One Day…

One Day

A young boy dreams of being a hero
The one absent in his youth
The one rampant in books, on screens,
Running wild throughout imaginations

So he dedicates his life to goodness
To love
To nurture, compassion, dedication
But he’s never good enough for her

He becomes irrelevant
The story plays the same
Heroes fail
Tattered dreams litter a life worth sharing

A young boy lives in the man
Ever anxious to conquer apathy
Disbelief, underappreciation,
While weariness collects in his bones

Dreams of being loved crumble
Sculpted castles in the sands of time
He cannot be the next shiny thing every day
Tears bleed his soul, silent searing salt trails dig at aging cheeks

As time washes him away, he yet dreams of being a hero
The one present in this life
The one who loved true and well
That he may rest one day in the legacy of a life well lived

For he owns a love worth sharing…

The Locker

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Wounded

The Locker

Folded neat in that special place
the place where you dream
the place where you quietly, gently unpack your love
the place where you wistfully view moments, past and future
Lie the heart and soul of your desires
the desire for hope
the desire for love
the desire for romance where lips meet in passion, caresses last a lifetime
Too much covered by dust and neglect, begging questions
why am I unworthy?
what have I done to deserve brokenness?
am I that unlovable?
Yet emotional hands demand the locker remain open to reveal your life
the desire for special moments
the need for intimate connections
the pain of not knowing why dreams elude you
When smiles arrive, too many lie distant from the present
the passion from eyes so sparkled
the nights and days of romantic embrace
the timeless sensuality of togetherness enjoyed
So you unfold hope
the one tattered and torn by doubt and neglect
the one that gives life, though little supports its canvas
the one which moves you forward despite all evidence
And you wonder at your inner strength
that capacity for deep and caring love
that dogged belief your dreams stand viable, achievable, despite scant proof
that ability to right yourself under the impending disaster of inevitability
You cry a little
for love that could be so perfect
for peace that could quell all demons
for intimacy that could fuel your life for eternity
And you see revelations
your worth stands undervalued
your love lies underused
your stalwart dedication falls underappreciated

You rededicate yourself
to strength and support
to love and its power to affect change
to living each day in the confidence of your direction
So you pack it all back in with gentle fingers
for each day your needs find fulfillment
for each day your love wins
for each day intimacy finds its bloom
And you always place the tattered hope in last
which covers all your fears and doubts
which touches all your dreams and desires
which lends strength to overcome weariness and disillusionment
To revitalize, despite the sense of emptiness in your locker
because you believe in yourself
because you know love will win
because without that threadbare parcel of hope, you would join the apathetic, downtrodden, hardened souls of this world, who never to find their heart’s desire, never to know that amazing caress, kiss, quiet expression of love from another

And you close the lid with a soft sigh 
knowing you must love yourself
knowing you chase a phantom
looking forward to the big reveal that your locker indeed held the treasure of a lifetime

To begin your day with love…

 

What We Need to Hear

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Short contemplation here on an aspect of creativity for those of us who step out into the world of potential disaster. No, really. Isn’t this the manner in which we often look at what we do?

Not all the time, I get that. When we’re in the throes of creative passion, our work becomes larger than life on a scale which sometimes threatens to devour us. We thrill in the process of giving ourselves to our passion. We don’t merely have sex with our writing, we make love to it, and when we REALLY give ourselves over, we make love with our creativity.

But what about those other times? What about the steps we walk, the mundania we suffer and the doubts and fears which threaten to overwhelm and consume us. I’m sure every creative person struggles at some level outside their internal “zone of creative passion.”

I woke this day to the thought of what it means to create something from nothing. To place your potential livelihood into the nebulous hands of your chaotic inner muses. To live at times daily with reality biting pieces of your heart and brain leaving you with a muddled mess of insecurities and fears.

At some point, you must decide to either play at creativity part time or commit. Who has commitment issues? Just because you commit to full-time creativity endeavor will by no means chase your demons away. In fact, too often this position awakens beasts within which you never understood nor ever desired to face.

A couple great things happened to me in the midst of a gestalt-creative-fear-meltdown this day. One, the love of my life and fuel for my heart communicated love for me in a most non-blatant, even ultra-subtle manner in which she would have to stop and examine simply to understand how deeply and desperately I needed that show of affection.

