i sit
beneath the cedars,
in solemn serenity.
face red
with asking questions,
seeking answers
to the ways
of life and death —
molecules and atoms —
and how we’re all
connected.
my fingers
stiff, from cold —
a child’s stubby crayons —
make difficult the task
of turning pages,
jotting notes
about impermanence,
attachment
and letting go.
i’m surrounded
by spirits of seasons past.
i fear not —
they mean no harm.
their faces radiate,
coming from the light.
in their eyes
i see peace and love —
they are free
of mortal suffering
they endured
in life.
they comfort me. Grieve not, they say, soon enough, you will join us. you will experience the universe and all it has to offer. you still have much to learn. when you are ready, we’ll be waiting.
i feel the joy of life —
(maples sailing leaves
of red and yellow)
moments, lifetimes pass…
then they’re gone,
as they should be.
beneath the cedars,
in their realm of wisdom,
reverently
i sit.
slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss colored beer
from, wet, dripping glasses.
the hollow din,
the retelling of the good old days,
echoes sadly
as life quickly passes.
“They used to call me ‘The Silver Fox’
What do you think of that?
They used to care.”
an empty glass crashes
to the muddy floor.
“I guess I’ll be hitting the street tonight.
Sleep in an alley tonight.
Nobody cares.”
slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss colored beer.
nobody cares…
Two years after its initial release, the film, Take Me to the River, has been released on Netflix. This is a documentary about the soul of American music, particularly that of Memphis, Tennessee. While telling the story of Memphis and its music, this film centers around the recording of a new album. An album, produced by second generation Memphians that features legends from labels like Stax, Sun, and Hi Records, mentoring and recording with some of today’s greatest talent from the region.
The brainchild of director, Martin Shore, Take Me to the River debuted at the SXSW Festival in Austin, Texas in 2014 but was four years in the making. Mavis Staples and Booker T. Jones were the first “mentors” to sign on. From there, legendary artists including Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charlie Musselwhite, William Bell, Bobby Rush, Otis Clay, Charles “Skip” Pitts, Lester Snell, Marvell Thomas, the Hodges brothers and more were added as modern-day mentors of the Memphis sound.
Their pupils and recording partners are young up-and-comers from Memphis and beyond. Child actor and rapper, Lil P-Nut, not only recorded a cover of “Trying to Live My Life Without You,” with Otis Clay, but also received some impromptu singing tips from Bobby “Blue” Bland. Bland and Yo Gotti record a modern cover of “Ain’t No Sunshine,” with an old soul feel. Academy Award winning rapper, Frayser Boy teams up with Bobby Rush on the Rufus Thomas classic, “Push and Pull.” And these are just some of the highlights.
The men recording and producing these cuts are themselves, Memphis legacies. Boo Mitchell is the son of Willie Mitchell, founder of Royal Studios. Luther and Cody Dickinson are both members of the North Mississippi Allstars, and sons of the legendary Jim Dickinson, who was a producer, guitarist, and pianist. The elder Dickinson worked with artists including Bob Dylan, Ry Cooder, the Rolling Stones and scores of others.
This film isn’t just watching artists in studios, however. It’s chock full of vintage footage of live concert performances, Memphis neighborhoods, and civil rights unrest, including the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the aftermath that spelled the end of the Stax label and studio.
Many of the old timers share stories of how things were done back in their day and talk about one another’s accomplishments and failures. One of the most touching of these is when “Skip” Pitts once again runs into former band mate, Ben Cauley, describing to the filmmaker how Cauley is the only survivor of the plane crash that took the life of Otis Redding. Another is the obvious excitement of Mavis Staples when Luther Dickinson learns the guitar part of a song written by her father, “Pops.”
Also, particularly hard hitting, are the still photos of some of the elder artists, with production notes stating it was their last, or almost final session. Artists that passed away after appearing in this film include Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charles “Skip” Pitts and Teenie Hodges.
There are great interview clips with other famous Memphis music makers that were even more behind the scenes. Art Bell, owner of Stax Records and Deanie Parker who was not only a singer but secretary, liner notes writer, photographer, editor, publicist and more, all for the Stax label.
One of the greatest scenes is near the end when three generations of artists have only a short time to record a piece. William Bell, Snoop Dogg, and students from the Stax Academy, record, “I Forgot to be Your Lover.” That, in itself, is a pretty amazing feat. What becomes, even more, mind boggling is that the young students learned and recorded the song, Snoop wrote and recorded his rap verses, and the entire project was in the can in less than 30 minutes.
