This free verse piece was written around the same time as the bulk of the poems that make up my debut book, The Year that Stole the Light Away. I stumbled onto it this morning, and after seeing it with fresh eyes, I thought it would be nice to give it a home. A piece about the child that lives in us all: I hope you enjoy it.
She remembers me from years ago, but I can’t say the same. She says her mind is troubled.
She tells me her mother ran off with her stepfather. They’re traveling the country in an RV.
She tells me she deserved more when her father died. Now that bastard gets it all!
She leaps from her chair and loudly re-enacts an argument, jabbing her finger into a phantom chest.
Her eyes fill with tears, and at sixty years old, a lost child cries out for her mother.
I hadn’t thought about this free verse poem in a while. Before the pandemic, one of my favorite places to write was a restaurant booth or in a coffeehouse somewhere- surrounded by lives being lived and the hustle of the day. The electric air thick with poetry.
Please, come back.
The Musings of a Future Yelper:
They’ve never been able to maintain a restaurant at this location, and many have tried.
It’s not a bad spot, either. Downtown, right on the avenue, the best bars within walking distance.
I’ve sampled every establishment that attempts to put roots down here. They’ve all been decent enough.
For whatever reason, the people won’t come. Sushi, Burgers, Piano Bar, it makes no difference.
I’ve sampled cuisine from four different countries and sat in the same shitty booth each time.
Outside, the rain falls steadily. It’ll be this way for the next several days, and I’m sad my daughter might not get her last train ride of the season.
Three men enter the restaurant and sit directly in my line of sight.
Above me, a TV plays sports highlights and when they watch, it feels like they’re staring.
Maybe they are? I’ve reached that elusive point in life where it makes no difference.
The burger and fries are too salty— what a shame.
My waitress asks how everything tastes, and I lie to make her feel better. She smiles her crooked smile and fixes her peroxide-blonde hair.
I ask for my ticket and she’s out of sight again. I begin to review my latest poem.
I’m writing about food a lot lately. I’ll be yelping before you know it.
Outside, the rain pours on, gathering into puddles and flowing down the drain.
When I began posting a few weeks back, I mentioned that I would share not only my poetry and updates regarding new releases but the work that inspires me.
After listing my favorite poetry collections of 2020 in a previous post, I thought it would be interesting to share some choice selections from other mediums. So, today we’re talking music. More specifically, Fionn Regan’s, The End of History.
Released in 2006, I stumbled onto this album after reading a short review in American Songwriter magazine. Regan, an Irish songwriter, was likely included in the magazine due to his association with the Nashville based label, Lost Highway. Upon first listen, I knew I’d found something extraordinary.
For me, it was all there, the apparent mastery of his instrument, the simple but effective vocal delivery, the ambiguous lyrics. It felt both modern and from another time altogether. I could close my eyes and picture the Irish countryside or a dense forest. It oozed with mystery and captured my imagination as few things had before.
I remember thinking to myself, ‘How am I the only person I know listening to this?’ I still don’t have an acceptable answer to that question. This album obviously stood head and shoulders above most of the music I’d discovered, and, at least stateside, it was seemingly met with indifference. My friends would suffer many drunken ramblings concerning this injustice. God Bless them for their patience.
The album received considerable praise overseas, being nominated for the Mercury Prize for Best Album released in the United Kingdom by a British or Irish act. I have no idea how far Regan’s influence reaches across the pond, but I do know he’s been able to release a steady stream of brilliant albums since The End of History.
So, as I stand at the brink of rambling, I will close by saying, If you haven’t heard this album and enjoy singer/songwriter/folk music, do yourself the enormous favor of getting on your streaming platform of choice and right the scales of justice.
Fourteen years later, I’m still listening and still unable to wipe the smile from my face. Enjoy.
In a year of incredible uncertainty, one of the few things that brought peace was the reading and writing of poetry. I released my first book of poems, The Year that Stole the Light Away, completed the manuscript for its follow-up (coming soon), and read everything I could get my hands on.
I decided to compile a list of my 10 favorite reads of 2020 as I believe they would be greatly enjoyed by anyone who appreciates the craft. I’ll provide the cover art with links to purchase. I won’t try and explain these collections, as I don’t believe in such things. They stand on their own, ready for you to discover what makes each uniquely powerful. Please note, not all of these were released in 2020 and they appear in no particular order! Enjoy!
Lean Against This Late Hour – Garous Abdolmalekian
My feet touch forbidden blacktop about 30 feet from the crosswalk they prefer you use. Behold my only act of rebellion today. My small way of setting fire to the world. Really, I'm just impatient.
The roasted duck soup left a strange taste in my mouth like cruel words. The cold air feels electric and helps to push me forward. Up and down the avenue I go, resisting the pull of each passing bar and warm thoughts of good rye.
Hear me now; I long for nothing. Not for love or understanding. Not for pity or prayer. I have accepted my nature. Born to wander. Born to wonder. Born to sit in the burning room
A free verse poem inspired by Van Morrison’s Listen to the Lion.
Listen, listen, listen to the lion inside of me. Van the man’s words echo in my mind. I should listen to the lion, but instead, I’m listening to a dead man’s voice coming from my car stereo as if it has somehow tapped into the other side.
Something is telling me to stop writing this, that this is lousy fucking writing. That’s what it’s saying. Did I take my brain pill this morning? I can’t remember. I listen, listen, listen to the dead man’s voice, and wonder.
I have to write this, even if the voice in my head hates it. If I don’t, then I probably won’t write the next one either. The voice will take my poetry, like it took my music, like it took my drive, like it took my confidence.
Am I boring you yet? Are you having negative thoughts about me? I know the waitress at the Thai joint was laughing at me. I fucking know it. Am I that insecure? Not usually. Or am I? You can stop reading whenever you want.
Do you know how many times I start to type out a message only to delete it? I want to know you. I desire the company of like-minded people, but I keep hitting backspace. I don’t want to be disappointed, nor do I want to disappoint, and believe me, I will.
Please stay. Keep reading. Allow me this. I don’t take the gift of your time lightly. I’m not like this all the time. I don’t like sharing this side of myself.
I don’t want to leave. I want to stay home today. I’d like to sit in this frozen car and watch the light cut through the ice while I listen, listen, listen to the lion. I will search my very soul for the lion inside of me.