At times this condition of fear and inner questioning becomes so debilitating and so ridiculous that if anyone were inside my emotional ball of chaos they would certify me nuts. But one innocuous, mundane, basic beyond belief show of love and commitment can take a meltdown to a blog post and a re-energizing of creative passion and confidence.

Combine that incident with three other positive notions and my jet engines roar and I feel hope once again. I stumbled through the Facebook Desert, locked to my bedsheets in dread and foreclosure on my foundational creativity, and tripped across this podcast by James Wedmore:

This cuts to the core of my desire in promoting writing. This strikes to the very heart of my strength, my love, my soul, my purpose.

Next, a dear writer friend, Mary Rogers-Grantham posted this quote from Anne Rice: “To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”

These two items were enough to get feet on the floor and action behind my mind. Then My Princess called. We truly didn’t exchange mushy romantic pillow talk. She wanted to find time for us to be together. In a nutshell, she let me know she desired my physical presence in her life. I’m important to her.

She loves me.

Hence these keystrokes. But this should not stop here as some cutesy little story about restored hope and motivation. My truth stands as this – the abject responsibility to be able to rally myself cannot depend solely on others. As creative artists, we must work through our angst, our fear, our terror, our despair, our waning confidence diving like a meteor crashing into the surface of the atmospherically challenged moon, and somehow, someway, become self-sufficient in our own quirky way.

That stated, surrounding yourself with people who love and support you often helps you find that connection to viability, motivation, and courage. We need to care far less about what others think of us and our creative endeavors and care exponentially more about what we think of who we are and what we desire to accomplish in our lives.

I don’t tend to ponder blog posts. I puke them out, just as I encourage writers to puke out their books. I may go back over this writing a time or two in an effort to catch typos and to see if the words make any sense, but for the most part, the writing will always remain raw, right off the fingertips of my heart.

My dear, dear friend Ayesha gave me that encouragement years ago. She told me she loved the power of my raw writing. This comes from one of the most incredible writers I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. She handed me a compliment which concerned my most beloved aspect of writing, the pure words. She validated me, but more importantly, her kindness helped me validate myself.

So, now I’ve meandered all about and amazingly, the title I placed on this post before I wrote a word remains valid. What we need to hear, yes indeed, are the encouragements of others, but if we never take that encouragement the next step and hear our own deepest inner voices speak the very same words to our souls, we will remain awash in our own destruction.

What we need to hear as creative artists is our own voice validate our efforts and speak love over what we choose to motivate ourselves to create. I vehemently recommend you search for truth within and make something of that truth in everything you do. Don’t do it for money. Don’t do it for others. Hear your voice of creativity in your heart, nurture this gift, and boldly present your expression to the world – not for the world’s approval, but for yourself and the connection which might help someone else sharing life with you on this planet.

Hear yourself honestly say that you believe in yourself. That’s what we need to hear. We won’t always hear that voice proclaim this. Too much of our creativity comes from the negatives of this life. When you question yourself and your worth, however, this is the time to parade that stalwart voice which foundationally either stands tall or crumbles.

Others will help you get there. This day I’ve listed four. Ultimately though, you will have to decide to forage for that inner voice of personal validation. Strive for that. Search for your core strength. Find what you need to hear. Others may echo this voice and remind you, but this voice will ultimately be your own. Cultivate your inner belief in yourself.

Hear what you need most to hear.

My Momma’s House

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My Momma’s House

Familiar creaks in the ancient floor
Once a bane to childhood creeping
Teenager sneaking
Now a quaint and mournful sigh

Wood and concrete mixed for strength
She built the ultimate stability through perseverance
Tears and loss
Now unable to hold her dreams real

Memories born, attached to our births
Ghosts of good and bad play hide and seek with our tears
Formative philosophies born and raised here
They march into yesterday’s realm inexorable. Relentless.

