lines come together to intertwine, something magical happens.

We arrived at Stargazer's Theatre. The building is a repurposed observatory. I couldn't imagine needing to look up at the sky that night. We took seats in the upper level of the observatory. The stage unfolded before us. Lined with four guitars, three basses, two drum sets, and three keyboards, the stage picked up kinetic energy. It was a rock ready to roll.
The first band came out. Smooth jazz headed by a man who played the flute in just such a style. He called himself Flute Daddy, and this was the name taken by the other members of the band. After their solos, the main member of the ensemble introduced them by their real name. After every solo, he said this name. I still don't remember their names. How could I when I had the universe securely in my arms? If the sun is a beautiful thing to behold, then a universe full of stars is indescribable. I don't remember a smile ever leaving my lips that night.

I learned recently that magic happens. Feet move faster than eyes can see, so when two feet line up their  patterns to intertwine with beat, something magical happens.

The second band came up. Dotsero. They played with the intensity of a super-nova. The music was beautiful. Improvised, it wrapped around us like fingers wrap around each other. Unmistakable, the energy filled space, echoed off the roof and wrapped us up together. This music made me feel more connected with the universe than I had ever been previously.
Dotsero asked its audience to dance. The message orbited. Like a satellite, I kept in contact with this request. "Let It Be" as a melody unfolded from a saxophone. The gravity became too much, so I transmitted its message to the stars, said "This is dance-able" and hoped for assent. When a nod responded, I lifted and walked towards an improvised dance floor. I felt the universe following in my footsteps. We arrived and commenced stepping to the rhythm set before us.

The music came to fade.
Every universe needs its constellation, so I dipped her.
Held her close.
Looked into her eyes.
Observed the beauty of the universe unfolding.

I learned recently
that magic happens.

The Poetic Heart

Over the weekend, the slam team met up. We had an amazing time getting to know each other. We told two truths and a lie. We discovered that none of us were good liars. I suppose that is a good thing.

We told each other stories. The topics ranged from past experiences to sprawling epics about travel. And love made many appearances. One of our team told an amazing story about finding and losing and finding love while trying to find himself. The team was enthralled. I kept wondering: Is someone out there searching for me? Am I searching for someone?

I wanted desperately to know that someone out there had my eyes engraved into their memory but were stuck searching for my name. I began to imagine that someone was searching in vain on Google Images with keywords like "green shirt" or "blue jeans" or "understanding eyes" or any number of other keywords they had stuck in their morse-code heart beats.

I suddenly wanted to browse every Craig's List missed connection post spanning the past ten years to see if someone desperately wanted to know that I was more than just a memory. I wanted to know if I was more than just a memory to someone; I wanted to know that I was someone's wish. I wanted to make someone's wish come true.

I wanted to dial a random sequence of ten digits on my phone and, when the person picked up (which I was sure would be a beautiful voice), I would say something like "There are ten billion possible numbers I could have dialed, but somehow I knew this was the one to call." It would have been romantic. Because she is a hopeless romantic too. Except recently I've only felt hopeless.

Even now, there is a cage surrounding heart. Each beat feels dangerous like a car speeding down a sharp-curved road with no brakes. But brakes feel dangerous because I feel like brakes have been breaking my chances at finding love – as though if I could just let my heart go and let life take me where it will and have the confidence to give that beautiful person a compliment, maybe it wouldn't feel so broken. I'm torn in two different directions at once, and comfort is so much more pleasant than its antithesis, but life is not meant to be pleasant. Not all the time. And poets, of all people, should know this.

Poets are the ones who dig up their pasts and tell these stories to complete strangers in order to share something with people we may never meet again. It's strange. And beautiful. It's art. And it's real, and it's truth. I don't know what it means all the time, but it gives me license to breathe.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take a breath and tell that one person just how beautiful I think they are.

I think you should do the same.

If nothing else, it will give you a beautiful story to tell.

Drew - And Then There Were Two

Hello, everyone! My name is Andrew, but I am known on stage as DrewDat because I draw truth from words with a pencil. Yep. That's right. Pencil.

Every other poet I know uses a pen, but I don't like the feel of pens. Too much left at stake. I like the opportunity to erase my mistakes, and pencil will actually stay on pages longer than pen will. So, in the short term, these words might be more erasable, but in the long term, the words will last so much longer.

I've trained in martial arts for well over a decade, and I like to bring that fighting spirit to everything I do. Which means that if any of my Tuesday Posts leave you feeling like you've been punched in the face, then what you're really feeling is the synthesis of at least two different arts. But this is why poetry has always been so powerful; it's a beautiful combination which dances even as it strikes. But enough about that.

I can't wait to start this journey with you all! There will be so many things discussed, so many hits thrown, so many cages broken, so many rings sent out like echoes; so purse your lips and get ready for this team to belt out words like a champ throws fists, and, of course, get ready for so many puns!

