a cork board


a bird struggling to fly
AMpThu, 10 Nov 2016 00:51:49 +000051Thursday 1, 2010, 12:51 am
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

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

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Writing Prompt
AMpFri, 05 Aug 2016 11:52:10 +000052Friday 1, 2010, 11:52 am
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

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.



Something Brewing…
PMpTue, 29 Sep 2015 22:44:22 +000044Tuesday 1, 2010, 10:44 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , ,

A strange thing has happened as of late….I’ve been writing multiple times a week. I don’t know what they are, I just know that my pen is moving and my fingers are punching keys on my phone at a rapid rate. I’m using poetry as a means to self-healing and self-discovery again. It feels great. I have something that I’m working on that I will share soon.



Day 2/Poem 2 – NaPoWriMo
PMpWed, 04 Apr 2012 22:19:57 +000019Wednesday 1, 2010, 10:19 pm
Filed under: poems, the mirror | Tags: , , , , ,

The Way of Wanting

 

I tried resisting.

It only becomes stronger.

Such is the way of wanting.

You push and you push

against the indifference

until your fingers fall numb to the wrist.

 

Until you find a means to

simply circumvent the very faces

mocking with their temptation.

Or even worse, you give in.

 

I stayed away for so long.

There was no need to

push them away because,

for me, they did not exist.

 

But they always come knocking,

don’t they? Waking you from

the warmest of sleeps

with the coldest of embraces.

 

They come knocking

like Jehovah’s witnesses.

Selling me something I do not need,

do not want and do not believe in.

When you open the door,

you show yourself.

 

Their kind, manipulative words penetrate.

They turn from your door

leaving you with a pamphlet in your hand

and a question mark inside of you.

 

I don’t even remember

what brought them back.

Was it wanting to belong?

Not wanting to feel alone

standing in the cold at the

intermission of a poetry slam?

Jus to pass the time?

 

These I cannot say.

I only remember how it felt

when I pursed my lips onto the end

of the freshly lit cigarette.

The embers swelled in radiance

as they crackled and

my lungs filled with a longing

I no longer knew existed.

The inhale felt like home.

 

With the exhale came

the shame. The guilt.

Every time after that first, second time

came the question

What the fuck am I doing?

 

When Old Smokey pays me a visit

I barely see him.

He steps into my periphery,

he does not speak.

He leers at me from across the room

with smoke emanating from his pores.

With lit cherries for pupils

and crumbling tobacco for fingers.

 

I can’t look him in the eye.

I try to push, I try to resist.

I try to think about my wife.

About my son.

 

See, for years

I thought I would die young.

A tragic end to a starving artist

who was always misunderstood.

The novelty of genius.

 

But now,

I have so much to live for.

I have so much more to lose.

Temptation finds me and

tries to offer a comfort

I do not need, do not want

and do not believe in.

I try to envision his smile,

her touch.

 

But I cannot see far enough

to envision lung, mouth or throat cancer

stealing me away from them like a thief in the night.

I cannot envision a simple vice destroying me.

 

So my attempts at nobility,

at responsibility, at capability

transcend into fragility.

They become futile because

I get trapped in the now and

ignite the very fire that

threatens to destroy everything I have built

with my hands, my mind and my heart.

 

I know I can shake him again.

It’s not about resisting.

It’s about knowing, about truth.

It’s not about fighting.

It’s about overcoming by eliminating.

 

Such is the way of wanting.

You are no meant to push.

You are meant to embrace,

and bid farewell.