My momma’s house pours over my soul
The single most important artifact of a life
The stalwart line in the sand against the tsunami of time
Falls into memory itself with pain, regret, helplessness, sadness

My momma’s house a lifeblood gift generations ago
A rock on which to build
To send lives out into the world to thrive in their own ways
A marker bobbing in the sea of life which ends with these same lives

Legacy builds through action
My momma’s breath runs deep, embedded in the silent walls
Sixty-four years here, the bulk spent in oneness alone
While the rest of us bustled about in our Don Quixote pursuits to construct our lives

My momma’s house, make no mistake
Anchored to her heart, tied to our souls
She cannot stay, she cannot stay
Peril in the fall of the house of mother

Profound loss screams silent tears down sullen cheeks
No recourse allowed
No alternative day-saving
No cavalry to ride to our rescue like in the books and movies we once enjoyed here

My momma’s house is my house.
My momma’s house is all my sisters’ house
My momma’s house is my father’s house
Again, my momma’s house is hers, her tie to life, her fortress against time

My momma’s house silently accuses
Yet my momma’s house silently accepts and encourages
My momma’s house thinks no thoughts, owns no convictions
Save the ones coursing my brain and heart and deepest essence in long ago learned lessons

My momma’s house bore our imperfections well
My tears in this very room uncountable
My security within its walls never doubted
Until now as I say goodbye to a home well constructed

Yes, my momma’s house owes its strength to the concept of home
Persevered through a lifetime of struggle
Only a house in timber, always a home
Always a foundation built on the backs of we who shared her adamant embrace of this place

My momma’s home strikes its blow deep
Goodbye not something to take lightly
More to cower from and lend flight to feet aching to flee reality
Yet my momma’s home stands on the foundation of understanding and love

Forgiveness for what must be done does not arrive questioned from my momma’s home
Only from the tired, grief-stricken hearts who must gently explode the atomic bomb
The mushroom cloud of goodbye cannot be mended
Only cherished as something few get to experience

My momma’s home is a testament to quiet strength
To love and caring and softness and self determination
To everything and more a child could ever aspire to
To a life well-lived and a heart well-loved

My momma’s house should never fall
Yet time, decay of mind and will
Devastating truths of this existence
Win the battle whose outcome for all of us lies never in question

My momma’s home cradles my loves and hates
My achievements and failures
Myself and my children
My life and my death
For all were born here
All sprouted from this castle forged from her tenacious endeavor
To build a haven for love, life,
A refuge from reality, a reality from fantasy
A fantasy from effort, an effort which completed a legacy

My momma’s home owns forever the floor creaks
Forever the cries, yelling, tears, heart-numbing sadnesses
Along with our triumphs, our victories, our life credentials
And no relinquishment of this brick and mortar can ever steal this away

For despite how the loss of this house feels deep in my bones
This mighty hotbed of lives well played does not reside at an address
This physical thing which destroys my eyes and ears and nose and tongue and fingers by its loss
Never truly owned a single viable emotional existence that did not owe its mere contemplation to anything or anyone other than my most honorable, loving, kind, gentle, silent-strong mother

My momma’s home may not be attributed to the rest of us
We stand as mere contributors to her dream and her will
We should applaud her efforts
We should applaud our contributions
We should understand she built this home despite us
Ultimately and deserving of every tear we could possibly shed
My momma built this home for us as much as for herself
For this home resides in her heart and we all were one day born of that heart
And one day we will mourn that heart
Hopefully we celebrate that heart
Hopefully, in some manner, in some way even paled, we spread that heart to others.

No amount of pain can describe saying goodbye to this house
Yet the home still resides within her
When she’s gone, the home still resides in us
When we’re gone, the home still resides in those we touched through her legacy

May that ripple travel eternity…

The Life That Wasn’t

P1020006The Life That Wasn’t

Trees of green, red roses too
For years and years, the voice, the heart, the song
Letters I’ve written never meaning to send
For years and years, the melody, the wailing heart, the song

Babies’ first cries ricochet past recollection
But tiny lads and lasses grow
Too fast
Too smart
Too different
Yet their lives become mortar to legacy and love

Connections lost throughout our lives
Lost through busy schedules
Lost through domineering spouses
Lost through internal fears
Lost through selfish interests
Lost through time’s limited agreement with our bodies and their activities
Yet somehow, in some fashion, that connection survives

