Monday, February 28, 2011

whats normal?

normal is not a color
that comes in a box of crayola,
i checked, the twelve, twenty~four
sixty~four, one twenty eight,
it's not there

mine are nubs ground down by
the pressure exerted upon them
against the page, painting
reality as i see it, which is
far from, and

refuse to give in and become
that which oppresses, but real
eyes there is as much danger in
rose colored glasses,
they've fallen

crushed in the rush, i've come
to my senses, denial does not
make me righteous only feeds
the darkness that dwells
encamped on the fringes

phelanges, given these, use
them as i can, knowing love over
comes in the end, but some days
seems light years away from
the world stage

cancer kills, but we can not
let it win, no one's an island
its only together we color
the new normal.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

one shoot sunday: no correction tape


when i's little
i believed
behind closed eyes
i's invisible

i'd sit at the old desk
hunt n' peckin'
click clack ca-chung
that old typewriter

every letter forever
strong & black on
a sea of white, i'd type
without correction tape

each mistake, beautiful
in it's own right
when i's little,
eyes closed, invisible.

Photo provided by Jack Az, as part of One Shoot Sunday over at One Stop.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

55 - itsy bitsy spiders in my head

i hem my garments
with gossamer strands
of memory, so i can
wear my history

each moment plucked
specially from webs
in the corners of my head

history is historical
but only if you remember
it, just don't let it
snarl/snare you

the spider's bite is venomous

the spider's bite
is
venomous

walk on.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

everything new under the sun

open mouthed
i catch raindrops
on my tongue
roll them around
just to taste
the reason they
fall from your cheeks

don't cry for me
naked in the morning sun
scars puckered white
all the world can see
i wear them well
(even earned a few)
each one
a story to tell &
several even carry
smiles tucked inside

they are bones of
the kaleidoscope
i have become
and soon enough
the rays will pass
through and as i
twist so will the view

not good enough,
just give it a minute
and i will be beautiful,

just like you.

imperfect prose

Also, entering this in Friday Poetically.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

one shot: weak currency

the breadth of feathers
adorning my angel wings
has been plucked, pour
peroxide where it festers

my closed fists beat on
the doors of heaven, i am
a vagrant palming alms
strangers slip into my bowl

hollow, stomach growling
for meat, i peal scabs
off my feet from walking
streets where buildings reach

Babeling heights, my halo
can be bought at the pawn
shop for a ten spot, but it
got me dinner off the dollar menu

where we make it
your way, right away
just to feed the disease &

if you find it hard to swallow
it was for me too, i am your
neighbor, you smile at, each
morning when you step out

to get the paper & we are
One nation, under each other,
passed hand to hand,
weak currency.

It's that time again, break out your poems and get ready to jump in the pit,,,it's One Shot Wednesday! Gates open at 5 pm EST, and I'll be the Emcee on the mic tonight. Go write a poem, come join us!

Monday, February 21, 2011

un-dead poets society

why do poets have to die
to be famous?

i dont read poems
written by dead people
everyone reads those &
i am not everyone, no
i like my poets still living,
screaming as ink leaks from
their twitching fingers

that get as much
attention as a homicide
in section 8 housing, whats
new, slide it inside, a
small blurb on the curb
of page 6...nothing...new

names, they got them, never
known, til etched in stone
and then maybe only
by their absinthe minded
mothers, see when you get famous
you forget how to write, muse
choked on bulimic fingers
regurgitating the next big thing

now i lay me down to sleep,
pray the...


no wonder they drink, to lose
their mind & find again what
once resided inside, their fifteen
minutes finally catching up
to them, found dead in a recliner,
next weeks bestseller

why do poets have to die
to be famous? and is that
even the point?

Sunday, February 20, 2011

160 - playing with matches

schrachkt!

the match ignites
when put to friction

pinched between your
fingers i am ready
but unlit

strike me again &
i'll burn this house down

what can you say in 160 characters? say it, then go tell Monkey Man.

hmm...is it passion, is it anger...i leave it open and let you decide based on your perspective...

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Thank You


This is an acrylic painting I did recently. First one in around 20 years. Had fun experimenting with textures and have another that I am playing with as well.

I wanted to thank those that voted for Onestoppoetry in #art for the Shorty Awards. We are a finalist, so I will be traveling to NYC in March for the awards presentation. Can't wait to go back to the city and get a chance to meet some great friends for the first time. This would not be possible without those that voted, so I sincerely and humbly thank you.

No fancy words today, but if you came looking for poetry or some great writing a few I have thoroughly enjoyed recently are:

Ami Mattison
Shay
Hedgewitch

I could list many, and know if you stop by my place and leave your mark, I appreciate you. This journey would be a lot less enjoyable without you.

I hope you have an incredible Saturday!

Thursday, February 17, 2011

55 - falling on deaf ears

[cries in the night]

the next day i find her
up a tree
about forty feet

[knock, knock]

"yes, she's been
up there three days"
a young guy says,
"figgered she'd find
her way eventually"

so up the tree
i go

hoping no one
waits three days
if they hear my

[cries in the night]

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

and a gift for the man that makes this 55 work...I found this while in a book store last week...bet you did not know he was a superhero...and if you look close you will see this is issue 5 of 5...hmm...