Narrator, Terrence Howard begins the film with the words, “There are special places on this earth. Places of origin. The Mississippi Delta is one of those places.” Nothing could be closer to the truth, and Take Me to the River does an outstanding job of documenting not only the origin of Memphis music but its passing to the next generations.
With this gem of a documentary streaming on Netflix, we would also urge everyone to purchase a copy of the DVD. If for no other reason, then knowing that over 75% of the money made in sales goes to musician funds in Memphis. These include the The Soulsville Foundation, The Blues Foundation HART Fund, and the Memphis Church Health Center.
I sit, in sadness,
holding hands with an injured friend;
her ribs broken and fractured,
her breathing painful and difficult,
her head aching and dizzy,
her face bruised
and scraped.
Another friend
is absent, in hiding; yet
he has no sanctuary,
there is no place he won’t be found.
At last, he had his life
in some semblance of order.
Two months sober;
he had an apartment, furniture;
his pride and self-worth had returned.
Then, he spent his rent check on booze —
starting with triple tequila shots
at a biker bar.
The universe
had given him a fresh start —
he threw it away.
Street justice will prevail;
sentence has been passed: a bruise for a bruise,
a broken bone for a broken bone,
and something extra
so it won’t happen again.
Punishment will be exacted
with ruthless,
emotionless
efficiency.
I met a woman
who lives on the streets.
All her belongings
fit in her backpack.
She has sparkling blue eyes,
a smile that would light heaven itself.
She looked cold.
I asked her how long
she’d been on the streets.
She replied, “I don’t know….too long.”
She is forty-four,
but looks older.
She told me her story.
I won’t repeat it,
but, to give you
some idea,
recall your worst fears,
your worst nightmares
rolled into one.
That’s the way
her story starts,
it only gets worse
from there.
I brought her a sandwich
and a coffee.
She said, “God bless you.”
He did,
immediately.
A wave of joy spread
throughout my body
and stayed there
all day long.
I have been blessed
by an Angel.
Buy my book for $0.99 — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home; Conversations with Street People http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
Occasionally,
Antonio
joins me for coffee.
He tells me
the most wondrous stories.
Sometimes,
I think he makes them up
for my benefit.
In any case
I am honored.
Have you ever worried
about squirrels in winter?
I see them climb over snowdrifts
with their bare paws —
they have no winter boots.
I see them stop
to tuck their tiny front paws
into their armpits
for warmth —
they have no mitts.
When it rains
I see them huddle
under trees,
they still get soaked —
they have no raincoats.
They have no pants,
no dresses, no hats,
no warm winter coats,
no shelter or fires
to warm their bodies.
Even the homeless men
whose beds are the sidewalk
have sleeping bags
to keep them warm.
Squirrels have nothing.
Still they remain cheery,
hopping about
gathering nuts,
Who knew
it was such a hard life
for squirrels in winter?
Buy my book for $0.99 — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home; Conversations with Street People http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
I miss you
(your cap on the sidewalk)
panning in front of Starbucks.
Your regulars miss you too.
Out of respect,
nobody’s using your spot —
Joy sees to that.
Eventually,
someone from the family,
(someone you’d approve of,
maybe Little Jake)
will carry on
where you left off —
serving ‘good mornings’
with a side
of smiles.
I miss
our conversations,
seated on storage boxes —
you’d light a cigarette,
sip your beer.
We’d discuss friends,
adventures from your past,
the Chateau Lafayette.
Some of the guys
were too upset
to attend your funeral.
I know you were there
as the group congregated
at noon, with the snow falling.
Albert still cries
at the mention of your name.
Sometimes,
you’d sit alone on the curb
as Shaggy barked. I’m not going up there,
you’d say, that damn dog is barking her head off.
At those times
we’d wonder what you were thinking —
just staring off into space. That’s just Silver, zoning out,
somebody would say, He does that, sometimes.
Buy my book for $0.99 — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home; Conversations with Street People http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
So, I’m panning
in my usual spot.
This suit walks by —
in passing he says,
“Get a job!”
“Hire me!” I say.
“Take a shower,” he says.
“I may sleep outside,
that doesn’t mean
I don’t wash —
I wash all over.”
“Hey,” I say,
“if you’re so successful,
why do you look
so unhappy?
“I’ve made the price
of my bottle.
I’ve got some smokes,
a little pot.
