Tag Archives: writing

Man finds 80 ballots all assigned to same address

“Jerry Mosna was gardening outside his San Pedro, Calif., home Saturday when he noticed something odd: Two stacks of 2016 ballots on his mailbox.

The 83 ballots, each unused, were addressed to different people, all supposedly living in his elderly neighbor’s two-bedroom apartment.

“I think this is spooky,” Mosna said. “All the different names, none we recognize, all at one address.”

His wife, Madalena Mosna, noted their 89-year-old neighbor lives by herself, and, “Eighty people can’t fit in that apartment.”

They took the ballots to the Los Angeles Police Department, but were directed to the post office. They felt little comfort there would be an investigation, and called another neighbor, John Cracchiolo – who contacted the Los Angeles County Registrar’s office. ”

http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2016/11/03/voter-fraud-california-man-finds-dozens-ballots-stacked-outside-home.html

Why were there only 2000 Mexicans at the Alamo?

Because they only brought two cars.

80 ballots at one address isn’t crap.

(I know, I’m racist)

The reports of Swift’s death have been greatly exaggerated

Over the weekend news and video surfaced that the former HSV Swift, which had been leased to MSC for 10 years from 2003-2013 and is currently owned by Emirates-based UAE Marine Dredging Company but was chartered by the United Arab Emirates military for coastal transport, was sunk after a missile attack by Houthis rebels. Well, […]

via The reports of Swift’s death have been greatly exaggerated — laststandonzombieisland

Book of poetry

Clods of dark brown earth break
With each determined thrust of boot and blade.
Revealing in the core of warmed embrace
Some small and welcome fruit of labour made.

Roots of month-long summer toil
Lie exposed in conquered disarray
And sit, hard won, on frozen winter soil.
I smile. We shall be fed yet again today.

Fay Slimm

 

This is Fay Slimm a poet from Cornwall U.K

In the online poetry world we go way back

I have associated with her for many years

And although we have never met, I consider her a friend

The above poem is a sampling of her work

I assure you that it is far from her finest because she  is a talented and prolific poet

It just happens to be one of my favorites because I am a gardener

She just achieved what all writers and poets strive for and has her first book of poetry published

I have a link below

If you like poetry, please check her book out

She is a wonderful woman and a wonderful writer

 

http://www.amazon.com/Versing-Beyondness-Selected-Poems-1/dp/1326477048/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1453829152&sr=8-1&keywords=fay+slimm

Stalker

I can’t tell you why it is
Anymore than I can tell you
Why the warm spring sun feels so good
Or that a tumbling waterfall is something to see
Or a blue sky something to be lost in
Or how gently crashing waves can soothe a soul
But all I know
Is what it is
Somethings are just meant to be
And I think that I was meant to love her
I knew it the first time that I ever saw her
That we were like nature
The sun, the sky, the waterfall and the ocean
Everyone needs someone to love them
She has me.

Classical/bluegrass quartet made one of my poems into a bluegrass song

Geeked? Yeah, a bit. It is why you write after all isn’t it?

Below is about the quartet which is named Invoke

“If the goal was to make classical music relevant, it couldn’t have proven the point any more clearly.”

– Columbia Free Times

Described by one pretty important radio guy as “not classical…but not not classical”, bowed and fretted string quartet invoke continues to successfully dodge even the most valiant attempts at genre classification. The multi-instrumental band’s other not-nots encompass traditions from across America, including bluegrass, Appalachian fiddle tunes, jazz, and minimalism. invoke weaves all of these traditions together to create truly unique contemporary string quartet repertoire, written by and for the group.

 

Invoke’s 2015 debut release “Souls in the Mud” begins with original works that conjure images of America, including the fast-paced opening track Travesty and The Trace (inspired by bourbon whiskey). The third and title track, Souls in the Mud, is an American transformation of a 16th century motet featuring banjo, mandolin and a bluegrass-influenced boot-stompin’ finale. The EP is rounded out by invoke accompanying a historic recording of a haunting traditional English ballad and two compositions by prolific American composer Danny Clay.

