Lost Americana

I close my eyes and see
Trees standing guard
Over white houses and
Children playing alone
In the Dusk

Fall is always one town over,
Carnivals and Ferris wheels
Lighting restless neon dreams,
Flashing disturbed midnight slumber

Awake, the living are found
In the smell of wet grass
The crack of wooden bats,
In the purple juice and bloodstains
On hidden groves of blackberry brambles

The silent hum of radios
And railroad tracks
A glimpse of dancing fireflies

I gather the moment around me,
No more substantial then a Summer mist
And open my bewlidered eyes.

An Ode to the Lesser of Two Evils

I find it tiresome when I start explaining myself unnecessarily, but I also find it tiresome when people don't understand what I'm trying to do. This blog, therefore, is what I'd call an ode to the lesser of two evils.

I write poetry... because I like it. I know that's a novel idea. There's no driving need to perfect a craft I don't understand or make an impact in the artsy world of words. It just makes me happy, and it's been that way since the first time I put some nonsensical sentence fragments on a piece of paper.

The way it started was simple, if not a little abrupt. While sitting in a rickety chair at a coffee shop, drinking a caramel latte and brooding, a strange man I didn't like interrupted my faux reverie and asked me why I never wrote poetry. While that may seem like an unusual question to ask someone, given the circumstances and the surroundings and a slight dash of imagination, the question becomes quite logical.

My answer was also logical. Because I'm not any good at it.

My companion stared at me for a moment or two longer than necessary and told me that there is no good or bad in poetry. There's no form, no right or wrong. It's just you writing down what ever is in your head. He then left me alone with my thoughts just as quickly as he'd interrupted them.

That afternoon I wrote my first off beat, uneducated poem.

That strange man that I still don't like was brilliant. There are no wrongs or rights in my poems. I'm proud of having no rules. If someone else finds them cliche, it means that I wrote what no one else wanted to bother with. If they're painful or horrendous or juvenile, they were a fun way for me to pass the time. Because, for me, poetry is fun. I don't take it seriously, and, when reading my work, neither should you.

I expect no one to like my work. I expect no one to undertand or appreciate it. But if you do like it, if it does move you or make you think, that is quite simply a mountain of icing on a very enjoyable cake.

Vaguely Mirror, Mirror

A vague memory
Like the reflection in a aged mirror
Softened by dust
And blurred by sunlight
Cast from behind

An empty
Spotted
Dimly shining impression
Of a face
With an expression
Of misplaced
Displaced longing

I stand frozen
Peering
Straining
Wanting to see something more than
A thin veil
Like a mourning cloth
Covering my memory
Not wanting it to escape
Like a spirit caught in glass

The light blinds me
Washes out
All but the glaze of ash and dust

I turn away
The sun sets
The mirror is forgotten
All that's left is a frustration
A need
An anger
As vague as something I thought
I once saw
In a aged mirror
Softened by dust
And blurred by sunlight