Filed under: poems, the ether, Uncategorized | Tags: freewriting, healing, healing through writing, Poem, Poetry
I’ve come to understand
These actions do not define me
I have faced their consequences
I have looked in the mirror
Felt the aftershocks
Witnessed the after math
Taken part in the healing
Been part of the rebuilding
I have wept profusely
I have apologized with sincerity
But somehow, someway
The swell always rises again
Crashing into shore
Raising the dead
Turning the world upside down
Murky waters and dirty under bellies
The beauty and decay
Floating and drifting
Crashing and twisting
An intimate dance of old and new
When the water recedes
Everything is scattered
Some are broken, some are not
All is covered in water and mud
Grime and sludge
All looks beyond salvation
If we only learn to let go
When we’ve known pain for so long
Hurt can be an old friend
Feel like a warm blanket
We greet it upon return
With open arms and violin hearts
But when we heal
When we truly free ourselves
From it’s grasp and grip
We need not fear
The pain will return at times
But we can look it in the eye
Acknowledge the existence of it
And keep walking
It may be tempting to curl up
To cry with an old friend
But we are only damaging ourselves again
Hampering our progress
Stunting our growth
I am more than my mistakes
I am more than my transgressions
I am worthy of love
Happiness and mirth
Filed under: the ether, Uncategorized | Tags: birth of a nation, donmiguelruiz, fouragreements, learn again, learning, nat turner, sefl healing, self realiztion, self reflection, thefouragreements, unlearn, unlearn to learn
Recently I’ve been going through some things that have me digging through the past. I`m trying to unlearn things that were taught to me throughout life, things that I have found I may not agree with any longer. As a 35yo father of two, it has taken me a long time to begin the process of finding my true self and my own thoughts. It has me going farther than I’ve ever gone into the past, determining why I believe certain ideas and where some of my self-destructive behavior comes from. It’s been a painful and enlightening process and I am still traveling on the road to get there. I know, too, that once I get to where I need to be, the journey will continue in some capacity.
I recently started rereading The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz for the third time. The first two times I read it, things did not resonate or stick. But now there is a better understanding of the concepts because I’m in a place where I can receive things more. I’m in a place where they make more sense to me and I feel more that I can relate them to myself on a deeper level. I’m in the part right now where he’s talking about how everyone has their own Book of Law and set of agreements along with how our domestication shapes us for life. To attempt to briefly sum it up…as children we cannot think for ourselves, so it is our parents who domesticate us as they teach us about the world around us and how we relate to it. They teach us right from wrong, they teach us what to believe in. In time, we form agreements within ourselves about the world around us. Agreements to understand how certain things work and how we feel about the world around us. These agreements are the foundation for who we will become. As we grow, these agreements become so ingrained within us that we no longer need to be domesticated, we auto-domesticate ourselves with the same beliefs. These ingrained agreements form our Book of Law, things that are and will be and cannot be broken. We each have our own set of agreements and our own set of laws, and they drive our passions, beliefs and ideas….they make us who we are, for a time. As we grow into our own skin, we begin to see the world differently. We begin to question why things are the way they are. If we have a strong will, we buck against our tired agreements to form new ones (we rewrite the Book of Law). If we do not have the courage or will, we remain docile and adherent to the old agreements.
When we get older, these old agreements can prevent us from seeing who we truly are. They can act as a cloud of smoke standing between us and a mirror, preventing us from seeing our true self. We can only see through the veil if influence. But what happens when the smoke begins to clear between us and the mirror? What happens when we begin to question that which we were taught? How do we cope with the idea of original thought, with the concept that you may believe differently? For me, I denied it for a long time. I was afraid of being myself, I was afraid of being different from my family and those around me. But the fact is, I have always been inherently different. I’ve plodded along happily all these years, content with living behind a cloud of smoke, never truly understanding myself or my belief system.
Because we all have our own Book of Law, our own set of agreements, we can all look at the same situation and walk away with entirely different outlooks on the subject. This is the cause of conflict within ourselves and others. If someone expresses an opinion opposed to ours, something that goes against our own agreements, then we begin to defend our agreements and ourselves. We feel as if we ourselves are being attacked. We can argue with that person endlessly, but we are driven by our own set of agreements and laws. It is difficult to see past them. Even so, if we begin to think something that goes against our own agreements, we ourselves feel attacked by ourselves…giving birth to an internal struggle. What is true and what is false? The newfound knowledge gained through experience, or the old ideas ingrained into your mind as a child by the world around you? The struggle goes on, until we surrender ourselves to something greater. Until we open our minds to the possibilities of new truth.
