Here And Now

Unable to see the daylight behind the walls.
Pictures on them remind me of a simpler time.
A time of innocence, raw and unwavering.
Everything has changed.

Forced to find direction with no gravity
No leader to follow
No will to become one
Someday will be my always
I will grow, I will blossom, I will fight.



Life is but a glimpse of time. Snapshots of pleasure and pain circling back to back. We embrace the laughter and throw our fists at the sky in retaliation of anything otherwise. Sadly the good always shakes hands with the bad. It is our move forward between those stages that bring us growth in fulfillment.

The Dream And The Process

The dream hits me hard as shards of life’s sting. I am not allowed to speak, my vocal cords tremble a tiny chorus of hell and all goes dark. I see but a square of blurriness where my sight should be. Dim, a scene unfolds of a tree being climbed in solitary youthfulness. Higher, and higher the movie-like camera pans from trunk to sky. Remnants of ripped and deformed leaves fall below. One branch is seemingly different than that of the others. Somewhat golden in hue and saturation. A bass drum begins to beat. Slow at first. The sun breaks the night with jesus spotlights of prim and pose. One arm outreached toward the yellow beacon. Just shy, the fingertips scratch through the outer bark, and pass-thru to the other side of nothing. The drum decreases its delay between itself. The blurriness is no longer part of the picture. Its me, and I have failed. Taking something in plain site and miscalculated, has caused my momentum to carry me though to unsupported quadrants. My mind isn’t focused on falling, but obtaining higher altitude and to fix my mistake. My legs strengthen and then flex to gain greater distance to stability. My weight shifts to my upper body as I super-man leap to a fork of connected tree limbs. My feet leave support and are left dangling. Brute arm strength is the deciding factor of this un-orchestrated move. I am left, alone and without another plan. My options are up which seems impossible, and down, which would lead to a demise of sorts. So I hang, pleading with the gods of fate and intervention to intercede.

It is then that I wake with sweat and disorientation. Unsure of what caused these events to unfold. It could have been anything that was triggered in my brain. I do find it odd that they say dreams last but a few seconds yet are filled with calculated moves and time frames. Scenery so vivid the moss living on the skin of the trees, the birds song still playing in my head.

Simply remarkable.

To Be Young…


Pennies in the pocket, local candy store.

Adventures exist just behind the front door.


Riding bikes, visiting new lands

Talking to friend thru strings and tomato cans


Smiles. Infectious. Boundaries. Fun.

Ones with Compassion, when others have none.


Becoming an adult, lessons are steep,

But being a child is an experience to keep.

A Post About A Post About…

Ah… what to type. I feel the creative juices laying stagnate and this post is hopefully the preverbal spoon I shall try to stir the pot as they say.

Now for a topic. Hmm… and my musical earbuds as my backbone are charging and I cannot listen to my symphonic manifesto which allows me to throw a match to the kerosene soaked papers wrapped in explosive commentary. I lay in ready mode.

I have nothing to stand behind now. Musical earbuds are fully charged and in place. Pandora has been mounted, playlist loaded… and the topic still eludes me. Is it my musical selections? Is it the placement of the keyboard, the glare of my monitor? No. Its me. My mind isn’t freed enough to withstand the primal pulse inside of me. Hey, perhaps THIS is my topic. The topic of a lack of a topic. Seems a bit anti-climatic and almost a bit sloppy. I guess we will see if this post makes the cut.

I need a connection. Something that I will allow to GET me. I have a lot of ideas about what to write about but see, I have a fatal writers flaw that I will now admit. I worry/care what others will think of me. There. I said it. Those who say that they don’t care one bit are a bit obscured in my opinion. If you really didn’t care even a little then you wouldn’t have adapted a certain set of characteristics that create your makeup you apply everyday subconsciously. My two cents worth. Anyways, I COULD write under a pseudonym and then both gloves are off. I wouldn’t have to worry what others thought, but that is just it. I don’t want to do that. I want writing to change me and I want to grow from it. To me what is the point of doing something creative and not reaping anything from it. It’s just a sedative to me then, like a lateral move, like listening to classical music for sleep and not for appreciation.

So here I sit. Pondering out of frustration.