2015 05 06 Essay: And Then… May 6, 2015

And then, all of a sudden, it happened. Appearing straight out of nowhere, I didn’t have a clue where it came from. I wasn’t sure where it was going. I wasn’t sure if I was the intended recipient, or someone in a long line of possibilities. I didn’t have a clue what it was at first. I was as unfamiliar with this, thing, as I had ever been about any, thing.

As it stood there, or sat there, or was just, there, the anomaly didn’t look out of place, or over bearing, or inadequate or provocative or misplaced or borrowed from somewhere else. This, thing, looked completely content on just being, there, which made it even more alluringly intriguing.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to approach it. I didn’t know how to act or think or what to do after I might manage to approach this unfamiliar, thing. All I knew was that whatever it was, I wanted a piece for myself in the worst way.

I grew frustrated that I didn’t know, anxious that I might learn, frightened that I might be making a mistake, apprehensive due to my previous masters of misguided monstrosities, and perhaps excited that I might be stumbling upon the greatest invention since sliced bread. It was only one thing, but oh what a pleasingly simple thing it appeared to be.

As I circled around this, thing, it never took its eyes off me. It seemed to be looking straight at me, and at the same time, straight through me as if it were looking at a bigger picture, or perhaps trying to convince me that it wanted to be part of this particular day, along with the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. How amazing this was to me, as it seemed to be more comfortable with my days to come than I was. As hard as I tried to keep the moment in today, in this day, a force from deep inside me whispered to my sub conscience that it was ok to think ahead, if only for a moment. It nudged me with an assurance that dreaming was an acceptable part of who we are, that dreaming takes hold of us all, that wishing and hoping can easily turn into being and experiencing.

Circling around one more time, a smile crept across my face, and as a chuckle rolled out from deep within my soul, a calm, peaceful rush crept up from the tip of my toes, to the end of my nose. I felt at home with this, thing, and as I completed another circling maneuver, I swore I saw the thing wink at me.

What is it? Where did it come from? Where is it going? What am I supposed to do with this, thing?

Hmm?

2015 04 08 Poetry: The Man Is… April 8, 2015

Another April day, another poem. I know, I know. Some of you are probably saying, “Enough already!”, while others are probably saying, “It would behoove you my good man to reconsider your analytical expose hence forth, to whit, thereof, unto thee, oh great blogger of present cyberspace”, where upon I would say, “Huh?”

No matter what you are thinking, no matter what you are saying, no matter what you had for lunch, it is still National poetry month, and I am still trying to post a poem a day for the entire month of April. Yes, the whole month.

The following poem is one I wrote when I was a sophmore in high school. I knew then that I liked to write, and some of it came very easily. I didn’t know if my writings were any good, that is, until I submitted the following poetic piece to my literature class, where upon my teacher accused me of plagiarism. She returned my paper with a big fat 0 for a grade. When I confronted her, she looked at me, smiled, picked up the paper and started asking me questions about it, like, “What does dulce mean?”. I told her it was a spanish word that meant sweet. She looked confused, then smiled again and grilled me with a few more questions. After I answered all her questions, she frowned, threw the paper on her desk and shouted at me that she didn’t believe I wrote it and would not give me a grade for it. I’m not sure really what transpired after that, but I do know that my father took the poem to nearby Colby College and had a literature professor look at it. The professor told him that he had never seen the poem before, and that it was to his liking.

I’m not sure if I ever got a grade for the piece or not, but I did keep it in a safe place, and transfered it to digital back a few years.

The poem is below. The writer is me. This is my blog, and I thank you for stopping by once again.

If you like to write, never stop. If you have writer’s block, just write about nothing. You might be surprised at how fast nothing turns into something very special.

Take care, have a great afternoon and here we go again!

***

The Man Is

There lives a man down by the sea
With tales of near and far
Stories of death and catastrophe
That followed men to war.

He tells of times which make you cheer
When winds sailed fast and strong
With oceans swift and dulce to ear
Ne’er currents to guide you wrong.

Some secrets within this man’s tales
Hold gold and jewels and women
When times were good and prosper hailed
Those tired men a sailin’.

Now as I think back deep and far
Upon minds infinity
I realize that this old man
Has been from days birth, me.