I watched Birth of a Nation last year, the story of Nat Turner. Nat Turner was a slave in the 1800’s who learned to read and began reading the bible. He would preach to his fellow slaves that he lived with, which brought peace to their broken hearts. It gave them hope and salvation in the face of a horrible situation. Local slave masters and plantation owners saw this as a way to pacify their disobedient slaves. So they took him on a plantation tour to preach, and preach he did. He spread love, he gave them hope. He lit a fire that started a revolution and rebellion. He did a great thing using a powerful tool…hope and love.
Now, this is where it gets hazy for me. I did not see it that way at all initially. Because of my agreements and domestication, I saw this story through a completely different prism. I saw the slave owners as using a Christian-based faith to remove the slaves’ belief system and replacing it with that of a white God. I saw it as brainwashing. I saw them using their faith as a means to pacify and tame the slaves. I saw them as mentally enslaving them even further. Which would make the entire thing a farce and a lie. But the hope they felt was real, that was not a lie. What I was failing to see, is that it doesn’t matter which book you follow or what name you have for God. Faith is something that we feel inside and cannot be quantified. What matters is that faith gives us faith to believe, that it speaks to us somewhere on the inside and gives us courage. Those people were broken and lost, they’d been caught in a cycle of generations of slaves and saw no way out…no hope. A word of gospel, a word of God, changed that. A word lit the flame afire. It was the same flame that lit menorahs in concentration camps. The same flame that lit diyas in darkness. The same flame that lit candles in the church and in homes. That flame represents faith, it doesn’t matter whom we pray to, just that we have faith.
This may seem like common sense or easy to say, but because of my past agreements I struggled to see it this way. I have spent most of my life with the idea that we can place ownership over faith and culture. This is the white man’s religion, that is the Indian man’s culture, this is the black man’s culture, that is the Native man’s belief. Maybe the world is caught up in the ownership battle over faith and culture too. But I know that I have been caught up in it. And I’m finally ready to break free from that shortsightedness. It is very difficult to look at oneself and acknowledge that you are wrong, it is even more difficult to open oneself to learn new truths. But that is exactly what I am doing…unlearning to learn again.
I recently posted something online that embodied that same shortsightedness of cultural ownership and faith-based identity. I painted in broad strokes and unintentionally cast insults at people for what they believe in. This is not something I want to embody or represent, I want to operate from a place of love. I will defend what needs defending and stand for what needs to be stood for. But I will not continue to perpetuate and believe in agreements that are counter-intuitive to my own beliefs that come from inside. What I posted hurt someone whom I love and care dearly about. I cannot undo that, but I am sorry for it. I was wrong and I was short-sighted. I will continue to be open to myself and to others.
Unlearn so that we may clear a path for new knowledge.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: carpentry, furniture, wood furniture, woodworking
I’ve been working on woodworking as a craft that I would like to do as a means of work for a few years now. I took it up as a hobby, to be able to make things around the house. There’s a feeling that never goes away when you use a piece of furniture that you made with your own hands. I found that I had a natural passion for it, and I wasn’t that bad either. The most important thing is that I have always been willing to learn.
I can remember buying a desk in a box with my family when I was 13. I remember unboxing all of the pieces and pulling out the instructions. I’m sure my brother can attest to the fact that I loved doing it. I loved getting the pieces together and building something. My father used to have a book shelf that he built himself, the thing was massive and had many levels. I remember the pride in his voice and I would find myself looking at it sometimes, admiring the work and the process.
I have a number of various pieces of furniture around the house that I’ve built and many more that are going to be completed soon. I’ve taken my perfectionism and applied to this/these process/es. I’ve learned a lot over the years and have lots more to learn. But one thing I know for certain is that what I’ve built will last. I recently had a friend with twin girls ask me about building twin dressers for the girls. I took pause and questioned if I was able to, if it was outside of my scope. It was the biggest project I’d ever thought about undertaking and I was letting my insecurities tell me I couldn’t do it. But I’m very happy to say that I got them built from a pile of lumber, sanded, stained and they are in use right now. I’ll be posting pictures of them on my other blog (onpaperdesign.wordpress.com) soon.
The main reason I’m posting this update is because I want to show everyone what I can do and to say….if you want some custom wooden furniture made, then please, contact me. If it’s outside of my scope, I will tell you that. If not, I will put my care and attention and sweat into making a finished product you can be proud to show to your friends and family. A piece of furniture that can take the bumps and bruises of life and be passed on years down the line. I come from a place where I believe in having furniture that will last, that can be passed on and last for a long time. We purchased a dresser from a certain Swedish furniture store, we went with their “higher-end” line. Five years later and the drawers won’t close and it’s rendered nearly useless. That shouldn’t happen. I do everything I can when building my dressers, and any other furniture, to ensure it won’t.
