Today and the Laptop

I just paid nine-hundred
To get my computer fixed.
Among the old and new parts together cluttered,
Not one old file was in the mix.

While hiding from rain under awning,
A bird asked me the time.
I gave it and looked at the sky's yawning,
And thought this would make a good rhyme.

Yesterday was spring;
With windows open I slept.
Today Mother Nature again brings
Winter and the snow she's often wept.

In the hat shop I notice
Other's future hats never fit.
I instead focus
On what pair of sunglasses to get.

I watched in the cafe
A man light the filter of his cigarette.
He broke it and tossed it in the tray
Then blew a ring with the next he lit.

I'll miss the odd forgotten pic
I had often neglected,
But mostly the music
I'd for many years collected.

The Wind

Oh how the leaves do blow.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

To watch them is so queer
Because despite their tries
They're never blown to where
Their wanted areas lie.

Instead they're forced about,
Romantically opposed,
And Will to Force's bout
Does symphony compose.

In chorus they all make
A fighting sight and noise;
But the wind in end does take
Their right to knowing joys.

Oh how the leaves do flow.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

Now once, one rare old time,
Two leaves from different trees
Did in the other find
A love that weakens knees.

So oft' were they blown near,
So many times before,
But this time they would hear
The sounds not heard before.

This one time would allow
The two paths to entwine.
Though they'd not know quite how,
This time would turn divine.

Oh how the leaves do grow.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

In each they both could find
What others did not enjoy:
A similar state of mind
In playing wind's dear toy.

They loved to blow around,
To go from here to there,
And sometimes to be found
Places they'd not know where.

For now they'd both find glee;
They'd closely tangled fly.
Together they'd be free,
And when calmed, together could lie.

Oh how the leaves do know.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

But soon their nature would
In slow strong paces come,
And whether for worse or good,
Would pull each other from.

It'd pull the two apart;
So gaily as they lie.
They'd both of them depart
Not helping but to cry.

And onward they would go
Enjoy doing what they please,
But they would always know
That love that weakens knees.

Oh how the leaves do go.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

The Other Side of the Street

To walk the footsteps over there--
The other side of this--
To really understand what's here,
One must to it compare.

O'er there there is a different road
That goes a bit askew,
And by it's wanderings it's bestowed
It's walkers with a mode.

A mode of getting here to there
Mistaken by this side
As opposite and ever-bare
Of all that's good right here.

School Desk

A lot can be seen from a child's school desk;
For here's where they'll strive and give forth their best.
All starting with minor small victories won;
And with reading and writing and math each one
Can personally with these new friends come to know
Excitement in learning and how thoughts flow.
Their listening to detail and what is said,
Some sharpened old pencils who oft' are fed
With words that are new and that long to fly,
Or crayons that are capable of entrapping the sky,
The musical instrument sticking out
Who when not often played will begin to pout,
The jump rope that's hung on the the left side hook,
Or science come 'live with the open book,
The desktop that's seen so much sweat, smiles, and tears
That's weatherd the passing of students' years,
It's not one of these that will make kids whole,
But it is the heart and the mind and soul.
It's each of the children in their own way
That need to be nurtured in learning and play.

Calloused

I'm always asked it every time I work,
"But surely you must need some gloves to wear?"
When I say no, they think it not a quirk,
But lack of knowing what will come to bear.
The truth be told, I always have on gloves:
The toughed skin that comes from hard, long toil.
My life has always pushed, and still it shoves
Hard work in front of my way to uncoil
My joyfulness from having rightly earned
The benefit of working inside doors--
But being too experienced has burned
A brand that keeps me out of certain doors.
I work, I lift, I toil, and still I strive
To find a way to soften that what's hard
And change to that that's more alive
And capable of giving what I want regard.

Lost and Found

The box of socks at every laundromat--
The one that no one knows how long there's sat--
It's sad to see such comfortable old things
And no one listening when each their story sings:
The sweat one's seen from close drawn sporting match,
The levity another always fetched,
Some trodden threadbare favorite left aside,
The next from shame can't help but hide.
What steps they must have had both high and low,
But stumblers now have with the strident been thrown.
Now on their deathbed each alone in comp'ny lie,
And no dear loved one comes to say goodbye.

