Writer's Corner

[Prophetess]

Symbols

The hope symbol drapes from the neck
of the beautiful you woman.

The faith symbol surrounds her delicate pale wrist and the symbol of love, she wore around her finger like an unbroken promise.

What is it she hopes for?
Perhaps a new day.
One in which she and her love would not have to part.

Who is it she has faith in?
Her loved one? or perhaps some higher authority.

Where is her love now?
He may be far away,
but, not so far in her heart.



L.L.

 

[VF21]

Padrino - You have talent. Your works evoke emotion and paint vivid images. And, through it all, there's a thread of continuity that some poets aren't always able to grab.

I'm very impressed.

Please tell me you plan on doing something with this talent.

 

[SoupIsGood]

soup- I would warn against sharing any personal things you write. I won't do it because there is too much risk involved. Now, I do share others that I don't have an emotional attachment to, I would suggest to you that this is the best recourse. Of course, it's entirely up to you. I know how hard it is to share things you write. That's what took me so long to post in here.


Padrino----once again you amaze me. Have you tried submitting this to a publisher? They definitely need to be published.

Of course. I would never even think about posting something personal.


I actually just thought of a pretty good idea for something.... I'll try working on it later and contribute..... eh..... whenever I get to it

 

[Padrino]

soup- I would warn against sharing any personal things you write. I won't do it because there is too much risk involved. Now, I do share others that I don't have an emotional attachment to, I would suggest to you that this is the best recourse. Of course, it's entirely up to you. I know how hard it is to share things you write. That's what took me so long to post in here.


Padrino----once again you amaze me. Have you tried submitting this to a publisher? They definitely need to be published.

thank you for the kind words. no, i've never submitted anything to a publisher. i wouldn't even know how to do that. i was published in my high school's literary magazine my senior year, but that's the extent of my work in print. typically, i just write for myself and for anyone who is willing to lend an eye or an ear. someday i might like to see something of mine published, but truth be told, i never thought i was that good. it's only in recent months that i've expanded my mind enough to allow creative thought to supercede linear and logical thought. now i just write straight from my heart and my head, with very little second-guessing. its more refreshing and raw that way, and more satisfying as well. again, thank you for the kind words. as long as a few people here maintain an interest, i'll keep posting these little pieces of me every now and again.

 

[Padrino]

Padrino - You have talent. Your works evoke emotion and paint vivid images. And, through it all, there's a thread of continuity that some poets aren't always able to grab.

I'm very impressed.

Please tell me you plan on doing something with this talent.

now i must thank you for the kind words, VF. it always pleases an artist when his or her work is admired, but rarely do i share on an open forum like this where the poetry must speak entirely for itself. i can't add any dynamic by reading it to any of you, and none of you have actually met me or know me [i'm assuming], so all that's left are the words on the page, and i'm happy that at least a couple of kings fans have enjoyed a couple of my poems. it's kind of a new demographic, i guess you could say. after all, basketball is the most poetic sport.

and yes, i hope to someday put my work to good use. i am going to be entering my second year at chico state university this fall, majoring in english education. i'd like to either teach high school literature/creative writing courses, or teach college courses in the same area. of course, becoming a college professor requires a whole lot of schooling, so i'm hoping to have the means to afford furthering my education into a master's program eventually. that's kind of the dream right now...the place to shoot for.

i want to be able to show people how rewarding writing can be. in a country so fixated on instant gratification, there are so few people who have been exposed to the advancement of thought and spirit. i'd like to see more people delve further into themselves. that alone is the reason i happened upon this passion and this goal. i like to think that someday i'll be the guy at the family get-together who won't be complaining about his job. i'd love to point passionate students in a positive direction. public education does a very poor job of preparing students in the ways that they need to be prepared. public schools prepare kids for college, but do little in the way of offering resources to help kids find out what it is they want to do. so they get to college and it's like, "now what?"

i was fortunate enough to have two great teachers of english in my junior and senior years. both actually taught me how to write, and how to express myself creatively, while at the same time exposing me to enough positive literary experiences that i decided it was the area that i wanted to focus on in college, and eventually turn into some sort of career. so, when i got to college, i was like "okay, now what do i want to do in english?" that's a much better way to begin then "what do i want to do?" i had direction, and then i decided more people needed to experience the feeling of knowing what it is that you love, and how you want to focus that passion into a career. money is no object. if you are happy, you will make do with what you have. i'd rather be a happy high school teacher reaching the students who care about their education than a rich but miserable corporate executive who has never discovered himself. and i mean that. "the american dream" has been skewed into the chasing of dollar signs when the idea was truly founded on the opportunity to live a life in pursuit of happiness.

anyways, that's my soap box. thanks for listening, and thanks for reading. this is truly a unique basketball fan community in that people embrace the many walks of life.

 

[SoupIsGood]

now i must thank you for the kind words, VF. it always pleases an artist when his or her work is admired, but rarely do i share on an open forum like this where the poetry must speak entirely for itself. i can't add any dynamic by reading it to any of you, and none of you have actually met me or know me [i'm assuming], so all that's left are the words on the page, and i'm happy that at least a couple of kings fans have enjoyed a couple of my poems. it's kind of a new demographic, i guess you could say. after all, basketball is the most poetic sport.

and yes, i hope to someday put my work to good use. i am going to be entering my second year at chico state university this fall, majoring in english education. i'd like to either teach high school literature/creative writing courses, or teach college courses in the same area. of course, becoming a college professor requires a whole lot of schooling, so i'm hoping to have the means to afford furthering my education into a master's program eventually. that's kind of the dream right now...the place to shoot for.