 

Since its inception in 2013, invoke has been selected as Artists in Residence at Strathmore, Emerging Young Artist Quartet at Interlochen, and Fellowship String Quartet at Wintergreen Performing Arts. invoke has shared the stage with some of the most acclaimed chamber groups in the country, including the Enso Quartet and the U.S. Army Field Band. Other performance highlights include appearances in Columbia, SC as honorable mention recipients at the Savvy Musician in ACTION workshop, on two consecutive seasons of the Common Tone concert series in Maryland, and as part of the Radical Sound collective.”

And here is a link to the track:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B3E6EWfhkB7YdkVsU2daekZtUzA/view?pli=1

And the original poem:

Beneath the mountain

Leave alone what lies beneath the mountain

The labyrinthined caves and deep burning fire

Take instead the cold stinging creeks

The summer pines and pale blue sky

Take the rocky trails and sharp stone

And all the beauty for your eye

But don’t stray below and leave alone

What lies beneath the mountain

The blue shed

She caught him out in the shed
Like a thief
Stealing a moment of pain
Wracked by sobs and pouring out tears
Over small and faded pink canvas shoes
The shoes had supplanted his purpose
Sapped his intent
They made his tools indifferent
And uncaring
Turned them into nothing more
Than rusting steel and hanging shapes
Outlined on musty pegboard
That meant nothing
Nothing at all
Until her small and gentle hands touched him
And in shame
He dried his eyes
And put the shoes away
Back in their box on the shelf
And became a man again
Lived again
And worked again
In his shed full of tools

Some would say I’m odd…….

I am odd
Some would say
But not to me
Living here in my own skin
In my castle of bones
Listening to words
Beating like my heart
Some would say
I am odd
But not to me

Melancholy in my coffee

Melancholy in my coffee
Subdues my day
Dresses me in drab
Lifeless clothing
The smile I wore yesterday
Left hanging in the closet
Slightly wrinkled
Sends me out the door
Under the grey sky
My vision clouded
My mind numbed
Even your warm skin
I kiss goodbye
Can’t make the sun shine today
Tomorrow, I think, I’ll take
My coffee black

The hearth

I require no company
save those that gather
’round the warmth
of my fire.
Late at night
hushed talk floats
in the chill air
like wisping tendrils
of smoke.
Faint firelight gropes
at the surrounding darkness
after imparting
it’s warmth.
Hours burn as embers
and laughter flickers
like flames.

Two track

It was a gash in the forest green
A two track
Run red with clay
Smelling of grass
And laid down below
The ocean of humid air
And it carried off miles into the swamp
Riding on the back
Of the long, long Island
And my feet followed it
Like a river of earth
‘Til its end
At the old Indian mounds
Mountains of men
And the ghosts of long ago
Just sitting there in the lonely forest
Reaching up to the sky
And every time I arrived
I always thought the same
Such a lonely place to die

I didn’t know that I was dead

I didn’t even know that I was dead
That my empty veins held no life
And my heart
That engine of my life
Had sputtered to a stop
And become cold
That my bloodied hands
Somewhere in the climb
Had faltered
Lost their grip
And let the rough stone
Slip
My hand suddenly clenching
Nothing
Just an empty fist
I didn’t even feel the fall
The rushing wind
Nor even the impact
I didn’t even know
Until I looked up at the sky
And it’s pearly blue
With quickly fading sight
That I was dead

So, how cool is that?

Over the weekend I was contacted by the leader of a world class string quartet. They had stumbled upon one of my poems and were requesting permission to use it for lyrics.

The name of the quartet is invoke and they play a mixture of classical and Blue grass. These guys are top of the line musicians and have played with some of the best symphony’s in the country and all of the top venues. They want turn my lowly poem into a bluegrass song.

My inner writer geek says “Way cool”

Pink lunch box

That little pink lunch box
Looks empty
Sitting on the shelf
But it’s not
It hurts me to look into it
Because it is still packed full
With my love
My heart
Dreams and aspirations
That were gently laid
Into it everyday
Packaged in neatly
So they would all fit
I think of those little hands
That carried it everyday
That carried everything
Packed into it
And it melts my heart
It makes me wonder
Why I even opened it
God, I miss her in the mornings