“Me, I’m the happiest guy alive.”
Buy my book for $0.99 — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home; Conversations with Street People http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
Visions of my crumpled, lifeless body,
haunt my aimless footsteps.
Spectres from the grave welcome,
this life-weary traveler.
Tomorrow, that will not come, denies
upturned eyes, the soft rains of hope.
Flames of sorrow and rage sear,
this tortured soul.
Ragged hell-cries of desperation rip,
and pierce my mind.
No sound is uttered,
since there is no ear to listen.
Grief rises and swells,
like the limitless ocean,
swallowing this helpless, solitary victim,
in tides of comfortless tears.
Mother earth, take this flesh, these bones
to your rocky bosom.
Pull a cover of earth
over this last weary day.
This poem represents a very bleak period in my life. After expressing my feelings on paper I sought psychological and medical help. I am now pleased to report that suicidal feelings have been abandoned. Depression will always be with me; however medication allows me to live a healthy, even happy life.
Now I lie beneath the covers, worldly thoughts I try to smother,
sleep, a pleasure like no other, eyes feel heavy, a yawn comes on.
Pray to the Lord my soul to keep, plump my pillow and snuggle deep,
sigh and settle, welcome sleep. Sandman, show me somnolent scenes,
dream me drowsy, dozeable dreams, grant me glories to gaze upon;
let me sleep until the dawn.
It doesn’t seem too much to ask, nightly nap after daily tasks.
Let me sip from a soothing flask, no further need to labor on;
tomorrow is another day — to fight the fray, to harvest hay,
maybe to while the time away. Never mind the resolutions,
problems having no solutions, the curtains of the day are drawn;
I want to sleep until the dawn.
Now, I begin to feel a twitch, a muscle spasm, now an itch.
I really hate to whine and bitch, but this condition can’t go on.
Turn on the light, read my book, squint, give the clock a second look,
wonder how many pills I took. Covers rumpled, twisted, tangled,
I’m annoyed, nerves are jangled. Maybe, turn the radio on;
I need some sleep before the dawn.
Think I’ll go down and watch TV, something relaxing — history,
maybe drama or mystery, don’t want anything that’s too long,
don’t want to think or contemplate, would be nice just to vegetate,
if it’s too slow I’ll ruminate. Jay is always good for a laugh,
just in time for the second half. Shopping channel has got a con;
I can’t believe I’ve got this on.
Hush sleepy papa don’t you cry, sleep will come — by and by.
Sing me a soothing lullaby or sweet and lowdown, bluesy song.
In the wee hours of the morning, thoughts arrive without a warning,
evil thoughts like hornets swarming, spoken by a voice inside,
meant to weaken and deride — I’m not worthy to carry on.
No time for sleep — here comes the dawn.
…
I often have a problem with Insomnia. The above represents a fairly typical night for me. The form of this poem is loosely based on Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” which is, I believe a Sapphic variant. The rhyming pattern is: aa/ab/cc/cd/db/b.
Eugene had a mind of his own,
not, as some would say, a sound mind,
but his own mind, nevertheless.
“It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here. And I’m most obliged to you for making it clear that I’m not here.”
Eugene was a great musician,
taking music to the limit;
his songs will always survive.
Eugene took drugs to the limit;
he’s now in Interstellar Overdrive.
When we observed him with an axe,
you may understand our concern.
Was he in danger, or were we?
Eugene had already left us in spirit,
but he wandered away that day
and was lost to us forever.
This poem is dedicated to the memory of “Syd Barrett (born Roger Keith Barrett;
6 January 1946 – 7 July 2006) who was an English singer, songwriter, guitarist and artist. He is most remembered as a founding member of band Pink Floyd, providing major musical and stylistic direction in their early work, although he left the group in 1968 amidst speculations of mental illness exacerbated by heavy drug use.”
Axe is also British slang for guitar. Pink Floyd’s use of the title Careful With That Axe, Eugene may refer to “Barrett’s behaviour (which) became increasingly unpredictable, partly as a consequence of frequent experimentation with psychedelic drugs such as LSD. Many report having seen him on stage with the group, strumming on one chord through the entire concert, or not playing at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation.” (Source: Wikipedia)
I sit, in sadness,
holding hands with an injured friend;
her ribs broken and fractured,
her breathing painful and difficult,
her head aching and dizzy,
her face bruised
and scraped.
Another friend
is absent, in hiding; yet
he has no sanctuary,
there is no place he won’t be found.
