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Page 1 of 2 Some things need not be explained. Left to stand upon their own feet they may mean whatever is needed or desired by the reader. To often we attempt to dictate meaning where something means one thing to me, and another to you.
This piece is not the most pleasant or cheerful - but then, neither is disability. Consider This is a record of several lives I have watched wasted through the ravages of disease - not desire if the afflicted.
This poem has been reworked several times since its original inception. The title has waffled between trinity & longing - but the current name is best. It is a reflection on the pieces that are myself.
Not all fathers are those we are born to. The reasons for substituting, replacing, or adding to our list of fathers is as varied as the people who commit the act. I, have had numerous fathers in my life.
This piece was an unintended assignment of sorts, and a matter dear to my own heart for reasons I do not wish to disclose. It is simply what it is and whichever interpretation you chose to apply, I hope the poem works for you.
The poem pretty much speaks for itself, yet the publisher requires that a have something written in the introduction so these is it. Poking fun at an institution is a risky pastime of mine. We will see if I get penalized. Here then lies Wasted Pixels.
This is a poem that might be three in one, or is it one in three? Not really sure. Basically this piece is a series of sketches in verbal fashion from a six hour stretch of one day. More than that, it is a clear window into the way my mind works.
This is a fun, and odd, sort of poetry. I think only the most serious - or insane - of readers will actually decipher its contents. An e.e. cummings type of exercise today. The Challenge: Write an addition poem. The first line will be one letter,
Today's poetic challenge was interesting - something I have done many times. In celebration of National Poetry Month they want "Mundane Poetry." Or: "Write a poem about a normally mundane object (e.g. a shoe, a pencil, a fork, etc.)."
Here is a Perfect example of why I avoid assignments like the plague. Always have - likely always will. Ask me to write a poem and I will create something of varying quality. Give the poem rules and it falls apart. Still, here is an attempt at a cinquain.
Writing is not always easy. Those of us who are compelled, whether by our own ego, the desires of others, or some other force all together know this to well.
This is an utterly ridiculous but kind of fun little ditty written about the state of my life 10 years ago. Why is it here? Because amazingly, it still holds quite true!
Sometimes I think that poetry should be prefaced by same silly little paragraph like this that says what and why the poem is. Other times I think such paragraphs ruin the poem - if it cannot stand alone then does it really serve a purpose?
The idea is simple - produce a poem of how you spent your Easter. Here then is my Easter thus far.
Some nights are just not for writing. On those occasions, should I force the matter, very good - or bad - things can happen. I am entirely unsure which of these categories tonights piece qualifies as.
This poem is a reaction if you will to the statements around the idea of an atheistic Web Warrior and, while the words are all here, they somehow sound - "wrong." not bad, whiny, rough, or a hundred other things I can think of. Just somehow "wrong."
Recently I received a comment about being grateful that made me smile faintly - and remind me sometimes the way we are perceived is an interpretation of the words we speak or write. Lest you think me all gloom and doom, here is a bit of gratitude.
Somethings maybe should Not be writ. The piece that follows has no hidden meanings that I am overtly aware of. Yet, I had to write it - if for no other reason then to purge it from my being as I danced in my own fire. The RSVP then:
Some poetry makes sense only to the poet, other poems are intentionally left with a mystery for the reader to interpret - others are self-explanatory. This piece is simply a regret for a lost love - nothing more.
Hardly the most cheerful of pieces, yet somehow I was not able to resist writing it. In reality, I do not know that I had much of a choice, it just sort of escaped from within onto the paper while I was not looking.
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