Ties

Soon will he that place depart.
Leaving now will do to he
Harm that he himself has caused.
Ties he's tied to there will be
Stronger than he meant because
He will not his whole self take
Back with him, and life will pause.
Though presenting as mistake
Trials from life like this define
Who we are and how we make
Tribulations turn divine.
Friends and culture, language too,
He with them has self intwined,
And when he leaves he will be blue.
'Cause lashing strong as this will tug
Ripping out the part that to
Him he's tied these things so snug.
There that part will always stay.
Even though he tries to tug
Pulling it will not give way,
And back he'll go without his heart
Though he never longed to part.

Curry

Spicy and filling, this dish delights,
Purging the body of sweat with spice.
Sinuses clear in response to heat--
Rice or with naan and a bit of meat.
Cardamom, turmeric, cayenne too,
Curry can fight with the deepest blue.
O'erloading senses brings mind back round
Offering clarity's silent sound,
Stilling the moment from shaky nerves,
Stealing the person to help preserve
Sense of the self from too scattered thoughts.
Cleansing of soul that is eas'ly bought.

Writers Block

Whether it's lack of time,
Or inability to make things rhyme,
A lack of material,
Or trying to grasp something ethereal,
These times you sit down
To write verb and noun,
Yet nothing seems to work.

The brain has been jerked
Onto a path
That brings forth wrath,
Even sometimes tears
If it lasts for years.

A writer is supposed to write.

When he cannot, he instead fights--
Mostly with himself
Or the books on the shelf
To find and idea, a thought
That will have timely brought
A mode to possess
And presently process
The thoughts in his mind,
But if he cannot find
A way to bring out
And make poetry sprout,
He'll go crazy indeed
From inability to proceed
Down the writers road
To that blessed abode
Of clear running thought
That cannot be taught.

It must be found
As it lies on the ground,
But some lose their way
And can never quite say
Where it is they've come from
And why they think they've turned dumb,
But most get it back
After finding invisible tracks
That others have made.

Receiving this aid
Helps him to grow
And to home start going slow
Until at last
They run there so fast.

The thoughts, they come through
And clarity too.

Then pens can't move as quick--
Those damned little sticks--
As they ought to do
In order to imbue
The writer with time
To account for lost rhyme.

Thoughts

A confetti of thought in colloidal suspension
In a whim of defiance, instead of remaining
On a butterflies wings with the speed of forever
And with silence allowing entrapment and retention,
They flee without quiet damned apprehension.

It is like the few dreams I've been lately not having;
They're so few and so far interplaced that I cannot
Yet one thought clearly think but requiring, needing.
It's without these desired lovely dreams I start raving.
There's no sense to the words I insist to give telling.

I although have belief in the power of habit:
That a person can clarify what's in their foremind
And without concentration that's typically helping.
For those moments, collected fresh thoughts help that facet
Overlooked by those rash, unenlightened, or absent.

Sick Day

These days are for one's health,
Not swelling one's own wealth.
They give the time to rest,
For one to do what's best--
What's needed for that time
So health again can climb.
It's also time for mind--
To think of things left behind.
A chance to turn o'er again
And next day fresh begin
With renewed body and
A fresh new mind to bend
Around new thoughts and times
As life so upwards climbs.

Old Leather Shoes

There are two old friends I wear 'round.
Serving at their posts allotted,
Though now their skin is stained and spotted.
They're aged and tanned old soldier faces--
Two men who've been put through their paces.

First they started out unjaded.
Mildly starting their vocation--
Lightly making conversation,
Walking here and there with heads held high,
Dining, never seeing things wry.

Soon their lives they truly started.
Eyes more opened from day to day
Changed their personality grey.
Painful lessons learned so harshly
That halted former gaiety's folly.

Now by life they've been lambasted.
Though filling purposefully their mission,
Stand they now in worse condition,
But better comrades through time's struggle
Always help me my life to juggle.

Olympics

There is one common universal language:
Competition.
Not all compete,
But all comprehend
Athletes may not speak the same language,
But they understand a touch of the hand:
The one before the event
To wish good luck--
Minds around the same things bent
Trying to be unstuck
Before the race.
Though they themselves and opponents face.
They all know the athlete's life,
Always striving for faster pace.

Even spectators together can sit,
Cheering but knowing their neighbor's mind;
Similarity they unexpected find.
There's nations pride,
The hope, the want,
The awe at ability
That all desire, but few have sought.
The silence while watching,
The craning of the neck,
The reverent observance
At human's ability to perfect
Physical performance.