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

butter popcorn fingerprints

the hand that turns back the darkness
gently stirs the slumber of the masses

not like your mama on school days
when you were already running late

but a caress on the cheek after a first
kiss. i stand on the deck and watch

the first flower of the season open
it's arms to hug the sun, then blush

purple~white with a hint of yellow
like butter popcorn fingerprints,

love, come touch me next.

written for imperfect prose

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

One Shot: Blind Man's Bluff

tap, tap, tap, tap

blind men and busy streets don't mix
but there he stands affixed, a statue the
flow breaks upon, each person nibbling
a little dignity with every jostle in the
hustle and bustle but he cant stand the
thought of receding once more through
the cell door his home, he searched every
square inch on finger tips until bored,
suffocatingly lonely, hearing only the
ear worms digging in his brain, driving
him in...

the worms crawl in, the worms crawl
out, the worms play peanuckle on
your snout---

shout that he can't, or shouldn't
go out, least not without someone
to guide, protect or keep him safe,
they try to keep him little but these
escapes make his fingers twitch, grabbing,
stuffing (fresh) air in his pockets
for when he needs it later---he wants
to cross the street, to see if he can and

the worms crawl in, the worms crawl
out, the worms play peanuckle on
your snout---

blind, but not born this way, aren't we
all, so he knows what he's missing,
each day he plays the same game inching
closer, his bluff called by roaring
lions, lincolns and buses, chasing him
home defeated and busted---does anyone
notice? does it even matter?---but not
today, white stick in hand, tap, tap,
tapping nervous beats, he waits, worms
wiggling louder - LOUDER, stepping off
the shoulder---

tap
tap
tap
honk, screECH, THUMP!

temptation's tension sated, he's lying,
sprawled and smiling, silencing con-
science, unconscious, dying----leaving
you only to wonder, which voices
you're listening to---

the worms crawl in the worms crawl
out, the worms...the worms...the worms...

Woohoo! It's another One Shot Wednesday, time to pull out your poet pen and begin...write something poetic, poem-like and come join us at One Stop...

Monday, February 14, 2011

Magpie Tales: Silence is Deadly

senses over salted, so
many flavors offered,
Baskin Robbins had 31,
we pick the one for
the moment but tomorrow
it will be different

our stances are made on
pits of quicksand, spread
thin, or until it sinks not
that we re-think, or think
anything, cause when you take
a stand you are libel,

to get shot, flip~flop, wish~
wash, it all comes out in the
laundry except those pesky
stains of indecision to
which we plead the fifth,
it's not my responsibility

what's that you said?

SPEAK UP!

what do you stand for as
you sit there in the comfy
chair, click, click, clicking
the time away? say, they
dont call it LA-Z- boy for
nothing, oh i'm just playing,
stay silent---

it's easier that way.

written for Magpie Tales

Sunday, February 13, 2011

blah (it's Valentine's Day)

blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.i love you blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.
blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah.

all other words pale in comparison.
Happy Valentines Day 

Saturday, February 12, 2011

the secret life of trees

i invite birds to nest
in my chest, tucking twigs
between ribs, they sing
beauty, making a home

my heart is the drum
my heart is the drum

the mom sits on
waiting for it to
hatch, crack &
spill forth new life

spring will come
spring will come

Thursday, February 10, 2011

55 - this is just a test, if it was an actual emergency...

i still have dreams

of walking into class,
finding a desk, not in
back, slack, nor
the front, suck up,

when the teacher walks
in, handing out the
final exam and i look
around, sweating, knowing
i am failing, cause
it's the first day
i've attended---

then wake up realising
my test---

is just beginning.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Friday Poetically - Spoken word artist Nicolas George joins today me for Black History Month at One Stop Poetry.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

queen of the moment

it's not like we had reason
to pretty ourselves, older
boys only wanted one thing an
you don't need looks for that---

their attention was cool water
on parched lips, baked chapped
by home life and teacher's gazes

letting some boy wiggle inside
your skin might be sin
but for a few moments you was
queen, adored and wanted---

my babys got his daddy's eyes,
to remember him by, and some
nights he lets me sleep, but i
lay awake and wonder will i

ever feel that way again, once
i turn sixteen---

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

One Shot: Help me! I'm melting!

i'd give you my two cents
but the gov'ment would tax it
so a penny for your thoughts
on this out of control racket

slavery is poor existence but
we do it at 18 plus percent
interest in our insistence in
owning stuff, we stuff collectors

ferreting away stuff in corners
and closets promising we'll
use it til we run out of space
to stuff stuff and need a
place, much bigger, which we
promptly insulate with more
shiny flashy new stuff stuffing
at easy monthly payments---

that three generations from
now will still be paying for,
all because some one once
told us that's the way you do it,
legacy-ing our children as
indentured servants---

i mean who can live without
a can opener pocket knife
GPS HDTV converting
vegetable juicer---act
now and get 25 fabulous
ginsu serated edged recipe
cards but only if you are
the first one hundred callers---

and we laugh, laugh cause we
would never be so dumb
as to buy something like
that but its really the small
stuff that adds up, but don't
sweat it---

BEWARE

street corner prophets peddling
plastic life sentences, little
hits until payday, feed the habit,
life waylayed, dreams left in
lay away---

it makes no sense, no cents,
innocence squandered, my
thoughts are geodes cracked
open, inverted, prickly on
fingers and played with by
children---

break free, break free chil'
while you still can
hear the jangling chains
in the massa's hand
run away, run away
you still can...

