Here We Go Again…

19 11 2014

Hey Guys!

I know it’s been a minute but I just wanted to pop in here and dash off a quick post. In about an hour I will be well on my way to Beaufort North Carolina to do some research for a novel I’m working on. My Momma has decided to team up and come along. I consider this her contribution to the literary world (you know, aside from birthing me and all).

Anyway, we are both very excited and cannot wait to find the pule of this little town. I’ll check back in with y’all sometime soon. Hope life is going well for you!

Cheers!

Advertisements




Poetry Restriction = Clamming

1 10 2012

Hey peoples, so as some of you may know and probably most of you do not, I’m in an advanced poetry class this semester. My professor gives us a lot of severe restrictions (syllable count per line, enjambment, topic specific, etc.) for each poem. After you get past wrapping your mind around such limitation you’ll discover it’s actually pretty liberating. I’ve written about some things I never would have attempted before… such as clamming. The research for the poem actually took longer than writing the darn thing. I googled my heart out and even reverted to calling up my momma (yes a shout out to the lady that birthed me! hi mom *waves*) who is a Florida native. This is just the first draft of the poem I created today so it’s by no means finished. But I was decently pleased with the results (minus the last couplet which was a little rushed) and figured I’d share it with you. If you have any suggestions for the next draft just leave them in the comment box. Well here it is peoples, cheers!

Clamming

The moon is like a fat man’s fingernail tonight.
And the barnacles under the dock are as rocks

Closed up tight like morning glories before the sun’s first light
Breaks over the horizon. My grandfather once told me,
“You can eat the tubers, the Indians did, ‘tater style.”
But I prefer to sink my toes into the brackish silt,

Tread out the quahogs and reach down to mitt my
Hands into live ground. Thick soles don’t weal
Unlike the baby skin of the snow birds who
Rent shinicocks instead. But the rake is faster

And faster is what I need as the water threatens to lap
The hem of my rolled denim. And when the bucket’s filled
I’ll sit on the shore, wet skin prickling in the breeze
And inspect the bivalves who’s sides cleave to one another

With the adductor muscle; “One of the strongest in the
World,” my mother says popping them open with a sharp twist.
Tomorrow there will be chowder but tonight I watch
As my scrounging marks are erased

And that which was stale is refreshed and submerged,
Like the Nile’s inundation, restitution to the land.





History on Display

23 04 2012

This was one of my first poems developed by my college poetry class. It is suppose to capture a story of historical artifacts put on display in a museum. The exercise was fun. The poem got slashed to ribbons though. This is it’s first draft so naturally it’s raw but I still have particular affection for it anyway. Enjoy…

Behind two doors of double
Panes bullet proof glass
A hallway houses the relics of
Past minute hand movements
The slap of footsteps, once prevalent
No more reverberates off the walls,
Though the entrance turns it’s lock to none
Once diamond encrusted and gold gilded
Display cases, now raped of their jewelry,
Still hold their glass cased contents undisputed.
In one lays a circlet of blood stained thorns
Another holds the oxidized iron that held
The penmanship of Luther’s ninety-five.
“we the people” are the only words still
Legible on the document nearest to
The firearm of James Earl Ray and the
Cranial cloth of India’s Catholic matriarch
Such junkyard scrap litters the lines of
The hall. Stretching on, it ends abruptly
With a wall of dirty plastic, dusty caution tape
And the peeling letters of a construction sign.
Eyes no more view these rows of rubbage
But the brown eyed pair of the sweat shop boy
Who sweeps the floor on his day off.








%d bloggers like this: