Pottery

The Potter’s hands
holds a body of clay
as young lovers hold each other’s hearts -
pumping the potter’s wheel,
round and round
like some clock gone mad.
A kiln, smokes in the corner of this room
belching black clouds of hatred
becoming hot, envious to devour
whatever enters its mouth -
stuck wide, flames for teeth ready to bite.
In time all shapes change,
becoming one, then the next
leaving only a fading shadow
from the kiln’s flame, ghosts
jumping in a second of light - yet
revealing nothing above a floor of dirt.
It is in the end
art becomes refuse,
old and broken
empty of the usefulness it once had
buried in a field of obscurity
forgotten as a  warm breeze wisps away its final dusty footprints.

Love

Love is just a word

made up by some lonely poet –

in search of more words

to describe his solitude.

Proof litters the floor

old rhymes, tattered round its edges –

fading ink and dried wine glass stains

to circle what thought important in blood.

And he writes from the heart

though such things can not be trusted –

as it gives way to his own empty words

confusing this love with lust.

Love comes from a man’s dream

of waning desires and growing anger –

escaping reality, day tripping forever

within every line he writes.

Love is just a word

just a word indeed.

Piano

Piano

The piano sits in the corner

silent, stained with music from years past –

each key frozen in timelessness

melancholy, veiled from the purpose it served.

And a shadow hangs tight to the wires

muffling their melody,

as I strain to hear the notes, faintly echoing

only to frustrate myself when forgetting the lyrics.

Years pass, and I still see you

sitting at the piano, bringing life to the room

filling the air with your scent – an audience of one

me, until you fade again from the room.

seX

Wrapped legs, which once squeezed with pleasure

now dangle lifeless—

guarding a well, dry with contempt

as I stand at a distance,

dying from the thirst of you.

 

On our bed, the sweat evaporates

becoming stains—

taking on the shapes of diseased skin

the scent of you gone,

as if fire consumed your soul.

 

sex becomes meaningless,

when an ocean of hatred stands between us—

each attack, a wave of salty words

eroding away my edges, stinging my wounds

ever so subtle, a tiny grain at a time.

 

Answer me why, why you turned away,

ignoring vital truths—

how love conquers all, despite all my faults

or how we promised each other a lifetime

only to return it, outdated, expired.

 

Now it rains, drops of icy cold blood

and the sun won’t show again, the sky

painted over with clouds of gloom—

a photograph taken without a hint of color,

just empty frames exposing the frailness in me.

 

Laying beneath a ceiling cracked

the plaster an image of the leper’s cover—

I dare to dream for someday a time

pretending of a hope, as slight as it may be

when I can feel your warmth, just one more time.

“Some People Shouldn’t Have Kids”

I would guess that most if not everyone has heard this statement or perhaps had said it at one time or another. And if you really think about it there is truth to it, “some people should have never had kids” for one reason or another and it become very obvious if you take the time to watch what is going on around them.

This group of people can found in all locals, including across the street from my house. And this example may not encompass the reasons perhaps why the statement “some people shouldn’t have kids” is uttered by you from an example you have. And the quote may include only the mother, the father or both parents which to me would be super fucking scary knowing the children would have no refuge from one parent in another.

 A Most Scary Mother

The example I have from across the street in my small town, actually a village if you needed to be politically correct, who have just moved into the neighborhood. And I am someone who gives a person the benefit of the doubt, not going completely off of first impressions. But it was quickly understood that we had a mother gone wild situation. And not being around 24 – 7 I can only speak of the situations I see when I’m home. And I don’t put this particular mother in the light of being physically abusive, but we all understand that the emotional scars are just as horrific as the physical ones. The constant screaming at the kid is beyond annoying to me, and I wonder what goes on in the little kids mind as he runs from that loud proclamation from his mother that he is “going to be spanked when she gets a hold of him”. It does become a bit comical see her run after the little guy as he tries to elude her grasp. It is one thing to yell at your kid for being naughty or because they aren’t listening to you. But put this image in your head of a mother screaming for her little boy to come into the house expecting him to obey the 30th time you yell this out. As you can imagine it gets old after a while, hence the revelation of the statement “some people shouldn’t have kids”.

And this reminded me of a movie I had not seen for a very long time which portrays a very famous mother who perhaps heard “some people shouldn’t have kids” uttered behind her back. Below is a short clip of one of the examples:

So where do we put the blame for bad parenting? And who sets the standard of good parenting? What one might value as a good family life others from their viewpoint may think it the wrong way to go. I think it is safe to say that one fact is we are a product of our environment and we could be prone to raise our children the way we were raised, right or wrong. But this is not always the case as I know some who recognize the fact that the way they had been raised wasn’t the best and vowed to ensure their kids be raised in a better environment.

And it always seems the mother gets the most of the blame when portrayed in film, the media, music. This could be because of many reasons but I think the blame for bad and for good parenting falls on both parents. This includes the smothering or total control they may have over their children as depicted in Pink Floyd’s song “Mother”:

So remember the next time you see an example of parenting that you may not agree with, remember to look within first. Give the kids a chance. Let them be children. I will close with the lyrics of a song I wrote some years back based on the obvious conclusion that kids of today, with the many seeming “advantages” of technology, certainly have an upbringing different than when I grew up. From what I remember is a more simple childhood with time to grow in those years gradually, where today most kids need to grow up before they are ready to, or need to. Here is the lyrics to the song “Let The Children Play”:

Let The Children Play ©

Are the good times coming? I don’t know

Are we learning something? I don’t know

Time will tell, we’ll live a spell

Just a little while, just another mile we’ll know

Yeah we’ll know…

There was a crooked man, Momma said

This is the Promised Land, Daddy said

Look at Peter Pan, look what’s in his hand

He walked a crooked mile, gave a little smile

Oh no…

Let the children play

Is it hard growing? I don’t know

Can you stand a little? I don’t know

Get to bed; you won’t get fed

Go away, another day

I don’t know, I don’t know!

Let the children play

Why you take your life? I don’t know

Why you carry a knife? I don’t know

Here’s some cash, make a dash

I’m too tired; maybe I’m wired

I don’t know…

Let the children play

Let The Children Play by Shadows © 1997

So happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there who find it important to raise their children the best way they can.

del.icio.us Tags: Father's Day,Parenting,Mother,Pink Floyd,Shadows,Mommie Dearest,Family

My Photography

No Time To Kill

Ever since I have had this job change it seems that I have no time or energy to write. And for someone like myself who lives and breathes by expression through words I believe I have suffocated enough. And just to get the noodle on the functioning side I have a pot of coffee and a quiet setting on a perfect Saturday morning.

If you take all the time in the world (which some people say they have) there should be extra time to dabble in all the things one wants to do. And for me it mainly consists of “stuff” on a creative level whether it is music, poetry, blogging and even playing in the dirt in one of my flower gardens. A need to stay busy seems so important even when the other side of the brain says there is a need to shut down and relax a bit.

 
Killing Time by Aquaguardian

And there is the problem. How to shut off the whole world and concentrate on what needs to seep out. Never mind the quick blog on how the day went or what I purchased for dinner or who I saw at the tavern. Those are an emotional outlet and are fun to write about but I am speaking of the stuff that makes you feel good when it is finished. And it something of substance that others would want to read or in the case of music listen to. These take time unless you are on a unconscious roll and the words just pour out perfectly onto the screen and they hand you the Pulitzer prize for best bullshit without leaving a stain.

In hopes that today is that day I will leave this blog with something off the top of my head:

Inside we waste
everything that matters,
casting out feelings
of love and like -
pretending it doesn’t hurt
just as yesterday,
when you walked away.

So today comes
with a sweeping sound
pushing away crumbs,
remnants of our time together -
ghostly shadows of happiness,
the scent of you in bed,
your touch when everything's alright -
moves away beyond grasping.

Killing time in waiting
for a return that will never come,
yet here I sit
looking through dirty glass,
and into it, trying to find the flaw
which drove you to madness -
grew from seed hatred
of a man like me.

Now that felt kind of good. Just to ramble out something meaningless or perhaps it has more meaning than I want to admit. And if it has any sort of meaning for you, just how cool is that.

A short video tribute to time from the band Triumph. Have a listen.

 

del.icio.us Tags: Time,poetry,writing,Triumph,Killing Time

Boobies

boobies

if you haven’t noticed there has always been an obsession with boobies. And it isn’t just a guy thing as much as one would think. Those of us who have become the admirers of what some would call “the assets” of a woman really seem to have an appreciation for size, shape and even a ranking system that has been around for some time now. Just think of all the terms used to describe the breasts of a woman:

• Bazookas
• Jugs
• Cannons
• Titties
• Hooters
• Cans
• Funbags
• Melons
• Knockers
• Rack

…need I say more? And you could say about the same things about a guys thingy, but we aren’t discussing that today. I have a female friend writer who would perhaps do a better job on that subject anyway.