i want to be able to show people how rewarding writing can be. in a country so fixated on instant gratification, there are so few people who have been exposed to the advancement of thought and spirit. i'd like to see more people delve further into themselves. that alone is the reason i happened upon this passion and this goal. i like to think that someday i'll be the guy at the family get-together who won't be complaining about his job. i'd love to point passionate students in a positive direction. public education does a very poor job of preparing students in the ways that they need to be prepared. public schools prepare kids for college, but do little in the way of offering resources to help kids find out what it is they want to do. so they get to college and it's like, "now what?"

i was fortunate enough to have two great teachers of english in my junior and senior years. both actually taught me how to write, and how to express myself creatively, while at the same time exposing me to enough positive literary experiences that i decided it was the area that i wanted to focus on in college, and eventually turn into some sort of career. so, when i got to college, i was like "okay, now what do i want to do in english?" that's a much better way to begin then "what do i want to do?" i had direction, and then i decided more people needed to experience the feeling of knowing what it is that you love, and how you want to focus that passion into a career. money is no object. if you are happy, you will make do with what you have. i'd rather be a happy high school teacher reaching the students who care about their education than a rich but miserable corporate executive who has never discovered himself. and i mean that. "the american dream" has been skewed into the chasing of dollar signs when the idea was truly founded on the opportunity to live a life in pursuit of happiness.

anyways, that's my soap box. thanks for listening, and thanks for reading. this is truly a unique basketball fan community in that people embrace the many walks of life.

Wow, you are an awesome person! Your third and fourth paragraphs here sound exactly like I do when thinking about that sort of stuff. I'm getting ready to go to college in a month majoring in English and Psychology.

 

[Padrino]

Wow, you are an awesome person! Your third and fourth paragraphs here sound exactly like I do when thinking about that sort of stuff. I'm getting ready to go to college in a month majoring in English and Psychology.

thanks for the compliment.

and good luck beginning your college career! i'm only one year into the experience, but its been a helluva ride for me already. truth be told, i absolutely hated high school (apart from my english classes junior and senior year), and going away to college was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. i've met tons of amazing people, i've been involved in some great programs and joined some positive organizations, and i've taken fun courses with interesting teachers. not to mention i get to study abroad in italy my junior year!!!! still a year away, but i'm psyched beyond comprehension. anyways, just thought i'd share that its possible to have an incredible freshmen experience. you've probably heard lots of horror stories and you'll probably hear a few more before you leave, but its all about owning the right mindset and forging ahead. its a blast. you'll love it.

 

[Padrino]

and here's a small piece i wrote in a journal of mine after finishing up my first year at chico state. it's kind of partly an indictment on the shallow party scene that many college students so openly embrace and partly a request for people to invest in people. i don't know if its poetic or not. its just kind of a quick stream-of-consciousness. i'm a fan of my personal soap boxes, and i wrote this in an authoritative tone purposefully. its kind of preachy in that sense, but i think its healthy for people who are supposed to be considered adults to receive a good scolding every now and then.

this here is a public service announcement. so please, follow the language, the direction, the dialect, the cadence, the enunciation, the emphasis, and even the pretentious. okay class, shall we begin? point a in the air you share with others, and point b is the end of a straight line connecting you to someone else. people are of value, unlike parties. so drink a little less. pick up a book. pick up a pen. pick up a shovel. throw up a raised fist, or just throw intelligent words in a game of conversation. try a new arrangement: intelligence and ability, eloquence and nobility, maybe some delicateness. use your thoughts as positive role models. don't treat life like you treat your tv. stop trying to prove, stop trying to be, stop trying to do, just be, prove, do, and exist. exercise intellect, if you lack it, pretend. dont do it for the wealth, don't do it for your single-serving friends, just do it all for the love. love everything you do, and do nothing half-heartedly. be what you speak, please never speak on what you be. it tires me. wait a minute, who's not paying attention? see, class here's the problem, you need to stop resting and collecting dust. invest your time in something lasting that doesn't require self-compromise, and as long as you face front-first the full front of your self-esteem, you won't lose focus or get broken at the seams. now, ladies and gentlemen, lets open up the discussion for comments to complement your circumcised mind state while i write on your anxieties. nobody? oh well, i guess i'm just trying to justify the act of pointing my finger at your head and asking you "what the f*** is that?!" thank you. thank you. *thunderous applause*

 

[Padrino]

this is something i am incredibly proud of, having, for a change, actually told a story in abstract fashion, rather than simply rambling about my own misgivings. i started this during political science class this afternoon, and finished it after i had some food to fuel the fires of halloween-centric creativity...combed and coerced in a fine-tuned, clench-toothed fashion. its a bit off-beat, and might not make sense to anybody here, but it's, more or less, about the many faces we put on as human beings, and the masks that cover them...

THE PROPMASTER
A Poem For Hollow-een

PRELUDE:
welcome!
come one!
come all!
don't be shy!
don't be embarassed!
please...just sit in the cross walk,
and put the viewfinder down.
keep saying to yourself,
"i can't get lost, i don't know where i am..."

our story begins
somewhere out by the boat docks,
somewhere in "the middle,"
as the young man steps off a tired porch,
dressed up as our famed Propmaster,
the one and only birdcatcher...
he's having a half-zen moment in which he misses his parents,
and needs to find his own cooled cave,
virtually, simultaneously...
well, here it is, packed and shelved incorrectly,
he's been wearing more face paint than humanly possible,
and well, he's enrolled in "Love & Hate: the University,"
and dropped out of self indulgent sponge school because,
and i think this is what's really going on here,
he's questioning the sanctity and sanctuary of sanity.