Judith

I always wondered where her love went
It was like it was bled from her
A slit vein that ran dry
I was the only one that she gave it to
And I was young and greedy
And I think that I took it all
Used it up
A hungry pup nursing at the teat
And there was none left over for anyone else
She became withered and dry
And by the time her own children came
That love had been replaced by hate
Maybe it had just been killed
And that hate was like the darkness
That is already in a room
Just waiting for the light to be turned off
And then it takes over everything
It didn’t help
That it had been infused with heroin along the way
Shot sweating late at night in a seedy room
Or in the parking lot behind the strip club
But something had turned that love to hate
Solidified it in her veins
Until she was nothing
No voice
No heartbeat
Nothing
She became a statue
Just hard stone
And the sad part is that she had four babies
Who tried to nurse from her cold stone tit
And tried to get some of the love that I had
But it was long used up and gone
And they had to try and survive and live
With nothing to feed on but that cold hate
And they all survived for the most part
Except for Amber
Poor Amber
In the end, I think the hate finally got her

Thinking about the cemetery

I still can’t go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a  green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words  subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn’t trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of  maintenance
I can’t look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems  so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn’t
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it’s insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can’t have that.

Yeah, even guys like me have Moms.

Love does not speak tonight

Love does not speak tonight
It pants
In warm whispers in your ear
With fingers trailing silken skin
Tracing soft and subtle curves
It pants
In hot and hurried breath
It licks
It bites
Salt and wet
‘Til torrid passion
Is finally met
Love does not speak tonight
But sighs gently in your ear

A letter to my father

How can I rip poetry from my soul for you?
You are part of me and so is your poetry , rooted deep within my being
I cannot put that emotion into words
The best that I can do is tear out a raw, quivering, bloody lump of feeling
You are my rock, my strength, my laugh, my goodness, my caring,
All of the good things that I am
You are my love, immovable, everlasting
You are my security and protection
The roughness of you in my memory,the scent in my nostrils,
Your face always before my eyes
You are my father, even though you are not
You loved me
Even though you didn’t have to
You are gone and God, the price I would pay
For one laugh or smile
One word of good cheer or uplifting
One story
Or one joke.
I love you

Yeah, He really was that good of a guy. It has taken me 23 yrs. to post it publicly and even after all the time that has  passed, it was still a tough write. Good men make good men and I hope that if he were still here today, that he would be proud. It’s a big set of shoes to fill but I have done my best.

Wardrums

Hearken to the sound that rides upon the bitter wind

Deep within the gathering gloom

comes the sound of war and doom

Hearken and woe, grieve and despair

for the dogs of war are loosed again

The long forgotten pounding drum

bellows out in deafening din

Men of glory, men of honor, rush forthwith to your arms

Siren screaming, beguiling, calling sounding out all alarms

Man has set aside his mercy, cast off all his books of learning

Now shows through his thin veneer all his deepest, darkest yearnings

Rising now from in the ground, red eyes glowing, shrieking, howling

a scream that rents the tortured night

teeth a gnashing, spitting, growling,

Comes that man thought so long dead

haired and furred from foot to head

With a growl, uncaring shrug, nary a thought or realization

he casts off that cloak of civilization.

Man has risen to conquer again.

Broken heart

She melds into the the soft sheets
Her milky white skin
Hot and smooth
Beneath my rough palm
A touch goodbye
That lingers like a kiss
Her words come back to me
As my caress glides over her
I taste her lips
And hot salty tears
And feel her fall into me
As she tells me the news
She is still so young and beautiful
And vibrant
That I almost can’t believe it
But I have to
I can see it in her eyes
Her beautiful brown eyes
Say it all
And I just wish it was a lie
A filthy lie
Told only to hurt me
To tear the world out
from beneath my feet
To stab my heart
Until it bleeds
And cut me open
Like a knife
But it’s not
For all my wishing
It’s true
And now I touch her
On my way out the door
As she sleeps in soft comfort
So warm and peaceful and beautiful
And I don’t want to leave

A life of few regrets

My only regret will be
If I have to leave her behind
That love
That I love more than myself
Leave her in the cold
Surrounded by the wolves
Who will have consumed me
While she cries over
My cold body
Gone hard to the touch
My love faded
With the last beating
Of my heart
Alone in this world
But I can’t stop
I speak the truth
Because freedom
Burns in my veins
My heart pumps warrior blood
And I don’t know
How
To not fight