I Still Have Some Crying to Do, But...

I don't really want to say a lot about this one right now. The person knows who he is. Me being 100% honest. Something the subject has asked me to be many times.

I Still Have Some Crying to Do, But...

You broke me

when I thought I couldn't fall any further,

you kicked me down even more.

You said you wouldn’t abandon me,

that you could handle me.

I guess my craziness

was too much for you.

We talked about getting out,

driving away from the city,

to the mountains, to Montana.

I told you about my dead dog,

named after Montana.

We connected over baseball,

then we shared our love for hockey.

You listened to all of my crazy punk music

even though I knew

you marched to slower drummers.

You called me pretty,

indulged my crazy plans

to steal guitars from my favorite musicians.

You gave me a virtual kiss goodnight.

But my emotions, my insecurities,

got in the way.

(And right now I can barely see what I’m writing,

blurred by my tears.)

I can’t blame you.

I don’t blame you.

I know I got in the way.

I don’t know how you felt,

if you cared for me deeper

than just a random acquaintance.

But I can admit now

that I fell in love

with your spirit, your character, your outlook on life,

your confidence in me.

I was too much to handle.

I don’t blame you, I can’t blame you.

Peace

Peace is something I can find in many, many places: sitting on the dock, inner peace in the middle of a mosh pit, with friends at the bar, sitting at home by myself.

Peace has been hard for me to come by lately for many reason.

dVerse prompt today was peace!! Here's what I came up with while listening to a new punk CD that came in the mail today. Let me know what you think, please!! Thanks!!

Peace

Guitar in hand,
watered down whiskey in reach
Sitting cross-legged in a corner.
Notebook open, and a pen, in front of me.
Quiet, except for The Band playing
on low from my computer.
I lean back and smile.

Inked Memories

I read an article today in which a member of my favorite band was talking about a new song, "Rose Tattoo," what it is about & why he wrote it. Something he said reminded me of something I do every-so-often, and it inspired this poem: "Oftentimes, I just catch it out of the corner of my eye and it literally changes my mood when I think of him and what a strong individual he was."

The article:
http://www.npr.org/2013/01/01/168406178/the-dropkick-murphys-a-rose-tattoo-tells-a-life-story?sc=tw&cc=share

All lyrics from "Rose Tattoo" By Dropkick Murphys
http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/dropkickmurphys/rosetattoo.html
http://www.dropkickmurphys.com/news

This is for dVerse Open Link Night!! Let me know what you think!! :-)  (Seriously, though, I would really appreciate the feedback!!)

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Inked Memories

Towel drying my hair,

back to the mirror,

I look behind me

and catch sight of my

three green and black tattoos.

“This one means the most to me”

The first, a K with a clover

 on top, links me to my brother.

“Stays here for eternity”

“This one’s for my family name”

Further down, another clover,

green & knotted

surrounded by Gaelic:

Máthair Athair Deatháir.

Mother Father Brother.

“With pride I’ll wear it to the grave”

“You’ll always be there with me’

Opposite side of my spine,

a long Celtic knot,

green highlighted a double-helix design.

Surrounded by names

of departed family and friends.

“Even if you’re gone”

“I signed and sealed these words in blood”

I look down at my left thigh

while pulling on my jeans.

Black, red, gray.

Lyrics, lines, a rose

for my favorite band.

“I heard them once, sung in a song”

“I ain’t winning no one over”

I trace the stars and swirl of clovers,

gray, green, purple

with my finger on my right thigh.

This one’s mine alone.

“I wear it just for you”

I smile

as I cover up my ink

with clothes,

and I quietly sing

“I had these memories all around me

So I wouldn’t be alone.”

Untitled. Poem About "My Place" & the Newtown Shootings.

The day before the Newtown shooting, I wanted to write a poem about my favorite place to escape to when life was getting away from me, or just to be alone, or whatever. I was also listening to my favorite band play a concert in NY over SiriusXM radio. And well, it's kind of hard to write a poem about a calm place when you're listening to a live punk rock concert. I thought I would write it the next day. And well, obviously, I didn't. I was itching to write it today, for whatever reason. It's set the day of the shooting but all else is very, very real and accurate.

Yesterday I listened to my favorite band

sing “All I Want For Christmas Is An AK-47.”

Today I watched in horror as 20 children

were gunned down with an assault rifle.

I read an article last week that stated,

“Atheists don’t deal well with death.”

I threw up in the in the shower today.

I guess crying and puking in the shower

is an okay way to deal with death.

I wanted to write about

my favorite get-away place yesterday.

Today I just want to be there.

It’s at its best in winter.