"i can't get lost, i don't know where i am..."

there is no such thing as fantastical,
but there is an imagination...
there are no blueprints for it,
and he doesn't have enough money to buy water to sip...
and well, it's become painfully obvious
that catching birds may not be hidden in the visage
of a misshapen autumn squash,
and the first thing that popped
into his misdirected winter head was

"i can't get lost, i don't know where i am..."

who's the Propmaster?
besides carrying cigarette butts in his teeth
and fighting with swords,
he is much more the money maker...
or stone smasher,
or crowd pleaser...
anyhow, i digress...
he's sitting in the middle of first avenue,
(or north highland park drive,
or mccormick street,
hell...might as well have been wall street),
stuck, triple intersection, tossed to and fro,
in fact, in place, played to purpose
and be at this point on the surface,
so that he might *roster*bang!* this particular hunch,
because our dear boy is a dream catcher now!!!
and he's glowing...
why, even that nurse (to be named later)
walking on the other side of the street noticed,
and wait just one earth-raping minute here...
who's that sitting in the middle of second avenue?
who's that skipping down so-called "normal" street?

it's not the Propmaster...
it must be one of his new-found-followers,
not to mention the twelve or thirteen afterschool children--
one of which looked like a naked ninja (strange concept),
and all of which found our dear boy funny--
saw where he was going,
and what he was doing,
so that the last bird he never caught
earned him a place amongst the all-hollowed-out kings,
and cured his ailing insecurity of circular songwriting,
from the mystery of that night to those creaking boat docks,
where something else might strike him as circular,
something called "the middle..."

~MZ

much love y'all...and happy halloween!!!

 

[Prophetess]

marvelous.

my dearest wishes for you Padrino is that you get published and never ever lose your talent or drive to create.

 

[Padrino]

the comments below apply to a poem that i've removed for the sake of not having too many of my poems floating around in the ether...

 

[VF21]

Nice work, Padrino.

I hate to burst your bubble, however... You're the voice of your generation, but your generation isn't really that different from mine. You're experiencing now what we experienced in those effing 60s. It's the circle of life, young gun.

 

[Padrino]

Nice work, Padrino.

I hate to burst your bubble, however... You're the voice of your generation, but your generation isn't really that different from mine. You're experiencing now what we experienced in those effing 60s. It's the circle of life, young gun.

hahaaa...you're gonna have a hard time bursting my bubble. it's dense, built over a span of many years, and crafted from iron thoughts, steel ambitions, and concrete values. i can certainly agree that there's a general circular quality to the way any given generation experiences the world, but i feel like, with so many advances in computer technology, communications, etc, and the strides and setbacks that have been made in the corporate, political, and bureaucratic arenas, mine is a generation that has a unique oppurtunity to offer some change to a rather ****ed up world, ya know? wars aren't fought like they used to be. children aren't taught in schools the way they used to be. the culture of this country has changed so much between the mid-50's and now. things look so much different. people's attitudes have changed. we get along better. we get along worse. the rich are still rich, the poor are still poor, and the middle class is being squeezed in a vice. change occurs more rapidly now than it used to. technology moves exponentially, and my generation moves with it. the advances made between just the 80's and now far surpasses the advances made between 1900 and 1950. with so much there to distract a generation perceived to be highly motivated by spoiled, selfish interests, i still want to see change, and i think we're more capable than most would give us credit for.

and, for the record, i've got nothing against the 60's. i just dig on a little harsh hyperbole every now and then.

 

[VF21]

If the future depends on those like you, then I can breathe easier...

Although the world may be changing around you, the heart that beats in your chest and those of your generation desires the same peace, love and harmony that was paramount to my generation.

We'll eventually pass you the torch, but don't be surprised if you have to pry it from our cold dead hands.

 

[Padrino]

this poem won me $100 at a poetry slam here in chico just a couple of weeks ago. i'm very very proud of it, so give it a read if you're into this sorta thing...

STICK FIGURES

Round up fifteen human beings and put them in a line,
Then shoot bottle rockets at them just to find out who will flinch first,
And foremost, it’ll tell you a lot about why we act the way we do,
So take a number and search for a voice,
You’d be surprised at what you’ll discover about yourself,
Finding more softness than shut-up-in-silence,
While we fight our splendid little wars because of an obsession with violence,
When we’re all taken up with varying degrees of self-importance,
And can’t separate ourselves from the oversized rib cages
That encase and simultaneously shrink our already-starving-hearts,
Beating our chests like we’re owed something,
When in truth…

We are just the right and wrong residue of generations who did it better,
Clogging our arteries with impatience and avarice,
Ripping out our own intestines and laying them across an operating table,
Just to see who’s got more guts,
But who really gives a sh** about guts?
When we’re all joined at the hip of hoping for more out of this life,
And I can’t tell you how many sleepless nights I’ve had,
Staring at the cracks in my ceiling,
Retracing them in my mind as if they were the veins that lead to my own fractured heart,
Etch-A-Sketching my many misgivings just to see how ugly I am on the inside,
“Man, you draw a helluva stick figure,”
And yeah, that’s me on the surface:
Thin as a rail and about as interesting,
But just wait until I jump off the page like these one thousand words
To slap down some sense with a little verbal countenance,
And can you dig it?