~ DrewDat Out!

And Some Change Was Needed

Today is a great day to have a great day. This is something that a student I know says almost everyday, and I'm starting to believe him. Today is a great day because it is space to make a place for tomorrow's sun to be really bright.

Last week on April 17th, the venue known as Hear Here in Colorado Springs finally had its final slam poetry contest. If you don't know what slam is, here is a quick rundown: It is what would happen if theater and poetry had a love child. It works out to be somewhat like a monologue in poetry format. A poet has 3 minutes to perform his/her poem and is then scored on that poem by 5 random judges chosen from the audience. It is poetry that is judged. It is brutal, and it is amazing. It also happens to be kind of a big deal.

Every year, several cities (70+) send teams of 5 poets to compete on a national stage, and this year Boston will be the host city. Colorado Springs now has a team which they plan on sending to Boston. For those of you keeping score, you have probably figured out what I'm about to say next. I made the team for Colorado Springs, and in August, I will be traveling to Boston to compete with 4 other folks against several other cities in a winner takes all contest of awesome for the ages. I can't wait. Unfortunately, I need to reach out for assistance as well.

In order to get to Boston, I (and my team) need to begin fundraising right away. A friend of mine is beginning this task by selling small landscapes as artwork and they're awesome. Sadly, I can't draw for beans. I can't draw four beans either, but that's not the point. The point is that I need to begin fundraising, and I don't want to do it by begging my family for extra monies (however, if anyone in my family is willing to donate I wouldn't turn it down although I may take it begrudgingly). All hope is not lost though!

Although I cannot paint, I can teach. I can teach poetry, martial arts, dance (swing and blues), music, and writing. In addition, I can write, and I would be more than willing to sell a few of my poems for a low, negotiable, and charitable price. Not only would you get an amazing poem, you'd get an amazing feeling of helping out an artist to go where he really needs to! No better feeling exists, or so I've heard.

Another way to help is to simply spread the word about how awesome this blog/poetry/writing webpage is so that the cause can be heard.

And, if you don't have money to spare, I am always happy accept kind words, hugs, compliments, change, and stories.

Here's hoping that, come August, Colorado Springs will be represented in Boston by some amazing poets!

Thank you, good luck, and have fun writing!

~ Andrew

Location:Colorado Springs... For Now

Poetry Dare Day 18: Rivers

Rivers flow form a source,
with gravity, water has the weight
of earth and the stories of mountains, no wonder we
have so many terms to refer to the way
rivers talk. Maybe
they have so much to say
because water claims
too many lives, may-
be water talks because life sprang
first from the depths, and that's why
water
has so many stories to tell
about life's infancy like
a grandmother with more memories
than photos, more love than hugs, more
discipline than hair.
Next time you're by water
with movement enough to be confused
as speech, take a moment and listen to stories
about the mistakes you've made as adolescence
crept underneath your skin 'cause
water doesn't forget; it
flows and changes form, leaves
dirt like memories deposited on
windshields sometimes so thick it
is difficult to
see memories have this way
of staying in your brain
and exchanging shapes
as they move from grey of mind to red
of vocal chords in images and words, but
if they aren't shared, they
have this way of freezing
movement, after all, keeps heat up, so speak
like the water does when it babbles, speak
the secrets you hear from raving rapids, and
listen for how to flow into adulthood with the
power of water to
wash past, clean
future and keep
seeking the advice of earth
found speaking at river's side and
lapping tide.


Poems go in completely new directions sometimes - I mean that the way we begin to write a poem is not necessarily indicative of the way a poem will turn out. We never know where a poem will end up. Rivers seem to be like this. Except that they all end up somewhere at least.

Poetry Dare Day 17: Misconceptions

Misconception: life should be easy.
Truth: life is only easy for those
who aren't living; life
runs on survival – it tests you
until you want to clench your fists, strike
hard enough to break, but
the open hand will always be stronger because
it can build, hold, love, and hope.

Misconception: Black belt means you are higher up
on the Chuck Norris ass-kicking scale.
Truth: Black belt means master of basics and takes
about eight years to complete. The basis of basics
mastery is rooted in the strength of your legs to
stand tall without fault – sure, flying is nice,
but ground doesn't give for those with focus
enough to stand. Hand to hand takes a backseat
to respect, discipline, honor, and integrity, but
only those who've studied fighting can attest
to why it ought be avoided.

Misconception: children should learn at a distance
in order to avoid pain
Truth: People, not just children, should experiment in the thick
of it. Making mistakes will not one knowledge
so long as he or she is given a chance to reflect
upon the experiential evidence gathered up in mistake's wake.
Exception: People need not be exposed to violence directly
in order to understand its effects first hand
Some lessons are not worth learning – innocence
need not be traded so that a person can learn that
not all men are to be trusted – hands
only form to fists when children are taught violence early,
and hands will always be strong open because they
are used to hold rather than smash bones
like innocence.