Everything falls away.
For only a few days,
All rejoice and cheer
And sing athlete's praise.
Occasionally, even some find
They for other nations cheer;
It's not national spirit
But acknowledgement of greatness that rears
Brotherhood,
Comradery,
Peace.

Walking Home in the Rain

Leather shoes,
New briefcase,
Grayish hues,
Hurried pace.

Cars go by,
Clothing soaked.
Crying sky,
Anger stoked.

Beading rain
Seeping through.
Drops that stain--
Feeling blue.

All is wet.
Temper's cooled.
Justly met,
I've been fooled.

This is not
Time of strife.
Grey has brought
Light to life.

Looking up.
Seeing 'round.
Lifting up
What's been down.

Cloth will dry,
Leather too,
Puddles die,
But for you.

Once a while
Drops do come.
In their style
Soon become

Renewed heart,
Lilt in speech,
Lasting part,
Deeper reach.

Snow

A rain, a swiftly falling rain,
It slowly speed begins to gain.
And by a steady wind it blows;
Is pelts and causes stinging pain.

Intensity at last plateaus.
A steady soaking yawns and grows.
Not one dry place does it forsake;
It every surface feels and knows.

The drops do earth's long dryness slake.
Satiety brings 'bout a flake.
They multiply and soon do bring
That comfy blanket they do make.

And droplets who before did ding,
No longer can their dirges sing.
Instead in silent voices low,
The flakes, like chorus bells they ring.

Tomorrow's light brings visions slow
Of whitened scenes that start to grow.
Snow started only just as rain
Is softly balanced on rail and bough.

Bad Day Turn Good

A stressful day,
One cannot play.
One needs relief,
Renewed belief,
In path of life--
Oh moment's strife--
Some room to think,
From stress to shrink,
To breathe again,
For hope to begin,
Some friends so dear,
To hold you near.
Evacuate
To contemplate
The time in whole
And reach the goal.

Pasta

A steaming pot of boiling water
Resting lazily upon the stove
Just warming, getting hotter, hotter--
Comfort food self-made within the home.

The tired veggie peels can rest now
After giving life's accomplished meats.
Ingredients all lie not in sorrow,
Proudly having made just such a treat.

Instead they all have joyous finished
Lives that purposedly have sold their wares.
And now the cook will dine and finish
Wondrous meal with friends in ring of chairs.

Spilled Drink on the Keyboard

A spill.
A thrill.
No chance
To stop.
No glance
At what
Caused this event
I could not prevent.

A thing
To bring
Such stress,
No rest,
Duress.
All fine.
But then this thing
New hell does bring.

A Particular Nothing

There is but every now and then
A certain something bringing joy
Where others see but just a toy.

They're trifling things that bring about
The realization these possesions be
A driving force that easily frees.

They free the mind to think aloud
Because they easily comfort give
And all the present troubles forgive.

To have to look when it is lost
Is a birthday without a gift:
Through hay for needle one must sift.

When reacquired these things do bring
A certain pleasurable knot
The one that's nev'r again forgot.

The Smoking Shed

Forgotten old collection full of dust:
Old things for future use paid love by rust.
A drafty, rotten building long here's sat.
It's only visitor are vagrant rat.
And this was so until a long passed day;
A wandering teacher happened by this way.
Potential in a place not hoping, found,
And within view on public school's old ground.
It's not for all that this becomes a treat,
But three or five away come here to meet.
They smoke and talk and jaw for just a bit,
Or silent can remain to saver it:
A building and place that's to them unique.
Yet of it not a word do any speak.
It's shared, and all innately come to know
The kind of thoughts that such loved places grow.

High and Low

It is amazing how,
Apposing things can join,
Create, perfect, allow,
And new obsessions coin.

The juxtaposed that blend
With catalystic times
And raw enjoyment send
Creating new rhymes.

Like opening a box--
A present unforeseen--
And finding in that box
An unexpected dream.