Now, ladies, let me tell you something:
Chivalry ain’t dead!
It’s just been swept under the rug by a society that tells you to do everything on your own,
But I’m happy to open the door for you,
I consider it a privilege to watch you waltz into rooms to the tune of “f***you, I own this joint,”
You’ve got this amazing sense of self-assuredness framing the skip in your step,
And a shade of lipstick deep enough to drown in,
Red is as warm and inviting to you as Morgan Freeman’s voice,
And it’s your color of choice,
You look good wrapped in Rock & Roll and draped in drama,
And what can I say other than the fact that I love you that way,
You dance alone by firelight in spite of the darkness,
With the same broom you used to sweep up all of your life’s pained expressions,
Until you had a trail of tears measured in years of wearing counterfeit smiles,
And I pray that you never smiled that way for me,
I’d bend down to kiss the tips of your fingers searching for what lingers beneath that rough exterior,
Only to discover…wow, you’ve got really soft hands,
Strange for a woman like you,
It doesn’t suit your affinity for discolored and damaged fingernails,
And you know what, I think I’d like to get my nails done up like that,
Because mine are neat, clean, and trimmed,
The things are damn near manicured,
And I don’t want them that way anymore…

Yours, on the other hand, have scraped chalkboards,
They’ve been to places I’ve only seen in pipe dreams,
They’ve clawed at the faces of mediocrity and hypocrisy,
Picking out the dirt leftover from digging up the past,
And scraping out the dried blood from your ex-lover’s back,
Those are the nails of revolution,
Pounded into rafters and suspended over the altars we craft for the God’s we proudly display,
Holding our hopes high and performing our patchwork praise,
Gently running our fingers over creation,
Overcome with the realization that we will all, one day, die,
And the part that hurts is the part that we can’t cut from our hearts,
Left to scratching at the insides of the coffins we bury ourselves alive in,
Until we’ve written a message that reads:
“Here lies John & Jane Doe,
Killed unmercifully by their own bones,”
It’s a very sad and a very common tale,
Weighted down by a malnourished sense of self,
And an impoverished peace of mind,
And now we cultivate last gasps in the soil where our families die,
Finally lifting the lids off our sound-proofed tombs,
And letting our cries for help escape the so-called “rape of the human soul,”
While tacking these casket-shaped signs that shed tears to trees in our very own f***ed-up forest of fear,
And I can’t hear you!

We might need to perform “kick a hole in the speaker” surgery to remove your foot from your mouth,
So take another number and get back in line,
And remember that the Tower of Babel wasn’t built in a day,
In fact, God smashed it just to tell us that you won’t find your voice in a consumer report,
(Sponsored in part by the poor in heart the and the makers of metaphorical expression)
You are not angry enough!
And this world is far too cruel for your complacence,
So smash something!
Tell me how it feels,
And join the Hallelujah chorus,
Because an auditory tidal wave is screaming in your direction,
And that wonderful wall of sound says: “Speak up!”
Or “Shut up, because we’re singing to you…”

~MZ

 

[Prophetess]

I would love to hear you read one of these out loud, I suspect it would become only slightly more vibrant.

I hear a voice in my head when I read and wonder if it would match.


You truly have the "soul" of a poet. Thanks for enriching my world with your words.

 

[Padrino]

I would love to hear you read one of these out loud, I suspect it would become only slightly more vibrant.

I hear a voice in my head when I read and wonder if it would match.


You truly have the "soul" of a poet. Thanks for enriching my world with your words.

well thank you and you're welcome. i just write what i feel, and if people can dig on it, than that just makes it even more rewarding.

i don't know if the voice in your head would match mine. i'm told i have a very distinctive voice. i have no idea what that means, but i guess it works for my poetry. people seem to like it. and it is definitely more fun when the words can jump off the page. poetry readings and poetry slams are really cool to witness. i'll be performing at another slam on april 19th here in chico. i haven't decided on which pieces i'll be performing, but i think i wanna do the one below. i recently got back from a week-long road trip through the northwest on my spring break. some friends of mine and myself packed our bags and took off in search of america. and oh my did we find it. but one of my friends from back home in roseville wasn't able to come because of job-related responsibilites, and she was a bit sad about not being able to come, so i wrote her a poem from the road expressing what it means to miss someone who you've been away from for a long time...

LOOKING BACK

Looking back,
It always begins with the reflection of your face on the ocean,
Somewhere along Highway 101,
Somewhere on the road in Western America,
I see it and I’m not sure I believe it,
But I want to,
Because I miss you,
And when I realize that it’s not your face on the water,
But the moon’s instead,
I get a little pissed off,
I scream at the moon: “F*** you, stand-in!”
But if I keep this up the sun might never come,
So I sing to the moon,
I write to the moon,
I scratch in the words “wanting nothing but the will to never stop,”
Scribbling furiously until those last four letters jump right off the page,
Bringing a few of their friends to an all-night paper punchout that doesn’t STOP,
As I pitch and pinch between well-drawn blanket creases,
And all I want to do is dream!
Breaking my back beneath the weight of sheep tripping over me-shaped fences,
Where peace is just an insignificant little sign between my fingers,
And bears no resemblance to an actual state of being,
In which I can recall your face on command,
With a smile and a solemnly stood heart,
That’s what I need,
So I drive...

And I drive,
And I’m getting closer to somewhere that isn’t here,
Intent on finding out how poorly maintained the next motel will be,
But palm readers and bedroom ceilings have so much in common,
And sleep is just not in the cards tonight,
So I look for a wishbone or a star to call my own,
But all I come up with is you,
And I’m looking back as I tumble through a night of daze,
Finding myself face-to-face with those 101 roses and regrets,
Dropped unashamed at the water’s edge as I’m swept into it,
With my anchors dangling around my neck because I don’t remember how to hide them,
Sinking like sand near the bottom of this bottlenecked dreamstate,
Where I walk alone along the ocean’s floor and dwell upon all the drowning I’ve done before,
And I want more,
And I want more,
Missing you keeps me going,
So I just drive…

Because that’s where we are in my dreams,
On the road in leather seats not looking back again,
Strapped in with reckless abandon,
Listening to someone off in the distance counting crows,
Now playing that record backwards just to hear the beautiful recital of living in reverse,
Like butterflies cut loose from their cocoons too soon,
Innocently fluttering about without a destination,
Lost looking for a caffeine rush in a quickie mart,
But the road knows we’re going to need to drive faster than that,
So we hop back on and push the pedal to the floor,
Smashing that innocent little butterfly by the speed of a highway windshield,
Because sometimes it feels good to destroy something beautiful,
And the road punishes no one in the name of nothing,
Instead it invites us to church in a turnout where we can scream “amen!”
Knowing that a journey in a dream like this should never end,
And I’m sure I haven’t slept this peacefully before,
With your smile tattooed on the inside of my road-weary recollection,
Pinned down with a pillow between the stick shift, the steering column, and the driver’s side door,
Waiting for more,
Waiting for more,
I want to prolong it all,
So I just drive…

