“We are all faced with a series of great opportunities – brilliantly disguised as insoluble problems”. – John Gardner
Tag: blogger
Cloudy with a Chance of Writer’s Block
The invisible force waiting until we want to write before blessing us with its presence; it moves gracefully throughout the smoke filled rooms of trial, tribulation and circumstance. In its left hand is a sickle of distraction, have you come forth to reap what had not yet been sown? In its right are the sketchy blackboards of daily events that only wish to distract away the concept of creativity. The unmovable rock falling from the sky like hailstones is writer’s block. It pops up unannounced and hides itself underneath our fingernails. Its motivation triggered only by greed; the satisfaction of witnessing the wavering minds too off guard not to let it in. I am determined, however, that the weathering of my mind and the inspiration of my thoughts will not give in to the falling bricks of mortar coming my way. I will gather the scraps of words lingering in the corners of unmarked territory, move against the stillness of idle hands and write about the sound of this here concrete tapping against my frontal lobe. I will see the weather changing and prepare myself against the storm.
Each One, Teach One
“Learn to regard the souls around you as parts of some grand instrument. It is for each of us to know the keys and stops, that we may draw forth the harmonies that lie sleeping in the silent octaves”
– Anonymous
Guest Feature – Language
Silence is one part of speech, the war cry
of wind down a mountain pass another.
a stranger’s voice echoing through lonely
valley’s, a lover’s voice rising so close
it’s your own tongue: these are the keys to cipher,
the way the hawk’s key unlocks the throat
of the sky and the coyote’s yip knocks
it shut, the way the aspens’ bells conform
to the breeze while the rapid’s drum defines
resistance. Sage speaks with one voice, pinyon
with another. Rock, wind her hand, water
her brush, spells and then scatters her demands.
some notes tear and pebble our paths. Some notes
gather: the bank we map our lives around.
– Camille T. Dungy
A Poet’s Pen
“Just because you put a poet’s pen in your mouth doesn’t mean you know how to spit ink.”
– X Blu Rayne
Social Media
Social media has completely taken over the internet. Today there is pretty much nothing you can do that does not involve some kind of media outlet, or does not at least benefit in some way from its usage. Social media can be defined as any computer-mediated tool that allows people to create, share or exchange information, ideas, and pictures/videos in virtual communities. If social media was a real live place, where would you want to live and why?
I’m Sorry
death
it’s sting
produces a humility powerful enough
to find itself a home
even inside the heart of the one
who holds the cup of “I’m sorry’s”
hoping their voice is sad enough
to produce the kind of sympathy
that peels back the brick
that found itself a place
inside the gut of the bereaved
the lump
waiting inside their throats
is this “I’m Sorry” strong enough?
“I’m sorry”
makes me feel guilty
because I know that it is not enough,
in fact
it almost sounds cliché
how can this routine “I’m sorry”
ever guarantee the sincere apology I feel
for the woman
who lost her husband in the hands of doctors
with spines like jellyfish,
the inconsiderate “I’m sorry”
floating out the window of the hospital,
where his breath left it’s good bye on the table
without warning
didn’t want to wake her sleeping gorgeous
so he left in the middle of the night
just to see her smile one last time
for he knew that she would smile
in her dreams
Or the man
who lost his brother with the split of atoms
like storms breaking through to the clouds
like a mother’s arms spread wide enough
to capture his smiles in a bowl
but aint no rainbows today
cause grief
it convinces us that the world
has ceased existing
and molds its rotations to the contours of our hearts
“Why are you sorry?!”
screams the confused silence of my bones
or the unflinching expression of a man’s face
after a life-time of catastrophes
tainted love
chocking dreams
and memories like the scenic route to civil wars
& he wears it all
with a walk like a stone cold killer
and a face fit for poker
but his heart is pale with grief
I know
cause I heard it in his smile
he laughs
but only because his body weeps
too weak internally
to die physically too
so when he grieves
and when she grieves
when their pain is too deep
to find alongside the outline of their faces
too far to find within the pages of their past
but close enough to smell in the sorrow of their loss
in these bags
filled to the brim with all their stuff
what do you say
when the air isn’t pure enough to breathe
and a routine, “I’m sorry” is simply not enough
to convince them
that the world
still spins
The PBS Blog 