Then it’s quite, unless you count

the wind running through the trees;

I don’t, I like that sound.

Down a hill along a gravel road,

a little walkway across the water

to a wooden dock. I can sit

out there for hours.

Just me.

I can look out on the lake, and only see a

fisherman or two. No one

to deal with or worry about.

Calm, things make more sense.

I wish I was there today.

I wish I could make sense of today.

Jazz Club

For dVerse Poets prompt tonight!! Hope I did it right :-/ !! Was discussing jazz with a friend last night, then came the news that Fontella Bass (Jazz singer from St. Louis) passed. So this poem seems appropriate. I first wrote a poem in this style back in college, about drugs & being high all the time. I think my professor was more concerned for me that I realized at the time. He encouraged me to write a poem in this style, but NOT about drugs. He was a jazz lover, I think (hope) he would have liked this poem.

 

Jazz Club

I.

bold and brassy

the trumpeter’s tune

is blown into the night

mixing with

shimmering cymbals

wood clashing

                         onto metal

flirting with saucy saxophones

            sensually flowing

l o n g and piercing

through the air

and accompanying bass

repeatedly pumping

                                 out         the       rhythm

complimenting cool

quick

beats of the drum

hit the backbeat

                          and go

                                     Go

                                          GO

II

I sit back

in the crooked

wooden chair

watching my brother bop

                                         his head

lost

in the music

I am buzzed

too many beers

blue smoke

t

 w

i

  s

 t

   s

around my fingers

as I pump my

                      cigarette

                           in

                      time

                                to

                           the

                                     bass

Traveling

I actually DO listen to music that is not of the punk variety!! (Right now, actually, I'm listening to Nickel Creek!) So, I used to have a  job that sent me traveling around Missouri, often on twisty curvy roads. One of my most frequent travel partners was a my Best Of Bob Dylan album! I absolutely hate driving on Any roads at night. But one night, the moon was so intriguing that I forgot about everything but that moon, and Bob Dylan.

MO-52

Speeding down a two-way highway

the sun is setting,

and I’m staring at the pinks and oranges on the horizon

slowly starting to fade in my rearview mirror.

Bob Dylan asks me How does it feel to be on your own?

I see the rising moon in front of me.

I start to describe it to myself as being rust-colored,

but I think, That’s incredibly cliché.

It’s the color of a watered-down scotch,

abandoned for the night on a table on the back porch.

The moon keeps me company

as I glide over hills and around curves.

It’s sloshing along beside me,

behind power lines on whichever side of the road it chooses.

I see an abandoned grain factory down the road.

I slow as I pass it,

admiring its worn-out beauty.

Three dilapidating grain silos stand guard

in front of the long forgotten about building.

I toy with the idea of exploring the factory

but Bob Dylan increases his tempo,

reminding me to Please her, please him, buy gifts.

My foot sinks deeper to the floor with my gas pedal.

Fuckin' A!

So I read a question the other day and I thought, "This would be a good subject for a poem."  So in a weird way (My Way, Damn It!!), I responded to this question.  I expect at least one person to take my advice on this...you'll thank me for sure!! 

Oh, and the title comes from what my first response was after reading though the first draft!!  Ahahaha!!

...And for a list of good punk albums, just ask!!

Fuckin’ A

Yesterday someone posed the question,

How are you respondingto violence

with peace?

I have a shirt that states,

MAKE MUSIC

NOT WAR.

To most, my music

is nowhere near peaceful.

It’s filled with fast guitars busting out

power chord after power chord,

seemingly unending thumping bass lines,

and drummers whose arms never stop flailing.

Yet I still believe

that if more people

could take out their aggressions

in the middle of a mosh pit,

slamming into other bodies,

pumping their fists in the air,

and not giving even a single fuck

to what someone else is thinking

that they would feel more at peace.

So my answer is

that the key to ending violence

is letting your aggression Out!

Not trying to cover it

by just sitting cross-legged

letting out “Ohm” after “Ohm.”

Aggression will just keep coming back

as soon as you leave that state.

Trust me, I know!

Don’t try to cover it up

by smiling and giggling

and joking about injustices

that truly just make you

want to puke.

Your aggression will just keep growing.

So my solution to violence

is punk music.

Seems odd, right? But

next time anger builds up

inside of you,

go to your local record store,

grab the nearest (good!) punk album,

put it on, sit back,

and let the music in.

Your head will start to bop

and move from side-to-side,

then your arms will start flailing about;

and before you know realize it

you’re trying to slam dance

with your stationary furniture!

By the middle of the 3^rd song

(or 7^th if you’re listing

to the :30 to a minute-song variety),

you will have forgotten

that your anger even existed!