And I drive,
And the empty seat next to me burns like a hole in the atmosphere,
Or a hole in my heart,
Or a bad metaphor in the middle of a really good poem,
And I’ve got nothing to fill that space with,
Because the lack of a traffic jam creates a silence so deafening,
That I look back to the beginning at which point I was thinking about the ending,
And now I’m once again beginning a song that’s at least “99 bottles of beer” long,
And by bottle number 76,
I’m thinking about how your voice would do wonders for this moment right now,
You could sigh your way through the names on the street signs as they reflect off the headlights,
Breathing deeply over the top of each syllable just for effect,
And it’d still be more lovely than music to fall asleep to,
You could lay back on a strange bed in some lonely Highway 50 town,
Blankets crumpled from the night before’s restless caress,
Each toss and turn well-drawn in sheet creases not unlike my own,
And you could read aloud Psalms from a Hotel Room Bible to psyche yourself asleep,
And I might just dial the premium-rate and out-of-town number to listen in,
Because I want to hear your voice,
But I don’t remember how it sounds,
So I just drive…

And I think of you from a crystal-combed shoreline,
Somewhere off the road in Western America,
Framing a million pictures speaking two million words from a beach,
Anywhere is my home by the water in Western America,
Wondering whose footprints those are in the sand,
Wishing that they were yours,
While I watch the seagulls dance the day away,
And you and me could be birds,
We could fly like them,
Dancing with the sky because it’s just so f***ing big,
Gliding by and arriving somewhere that’s not here,
Sensing the irony of lacking wings,
Seeing our dreams gently sliding like sand through desperate, outstretched fingers,
But never looking back,
And wanting nothing but the will to want even more, and more, and more,
So we just drive…

~MZ

 

[Wuster]

If the future depends on those like you, then I can breathe easier...

Although the world may be changing around you, the heart that beats in your chest and those of your generation desires the same peace, love and harmony that was paramount to my generation.

We'll eventually pass you the torch, but don't be surprised if you have to pry it from our cold dead hands.

Amen to that!

Padrino, VF21 echoes the thoughts of many of us who grew up in the 60's. But I too am encouraged, refreshed even, by your recent posts in this thread. I wrongly tend to generalize and set low expectations for my children's generation, feeling that the pace of life - like HDTV time slices rushing at us furiously - cannot possibly foster the deep soul messages we need to develop and live by.

 

[Padrino]

i went ahead and deleted a bunch of the stuff i'd posted earlier in this thread...just for the sake of not having too many of my poems accessible in a single place online. but here's a new one that i finished last night

A - Z SCARS

My pen’s chief export is pain,
And it was made to crack skulls,
So, pay attention class, because the whirlwind’s coming,
As I twirl that pen between my fingers,
Remembering the hurt that still blurs an otherwise clear rear view mirror,
Obsessing over just about anything that I can put on a shelf in alphabetical order,
And I’ve got a 10,000-mile-long bookended collection of A to Z scars,
Stretching from the insides of my arms to the first letter in my last name,
Each one symbolizing a pain that I just couldn’t purge from my recollection,
And I wish I could camouflage the heart on my sleeve,
But this is me,
I am so far away from where I want to be,
With a heartbeat beat beating in the present tense,
That leaves me completely exposed,
Shivering and still gathering up the call of someone who creates,
But unable to shake the loneliness of every misstep and mistake I’ve ever made…

Now, I don’t dream in Technicolor,
But I manage to overdress for the act of sleep,
As I stick my head in between my favorite pillow and the couch cushion,
Because I’m looking for a space where I can still be me,
But it ain’t there hiding under the covers,
It’s not out on the road,
It’s not in the sky,
It’s not in the trees,
It’s not even in the wind blowing through the leaves in the trees,
It’s in the moments I’m able to understand God,
It’s in between the lines of this poem,
It’s in the veins I open up every time the ink hits the page,
Bloodletting as the pain comes tumbling out,
And my pen is the crutch,
It’s the pick-me-up,
It’s where the real healing begins,
But it certainly doesn’t end there,
And I wish I could say that I’ve got it all together,
But the broken pieces of me would undoubtedly disagree…

So take me as I am,
Because this is it,
I’ve got nothing else to offer,
As I stand here in between yesterday and tomorrow,
Scared of what I’m never really expecting,
And, really, we’ve all been there,
We’re all floating on that sea of insecurity together,
With our hearts mistaken for makeshift punching bags,
Feeling as fragile as mama’s best dishware,
And as easily thrown in a fit of rage,
Smashed against the walls that slowly close in on us,
Pushed down the stairs that lead us to nowhere,
Spitting into mirrors just to spite our own faces,
Which reminds me of a wise old proverb my uncle always used to say,
“Never wee-wee into the wind,”
Now that’s some sound f***ing advice,
So stick it in your pipe and smoke it,
Or crumple it up and eat it,
Just to see how sour it is from the inside out,
It’s kind of like biting into an apple that tastes like an orange,
Because it doesn’t actually rhyme with anything,
And reason’s got nothing to do with it, either,
Because my roadside scars just aren’t that interesting,
“Get out of the way, a**hole, there’s nothing to see here!”
I’m just double-parked in an oversized and empty handicapped space,
Writing cryptic messages in the dust on people’s windshields,
Leaving letters in bottles and dropping them in gutters,
As I wonder…