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: birds, fly, life, Poem, Poems, Poetry, rush hour traffic, struggling, traffic poetry, writing
I was driving into work one morning in May of 2010 (I can’t remember exactly). I was on the highway, sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic as it rained mightily. I was by myself in the car. I was stopped on a bridge crossing over the Credit River in Mississauga, ON. The winds were kicking strong gusts. I saw a bird, to my right, trying to fly over the bridge. It was flying low, probably less than 10ft above the vehicles, and it was having an incredibly hard time. For every bit of progress made, it was pushed back even farther. But it kept pushing. It kept pushing. Until it finally made it across. That bird and its struggle stayed with me. I got to work and immediately wrote this. I can always relate to this.
————————————-
a bird struggling to fly
a bird struggling to fly
he knows how to
but he forgets sometimes
his wings flap. they push
they pull with intention
but all for naught
the wind is too strong today
blowing away from his destination
his neck bows and protrudes
gyrating like a sound wave
forcing his body into
an awkward vertical angle
his webbed feet
are like two stop signs
spread open and flat
against the wind
his body is
wrapped in desperation
his wings never fully
spread outward today
his neck is on a chopping block
as the wind and the rain
act as an invisible force
holding him back
a bird struggling to fly
that is me up there
I know how to
but I forget sometimes
and I stop myself
time and time again
putting my neck on the line
spreading my arms thin
panting for air
but for me there is no wind
there is neither rain
only my own devices
my stop sign hands
my awkward posturing
and I flap and I flap
and I push and I push
myself down myself down
but I will fly I will fly
one of these days
when I unlearn
how to hurt myself
that’s why when I see
a bird struggling to fly
across six lanes
of rush hour traffic
I see myself
crossing my own path
…yet again
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: Poem, Poems, Poetry, writing, writing prompt
My friend Cathy Charlie Petch will post writing prompts to keep the creative juices flowing. I occasionally participate. I should more often, and I’m working on writing more.
Yesterday she posted a Puscifer song that I could not resist. Here is the song and my unedited work inspired from it.
I hold something in my hand.
It drifts. It disassembles. Falls apart.
Turns to dust before my eyes.
I hold onto things too tightly.
Grip them to the chest.
Though I know better,
I hold on tight.
The way children hold onto stuffed animals.
The way they squeeze the necks of pets.
Out of pure adoration and love.
Without realizing they are choking the life
out of the very thing they love.
I’ve never out grown this in a way.
Grip tightly, slip through your fingers.
Leave me something beautiful in your wake.
Leave me a memory to behold.
To cherish and fathom.
I hold the breath of the universe in my lungs.
It is both invigorating and suffocating.
On the inside and outside.
I believe that there is more to life
than punching clocks and watching shows.
More meaning than watching
moving pictures on a screen.
More than books even.
Ingesting other people’s art and imagination
is a beautiful experience.
But what of the light
Reflecting in fractals through the atmosphere?
What of the oxygen entering our lungs.
The trees dancing in the sky.
The way our pores raise
when something grazes against
the deepest corners of our spirit.
The way our skin tightens
when we feel something
that cannot be quantified
by numbers or words or paper.
The impossible task of
capturing human experience.
As artists, we try to capture the impossible.
I keep a journal of these experiences
logged in my chest.
I close my eyes sometimes
and try to relive them.
The touch of her lips
on the side of my neck.
The first time my son wrapped
his tiny fingers around my index finger.
When my daughter stared
into my eyes for the first time.
The moment when you embrace
a loved one after a prolonged absence.
The way nature speaks to the soul.
I try to put words to the impossible.
To hold onto these fleeting moments.
So I press my fingertips
into the palms of my hands
in the hope that it will stay.
But it slips. It fades.
What remains is an imprint inside of me.
Never lost, always present.
Altered and existing in a different light.
The way it was always intended.
Filed under: the ether, the mirror, Uncategorized | Tags: performance poetry, performing, Poetry, poetry slam, purpose, spoken word, writers block, writing
A few years ago I was doing some solo grocery shopping at Fresh Co. I was in a hurry, in the zone wearing track pants and trying to grab some orange juice get home quickly. A lady walking with her daughter saw me and slowed down. She paused, half-tilted her head and grinned. She said “you’re a poet right?” I hadn’t performed in a couple of years and had all-but-forgotten about that part of my life. I said “yes, yes I am.” She said she saw me feature at Guelph Poetry Slam in November of the previous year (that was even almost 2yrs removed from performing) and loved my work. She said she bought both of my books and keeps them in her car. It left me feeling perplexed and very good. Wow, my words touched someone.
