One of the better feelings a person will have is when s/he sits down and — almost instantaneously — has an idea for a creative project that, for some reason, s/he never considered already.
This happened to me earlier today. I don’t know if — in the end — it will amount to much. However, in 2012, I had the idea of compiling the poems and the prose work I had written over the four years I had journaled in hard copy together into a collective work that might be published in the near future.
That project will indeed get published in the near future! [*insert celebratory emojis* / also, I’d never thought I’d have posted such a thing in 2012.] So — with this new idea, why couldn’t that idea eventually travel into the realms of the publishing world?
The ideas are just ideas, of course. There are more elements that become involved in such an enterprise; still, I feel good about this. Whenever an idea blossoms, foment such ideas. Who knows what will become of them!
Snicker some more about how
we shall never have to worry
about freedom of the press in the US
about rights being taken away from us.
Just see Turkey:
whenever something offensive
banning followed not long after
Whenever a reporter shared
uncomfortable slices of news
that few people knew
arrests and silencing appeared instantly.
Notice the number of people
government officials who bemoan
the evil left spouting lies!
they must be silenced, shouted down!
Don’t trust them, ever, never
they can’t come to certain places
and record what’s happening,
what we say in the public sphere!
Why worry — what’s happened
and is happening in Turkey
can never ever
I watch parades on the sidelines, people walking with rainbow-painted faces, raising banners, drumlines and bagpipes, endless drone of some centuries-old dirge smothered by radio screaming pop songs, the age range of child holding candy to grandmother walking poodle and an American flag on her wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses required, whistles to let people by, cars waiting patiently for the throng to pass.
I watch protests going down that same road, people shouting with fists in the air, signs voicing disgust, slogans of hope, songs and hymns proclaiming centuries-old persecution and sadness, the age range of child holding water bottles for police officers with shields and gas masks to the battered man of 80 who has seen too much bigotry in his long life, cars waiting impatiently for this group of people to pass for good.
I watch marches at night, people wearing all black in mourning, nothing in the air, only one coffin closed, burnished wood and cleansed in snow paint, the hymns could be a capella, spirituals and low hums by bass or alto, prayers raised or spoken silently, the age range of child knowing reality too quickly to the elderly who have lived past those who have died much too soon.
feet slamming on concrete
once was brick formed by molds
each step has its own shape
each emotion a hue
each life forged with patience
infused color patterns
ready to create fire
from nothing for someone
heart will glow after chants
revive creation myths
shapes a narrative path
circular around lungs
breathe in and step to beats
keep on the patterned hum
of tires on brick, old school
old-fashioned world structures
we return to walking
we continue marching
Lime floats on full glass
crackles of carbonation
dance on the green pulp
Fiesta every Saturday
only when sun casts
temperatures at 80
The ice cubes are rafts
more special are those
resembling inner tubes
Ride them along river
lazy most days
except for refills
Soda gun roils
fizzes the surface
and soon returns to calm.
To know the difference between bonfires
constructed by people who feel cold,
abandoned and forgotten
stepped on with giant feet
ready to construct pyres that
produce voices that no language
Other than that, none.
My eyes rove
turn red and water
fill with a dew
purified with solution
return to orbs
glassy and smooth
but no real change
same as they always were.
A snake swerves along the ground
painting its skin with dust
the chalk of nature bleaching scales
every rustle through the dried grass
perks up ears and sets vermin aflight.
Each flicker of the tongue
a black flash — a tarry sheen
not unlike searing summer sun
at noon when all life itches to eat
some rare nourishment from gods.
The snake licks the earth to hear
not to sample the powder and the lime
but to find each patter and scuttle
until swerving stops and the arch to wait
before the lunge and the second-long meal.
There is something to be said for fake flowers
that stand and reach tall in my thin glass vase.
No water needed to keep death at bay
for another extra week / No withered
petals that release the fumes of decay
or discoloration of water or
leaves / Only bright and unnatural hues
and the texture of paper not fine silk.
Time, essence, vaporous in life and death,
allows many legged larvae to welcome
in spring, steps in hollow trunks and reseeds.
Moss spills across the leveled log in spots,
a paint coat over rivulets of harsh
winter filaments that chisel and etch.
Names and hearts bind, fuse all these cylinders
in some handgrip that flashes a mirage,
that each log’s world is a precious cargo.