Misconception: Hatred hastens change along with
threats of death and force
Truth: Newton's third law prohibits this
from achieving truth – every action will be met
with an equal reaction – force and threats
at the behest of gunpoint or sword are
met with unbreakable resilience, and
all that is made of matter
will one day decay – swords rust into dust,
only words
can withstand time as both are endless and
only need a mind to conceive them in order to activate.
Exception: Words are at the whim of people with
too much time on their hands – meaning gets
driven out like erosion breaks down mountains
so words which once stood for something,
with too much misuse, get ground to dust –
this is how progressive, conservative, democrat,
republican, pro-life, choice, gun, rights, American
can come to hold less breath than a whisper and
why no one listens when these words enter conversations:
the only sound aloud is the crumbling quake of shaky earth

Misconception: Poetry is a power possessed by a select few.
Truth: Poetry is a process through which one's heart
is carved from chest, penned to paper, and
put back in again. It is the conversion of
the private to the public, a story-teller's tool
to make the esoteric understood. Anyone
who has made oxygen into energy and exhaled CO2
has the makings of poetry in their veins simply
because they have changed the world – anyone
who has loved or lost, felt sleepless lat at night,
woken with more energy than miles, less
breath than sweat, or the same shirt
on too many different days knows the exhilaration
of expression. Poetry is truth.

Poetry Dare Day 16: Pages Ripped Out

I would wretch
if I could.
Pages were ripped out. I
live my life through paper, there
is a divine sadness in books missing
their internal organs, there
memories torn, and I wonder
if dementia is time acting
like a child to rip the
thoughts that didn't revolve around it
out of the minds of selfish humans who thought
the space in their minds
to be property they truly owned,
not simply renting, but this
is not true.
I wonder how it feels to retell
a story to its author.
Do the eyes light up like
it's being heard for the first time?
WHen pages with unpublished poems
are lost, those words can't be
strung together exactly as they once were.
If life is poetry, then memories are stanzas, and I
can't imagine losing so many lines
for a poem
that can never be replaced.

Poetry Dare Day 15: Hands Crossed

She
has her hands crossed
across her chest as though
trying to keep her heart in or
trying to keep
his words out. She
wants hime to find words
worth asking; she wants
him to find stories
worth telling. He
keeps his cheeks puffed from
Chex Mix and Pepsi, commercials
about Doritos, football, and
scant stories about past
Monopoly games, Battleship; there's
not a lot of surface tension – she's
talking to him about the connections
he may have make between these games
and his mistakes – he's
been momentarily saved from orange
jump suits due to age, but time
will not run counter-clockwise, so
she wants to ensure he's running right.
People give multiple chances, but
the clock's hands only seem to tighten.
Noose-like, time runs taut, so she needs to teach
so that her lessons don't become past tense.

A Wild Update Appears

I haven't updated my blog in far, far too long. With good reason, however. I have been at work for what feels like non-stop. Fear not, though, for I have been keeping up with the poetry (as much as possible) and have a ton of things which I will be posting up over the next few weeks. I hope that the reading material gives you something to think about over this lovely spring break. Or perhaps a lovely break from the current spring we've been having?

Good luck, and have fun writing!

Poetry Dare Day 14: About Love II

I think I've felt love before, at
least I know I've spoken the word
as though the concept could become mine
like I had Adam's power coursing through my lungs.
But love isn't something I can name; it's
too potent, too big, too out of range, and
it can't be held like breath; we
can only keep it moving with
inhales and exhales. When I lost it,
my breath stopped. Love has left
me bloody and bruised – it can be
a tangled mess of past regrets like
scars on skin and tears over again –
unfinished sentences with words never said; it
is wondering and missed connections, beats
missing their rhythm and hopes sans
requite – ends minus means for expression, and
loneliness follows far too nicely love's contour; it
is afar and afraid, fearfully frenetic,
functioning, fickle fictions; its friction
burns when it's wielded too quickly, and love
causes forest fires in tree-tall dreams, these
have been the things I've connected with love, so
I don't know if my experiences are indicative of
reality, but I hope they aren't because
I don't want being afraid to say "I love you"
the way the world is wound around itself; I'm
more terrified of finding
I'm right, so show me
how love functions; teach
my hands to be gentle, my
tongue to be truthful, my
limbs to find grace, my
eyes to hod beauty; I'm
asking you for help because
I want to find grace in faith
and cease wasting these precious pulses; it's
repulsive, and
I want a change, and
if love is like breath, then
love can't be held, but
it is the reason we can function, it
is the reason to be because
although changed
it is given and
taken equally.

