Poet, Songwriter, Artist
Center
There's a deep dissatisfaction
within me
It keeps me hungry, curious;
pulling my introverted self
towards the world
in hopes of capturing
whatever may quell
such a feeling
Delivering me
to songs, to poems
wild, wide-eyed things
not meant for taming
Glimpses of the meeting
of the needle points
The elusive center
from which every moment
came bursting
forth
You and me, these two inches
of infinity between
-Brandon White
First Calls
I haven’t thought of the first phone calls
since making them three years ago
Aunts and Uncles, sisters, my boss,
my shaky voice delivers the message:
He’s gone. It’s over.
“It” being suffering, false hope
We were left with shards of a life,
looking them over in bewilderment
until the words finally came:
Where do we even begin?
-Brandon White
Today is my 35th birthday, which feels like a significant number.
My thirties have been a blur of extreme change: love, loss, gratitude, self-abuse, and expression. I feel I’ve lived a lifetime in the last five years.
As this is the halfway mark to 40, what’s to come of all this change? What’s the lesson? What became of the poetry that seemed to pour from me?
Recently I came to realize that i was out of alignment. My spirit had moved forward while my mind continued to cling to the pain and poor habits I’d established over recent years.
So to meet the muse where she must be met, I’m dedicating my mind and heart to rediscovery in my 35th year. To live, fully, while there’s still light.
My third book will be my best yet. I will champion my work, I will celebrate yours, and I will know myself better than I ever have.
I love you all,
Brandon
Purpose
Here is something
of the moment
I’ve pulled from
the air for you
From the bone dry
recesses of a mind
begging to burn again
with romantic ideas
that this world
could never live up to
To pull up
and out of my pessimism,
not with a mouthful
of self-help clichés,
but led again by
my own sparking curiosity
Here, little birds,
on the other side
of unimaginable loss
is what remains:
The lifting of the veil,
your once forgotten dreams
staring back
-Brandon White
Unfinished:
Chain fried chicken
and fresh stress,
chasing dollars though
I swore I never would
That was pre-children
and pre-family death explosion
that sent everything familiar
in a thousand different directions
Red light
Stop and stare
into unfamiliar eyes
reflecting
on old dreams
searching for a pulse
Get clean
Get clear
All these
unfinished things
stirring
somewhere
-Brandon White
Exit 8
The sky
was an oil painting
and I was stoned
and terrified
doing 80
down i40,
as close
to Hunter S. Thompson
as I'll ever be
In between
moments of sheer panic,
I thought of poetry and art
and how older men confused
by such things
are just older men afraid
of being swallowed up
by a world that never cared
to be understood
I squealed like a child
on exit 8
I spun round and round
careless and unworthy
of my blessings
wrapped in the arms
of my shame
When the car straightened
I wiped away tears
-Brandon White
Enough
Maybe this is all it'll take
for the wall between the words
and I to come crumbling down
to feel myself giving up ground
to the anxiety I naively
believed under control
I've nothing to sell you,
no body to help lure you in
I don't pander
All I have are these lines,
this nervous heart;
what I hope
is just enough
-Brandon White
Hello Friends,
Here’s another recent piece for you to enjoy or disregard. Sending love to you all.
-Brandon
Happy Tuesday!
I’ve another new abstract piece for you. This one was born of a series of happy accidents, and I love how it turned out. I hope you enjoy it too!
Love,
Brandon
Brandon White 