Wicked Little Wisp

Last night I had a dream

that has begun to haunt my day

a visit from a little wisp

with claim that she was here to stay.

The little wretch was cute

in the way small things can be

but the closer that you looked

the clearer you could see

that the little thing was darkness

and her wings were tattered skin

she smelled like burning evil

and her words were full of sin.

She flew around my fingers

and up around my face

saying “get used to me lass

because your life is my place.”

Try as I might to shake her

I couldn’t make myself free

but she flew up to my fighting shoulder

and stung me like a bee.

I slapped her and defied her

as her fluttering wings from hell

tore up the air around me

and rose a stormy spell.

I prayed God get me loose

from this awful little witch,

get her out of my head

and let me dream without a glitch.

Sleep would not return

and so I rising sat

and saw my dogs had gone to town

and pooped all over the mat.

I came downstairs and found

another awesome mess and more

of soap dribbled through a grocery bag

to puddle on the floor.

As I bent to clean the messes

my dog raised his leg again

and honest to goodness it took all of me

to not murder and skin him.

As I wiped and cleaned and corrected

the pain up in my shoulder

throbbed and ached and gave a sense

of muscles getting older.

But then it came to mind

that right in that spot I’d had

a fairy sting the night before

by the wisp that I’d made mad.

The morning rolled on forward

and other matters shown

to be broken, spilled or not quite right

as I plodded on alone.

When finally I bewildered sat

with coffee to a chair

I drew a line upon the day

and made it very clear.

“Little malevolent spirit

my life is not your home

but my day belongs to me

and to my Lord alone.

To save your rotten wings

I suggest you fly away

before he rises with the sun

and burns you into yesterday.”

… when you decide it’s time to live

… when you decide it’s time to live.

This is a post by one of my favourite bloggers about one of the most relevant topics in my life today – getting past what others think and getting past the hurts their smallness and inability to understand can place on your soul and REALLY LIVING.  There is a don’t-care element to confidence that I battle to maintain.  It isn’t the ugly defiance of arrogance but the calm and unthinking indifference or polite inattention to the complexes of others.  This poem captures the truth about a few things –

  1. Growth is a personal thing.  You alone determine how much your person grows.
  2. Growth attracts jealousy, resistence, and challenge from unexpected places.
  3. Those unexpected places DO NOT MATTER.  Growth is still priority over them.
  4. There is nothing wrong with cutting loose the anchors that certain friendships place on your growth.

Love it Hank.  Keeping an eye out for more of your poetic inspirations!

The Calling to the Poet

There is a group that meets monthly at the largest local bookstore on island.  The people who assemble come from all sorts of places with all sorts of accents and all sorts of ideas.  We share our writings and speak our truths in poetry.

In the last session there was talk around A Gathering of Old Men.  Quite the conversation starter, this little book of stories.  I had a friend recite the poem of Theophilus Brown and the power of this timbre married to the spirit of that poem brought to life the warrior of the old Obi man sent back to Africa on the ninth night.  From the performance came the discussion of ideas –  the purpose of our gifts, the power of words, the feelings of victims, the obedience to the powers that be, the pointlessness of rebellion, and revolutions of history.  The story of Salomé Ureña, the Dominican poet, was savoured.  An Ecuadorian shared her story of three poets from her hometown who were responsible for the removal of a brutal despot.  She quoted one of them saying “There is nothing harder than the softness of indifference.”   (Juan Montalvo) A Jamaican spoke of the stigma attached to the black cat and the themes of racism in societies of the Caribbean today.  A Barbadian distinguished the Jamaican story from the histories of the other islands.  A young man asked “How do you see revolution?” and an answer was given “Authenticity – each of us is responsible for our own story, to be it truthfully and boldly”.  Another answer was “Be the change you wish to see in your world.”

And it was decided.  For the month of July, to remember the American 4th and the purpose of the poet, the Floetry theme will be Revolution.

As my fellow floets turn to the task of writing, there is some inspiration to be found in what has already been written.  This is one of my new favourites.

Illiterate love poem

Bahahahahahaha!!!! I LOVE THIS! I’m sure everyone who reads this knows someone that it sounds like. Think of them and say awwww…

Playing with words is fun

I loves the way you looks at me
Like you totally in love
And how you know my mind works
And what I be thinking of
I loves the way you take my hand
And lead me to your room
Like you be sweeping me off my feet
With a big ass swiffer broom
I loves the way you be so coy
Like you be suprized
That my final destination
Is right between yo thys
And how I make you wish you dint
Have all them other guys
But most of all I loves the way
When we done, and dinner’s near
You tell me you making grub fo me
And you first bring me a beer.

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