One Shot Poetry - an experiment in seeing how much poetry we can link on one page...smiles. Write a poem, come join the poetic revolution. Kicks off tonight at 5 PM EST.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Strong Coffee

"God is obviously white because He said I am who I am not I is who I is", the coffeehouse girl says, surely to be funny but i wish she could go with me when we gather in the woods, down a rutted dirt road, a ways off the highway, where shadows are buried, too dark to fit in among the white tombstones of the town cemetery in years prior.

Rocks, some crudely etched with initials, others just framed pictures, fading into memory, mark the history of family and we lay to rest a mother, her mound surrounded by picket fence flower bed border, drape it in flowers and sing with one voice, Amazing Grace, which comes in all colors.

But i just order my coffee, black, like the son who that day cried on my shoulder, & strong, like my friend, who after, still carries on.

February is Black History month. I have been enjoying some of the programs at several of the local colleges with a few of my friends and making a few more as I continue learning and growing. The son was one of the kids I worked with.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

160 - surgeon general, save me



drunk again

bottle bedded
next to me

following its curves
room spins

there really
should be a
warning label
on your body

consume too
much and...

and...

and...

What can you say in 160 characters? Say it, then tell Monkey Man.


The incredible painting was done by Michelle Rummel at Shellartistree, a friend, beautiful artist and a poet. Thank you for allowing me to write about your art.

There is also this incredible photo prompt over at One Stop Poetry for One Shoot Sunday.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

crayon love songs

if i wrote you a love song
it would be in crayon &
mostly in pictures, leaving it
open to interpretation, unveiling
something new each time you
read it, on the mood or the
moment and depth of
these feelings----

lemon yellow sun, a giraffe
with blotchy spots down his
neck, none of this
'eye' 'heart' 'sheep' nonsense
no it would be deep, maybe
 a playful squirrel or aliens
landing on cheese moons,
something you might see on
display outside kindergarten
classrooms----

it may not look like anything
but it would be real, not some
popped up version of romeo
and juliet, no it would be back
when you blushed at holding
hands and kisses were atom
bombs obliterating your world
but you couldn't help smiling--

so what do you say, i know
you are busy, enough things to
do to make you all dizzy, but
i brought my crayons and
some scratch paper, how about
we color a love song, today.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

55 - the problem with gods & dreamsicles

dreamsicle skies
watch as she etches
her arms with psalms
to a god who won't
or can't read them,

his phone just
keeps ringing, no
room for mess-
ages. she's help-
less, more desperate
with each penned letter.

this morning, he left her
and reasons don't matter
just another man
she granted divinity, fallen

dreamsicles
slowly melting

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

why so serious?

i have notebooks filled
with great lines
but ask me to put
them together and
they end up something
like this

i'll post it and wait
for you to fondle
it and breathlessly
tell me how good
i am, how my
words move you
or touch you

& even though i
have only ever
hacked on 2 cigarettes
in my life, it
will make me want
to roll up this
poem & light it
just to inhale the
moment...

poets can be
pretty sick like
that...

but it's when people
tell me it sucks
that i get excited
because the truth,
as you see it, my
meter too short or
rhythm too long,
will break my heart
just enough to write
another...

smiles. can't take myself too seriously now you know. thank you to all those that regularly stop in, you keep me smiling. ~Brian

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

One Shot: same old cassette tape

on the b-side resides
songs people love but
airwaves are dominated
by popular thought process
beat drops & you singing
not real-eyes'n what your
saying, sinking deap, with
every lyric you repeat,
b-b-bass brains mush, they hush
your lips, sooth hips swayin,
fingers swirl world view, &
thats when they know they
gots you...just another mis-
begotten zombie, revolution
long forgotten, CHANGE
just a slogan on a t-shirt
ready to go to the Goodwill.

and every little ting, gonna be alright...

dope, same stuff sold on street
corners, make you see colors
where greys exist, but it don't
feed a family more'n grits &
hominy, the state of my union
distressed, like the jeans i am
dressed, holes in the knees
pressed to the earth, til it hurts
praying insane...but the song
remains the same...

Hear my song. People won't you listen now? Sing along.
You don't know what you're missing now.

BOOM, BOOM, POW, how you
like me now, blue tie, starched
shirt, corporate sponsored til
it hurts, i hear the words you be
layin', just take away the A...
layin', just take away the A...
layin', just take away...

One Shot Wednesday - where all the cool poets come to spit rhymes or maybe just verse...write a poem, come join us. The party gets started at 5 pm EST.

Italicizes lyrics are taken from Bob Marley, Led Zeppelin and the Black Eyed Peas. Heading to an open mic tonight for African American History month...wish me luck.