POWER TO THE WORD

cropped-words.jpg

I stand before my class struggling

For the forty-dollar word to replace

The two-dollar one

That inadvertently slipped my lips

You know –

Those words that tell

The skeptical you’ve been there

Done that

Read that and

Know that

The words that have worn smooth

My rugged road from Compton

Words that speak in a sub-text of

Silhouetted meanings

Engendering the dreaded

Compliment “articulate”

As if I could speak

Any other way

But, it appears I can

With a way of words plentiful

The two-dollar variety

Like my cheap shoes

Supporting me in the beautiful

Velvet (mom-made) dress

Of childhood

My two-dollar words

Work (happily) in poetic dungeons

Fooling no one

Hooded in simplicity

Laboring, as they do,

Under the

Trappist Creed:

Give up everything

Give up everything

Writer’s Block

 Between the lines of profundity I am mute.                                                    It is hubris that makes me speak –                                                            effortful attempts at seeming cogent.                                                   Maudlin sentiments, like bullets shot onto a page                                 struggle for supremacy.                                                                                      No matter the arrangement the fingers trigger the letters                           to ensure they are for no one’s eyes but my own.

What did I expect?

The Perils of Good Wine

There is a line, a bellwether that tells a writer that what he or she has to say is worth the effort of climbing the stairs and saying it in print. That line is divined in the level of wine in a wine glass or containers of other god-given fruits. It is summoned by the distant sounds of a train coming around the bend in the next burgh. That plaintive sigh that says I am at

slaying the thief of youth

an age that I only know what I don’t know – the mournful sigh that casts all my years of living on the dung heap of time.

And tears will not change the situation. 5:25 p.m. in life – and I can’t get beyond the fact that I no longer possess the strong connective tissue that prances stupidly in the face of desire. How shallow am I?

Why can’t I go to the heart? Where youth and longing have taken refuge – knowing that, in the a.m. of life, the answers lie there no matter the questions posed by a society that glorifies the epidermis. It seems I’ve taken my years as the local social assassin and live content in the tiny refuge of, I-remember-when. A domicile too cramped for someone not willing to roll over.

I’ve climbed my stairs knowing that tomorrow I’ll breakfast on homegrown potatoes, eggs and satisfaction even as I battle with the forces that have so rudely evicted me from my youth.