I can’t stop listening to the amazingly talented Heather Arrington do a brilliantly sultry rendition of “From Darkness These Words Are Bred,”
Please do me a favor and subscribe to her YouTube channel.
The original text is here on Wattpad.
I can’t stop listening to the amazingly talented Heather Arrington do a brilliantly sultry rendition of “From Darkness These Words Are Bred,”
Please do me a favor and subscribe to her YouTube channel.
The original text is here on Wattpad.
Fellow Dark Lights. Poetry is my oldest voice. Its my lifeline to my own emotions. My childhood involved a lot of fear, which translated into a lot of anger. It was hard for me to say what I wanted to say. But what I needed to say always came out clearest to me in poetry.
Each poem I wrote became a mental photograph, a snapshot in time of my emotional state at that moment. When I re-read my old poems I recall what I felt: Fear, rage, grief, ecstasy, even those all-too-brief moments of joy and spiritual bliss, in more detail than an actual photograph possibly could because a photograph can sometimes capture what we felt (a happy or sad moment), but not always why we felt that way. One without the other blurs the memory of the moment. Poetry keeps it crystal clear in a way I can’t explain better…except perhaps in a poem!
I can’t be the only one who sees poetry this way. So I want to share these poems with you. To see if what I feel–and why I’m feeling it–resonates with the world I live in.
Am I even on the same frequency? Is anybody of my tribe out there?
Transmissions to the Mystic Nebula is free to read on Wattpad unless something changes. Maybe there’s something in there to help you where ever you are now. Can we better heal through a shared experience?
We lift each other up.
Posted in Dark Lights, Poet, Writer
My grandfather was a humble man and he would have had mixed feelings about being the center of attention today. On one hand he would have appreciated having everyone he loved here in one place. He loved connecting with others. On the other, he was never big on talking about himself.
To a young boy, distracted by everything, a grandfather is a lot like a mountain, larger than life. I don’t mean just in stature, though my grandfather was tall. I don’t just mean in personality though my grandfather laughed a lot.
A mountain is just always there, since the beginning of time as far as the boy can measure it.
A mountain is so sturdy, so dependable, so unchanging, that it’s easy for the boy to forget it’s there even when it was right in front of him. It was just part of the boy’s landscape, like the sky or the ocean or the sun rising every day in the east.
No matter how far that boy traveled, no matter where in the world, without realizing it, he always knew where he was in relation to the mountain. It’s how he always knew exactly where he was. The mountain was always there in the background for every special occasion: Birthdays, holidays, graduations, house warmings, hospital visits, weddings. It was natural to assume the mountain would always be there.
But people aren’t mountains after all. They live for a time and they die, leaving those behind them to carry on as best they can.
Or are they?
The boy, now a man, still navigates his way through life using all the lessons he learned in the shadow of the mountain. He wears a hat outside, takes it off indoors (especially at the table). He’s learned the importance of family. The man is awed by all the love and fellowship that gathered in the great shadow of his mountain.
My grandfather outlived many—maybe most—of his friends and yet still he was always connecting with new ones, a gift of his I always admired.
And the man realizes that the mountain that was his grandfather lives even larger inside his own heart. And this gives the man peace. If the mountain of my grandfather made a positive impact on any of you, then I hope you also recognize him inside your heart and that this may also bring you peace.
So today, in honor of a man who in his lifetime was a marine, a painter, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather, a great-great grandfather, a friend to so many, and a mountain of love and light to his family, I invite you all to see—to really see—the mountains in your own life’s landscape. Love them and appreciate them and don’t forget to visit them once in awhile (mountains like that).
Don’t forget that you that you too may be a mountain in someone else’s life, someone who looks at you like you’ll always be there. I think my grandfather would have wanted you to know that that’s okay, it’s the nature of being a mountain. There will come a time when there will be a hole in their universe and they too will pause and reflect on everything that you did for them. For everything that you shared with them. For all the ways you connected with them.