Poetry Dare Day 13: About Love I

"Write," she said,
"about love be-
cause I'm
not sure you've been shown
what it looks like alone, away
from a beautiful face or
a lover's embrace, and
love may be felt in the body, but
it does not dwell there. Blood
corrupts what it touches, so love
can never truly live
here, embodied by
beating heart, taut flesh; it
visits those places like
presidents visit war zones,
sudden floods, disaster relief, and
Red Cross quarantines. Love
is a battlefield for our bodies, but
it's respite for your mind – the
only food to feed the soul. Can
you do that? Can
you take your pencil, dip it in skin
then paint the image left on paper again?" "I
I will try," I replied.

Poetry Dare: Day 12

Poetry needs to be brutally honest sometimes because it's our story.  It is the one that we tell, and honesty needs to be preserved in our stories, or else the stories no long have meaning.  I think a lot.  I think far too much, and, even worse, I think I'm right.  This poem comes from a free write (more like a free speak using a voice memo recorder and a phone), and I'm half tempted not to post it because I don't know what it means. It just feels a shame when I write a poem, and I don't even understand it.  This, however, is the way that poetry works.  My hope, then, is that someone finds something useful out of reading this poem.  Just remember not to ask too many questions because I'm not even sure I have the answers.



We stood out in the parking lot
underneath stars that must have blinked a million times.
Perhaps they were trying to say good night, to
bid us adieu, wait
until we could see them again, but
we wouldn't listen.

You told me about how wrong I was
throughout that entire night. I
didn't want to believe you.
In those moments with the stars
above blinking, I felt
my soul as old as time. Older
than the stars that shine above. I felt
like my soul had seen
countless wars
through the eons and past time to
before it could form these words.

And you wanted to tell me
that people can change.

I don't
understand
how anyone
can see the signs
but still be so blind.

My mother
told me that I was her rock.
She insisted
that I was strong, sturdy, would
not be broken, possibly eroded, but
this
is what happens to all good men.
They slowly and subtly change throughout
their lives.

I feel more like water.
Trying to find my way
around any situation, pour
past any tough surface, but
I've neglected my own.

I don't understand how
you
call me beautiful and still
have an honest smile.

I don't know if I'll ever
understand
where you're coming from.

I don't even know what
the point of these words are
because the last thing I said to you was
"Words
have no meaning anymore."

And I truly wanted to believe that.

Because words can't
tell me how to feel
right now. They can't
sympathize
with the tears my eyes
are shedding; they can't
hold me tight and tell me
everything's gonna be okay.

But you can't either.

I'm afraid the words I've placed in front of us
have grown rough and solid like stones. And I
like water
have been rushing up against them
trying to get through
to the other side.

Poetry Dare: Day 11

I had always thought that questions were these things that got smaller and smaller as we got older and older kind of like playgrounds as we grow up from being small to tall, but now that I'm seeing things from such a different vantage point, I realize that the questions themselves don't ever really go away.  However, I think that our ability to accept their inability to be answered increases.  I think we, as people, start to understand how nothing is understood.  I remember crying over not getting a gameboy or something of the like.  Now I understand crying over a human not getting food, clothing, water, or sleep.  The things we care about change; our questions change with them.



Why is
I don't know
an unacceptable answer?
I own so
many I don't knows,
I don't know
what to do with them all.
What will the future hold
I
When will I know if I've found love
don't
Why does evil exist
know
how I can make sense of all these
unanswered questions, but answers
have only seemed to me
good because of their utility.
Answers become the reasons to act, but
actions are answers, so
acting
will hold me over
until I understand.

Poetry Dare: Day 10

I'm still not sure where certain poems come from.  I also think that I'd like to start doing themed weeks later on in this process so that I'm not just writing poems and not really expanding my craft.  I may do an all revision week (which will feature either poems from this process or poems I just really want to revise but haven't gotten a chance to work with) or an all one topic week (basically write about 1 theme for an entire week to see the differences which emerge).  Anyhow, that's all sort of off topic because I know you (yes, you) came here for poetry rather than to hear some mindless meandering nonsense.



And I want my students to understand
how everything is connected.
I want to tell them that
getting these connections will
help them to get their minds into the way
the world works. I want
to tell them to see how
vested interests connect
to the status quo, how
emotions connect with their fists, but
only if they're being used improperly.
I want to show them how their legs
connect with the sky
when the same legs hold
backs uncracked, hold
spine aligned, hold
head up high. I
want them to connect love
with respect rather
than bragging or
bank accounts. I need them to see
lies sometimes connect to truth but only
until we ask enough questions
to see why and how those lies
trace through the tapestries
of our history. I want
them to feel how pen
connects to page connects
to story connects to
reason for being connects
to why and I and am, that
writing your story is the greatest
gift you can give yourself because
no one else will or
they'll misinterpret your meaning, and
there is no greater sadness than
when you
are connected
to things you didn't do like
too many of them are
connected to laziness or
lack luster drive or
apathy, but these are untruths
connected to lies connected
to commonly accepted conceptions, and
this is not the story
they have to live with, this
is only truth if they accept it; this
is only them if they keep the flaws
connected without a further fight.
I want them to connect failure
with accepting someone else's
definitions
as their own.