What the f*** are you running from?
Did the wolves drive you away?
Was it the knife they held to your heartstrings?
Well, guess what?
Life is a cutthroat occurrence and we cut throats with that very same knife,
Until we’re all left voiceless,
Wanting nothing but the will to live out loud,
But left for dead on the wrong side of the bed,
Screaming at the top of our lungs without the benefit of deaf ears to fall back on,
And it’s unfortunate, given the limits of “laughter” and “what-if,”
But regrets are like strangers until they learn where you sleep,
And the irony of such an existence all boils down
To the juxtaposition of “sh** out of luck” circumstances,
But you don’t really believe that, do you?
Because you’re not so different from me,
You hope in spite of the A to Z scars you’ve got crawling up your arms,
With miles of healing still to go…

And you know…
The world is like this big f***ing jukebox,
Where all the sad songs play for only a nickel apiece,
And mine’s a piece of broken-hearted blues buzzing through a lonely midtown Starbucks,
Where I’m confused by the letters missing from its neon sign,
Which now reads: “ST---UCK-,”
And you might say I’m stuck,
You might say I’m lost and looking for a seat in an empty opera house,
You might say I’m waiting for the power to run out on the moon,
But the record turns in tune and on time, one time, two times, rinse, and repeat,
And my feet seem forced to move with the beat of life’s rhythm,
So may I have this death dance?
Around and round and round we’ll go and when it all stops I’ll let you know,
But not until you’re dizzy from the business of living each day as if it were your last,
And this five-cent song won’t erase the pain of days long since past,
But if you can just imagine yourself spinning,
Then maybe the needle will play the rest of “Life” a different way…

~MZ

 

[Warhawk]

poetry readings and poetry slams are really cool to witness. i'll be performing at another slam on april 19th here in chico. i haven't decided on which pieces i'll be performing, but i think i wanna do the one below. i recently got back from a week-long road trip through the northwest on my spring break. some friends of mine and myself packed our bags and took off in search of america. and oh my did we find it. but one of my friends from back home in roseville wasn't able to come because of job-related responsibilites, and she was a bit sad about not being able to come, so i wrote her a poem from the road expressing what it means to miss someone who you've been away from for a long time...
~MZ

I wandered in here on a whim. Frankly, most poetry is lost on me. I don't have the "creative spirit" that brings your (anyone's) musings to "life" in my brain, I guess, which is my loss. Ends up sounding like a bunch of random phrases that don't fit together and I quickly lose interest. Which is strange, because I love to read. Oh, well.

I attended CSU Chico back in the early 90's and loved it. I was just there last Friday to take part in an engineering job fair - nice to see the old haunt again.

Just wondering where these slams take place - on campus? I would think the little open-air auditorium/theater spanning Big Chico Creek by Modoc Hall might be ideal. I saw a free concert there (The Drovers) and had a great time - just thought it would be a great environment for something like that.

Good luck, and hope you really enjoy your college years in Chico.

 

[Padrino]

I wandered in here on a whim. Frankly, most poetry is lost on me. I don't have the "creative spirit" that brings your (anyone's) musings to "life" in my brain, I guess, which is my loss. Ends up sounding like a bunch of random phrases that don't fit together and I quickly lose interest. Which is strange, because I love to read. Oh, well.

I attended CSU Chico back in the early 90's and loved it. I was just there last Friday to take part in an engineering job fair - nice to see the old haunt again.

Just wondering where these slams take place - on campus? I would think the little open-air auditorium/theater spanning Big Chico Creek by Modoc Hall might be ideal. I saw a free concert there (The Drovers) and had a great time - just thought it would be a great environment for something like that.

Good luck, and hope you really enjoy your college years in Chico.

the slams i participate in are sponsored by Chico Poetree Slam, an organization not directly affiliated with the campus. that said, i've participated in slams on campus, at common grounds cafe in the BMU, but most of them take place at the 1078 gallery, which is an art gallery downtown...on broadway.

and thank you...i love it up here, and i'm having a blast!

 

[Padrino]

here's a new one...

MISSING REEL

Brightly lit pinholes poked in the sky bleed day into night,
Seemingly sinking the Earth as it careens around the universe,
And we are just so f***ing small in comparison,
We’re not really the stars of the show,
We’re more like the slow cameo appearance,
And this right here is the poorly conceived sequel to last summer’s blockbuster,
Where we can squeeze ourselves between the title screen and the end credits,
Rolling out fantasies to remind us of what we wish we could be:
Completely free,
Unknowingly accepting a role that doesn’t suit us properly,
As cigarette burns signify a change in scenery,
While we melt into missing reels,
Missing the point,
Missing the big picture,
Projecting light onto life where light doesn’t belong,
Crawling around on wounded hands and knees in the dark,
Waiting for some sort of intermission,
With a ticket stub for a movie called “Reality” saving our place in line…

But nobody’s camping out for this one,
It’s not highly anticipated because it’s just too damned scary,
So let’s tell it like it is,
We just can’t forget to wrap it in a nice shiny bow,
Or with a big fake smile,
Because life looks like the way we react to tragedy,
Where every good mourning begins with us missing out
On the harmony of an otherwise stellar existence,
Cut from the teeth of painful promises,
And kept somewhere near the bottom of a melodic pocket,
Just humming low to a tune called “Blue Jean Blues,”
It’s a soul searcher’s symphony orchestra,
And it keeps us up late at night without even singing,
But it’s going to get us through this,
And it ain’t that hard to begin with,
Just find a drum to beat,
Or go crazy and smash something,
Because there’s nothing quite like pain release…