At last, he had his life
in some semblance of order.
Two months sober;
he had an apartment, furniture;
his pride and self-worth had returned.
Then, he spent his rent check on booze —
starting with triple tequila shots
at a biker bar.
The universe
had given him a fresh start —
he threw it away.
Street justice will prevail;
sentence has been passed: a bruise for a bruise,
a broken bone for a broken bone,
and something extra
so it won’t happen again.
Punishment will be exacted
with ruthless,
emotionless
efficiency.
There you are
an almost stranger.
Who am I to take your hand?
What I give is nearly nothing –
but the heart to hear
and understand.
You tell me
you’ve been beaten,
stabbed with a machete,
made some choices
now regretted.
Sparking
eyes of azure blue
show a spectrum of emotions,
happiness, frustration,
pain and sorrow,
but, always
love.
Arisen
from behind a dumpster,
to living in a clean, safe house,
your life in order,
independent —
a miracle.
Inspiring
to me, and to everyone
fortunate enough to know you.
I would like to introduce you
to a wider audience
so that they too
may take inspiration
and see the miracle
that is your love,
that is you.
in my nearly seven decades
on this earth
i know some things to be true.
if there is a key to life
it is ACCEPTANCE.
this is a goal that i aspire to,
i’m not always successful,
but with each slip
i affirm that i can do better;
i will do better.
i don’t have answers.
i don’t have solutions.
i don’t have resources.
what i offer is a safe haven
where YOU can come home.
i will ACCEPT you —
no questions asked,
no explanation expected,
nothing requested
in return.
i open my heart
to YOU.
Having read the first two novels in this series I was most anxious to read A Roman Holiday: Third in the Art Historian Superhero series. I was not disappointed. This fast paced adventure had me captivated from start to finish. The characters of Max and Sally I was already familiar with. Ambrosia, the ever apologetic fembot, was a new revelation. I fell in love with her and her Superwoman powers. Since she had been recently constructed, everything was new to her, everything was a learning experience. Max and Sally were very compassionate teachers and Ambi was welcomed as one of their family.
Although time-travel, ancient wars and historical fiction are the vehicles of these novels, the theme is unconditional love. We grow with the characters and learn, with respect and acceptance: racial, gender, religious and sexual equality. Molly and Max are philanthropists. This, and the two previous books, are thoroughly engaging and leave one feeling good about the world.
Rebecca Branch is an acclaimed scholar familiar with guiding visitors around Rome. Join her and her characters in this fantastic adventure.
Book Description
This is the third book in the Art Historian Superhero series. In Summer of 71 you were introduced to Max DuPont, a young American who spends his summers in Rome, split between two continents and shared by divorced parents. That summer Max had the romance of his life and was introduced to the mysteries of women by Molly, the dream lover of any young man, a down on her luck actress and model ten years his elder. Theirs was a romance which defined who they were and who they were to become.
Seven years later, in my second novel, Great Caesar’s Ghost, Max found himself again in Rome, this time an adult, working on the curatorial staff of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Together with his father Edward, an American archaeologist, Max discovered a long lost treasure, the personal artifacts of Gaius Julius Caesar. Amongst the relics was a ring which had the ability, when worn by one of Caesar’s descendants, to transport the bearer to any time and place. Max started his journey to uncover the past and ultimately to visit with Caesar himself.
Waking from her near-death experience, having survived the sinking of the Titanic, Sarah Goldsmith (Sally) saves Max and accompanies him in his travels. Brilliant and resourceful, a Harvard educated art historian, she awakens from a frightening era of anti-Semitism to champion the fight against injustice, intolerance and barbarity in all its forms. A natural feminist, Sally finds her match in Max, and two lonely lives come together as one.
This third novel in the series takes the time travelers from the modern world to the ancient past. Travel with them to California in the year 2050 to gather together their team and to New York in 1980 where Max lives his current life. Visit Studio 54, the court of Theodoric the Ostrogoth in Rome in 494 AD, and be present at the epic battle of Alesia where Caesar battles the Gauls in 52 BC.
Ultimately a love story and also a tale of discovery and self-awareness, join Max as he sheds the loneliness he has endured since his teenage years and finds the girl of his dreams who travels at his side. Then be prepared to admit within your circle one of the strongest and most attractive characters I’ve written…Ambrosia, a combined product of Apple and Google, and the most capable heroine in this series.