Poetry Dare: Day 9

This poetry dare thing has been an interesting experience for sure.  Sometimes, I find myself wondering what in the world I'm going to write about whereas other times I simply don't have a problem at all.  If nothing else, this has given me an incredible amount of practice, and it has made some of my work more efficient.  For example, today's poem hits not one, not two, but three separate reasons for writing a poem: a poetry club prompt, the prompt I posted yesterday (which can be found here), and my daily poetry dare requirement.  I'd like to then conclude that this poem has the power of three poems in one, but I'll leave that to others to decide.



I have a sickness
called
heartache. Its
symptoms include sleep,
silence, food but not for sustenance, only
because I want my guts to feel less
than empty, and isolation like
alone is the one word which
understands how my heart, with
its veins like red wires,
can feel so taut and tired.

I have a sickness
called
heartache. It is
a difficult disease to manage and,
sometimes, I fall for miracles cures like
I fall for women who offer the warmth
of their bed instead of the heat of their heart. I
find myself trying fads like diets, trying
to eat my heart out like change could come
packaged and wrapped, but calories can't
create change unless they
are put to use after their ingestion; I'm
open to suggestions for how to help
manage this sickness because
it may never go away, but I've got
to find a way to live life with survival
as an understood aspect and not
the only goal.

I have a sickness
called heartache; it
takes too much away; I've
discovered
a way
to fight back
with my feet and
movement. When
travelling in a vehicle, we
inherit the same speed
that the craft around us is moving. When
flying through the skies, our
heads are in the clouds, and we
can feel distance like looking
at the earth with the eyes of clouds
allows us to understand how small every
body is; how small each heart
contained within its skin
is.

This
sickness
called heartache is
best fought with the perspective
of movement, with
feet pushing against asphalt, with
muscles set in motion to
change direction, to set a rhythm, to
move veins with the inherited speed of my feet,
to pull my pulse, to breathe deeply, to
wick away sweat like anger could be poured out and
evaporate along with loneliness. This
is the cure I've come up with for heartache:
run.

Run, not away from these problems but
towards a solution; my heart may ache, yet
I don't want it to be because I slept or
spent too much time underneath the covers
of silence. I wake to make my heart
run.

Poetry Dare: Day 8

Trying to find subjects to write about can be very difficult.  This is especially so when you're writing a new piece every day.  I may just begin writing about the exact same thing each week and see how my view on it changes with each poem.  Anyhow, in times like this, one may find it extremely helpful to have a person to offer suggestions on topics.  I have such a person, and she offered up today's topic: Jealousy.



I've never been comfortable with the way
jealousy leave my throat sore. It's
a burned tongue from drinking hot
chocolate before it has had a chance to cool.
Jealousy is a word that will not wait to cool.
It's a word that wants action - one which cries
out for it as though anger were an answer
worth using rather than a last resort. The worst
part about jealousy, though, is that it too often
comes disguised as other things like
another man's hand on your back or
the fact that I want to protect her even
though I know she's
perfectly
capable of protecting herself. Jealousy
tries to pass itself off as chivalry; I'm
trying to pass myself off as chivalrous
when I step in to make him leave his hands
by his side, but I'm
just guilty of letting my blood burn
and drinking this bitter emotion
before it's had a chance
to cool.

Poetry Dare: Day 7

Poetry is a very strange art.  I'm honestly not sure where most of it comes from.  This is certainly true of the piece which I got today.



You can choose when to leave but please
don't decide as though all
other options have no role - one
is the loneliest number, and time
never feels like it's on our side,
but that shouldn't matter - time has
no master, no absolute reason; it just
is. Like you just are. You are
what you choose to be, and
you can choose when to leave but please
don't decide right now - you are
like time; you're ever changing and
a piece of you exists outside of understanding; you
are a character drawn in
greater detail than a graph with
more than one y
intercepting perceptions as they cross
across your plane existence, you you
are not plain - you just are like
time is: a space for existence,
a force for action that
can't be taken back, and broken
things can't always be made whole; how-
ever, you've got to take comfort in that
pieces have potential because they
connect to new things in interesting ways.

Plants kept from the sun will bend toward light, let
yourself soak up sun - grow up under the shining sol;
surround yourself in others whose brightness
rivals your own - the
only reason darkness is so pervasive is
that we're afraid of the light of truth and
keep our broken pieces unfairly stuffed
in drawers or the backs of closets like
light is an addiction which we
need to quit cold turkey or have
a sponsor anytime we have the urge to smile; I
don't want to hide my light, and I'm sick of
solely apologizing for my flaws, so
embrace me. Make me whole for a moment more, and I
can hold your hands like our arms are
meant to intercept to make our y's
have no meaning anymore like these questions
no longer matter like we've grown away
from our shadows and left
them behind; I
am pieces
looking for peace; it's
not time to go, so
don't.