Last week I was at Starbucks ordering the closest I can get to fancy there, a Grande Americano. The cashier asked my name “Yogi, Y-O-G-I”. She paused, looked up and said “do you do spoken word?” I said “I used to.” Turns out, she used to manage a bar/restaurant where I used to perform at a lot in 2012. She knew my work pretty well. She asked me why I’d stopped. Truth be told, I put it down to focus on being a present father with my little ones. She paused again, “you were good, I remember. You should do it again.” I showed her my journal in hand and said I was working on it. It left me feeling confused. I actually said I used to. WTF? When did that happen?
Something happened in the years I stopped performing. I went through a few years of writer’s block. But I’ve gotten past that. In the last year I’ve been writing a lot, lot more. I’m not finishing anything, but I’m writing nonetheless. Good ideas, good wordplay. I’m getting back in the groove. I was in a really good place in 2012 when I stopped. I felt more comfortable on stage than I ever had before. I was churning out more new, quality poems. My stage voice had found legs to stands on and wings to fly with. But I wanted to be present and accounted for during bath time, story time, good night kisses and late night snuggles. I wanted to be there for it all and I didn’t wanna miss a thing. Spoken word/Poetry slam have been around for a while, it’ll be fine without me. It’ll welcome me back when I’m ready too.
What happened in the meantime was cynicism. It was skepticism. I began to wonder if words can ever really have an impact. Why bother? What legacy do these poems and performances really have? What are we really leaving behind? I still sit and wonder about it. You stand up for 3 minutes and 10 seconds, speak your truth and bare your soul and make some noise for a round of applause, some pats on the back, some much-needed personal release and that’s about it. It began to feel like it was just spinning wheels, like an exercise for the ego. Are we really awakening minds, or are we just another passing phase? Does what you say stick with someone when they wake up in the morning? I’ve been questioning the purpose and reason behind this spoken word thing for a while now and it began to make me jaded.
But then the universe had me cross paths with someone like I did that day at Starbucks or Fresh Co. Someone reminds me, hey your work really inspired me. I occasionally bump into a person who heard me speak my truth 4-6 years ago, and I’m still with them. My words uplifted them then and stayed with them. So I start to think that maybe there is some resonance. Maybe there is some staying power. Maybe there is something more to it than ego and glory and punchlines. Performing/Sharing poetry isn’t about immediate change. It’s about planting seeds. It’s about creating a spark. We may never see the tree take root or see the inferno blaze across the horizon, but it’s there. It’s a lot like karma, it takes time but it happens without fail.
Poetry, for me, has always been very personal. I never excelled at tackling “issue poetry” unless I was able to relate myself into it. Standing on that stage, just you and the microphone. Just your voice and the audience. Just your gut and their ear drums. There’s something magical about that. The butterflies. The feeling that you’re going to fall…but then you take flight. I’ve gone to a couple of poetry slams in the last couple of months on account of my wife encouraging me. She gives me gentle little pushes into it and I’m taking her queue little by little. I don’t want to make a team and compete on a national stage, but I want my voice out there again. Because I finally realized, after all this time, that I have something to say…and it’s worth hearing.
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: Love, marriage, morning, Poem, Poetry, wife
Begin
Smile
Arise with the sun
Or just before
5am upliftment
Darkness settled in sky
Potential resting on branches
Coasting through the air
Pulsing through arteries
Twist the spine
Roll the hips
Turn face over
Across the pillow
Atop the sheets
Visit resplendence resting
Peacefully tranquil
Quietly dreaming
Eyelids twitching in rapid movement
Neck gently pulsing
Awake next to unparalleled beauty
I admire her
Basking in the dim of dawn
Pale light cascading
From cheek to lip
From eyelid to jawline
Breath giving life
She is a sight to behold
I am blessed
To share these moments
Before the day
Before the busy
She awakes
With a gentle smile
Cheeks swell
Eyelids creek open
Greeting as if it was me
Holding her presence
In her dream state
As if I was always there
A simple good morning
A simple I love you
And we kiss
The birds stop singing
The sun comes up
There is purity in the air
Palms resting upon faces
Breaths in synchronicity
The day is ready to begin
I am uplifted by her presence
She is arisen by mine
We give life
We live love
We are thankful
For another day
Bathed in blessings
Birds sing their songs again
The sheets release me
Sleep welcomes her again
The day begins
…again.
a cork board 