These are all adult books. They are written for a mature audience, suffused with observations of history, art history, Roman culture, contemporary New York, and many other locations. They are also a story of attraction, commitment, discovery and self-awareness, loss of innocence, coming of age, love and lust. They are often erotic but always loving, respectful of both genders, upbeat and satisfying. Although adult themes abound, they do not dominate, and these books are romantic time-travel historical fiction first and erotic adventures second. Come along for the journey in this sequel to Great Caesar’s Ghost.
Author Biography
I am 49 years old, a wife and a mother of two young women. I live near New York City. I am an architect by trade but an art historian by education having attended UC Berkeley as an undergraduate and Columbia for post graduate degrees. My father was an American archaeologist and my mother an Italian Lady. I worked as an assistant to the curator of Greco Roman arts at the Metropolitan Museum before leaving to take on my profession for need of income which the art world did not provide.
I began writing on a dare by friends who have encouraged me for years as I am a good storyteller and an avid reader. My first novel was Summer of 71, a story of romance and discovery set in Rome, a city with which I am very familiar and a place where I lecture on Roman history, architecture and culture bi-annually. My second book is Great Caesar’s Ghost which continues the story with my hero Maximillian DuPont and is a time travel romance skirting time periods from the first century BC through the modern day. My third work is titled A Roman Holiday and continues the series and has just been released. There will be at least two more books beyond these in this series. I also write short stories and a collection of these will be released shortly. They are about motherhood, romance and office affairs and escapades.
Although placed in the adult, and sometimes erotic category, my work is far more about self-awareness, relationships, coming of age, loss of innocence, personal development, reclamation, the culture of Italy, art and architectural history, an examination of the passage of time, food, and humor. I write as an adult to an adult audience and do not bury physical relationships behind closed doors. But what I write is loving and respectful of both genders, light and upbeat, fulfilling and satisfying. No one gets hurt, no one degraded. You should walk away from each of my books with a smile and an increased knowledge of the western world, Rome’s influence, politics, the social revolution, religion, and the inimitable wonder of a loving relationship between a good man and woman.
Reviewing “Summer of ’71, by Rebecca Branch, is like writing an account of a gourmet banquet where each course tastes better than the one previous. This book is: travelog, history, historical fiction, memoir and mind-blowing erotic romance.
The characters, Max and Molly, are both lovable and vulnerable. We experience events through both personalities. Molly, the stunning international fashion model, who has been used and abused, finds herself stranded and homeless in Rome. She is offered accommodation as the house guest of Max, the seventeen year old, shy in sexual experience. He is a historian who, over the summer, guides her through the city of his Roman ancestors. The two grow to love and desire each other, but are hindered by past insecurities. Will this be simply a summer romance or will it develop into something more?
The sex is uninhibited, but not unkind. Always there is choice, consent, respect and dignity. Always there is equality of gender, sexual preference, race and class. These are big issues and it takes a big book to deal with them. Superb, in every way, this novel was written by a very skilled and intelligent author. I learned something on each fascinating page. I have already ordered the author’s second book, Great Caesar’s Ghost: A Time Travel Romance (Art Historian Super Heroes Book 2).
Dennis Cardiff has been involved with street people since 2010, when he began to reach out, on his own, to some of the people without homes who he enc…more
My lungs ached, as frost hung in the bitterly cold December morning air, making breathing difficult. I trudged in the falling snow toward the building where I work, in one of the city’s grey, concrete, office tower canyons. I dodged other pedestrians, also trying to get to work on time, I noticed a woman seated cross-legged on the sidewalk with her back against a building wall. A snow-covered Buddha, wrapped in a sleeping bag, shivering in the below freezing temperature. I guessed her to be in her forties. Everything about her seemed round. She had the most angelic face, sparkling blue eyes and a beautiful smile. A cap was upturned in front of her. I thought, There but for the grace of God go I. Her smile and blue eyes haunted me all day.
In the past I’ve been unemployed, my wife and I were unable to pay our mortgage and other bills, we went through bankruptcy, lost our house, my truck. Being in my fifties, my prospects looked dim. It could have been me, on the sidewalk, in her place.
I was told not to give money to panhandlers because they’ll just spend it on booze. I thought to myself, What should I do, if anything? What would you do? I asked for advice from a friend who has worked with homeless people. She said, ‘The woman is probably hungry. Why don’t you ask her if she’d like a breakfast sandwich and maybe a coffee?’
That sounded reasonable, so the next day I asked, “Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast, perhaps a coffee?”