You can choose to leave but please
don't.
Don't go until you're called by light like
a sweet creak of your home's front door opening
after a long,
too long,
day.

Poetry Dare: Day 6

I will be the first to admit that I do not always write good poetry, but I think it's enough to know that I have tried.

So, I dance.  I swing dance, specifically.  Swing dancing is a social event where the dancing isn't indicative of attraction or the like, but it does happen sometimes that attraction will develop between partners - if not attraction then at least interest.  This puts someone like me in a strange position.  Do I ask her if she'd be interested in hanging out sometime, or do I just keep my mouth shut and enjoy the connection we already have?  There is almost nothing more awkward then dancing with someone whom you've refused to give your number to.  This awkwardness is the subject of Poetry Dare: Day 6's poem.



You asked me to dance. I
said yes because your eyes
smiled almost as brightly
as your hands which held mine like
light stayed in particle form, and
you wore it like a glove. You
have this way of letting out a
slight sigh when we dance like
you're mourning the fact that
the moment which just passed
can't be captured for more
than just a beat or two.
I admit that there are certain
dances I don't want to end
 like it's saying goodbye to a friend,
wondering when the chance will come again,
and after a year of music and
moving my feet to the beat, I
understand the value of finding
a connection like that, but
I find myself asking one question
with wonder and a bit of trepidation:
if I asked for your number,
would you stop dancing with me?

January 29 Prompt: Sick of...

Today, I'd like to present the idea of working with metaphor.

There are things in this world which get to us.  Every single person has something or other that drives him or her absolutely crazy.  I want you to tap into that idea:

Think of something that makes you feel sick.

This can be anything from that one food you absolutely love but is just bad for you; it could be politics; it could be other people and their silly eccentricities; it could be anything you want it to be.  Now, to keep this idea going: when we get sick, we have some kind of medication that we can take to help alleviate the symptoms.  So, if you get sick of hearing about politics, what do you do in order to alleviate that "sickness"? Do you talk to other people, yell at the TV, write poems, cry in a corner?

If we think about the things that annoy us as a sickness and the things we do to deal with those annoyances as medication, then we can start to build a poem/metaphor out of those ideas.

Good luck and happy writing!

Poetry Dare: Day 5

I had this idea for a poem in mind for awhile, and I finally had a chance to write it out.  I'm very interested in the habits we humans have in life.  One of those habits is nearly undying curiosity.  I think, sometimes, however, that this curiosity gets us into more trouble than it does to help us. This is problematic because we can never know with certainty what could have been if something had been different, and sometimes the word "if" is the worst word that can or could ever be.



If is the heaviest word in
the English language. There
is no way to whisper this
word under your breath without
finding an inundation of
emotions or memories or
colors connected like rainbows
are said to show the way
to a pot of gold.
But this word is not
heavy like change - it is
burdened by moments
that never came to be,
possibilities conditioned on
things out of your control.

Certainty is something that can't
be guaranteed, and if is too
often followed by then as though
the hypothetical could lead into
a consequence...
"If I had been there..."
"If I had done something..."
"If I had said anything, then..."
Then... then...
Then what?

The unknown takes over and
life never goes back, so please
just keep your eyes turned
towards the place to which your
toes point. Feet know that
certain ends can't be questioned - this
is why feet look like exclamation points and toes
can't curl into question marks -
forward is the best way feet embark.

If is the heaviest utterance in
the English language. It has a habit
of transforming those things which touch it
into unanswerable questions like "What if?" It
has this habit of transforming memories
into missed opportunities, and ifs
stick to themselves until we feel
buried by "whats" and "I don't knows"
are the only weapon we have to wield, but they
break like bones under plunging gravity -
falling doesn't crush us; the sudden stop
does.

Poetry Dare: Day 4

It was a good day. Movies and hanging out with friends. Somehow destiny got brought up.



And we become
what we've always been.

Truth is that chance
has little to do with where we end.

Actions speak louder than words
because voices too often go unheard.

whereas eyes acknowledge what
they've been told to see, so

destiny lies not with finding,
falling upon, or going into but

can only be because
we become what we do.

Poetry Dare: Day 3

I have absolutely no idea where this poem came from.  It began from the first two stanzas and then just kind of took on a life of its own.  I think that poetry is a state of constantly questioning the world.  The answers we get may not necessarily be the ones we want to find, but it's important that we keep questioning nonetheless.  Writing allows me that outlet, and I would encourage anyone feeling at a loss for words to pick up a pen or pencil and tell your story straight onto the lines in front of you.  After all, lines won't judge and your story is beautiful... And this rant reminds me of a poem of mine that a friend really likes, so I'd be quite lax in not including a link to that poem here.