The life-that-was defined itself in perpetual series’ of accidents, failures, and conflicts
Nothing worked perfectly
Much worked minimally
Some worked well
A little worked amazingly
And something filtered through all on its own

Love
Compassion
Heart
Strength of character
Truth

The life-that-wasn’t was perfect
Ooga booga children with frolicking happy days and nights
Baseball and basketball and orchestra and chorus and ballet and music and art
All choreographed under the conductor’s wand to immaculate serenity

The life-that-wasn’t filled the dream of the heart
The longing of the soul
The best wishes of personality
The knowledge of good

The life-that-wasn’t felt the sting of emotional, spiritual, and psychological abuse
Only to lay the groundwork with nutrients to survive
To grow stronger
And to prepare grown Ooga Boogas for their trials

The life-that-wasn’t should have been
The life-that-wasn’t harkened fairytale wonder
The life-that-wasn’t struggled against black negativity
The life-that-wasn’t could never hope to survive on its own

Ah, but that life-that-was grew them strong
Grew them smart
Grew them self-reliant
Grew them with a goodness, something for which every parent dreams

There exist infinite live’s that weren’t
The life-that-wasn’t never overcomes the darkness
The life-that-wasn’t never makes the dawn
But the spirit of the life-that-wasn’t survived on the wings of love

And legacy

You read this
You must realize
You stand as someone’s legacy
No matter what you built
No matter what you destroyed
You define someone’s legacy
You enhance or degrade your own

Never too late while you breathe to strive for love and legacy
For the life-that-wasn’t

But should have been…

Ascension

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Darkened street 3Ascension…

A redeye slogs its way across soggy Eastern skies
Its mournful drone labors to reunite loved ones
Sleep begs and beckons its continuation
As the will nearly loses its familiar feeble fight to blossom into another day

Soft piano notes acknowledge the sixth hour
While the brain shakes off the cares of dreams and fantasy lives
Dayspring dawns as fingers gently caress letters from inanimate objects
And my soul projects its thankfulness for these words to begin this morn’s resurgence to life…

Hero

0022Hero

I want to be your hero
The one who travels your heart
The thought you have in random moments
The smile which tickles your face and mind

I want to be your hero
The strength you need when you’re feeling down
The arms you desire when your soul needs held
The kindness you seek when the world is cold

I want to be your hero
The gentle hand to caress your nights
The loving kiss which lingers on your lips
The embrace which causes the cares of this world to fade away

I want to be your hero
Because you most definitely are mine
You stroll my heart in every moment
You run my thoughts in wanton abandon
You tug smiles to my face throughout my day
You lift me even in my darkest despair
You hold me tight and my world is healed
You warm me in the coldest of times
Your hand caresses my face and I melt
You kiss me and my lips beg for more
You hug me and all is well…

You are MY hero, my love, my life
My inspiration, motivation, my conduit for goodness
And I strive to be your adoring hero
For my life is complete in the love from your eyes…

My Valentine

0255My Valentine

Affection lingers long past midnight on empty streets bathed in silken moonlight
Leaves tumbling like water in a brook past my feet strolling from your door.
I wonder what’s your thoughts, where’s your mind, how’s your heart
And mine beats, double-time.

Adoration tickles the tingles racing along each loving nerve
Night’s noises play the tune, the one that leaves me all aswoon
Perfect creature in your room, there’s but one thought on my mind
And I wonder when I’ll meet your soft lips again.

My Valentine, I love your sweetness, your loving kindness lurks my soul
Morning looms like a sultry beacon to the song swirling in my heart
I wander quiet in the moonbeams, what magic hijinx enwraps me so
And my joy’s a bolt of lightning

My Valentine, you sing my story, your aura pervades all I know
When next the evening comes to greet me, I look forward to all we are
I wonder how my stars aligned so nicely,
And you own my heart’s desire.

Birthday Song #31

mike-black-and-white-300Love expressions vary from person to person, personality to personality. We all possess them and there can be many similarities amongst us. Ultimately, however, the feelings generated within us vary dramatically. The levels of emotion fluctuate dramatically from one person to the next for the “similar” expressions of love.