In fact, it’s so easy a Concave Man could do it!
Just look for the dents in his sides where we’ve ripped out his pride,
And hung it out to dry on a really long laundry line,
Strung up along side our light-headed brain scans,
Held together with clothespins and Coke cans,
Selling vacant advertising space on our faces,
At a rate so low that outsourcing becomes an exercise in therapy,
As our sense of self-importance begins to outweigh infinity,
While our souls are only inches thin,
That’s why we take growing pains on the chin,
And shove vitamins up our own asses,
Because our mouths are so full of sh**,
That we’ve got everything backwards,
And don’t know how to turn around without falling out of our own skin,
Which we’ve felt trapped in from the beginning,
And it’s an issue we don’t want to deal with,
So we put on some headphones,
And let our problems come in the form of our favorite songs,
Where the melody of mediocrity is very easy to decipher,
But somehow it still manages to grate on the ears,
Like unrevolutionary fingernails scraping a once-revolutionary chalkboard,
Where teachers used to script out enlightenment,
Trying to right this sinking ship,
And oh my, how well we sink…

Our spiritual depth charges have us so knee-deep in debt,
That drowning doesn’t even begin to describe the way we struggle to break free of uniformity,
So choose your favorite shade of unbroken gray and get back to me,
And if the industry of monotony has already claimed you,
May you Rest In Pieces,
And realize that something’s happening here,
And it’s bigger than the movie screen,
So stop crawling around on the cutting room floor,
You’re not going to find what you’re looking for,
You’d be better off learning how to burn ants with stained glass,
Because your destruction needs a distraction from being directed at the past,
The painkillers tattooed in your eyes won’t heal the scars on your heart,
And its not too late to forgive the person you’ve been so you can accept the person you are,
Finally discovering what it means to rest peacefully,
Waking up the next morning to a bowl full of 21 servings of something called “soul,”
Spelling out the words “save me” in your cereal,
So take your smile off the refrigerator door,
And staple it to your face if that’s what it takes to get through the day…

Now, let’s get back to basics,
And inject some guerilla tactics into this moment,
When you just can’t beat your enemies,
And who needs friends like these,
With so many demons left to free,
And so many habits left to feed,
You’ll never bleed like you want to,
Believing there’s a constant speed of life,
At which you can measure the nature of a smile,
So go find some chalk and start painting your dreams along the sidewalk,
Because there’s no tax on dreaming,
And you don’t have to sell them for a dime a dozen, either,
You can keep them,
You can be them,
You can write them into a poem and eat them,
Chewing between short breaths and gut checks,
Sharing lungs with those brightly lit holes in the sky,
Just to inhale beauty a few fleeting moments at a time,
So you might experience the relief of release,
Until peace is all that’s left…

~MZ

 

[Padrino]

new stuff...

LANGUAGE LIKE MINE

I saw you alone tonight walking,
You looked sad,
It made me want to write weak-kneed poems,
That you can read:
Right to left/Back to front,
Like last words,
Or notes scribbled on paper airplanes,
Because they don’t really mean anything,
But if you dream in a language like mine,
Then we can slowly start to fly on them,
We’ll float on by like shadows and dust,
Swimming in reverse through unfazed sunrays…

But back in the day,
Words were not my profession,
Poetry was pointless,
And the scorecard between my scars and smiles was much more lopsided,
I bet you can guess which way it leaned,
Now I’m able to see the proverbial “forest for the trees,”
I can rip out the weeds,
And I can cure the cause of my disease,
Because I’m a real painkiller-in-the-a**,
Which essentially means that I’m uncomfortably stuck where I don’t belong,
But still manage to take the edge off the street-level ledge I’ve been walking down…

I am a tear-studded bible-belt bullwhip,
Capable of tearing numbers in half with my head,
So hand me a phonebook,
And I’ll go to town on your town’s zip code,
Individually clipping each digit until I’m able to rearrange the nonplussed looks on their faces,
Capturing the photogenic aggregates of their pained expressions with Polaroid pictures and a pen,
Using pet rocks to paperweight them down in perfunctory fashion,
Because otherwise they might lose sight of the so-called “light at the end of the tunnel,”
With a misdirected sense of the difference between numbers and words,
And a refusal to believe that smashing just one clock can stop the whole world,
But now they chisel their initials into the stone of sun dials,
Leaving a mark on time that rhymes “love” with “f*** you,”
A perfect etching of both acceptance and denial,
That’s stronger than the sand we build our nations from,
Where kings and queens don’t much matter,
Because nobody around here is any good at chess…

We stalemate with our own soft spots,
And send our souls out into the emptiness of space,
Where they swirl around like satellites,
All the while shooting smiles at the stars and such,
Sucking in deep breaths even though our lungs aren’t enough,
Just to inhale the kind of innocence that only jumps from children’s lips,
Jumps from one grocery store tile to the next in a game of survival from hot lava,
Jumps from the grass-stains in your cheapest pair of jeans,
Jumps from routine missions of super-secret importance to obtain certain kinds of snacks
Off shelves so high that they exist only in the most divine of imaginations…

And that’s what we do:
We dream big,
We wander,
And wonder what our willpower weighs in terms of how much s*** we can take,
So if you catch me avoiding the black squares on the floor of your local supermarket,
Don’t call me childish,
I’m just jumping back and forth between two sides of the same brain,
Searching for a place to call home…

It’s eighteen minutes until midnight,
And I’m lying awake in a roofless room,
Preparing to do battle with myself,
As I stitch poetry to silver-lined clouds in the sky,
And sift color-coded moments on the moon,
Using the rusty hands of grandfather clocks,
And the tired tips of all the fountain pens that have bled themselves dry,
Signing checks that no one cashes,
Because it’s borrowed blood money…