“That would be nice,” she replied.
When I brought her a sandwich and coffee she said to me, “Thank you so much, sir. You’re so kind. Bless you.” I truly felt blessed.
This has become a morning routine for the past four years. The woman (I’ll call Joy) and I have become friends. Often I’ll sit with her on the sidewalk. We sometimes meet her companions in the park. They have become my closest friends. I think of them as angels. My life has become much richer for the experience.
I was a young boy with a withered leg,
abandoned, in a cold hospital bed.
Faceless attendants wore gloves, masks and gowns.
No parents for cuddles, kisses or love.
Alone were the Lost Boys with polio,
the silent, unpredictable killer.
Quarantined, isolated like lepers,
our only strength came from one another.
Expected to die, we boys joined forces.
We supported each other, forming a bond.
After lights were turned out we would whisper
together, “Shush, the Sisters are coming.”
Older patients had access to wheelchairs.
Sometimes they’d transport me to other wards —
to meet other boys was high adventure.
An empty bed usually meant a death.
Six decades since, in the still of the night,
after lights are out, I can sometimes hear
that haunting refrain I heard as a child,
whispered, “Shush, the Sisters are coming.”
.
Note: Polio was one of the most dreaded childhood diseases of the 20th century. By 1910, much of the world experienced a dramatic increase in polio cases and frequent epidemics became regular events, primarily in cities during the summer months which left thousands of children and adults paralyzed. The first polio vaccine was developed in 1952 by Jonas Salk and announced to the world on April 12, 1955 – Source: Wikipedia.
“…telling an alcoholic to control his drinking is like telling a guy suffering the world’s most cataclysmic case of diarrhea to control his shitting.” ~ Steven King
.
“Paranoid personality disorder (PPD) is a mental disorder characterized by paranoia and a pervasive, long-standing suspiciousness and generalized mistrust of others. Individuals with this personality disorder may be hypersensitive, easily feel slighted, and habitually relate to the world by vigilant scanning of the environment for clues or suggestions that may validate their fears or biases. Paranoid individuals are eager observers. They think they are in danger and look for signs and threats of that danger, potentially not appreciating other evidence.[1]” ~ Wikipedia
.
Somebody said to me, “…you feel the need to place yourself at the center of every word so that every hurt seems aimed at you.” This poem is meant to answer this concern.
.
.
I don’t trust people.
There are medical reasons:
bipolar, obsessive compulsive
and paranoid personality disorders.
I take medication for them,
and practise daily
meditation.
I do irrational things;
even while I’m doing them
I know they’re irrational —
I do them anyway.
I can’t help it.
Usually, I live
a relatively sane existence;
then a trigger goes off
Bam!
Somebody’s talking
behind my back.
Somebody’s writing about me
for all the world to see.
Sleepless nights
rereading
what did he/she mean by that?
more sleepless nights
more rereading
more anxiety.
Why,
are they doing this to me?
What do I do?
There may be other explanations.
There are other people in the world
that may act the way I do,
say the things I say,
fit my description…
But, all of this,
all at once;
impossible.
So I ask,
“Are you writing about me?”
They say, “I sometimes write about people,
but not about you.”
Problem solved —
or is it?
They write about people —
I’m people…
more sleepless nights,
more rereading,
more anxiety.
I don’t trust people.
I’m not acting rational.
I’m not rational. I know, I’m not rational.
I’m acting paranoid.
I am paranoid. I know, I’m paranoid.
I should control my paranoia. I should control my shitting.
Visions of my crumpled, lifeless body
haunt my aimless footsteps.
Spectres from the grave welcome
this life-weary traveler.
Tomorrow, that will not come, denies
upturned eyes, the soft rains of hope.
Flames of sorrow and rage sear
this tortured soul.
Ragged hell-cries of desperation rip
and pierce my mind.
No sound is uttered,
since there is no ear to listen.
Grief rises and swells like the limitless ocean,
swallowing this helpless, solitary victim
in tides of comfortless tears.
Mother earth, take this flesh, these bones
to your rocky bosom;
pull a cover of earth
over this last weary day.
.
This poem represents a very bleak period in my life. After expressing my feelings on paper, I sought psychological and medical help. I am now pleased to report that suicidal feelings have been left behind. Bipolar, obsessive compulsive and paranoid personality disorders will always be with me; however medication and meditation allows me to live an intermittently happy life.
today’s greatest talent from the region.