You may have noticed how the media has helped this kind of praise / worship of boobies to the point that we the watching public simply demand the exposure of such, not only in the programming we see but also in the ads. Websites have been built around sightings of famous boobies exposed at the beach, or in a movie scene of 10 years ago when the actresses’ body defied gravity a bit better. None the same, we are inundated with images, from full frontal to sneak peaks of the object of many a male’s obsession.

But sorry guys! You are not the only ones with the need to see / feel / gawk / daydream / discuss / write about this subject matter. Woman too have a great interest in boobies. And we are not going to get into the discussion that, “of course they do because of it being a part of their anatomy”. Just as men do woman are fans, and obviously have more to say being they actually own a pair of boobies. You cant tell me you have never heard a discussion on why they like / dislike their own set of boobies. And it can go farther than that due to the fact they CAN do something about it. According to one statistical group, just in 2009 alone there were 432,581 breast augmentation surgeries, in which 1,925 of those were performed on patients under 18 years of age.

so whether you are male or female it seems we all have a natural interest in what some may never admit to. That being boobies. So the next time you admire someone's assets give a little prayer of thanks as you enjoy the view. Anyone who is a fan of boobies must come to grips with their obsession and just sit back and reflect how some things in life are so wonderful.

del.icio.us Tags: boobies,breasts

Requiem of a Poet

Requiem of a poet

 

 The day of my funeral will be a Saturday. One attributed to rest, though this time it shall be eternal. And the weather will be cold, with a mixture of tears and ink stains, some dried but most erasable. The guest list alone would make the headlines of any number of corruptible newspapers, burying my farewell next to an ad of abandonment or perhaps above a distorted corner of the weekly crossword puzzle, faded into the page with a bit of spilled coffee.

 

I see the mood around the room as black, reflecting the images of a life unfulfilled in any photographer’s best attempt to bring out the colors of regret and shame. The state of disarray amongst the pallbearers leads me to believe the flask behind the vase of choked red roses has quickly evaporated its contents. One would only guess it appropriate on such a day when paper meets pen, only to feed a fire meant to warm the feet of children.

 

My visitors, one by one, stream past my lifelessness as if taking part in a ritual best suited for the cafeteria, staring blankly at a variety of not caring and wishes of another place and time. But like good soldiers they come, give homage to the poet. And I must announce to the entire world how uncomfortable this casket is, though it looks the part, it just doesn’t quite fit someone, who like me only needed the stars of heaven and the scent of wildflowers.

 

Now to the guests of this jovial event, though without the fun, cheeriness and good humor I would have expected, I jot down their names. Because it would only seem rude to bring all those things along that made me, well me. If you scan among the room you see a menagerie, those who resulted because of a variety of things I’ve just happened to been around to see or do. Or in any case imagine to the point that the delusion comes alive.

 

Notice first the group holding the now empty flask. The ever weary pallbearers who are now finished with their task of hauling dead weight, my dead weight around the streets as if to find me a parking place closest to the entrance. Pacing around and around carrying the burden until a spot opens up. It just happened to be next to the Chevy van of Suicide Girls who took time to pose next to my stiff limbs, now filled with the embalmer’s private stock. In the back, in one of the darkest corners shades of lipstick from a number of indiscretions huddle close to the restroom hoping not to toss their cookies on the funeral parlor’s tale telling carpeting. The one I feel closest, is one who scarred my heart the deepest, keeps the farthest distance, screaming words that make no sound. And the only thing I can do is pretend they are words of love, whispers of why forever lasted only for a day, short but sweet.

 

And as the elite, those of fame and fortune approach, they never seem to look at straight at me. Their gaze has always looked past or perhaps even through me, as though I was just a layer to an overall image of nothing. But nonetheless they are here if only to appease the conscience of my own vanity to be king. And Mother dressed in the blackest black, holding open her womb wanting to take me back in, to smother and control as I rot away beneath the constellations of Orion, Cancer and Ursa Minor. She holds on from start to finish keeping the graves deep, filling each hole with the children she herself bore.