It's these, these moments queer
That take us by surprise.
For these we must adhere
To keeping open eyes.

beginnings

i discovered my love for poetry a few years ago. at first, i was too embarrassed to tell anyone that i began writing poetry. however, about one year after i began writing, i submitted a few pieces to my university's major student publication comprised of graphic art, prose, and poetry. one of my poems was selected. it was even given a small accolade by a professional writer that judged the pieces selected for the publication. one of my best literary friends--a friend that had for many more years dedicated his life to excellent writing and saw what he considered a novice friend surpass him by the approving nod of an acclaimed writer--told me that my piece was just a nouveau style of unrhyming lines strung together with random spacing and the labeling of poetry. i was crushed. i did not show another sole a poem for another year. then that same friend, an honest, a true, dear friend, and the type of friend who's unthought, uttered, disparaging word does more damage than he could ever imagine, well, he became the editor of the publication the following year. i showed him all my works up to that point. he didn't have room. another few months went by. then i wrote another poem i was particularly proud of. this i did show to many people. now, eight months later, after showing it to many people, i have discovered that one of my most beloved professors from college is teaching my poem in two of his perspectives in literature classes. i have never beheld a higher academic, professional honor. this made me realize my lapse in writing over the last half-year. hince this blog is created.

one new poem
each day
one year

i am the next poet.

i have to keep telling myself this because i truly want nothing more than that. maybe i am sharing this with the entire human race or maybe just myself, but it deserves that statement: i will become the next poet. thus, herewith, i create this year-long goal. it's almost a belated new year's resolution, and with this first post, i am including the college publication poem, the poem being taught in my university currently, and today's poem.

first published...



black cat

i crossed a black cat's path tonight
after a shower to wash away the day.

i opened the door and rested on the
threshold of day and night letting
the unnaturally warm oklahoman-february
breeze brush away a layer of angst
from school to begin work on the next
of granite caused by the crux of an
unsatiated wanderlust and the geographical
strictures of university's life.

it was playing among the stones under
the stairs where no one travels, happily
ignorant of its surroundings, turning
from one thing to another, feeling each
rock for its quality, judging them on their
own merits.

incognitively he pranced across the commons,
he wandered with levity--the sylph, the
being that floats in and out of its own
being.

he stopped.

he chose to acknowledge that a person
was in the doorway watching his move
and we stood, each fixing on the others
gaze decidedly allowing a moment of
connection.

first marching in a straight line with
a pace measured by the encounter until
his feet turned him another direction,
slower, voluntarily going where his
feet were taking him.



currently being taught...



Little Brown Bird

Exploring the day, walking the trails of my mind,
I return home and open the door to staleness.
Continuing like, the fingers of my conscious
Run over the moment to determine the kind
Of temperament my mood has set: a textured mess.
Torn by the brambles and thistles, my attention
Is drawn to a bird in similar situation.

Unaware of his path, he flew through the window
Opened for relief of a stagnant apartment.
Not noticing at first, I heard calamity:
He had sharp notes of stress in his wings, flying low.
I was freed from my tangle but in his was bent:
Caught in the confines of solid walls, restricted,
Floundering, flapping, seeking a way to be freed.

Trying perch after perch, a darting, diving will,
Yet through all the same goal and logic and process;
I attempted shooing and distracting with no
Tangible results to be seen. Finally still,
In a corner alighted and hushed with much stress,
He glanced about calculating what would next be
A plausible way to move pass this and be free.

Gently, slowly, with calming words I moved to him.
In a vain attempt to help set everything right.
Halfway crouched, he startled and again took air
Under his wings. In instinct he paused; on a whim,
He took my finger under him just after flight
It was time enough to cage him between hands,
He deepened his worry caught in something more grand.

Tweet and twitter and chat he continued to complain
Being carried against will to destination
Unknown with eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.
Then through the door and gently tossed into life again,
He spread his wings without hindrance, instant elation.
An eternity of freedom with only one
Stricture: attention paid to direction chosen.



today's...



from one place to another

belongings set aside with care
the old already sorted out
away go things i live without
so to my life a fresh new air

to this decision i give doubt
i leave a place that i desire
a place i'll e'vr require
to go back to the place i quit

this country truly i admire
i'll miss the life i've here begun
returning to a place undone
unfinished by refining fire

the irony of what is done
is that the first and less refined
will help my learning mind to find
an education won by one

the one who needs a training kind
of mentor guiding future choice
to help create specific voice
that leads a man to sight from blind

in this i hope i can rejoice
and give my future chance that's fair
to return to place of thoughtful air
and look back and see rightful choice