So let’s incriminate ourselves with ink stains,
Until we’re walking the streets for a living,
Slipping on banana peels and dynamite sticks,
Just hoping to accidentally start a fire somewhere in our souls,
Finally scaring our skeletons out of strung-out closet space,
Until we’re throwing bones like bad puns,
And running circles around the best of them,
Log rolling in a fake frozen lake to the tune of back-snapped soliloquies,
And who’s going to stop the stiff breeze that knocks us gently to our knees?
Can I get an amen, please?
I’m locked in a homemade jail cell looking for the house keys,
Looking for the road as its ripped from beneath my feet,
Looking for what I’ve found at the point where all things meet,
Something altogether lovely:
A language like mine…

Where I can walk a fine line between manholes and mankind,
Making mistakes that checkmate with a match and mandate,
Patching up the rest with strips of green duct tape,
Until “me” and “you” becomes “you” and “me,”
As we embrace the meaning of moving against the grain of sand that separates “us” from “them,”
Forcing square pegs into round holes until there’s nothing left but rainbow:
An oil-slicked abalone death match to try and create something like human,
Smashing those seashells with a crooked smile,
And even though they’re a ***** to break,
It’s the most beautiful mess I’ve ever made…

~MZ

 

[Padrino]

more new stuff...

GROWING INTO A MOMENT

The difference in length of the circumference of the world from when it began to now
Has become so sizable that it’s relevant to our current discussions of things that tend to polarize mankind,
Talking about it is easy,
It’s the listening that we’re missing,
But now I am learning to sit on the back steps of forever,
So I might never look at the same pieces of “in front of me” more than one at a time,
It’s like a slide projector perspective that clicks, shoots, and rotates
Until every moment I’ve ever lived is a picture in the dictionary…

And where does that get me?
That’s right, back in bed when I was seven,
And everything was carpets and the toys I threw on them,
But now I’ve made myself an adult’s life,
And found God’s forehead wrinkles to be the rest stop I needed all along,
So I could remember what it means to slow down once in a while…

Let’s consider the following:
From age 1 to 33 there’s little in the way of those same pieces of “in front of me,”
And you can bet all the bags of silver sitting on the bottom of the sea
That revolution doesn’t begin at birth,
It takes a voice that’s shut up so much s*** that now it shoots like a shotgun shell,
And is capable of inflicting massive amounts of damage just by uttering the words “I love you,”
But that’s just step one of three-hundred-and-seventy-five,
Next we’ve got to get a little martyr under our fingernails
By smashing down the walls we insert into the sky,
There’s your second slide,
But click, shoot, rotate,
And the most important occurrences are the ones done in memory of anything,
Where I can appreciate more of what I choose to make of those distant callings to responsibility,
Without ever fully embracing the meaning of moving on to bigger and better things,
Still stuck with my nose in space looking for that place called “Peace…”

Please pass the generalizations,
I’m currently typecasting a sci-fi screenplay called “Etcetera,”
And reaching for stars too high and outside of my grasp has cracked my knuckles
Into pieces so small that the rest of my joints buckle
Beneath the weight of ending right back at the beginning again,
And only now have I begun to respect the colors of the rainbow…

So, in the spirit of spatial relationships,
Take off your monolithic headphones,
And rewire your mindset,
Until you’ve reset your best bet to “stereo,”
And plugged it into a wall socket so it can rock out a real memory,
In a reverie,
A melody to sing the boundaries of your own hypocrisy,
Stop accepting the mediocrity that comes from a lifetime of following orders,
You don’t need to line up in sync and sycophantic fashion with the rest of them,
Because a dance with death can’t be done to the beat of anyone else’s drum but your own…

It’s like the moment that occasionally occurs after you’ve fallen asleep and entered into a dreamspace,
Fully aware of the fact that a real nasty recurring nightmare is back,
And if you could just shake yourself awake,
You would,
But you can’t,
So put your best foot forward,
And lower your shoulders to take the type of hits that just keep on coming,
Rolling with the sucker-punches that soundtrack your punch-drunk lullabies,
To try and sleep peacefully in some sense or another,
But it was never the clowns that scared you,
It was the voiceless:
A well-traveled mime lost in time…

He rides down a one-way boulevard on his invisible unicycle,
And trips on space rocks as he orbits the earth,
His pale face finds color in a blood-oath with the pavement,
But that kind of pain doesn’t set him off,
It reminds him that he’s still alive,
So he patches up the skidmarks,
And takes a few big-stepped deep breaths,
The kind that make others feel lightheaded,
Rocking back and forth on his heels a bit to shake the stupid grin off his face,
Locking his pulled-back lips to lament the nature of a smile,
And that’s something he never does,
Smile…
Because the muscles required for him to do so atrophied a long time ago,
And even though he misses what it means to others,
He can’t help but wonder if there was ever cause to smile in the first place,
So he continues spinning on his axis,
Looking for a reason to show his teeth to someone who won’t brush him off
Because of the color in his cheeks…

Now, whenever we wake up from daydreaming in the third person,
We might realize what really scares us,
As we silently sleepwalk through life,
Searching for imagination enough to ride invisible unicycles of our own,
But click, shoot, rotate,
And it’s there…
It’s right…there…
In between what we say and what we do,
In between our scars and our smiles,
Along the tightropes we all walk that separate the parts of us that hide in corners
From the parts of us that wish we could catch up to forever…

And a day ago,
I shouted at the moon just to see what it had to say for itself,
To see if it might talk back to me,
And its pale face spoke in a language so lovely
That I immediately stopped believing in the power of words,
As I caught the silence that erupted from smiling in the sky…

~MZ

 

[VF21]

And a day ago,
I shouted at the moon just to see what it had to say for itself,
To see if it might talk back to me,
And its pale face spoke in a language so lovely
That I immediately stopped believing in the power of words,
As I caught the silence that erupted from smiling in the sky…

That could be a short poem unto itself. Nice work as usual, Matt.