 

The requiem of a poet has many dimensions. Countless facets of enduring triumphs and failures, that makes the whole a fragmented mirror. Yet it comes together due to the madness of his words that can be read with an eye of perception, interpreted by only you. And with every word the poet’s story unfolds into a piece of you, becoming what you needed in the first place.

 

Someone to feel you.

del.icio.us Tags: Funeral,Poets,Poetry,Life,Reflection

Johnny Depp – Alice In Wonderland

Needless to say Johnny Depp is the most sought after actor today. His roles in “The Ninth Gate”, “Blow”, “From Hell”, “Secret Window”, “Public Enemy” and one cannot forget to mention his role as Captain Jack Sparrow in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” trilogy makes him one of my favorite actors. When you review the list of characters he’s played it is clear he is talented to say the least.

Tim Burton too has a long decorated list of work, which to some it may be more bizarre, but which I find innovative and interesting just because it isn't the norm.

But this blog isn’t about these two men exclusively, but about the movie I went to see Saturday afternoon, “Alice In Wonderland”.

 

Depp plays the Mad Hatter who really isn’t the focus of the story, but with his changing eye color, flaming red hair, bushy eye brows and makeup it is hard to ignore him even among all of the other Tim Burton characters. You even get a little Jack Sparrow coming through in a scene or two.

I thought the dialog was classic and at times masterful, for example when the Mad Hatter and Alice speak of things such as madness. They question in their own minds not only the other’s possible madness but their own as well.

The scenery itself is classic Burton. If you’ve seen any of his earlier movies such as “The Corpse Bride” or “The Nightmare Before Christmas” you will recognize the twisted topography Burton uses to make the world a strange place.

You can’t ignore the other characters with their altered persona that is just right to make the world of Wonderland their home. Helen Bonham Carter (Red Queen), Anne Hathaway (White Queen), Crispin Glover (Stayne-Knave of Hearts) and the slew of animated characters make the world of Wonderland a strange little place.

I have to admit though my favorite characters were Tweedledee and Tweedledum (Matt Lucas) with their simpleton ways and their child-like mannerisms were just priceless. Their facial expressions were alive, interesting, just perfect in making those characters brilliantly entertaining.

Overall I liked the movie. I believe though that the things that swayed me more to liking it was the Tim Burton feel of the movie and the big screen. I think if I would have waited to see it on DVD I would have been a little more disappointed and perhaps could have lost interest after a while in the recliner.

Judge the movie for yourself. The reviews have been so mixed that it would be hard to really pin down the public feel for this film. But if you read of the box office opener and sales thus far I can’t see it not being a money maker, and the anticipated DVD sales will no doubt be huge. With the combination of Burton and Depp it could never be too far off the mark.

Rating: 7 out of 10 stars

The Art of Preoccupation With an Occupation

Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, days into months, and before you know it the year is gone. It seems to me that the older I get the quicker time swiftly blows past.

And it never helps that there seems to be more to do. Not that being busy is bad, but not to the point where you just wonder where the past 60 days have gone. And you hope that in some way it has been productive, fulfilling and most assuredly, worth your…eh, time.

It is not hard to become affixed on something that can totally eat up all your waking and by the way, dreaming moments, so that you lose sight on the day to day living experience.

Work is a classic example. A lot to do in a short period of time. Not only can it consume you actions all through the day, but, damn it when it is all that you think about when your not working. When you are thinking about how to handle some issue at work when you are supposed to be playing with your kids, enjoying a good meal, watching the stars or just havin’ one can be a sign, a sickness mind you, of one who has lost all concept of living.

Raise your hand, those of you who have been down that road. Come on, I know that the majority of people fill their minds on something that they shouldn’t, like work, when it should be our downtime. But there are those that feel this preoccupation with success and job shows they are a winner in today’s society. Overworked, stressed, without proper sleep and diet are the telltale signs of a successful person? UGH!

Americans work more hours in comparison to many other countries who perform the same function. It seems we love to fill all time with making our employer more money, which is our job, to make our employer successful in whatever field they chose to start their business. My point is the consumption of time we can spend living life for them and not for ourselves.

So relax, enjoy your Sunday in whatever fashion that works for you. And I know in the back of your mind you already are saying to yourself “Can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow”.

g~

Technorati Tags: Job,Work,Career,Life,Money