We each own a uniqueness. This day and age, governments and corporations and religions strive to homogenize us into one easily labeled entity. This only works if we buy into their crap. When each of us are able to see ourselves as unique and special, we develop a sense of security and confidence within ourselves.

This does not mean we stand radically different from others, just that we each are viable individuals in our own right.

I enjoy celebrating love, especially the love I feel for others. For no one else may exactly express how I feel any more than I may exactly express how they feel. The important aspect to all this is that we each are able to feel and express ourselves.

This is the 31st day of Michele’s birthday celebration. I’ve enjoyed this tremendously. The exploration of my heart always reveals surprises and never comes up hollow with respect to emotion. For everyone out there who loves someone (that means you), know that your love is real, tangible, viable and important, if for no one else on earth but you. Take heart in the fact that you feel love, and work to nurture and grow it. When you love someone you truly invest in yourself if you but take the time to look.

And yes, love falls even sweeter when it’s requited. The fact you own the capacity to love, feel love, and express love, in and of itself, benefits you.

Clock HandsThe Last Day

We think there will always be a last day:
Last day of summer
Last day of football
Last day of college
Last day of living with parents
Last day of camp
Last day of work
Last day of vacation
Last day of life

Yet, there will always be a last day.
Even when we’re gone
Even when the earth dies and gasps its final breath
Even when stars wink out of their existence
Some solar day, somewhere, somehow, will witness its last day

Then what?
There’s no concept of zero here.
The Romans had it right.
There is no zero, no nonexistence
For, whatever happens, everything still exists
Stars, moons, galaxies, planets, inarguable eternity in the cosmos.

So for me and you, there exists no last day
No final moment where our existence gets wiped from the slate of history
No inglorious ending falling into the abyss and obscurity of time
For should all manner of substance and light and dark flee the heavens
Our love will carry eternity

Love stands as the most powerful existential part of life
Neither adequately measured nor controlled
For no manner of legislation, war or devastation
May bring about its total destruction.

My love for you will enjoy eternity
Filled with hope and togetherness
Fully a celebration where the concept of a last day
Owns no meaning, no thought, no finality.

To know love is to know immortality
This is my understanding
In my life, our love feels…
Eternal.
Meant to be
Special
Kind
Gentle
Caring
Easy
Free

My heart will carry us forever to a place where time, including the concept of days, becomes irrelevant.

I adore you, Petite Choo Choo!

 

Birthday Song #30

img_0452Way Too Easy to Forget

Isn’t that true of so much of life?
We forget so many great things.
Like what it really felt like on those magic mornings at seven years old
Dew sparkling the ground like liquid diamonds
Like the autumn breezes which tickles the body’s warmth,
Crisp leaves crunching, colors abounding, and the thrill of burnt orange crayons

We forget the taste of Granny’s blackberry cobbler.
Yes, the flavor resided someplace beyond heaven,
Like the wind in your hair as you serpentine-glided your bike down a hill.
Like the smile you felt growing inside your belly, dancing up your esophagus
A laugh exploding from your mouth because your best friend ripped one.

We forget the joys of striking out on our own
Like leaving town with all possessions crammed into a compact car
Destination the horizon of the future when the tingle of fear felt good.
Like the first living room furniture looking so grown up
And the bookshelves, ah, those wonderful, wonderful bookshelves.

Yes, I remember these things, yet I fail the memories badly
For the feelings, the tastes, the smells, the emotional intensities
Imprinted only their record, not the immaculate reliving of the moments.
For all the beauty and wonder of life passed by,
Hollow melancholy taints them all like a creeping mold

Then there’s you.
Every single time our hands enfold each other, memories of that walk on the beach,
Vivid in all its emotional glory, fill my heart with amazing newness from an old event.
Every single smiling kiss fills my soul with wonder and joy no less powerful as the first,
That one in the doorway which I managed to feel on my lips all the way home and into incredible sleep

Life stands rife with memories in two dimensions
Vivid solely in the knowledge they once held power
But you and I, we rekindle and cherish each other
Just as the dreams always portrayed

Way too easy to remember,
To relive,
To embrace,
To feel,

That’s the way to love – keep it way too easy to remember