A big thank you to anyone who has been checking out my dare/blog, and a big thank you to the person who made the dare in the first place, even if it was for the selfish reason of hearing a new poem of mine every day =D.  Consider this me saying "You're welcome."

But seriously, thank you to everyone for your support!




You've written another language for your story, drawn
a map but forgot the key.
I'm just trying to understand, so please
help me.

What does the sunset mean to you? Where
has the sunrise fallen? What
do you wake up to? Why
is your life calling?

Before you can answer who, you
have to find a reason to be. Sometimes
somethings get lost, but these answers
are too important to lose, so

don't loosen your grip. Who
are you? Where
do you want to be?
What makes you so
special? Why are you with me?

Questions, rather than answers, are
the way in which we explore the world because
answers are an end but questions are the means, so
forgive me for asking so many, but
I've got a wanderlust which feels
unquenchable.

I want to explore your eyes like they
lead me to the fountain of youth; I could
think of my fingertips as children running
through your hair like fields - there is
no end to the exploring and the adventures
on which we could embark; I'm
not even sure I'm asking for answers
anymore, but if you have some
you're willing to offer, I'd
be happy to sit and listen like
ancient mariners would stare
into the sky for guiding stars while
listening to the power of the ocean
as she gently whispered
against the sides of their craft
like the way your breath
washes across my chest.

Poetry Dare: Day 2

Today, I was thinking about the prompt that I posted on Monday.  The prompt can be found here.  In short, the prompt asks about freedom and what you think it is.  I'm still not completely sure.  For me, freedom is a tenuous idea.  I don't think there's any way to completely get 100% behind freedom all the time.  If such were the case, we'd move towards anarchy rather than the governance we have.  I think, while some may find this idea interesting, I do not.  I do not like the idea of total freedom...  Unless that freedom is bounded by some kind of responsibility.  This is where I run into a problem with current gun legislation and possible change.  It's as though we don't want to take responsibility for the actions these weapons allow people to commit.  I would love to see common sense legislation about guns, but I'm not sure it's going to happen...  If absolutely nothing else, I'd very much like to see responsible gun owners take a stand and agree that no one but the military really needs to have assault weapons.  I know that bad people exist, and I am all for being able to effectively defend oneself (this is why I study martial arts still), but there is a difference between self defense and making murder far too easy to commit.  I do not know all the facts, but I feel as though something needs to change otherwise we are simply living insane.

Anyhow, onto the poem:

What is the nature of freedom? I
am privy to the calls of coyotes at late night
moon serenades. Birds call their song in flight;
we take caps off bottles and
only dial numbers when we're drunk enough
to forget that we have the freedom to
raise our voice whenever we want. But
something has a bad habit of getting lost; freedom
isn't free from what they've told me, but we
are paying everything we shouldn't be in order to keep
this ideal alive. Please,
tell me why your right
to bear arms trumps
30,000 people's right to life. Please,
tell me why you're right, and
everyone else is wrong. I'm sick
of hearing dirges and conflating them
with liberty's song.

We have lost the right to casually walk
through airports, arenas, capitols, and transportation
stations unmolested by probing question attached to
gloved hands, so why must weapons remain
so easily obtained? Freedom is not attained through force.
Freedom cannot be guaranteed by bullets or anything
material - free may only be forged from the non-
quantifiable. You may have a fist full for a heart,
but it's spirit that
can't be chained, and
bullets will never be able to kill all the world's
words are the way we have to fight
injustice because men can die, but their ideals
live on. So, please,
tell me how your
bullets are enough to quell an uprising
of the spirit - it's like trying to
fire at clouds to stop them from raining -
freedom is an idea too big for bullets to bring down;
it is an ideal that only words
are big enough
to protect.



This is a piece which I would be interested in working with to see if I can get it any stronger or give more weight to some of the ideas.  I think an integral part to any craft is the ability to find both flaws and strengths in the art and diminish the former while increasing the latter - the key is to not focus too much on the flaws and realize that nothing is perfect, but flaws make something relate able.  Regardless of that, I think we need to have an open and honest discussion about many things in our society ranging from guns to mental health to the violence in our entertainment.  There is always a solution, and if art mimics life, then life must also have flaws and strengths.  We just need to diminish the former and increase the latter.  Maybe someday we'll get this thing right.

Poetry Dare: Day 1

Before I begin the poem, I wanted to say that I had an absolutely awesome day.  Very interesting to say the least with quite exciting extra-curricular activities such as hearing an amazing set of poetry from Dominique Christine, a recent Women of the World Poetry Slam champion.  She is an amazing speaker, and she definitely geeked out with a ridiculously awesome tangent about etymology and the meaning of words.  I don't think the following is directly inspired by her set, but someday I hope to have a couple pieces flowing from the great poetry which was shared.

Now onto the poem... piece... thing which was produced:
(As yet untitled - I tend to keep work untitled until its worth doing the mental gymnastics to actually come up with a name for the work).

