The Opera Singer Below

The opera singer below

just ended his nightly show.

He's reliving his days,
Through an aria I can't
comprehend.
It's in Italian.
Perhaps in his mind
he's back in New York,
Where he maybe sang
in Carnegie Hall
With hundreds cheering him on.

But I'm just an audience of one.

Why (I) Write

Writer's block hits and you think, "Oh, I'll write later." Later, later, always later. But later never comes before you realize a million thoughts have passed you by the same way fireflies come and fade into the night.

We write because it's good for our souls. Because, even if you don't like it at first the same way you disliked your mother's vegetable soup, it turned to something you craved in the coldest days. Because sometimes the pen is mightier than the sword and the only thing that will keep thoughts from escaping or devouring you is to take aim and a good swing. Because there are a little million word combinations to unlock our minds so others can take a glimpse at the mysteries we are.

Whatever, wherever, whyever, write. Simply because you are.

NaPoWriMo Attempt

A friend told me about NaPoWriMo. I Googled it and found a daily prompt site. I'm not really participating but decided to try April 3's response poem suggestion.

Those of you unfamiliar with "The Walrus and the Carpenter" should check it out before reading mine, as well as "Life Was Supposed to Be." (Apologies to Mr. Lewis Carroll for stealing items from the walrus. Joe, thanks for the inspiration.)

"Life is more," The

Wordbender said.

I thought,

"Quite true indeed."

There was a time

I had new shoes,

And on a ship

sail boiling seas,

When our dreams came

from sealing-wax

instead of serving cabbage

to the king.

Forty-two seems far

away in a foggy space

that makes us look

and nothing see,

But the walrus hasn't

Eaten us yet, and

I somehow believe

pigs do have wings

"We Were Emergencies"

Poetry is something I need to have spoon-fed to me. So, while I won't take credit for finding this one, I definitely want to share.

"We Were Emergencies" by Buddy Wakefield

A poet
can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.
But tonight let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin' like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth's way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight, Poets, let's turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can't get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts
and repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I'm new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.

If my heart really broke every time I fell from love
I'd be able to offer you confetti by now
but hearts don't break, y'all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9-1-1.
Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.