Grandfather, for everything you’ve done for me, for everything you’ve shared, I thank you. My world—our world—was a happier place for having you in it. I will always carry your spirit with me, you will always be my landmark and I will always love you very much.
Lima, Peru
Have you ever stopped for a moment and turned around to look back at how far you’ve come? Late last year I was blessed to go to Peru, specifically Lima, Cusco and Machu Picchu. Its the stereotypical story of a man traveling the world to find himself. I met a lot of new people on that trip. I’ve been touched in so many ways. I learned a lot on that trip. Here I am, and I am changed. There are many more miles between us. But still we are never far from each other.
Soupe Creole con Quinoa
a
The Llama and the Mountain
A good friend of mine, India Trotter, started a new blog site called Blank Stare Corner. She asked me to submit some work and published a new poem of mine entitled, “Foolish to Write Poetry.”
Have a look and tell me what you think.
Posted in Poet
My father died yesterday. I still can’t believe it. This was my father, after all. Or at least, he was the one man who was man enough to accept the position. He was my number one fan, having read every one of my published works, and always encouraging me to do more.
He understood my ambitions, crazy as they were. “Patience, my son,” he would say. “You have to pay your dues. Then you’ll have everything you want.”
He understood my anger, a very deep and restless thing, that can be surprisingly monstrous when it reveals itself to those that do not know me well.
Always shaping me, always honing me, preparing me for the time he knew he could not be there. He was generous with his time, his love and what few possessions he had. He was a nomad, having more addresses while I was growing up than I could count.
But no matter where he was, on my birthday, there came the card with a check for $5 or $10 or $35 as I got older.
I’m rambling. I’m still in shock. Maybe for now, it’s enough that the world know that it’s lost a bright light of a soul. Though perhaps you did not know him, maybe you would mourn with me for just a little while.
Then maybe life can go on.
Recently I entered Transmissions to the Mystic Nebula into a self-published book contest. I didn’t win (what the heck?!) but I received this review from one of the judges that impressed me with how observant the reader was to the little details that went into making the book. Nothing makes an author more happy than a thoughtful (and vocal) reader. Don’t forget you can buy this book on Amazon and Smashwords!
The title, cover, and even the table of contents of TRANSMISSIONS TO THE MYSTIC NEBULA suggest a traditional, even stereotypical, form of science fiction, a world of spaceships, robots, aliens, and intergalactic conquest. Instead, the poet fastens his eyes on the heavens with his feet firmly on planet Earth as he connects our very human world with astronomy, physics, mythologies, and the paranormal. As the poet tells a love interest in “Ash in My Lungs,” “I brought you here to show you / this fragile wild of my soul, / the dark things that connect us.” The poet sets up the collection with a “researcher’s note” describing a cyber-poet, awash in the hyper-communications of a modern, wired world, who identifies a distant nebula with a backyard telescope and sends transmissions of poems in an effort to communicate and be heard. This gives the collection an authentic science fiction frame, reinforced by internal art that echoes the intriguing cover image and includes status updates as the transmission progresses. However, what makes these poems so strong is that, taken out of this context, they are impressive, accomplished creations that succeed on their stand-alone merits. The poet offers a beautifully written mix of forms and free verse, poems in which he explores love, sex, memories, seasons, and death. Although he hasn’t organized the poems into sections, the verses are ordered carefully so the flow keeps the whole connected. It’s interesting that the early poems are filled with celestial imagery that eventually gives way to more gravity-bound themes, ultimately leading to poems about death and the departed. In the end, though, the final graphic of the collection says delivery of the transmission is confirmed, and the poet adds a final, hopeful message, “I know you’re out there. I’m waiting.” Physically, everything about the book is attractive and professionally done. The poet is to be congratulated on a memorable first book of fresh and fine poetry, a true joy for the reader.
– Judge, Writer’s Digest 21st Annual Self-Published Book Awards
Sitting alone in the Chinese restaurant, pouring a cup of jasmine tea, I suddenly realized I could do anything–anything–I wanted and was rocked momentarily by a boomcake of freedom known only to children and the otherworldly.