Some people think poetry needs to be clothed in pain
as though words could take the hurt, act
like a bandaid, cover up scars, and I'm
here to tell you, yes, this is possible, but
don't let words be your only salve. If they aren't
enough, take action and use your limbs to write
what your hands can't. Hold
yourself up on sturdy legs and stand
for something greater when the pen isn't enough.
Words have a limit to their application - they
won't feed you when you're hungry; they
won't clothe you when you're naked, but they can
make your realize how hungry you've been and
tell you what may have gone missing - they, the words,
can make you comfortable with your own nakedness and
expose your flaws as the raiment of divinity.
Your words can connect you, but
only if you allow them to.
Hands can hold just as much as they
can strangle, so
be careful with what you say as
poetry doesn't need to come dressed in the rags
of your past nor the mask of your fears.

Some people think that, in order for the pen to be
as powerful as the sword, it needs to make
someone bleed, but
poetry should not be forced into fighting
unless this is what it needs to do.
Sadness doesn't need to permeate your stanzas,
but it's okay
if it does.

You may not have known the kind of dark
that other poets do, but that doesn't mean
you should apologize for trying to make light
of the life you've seen, and you don't need to go
searching for dark to understand it. You've
already pulled all nighters to watch the sun
come up, sat on a roof and hugged your knees
in place of a warm body, felt loss like it
can't be explained, and you don't need to explain
yourself because these lines will not judge.
Just like no explanation is needed to see
the beauty of a sunrise in weary eyes, you
do not need
to apologize for yourself because you
are your words; you
are poetry. You
are never finished, yet
you are a complete sentence. A subject
constantly in search of lively verbs
and their
compliments.

1/21/13 Prompt: Freedom

Today is an important day of remembrance.  One on which we ought to think back on progress which has been made and reflect on how we may be able to push our causes further.  Sometimes, however, it can be difficult to find common ground with another person, and this is where poetry comes into play.  Poetry is a way that we can create morals out of mythology; it is a method by which we can take the uncommon and make it understood.  To use a piece of a Sartre quote: "every age has circumstances which can be expressed or transcended only through poetry."  To me, this means that our language, our methods of communication are somewhat inadequate.  Poetry, in and of itself, does nothing but take the uncommon (your private experiences) and turn it into something that can be more fully understood (through use of metaphor and similes - analogies and comparisons help to make light of stories).  This is a process of telling stories - something which comes naturally yet also takes much practice to actually perfect.  Anyhow, I wanted to focus back in on a more straightforward topic: Freedom.

I think this topic is one which has gotten a lot of attention over the past month.  How much freedom should we possess?  How is that freedom granted?  Is it a paradox that freedom isn't free?  Is anything truly free?  Are we "condemned to be free"?  Or is freedom a natural gift?  Something in between?  These questions should help you start thinking about this prompt:

What does it mean to be free?

To translate this into poetical terms: Think about a situation in which you have felt free in some way or another and write about that.  What were the circumstances?  Were you alone?  Have you never felt completely free?  If you can, think of a time that can be used as a metaphor or a simile for freedom then explain why and/or how.  Take this poem to anywhere it feels like it wants to go - don't feel you need to be constrained by anything that doesn't feel necessary, and, as always, make sure you have fun!



On another note: The blog has not been updated in a few weeks due to that horribly scary thing known to many as writer's block.  However, I was dared by a friend to write a poem a day over the next few weeks... months... year.  I'm not sure I can do it, but I'm certainly willing to try.  Therefore, I would also like to take this challenge a step further and post any pieces I come up with here.  This, I think, will give me a good chance to catalog the different pieces about which I write, and it will also give me an opportunity to show how a small piece/poem can be worked through and edited or revised to bring out its potential.  The writing process, as a forewarning, is not one which is pretty.  However, the name of this blog is Life is Rumored to be Written Here, and life, as we all know, is not always pretty.  This, if nothing else, is the goal of my blog and work: to show how life can be made into art and vice versa.

I look forward to this experiment over the next few however longs.  C'est la vie.

Have fun and happy writing!

Prompt 1/1/13 : The Little Things

Well, mostly. Today, I'd like to throw out a somewhat timely prompt:

Think and write about a particular gift which you've received.

What did the gift look like?  Smell like?  Taste like?  Feel?  Sound?  Paint a picture of this gift you've been given AND let us know why this thing is so significant to you.  Is there any special meaning attached to this thing?  Has it unexpectedly grown in significance over the time during which you've owned it?  What might someone else overlook about this that you absolutely adore?

In order to help you with this, try writing 5 metaphors to help explain what this gift means to you to other people.  A metaphor can be thought of as:

Noun + State of being verb + Noun

Now, if you get stuck writing, try using one of these as a jumping off point to write your poem!

Good luck and happy writing!