Words Are Cheap

So I've been toying with this idea for a piece for a while.  The idea is that we are all hypocrites.  Our word is worthless and actions speak louder than words.  You can even see it in expressions like "a picture is worth a thousand words".  Instead of celebrating the creativity of language shown by poets, authors, teachers, storytellers and comedians we treat actors, directors, and sports stars as the celebrities.  The whole thing is a mirage, all image with no substance.

So here is a couple lines I threw down when the idea first came to mind:

Words Are Cheap:

Word is bond or so we say. Until circumstances get in the way.
They say one picture is worth a thousand words. And we watch TV shows
and movies with thousands of thousands of frames in high definition
widescreen.
So it's no wonder that words are cheap.
Movies are staffed, under production, and being marketed without a script.

I know it's still in the early stages.  I thought maybe I would share how I go through the process of writing.

Truth

No... this isn't another post in my fabled "I Believe" series.  I say fabled because they must seem like a fable or myth since I've only written 2 so far.  But this is just a poem I wrote in response to a piece I read by a person who thought the truth had to be black & white and they didn't understand how that can work in a world greys.

Deception is in perception,
Because it's all how you see it.

To see truth we must REMOVE the filters
And change our focus to reveal it.

The lie is that we live in a digital world
The truth is we are an analog of possibilities

It isn't right to use black & white
To determine wrong & right.

The truth remains true to itself
Rich, vibrant, & bright.

So be careful.

In this technicolor world don't be
Blinded by the light.

National Poetry Month

For the uninformed, April is National Poetry Month. The idea being that

First up we have the old stoggy crew,
Focused on dictating to me & you.

But even before keyboards, pens, quills, and chisels we had a voice.

Would the real poets please stand up?


Now we have those who use the spoken word,
To espouse on things they've lived & heard.

But before rants, activisim, politics, and religion we had words.

Would the real poets please stand up?


It doesn't matter if you write on pages or rock stages,
Self-expression is beyond genres and outlasts the ages.

Now they call it freedom of speech, but watch what you say.

Would the real poets please stand up?


Please! Stand up and fight haters and their foul nonsense,
Like my man Made Wade who's stomping out ignorance.

But just because you have an opposing view
Doesn't mean I need to or ever hated on you.

Enough of this junk about who is or isn't legit.
Let's just battle, shake hands, and get over it.

Hearts

This poem is dedicated to a friend who has recently had their heart broken.

Hearts are chunks of perfect beauty we all carry within us. These little sparks are proof positive of a blissful joy beyond understanding. So powerful it trancends our earthly senses and points to a metaphyscial reality that rings true in our souls. Though unseen, we do catch glimpeses of it's effects in our lives.

Like a new born baby, young hearts have a pure glow to them you can actually smell. They exude syrupyness without leaving that sickly sweet sting on your tongue. A naive innocence so absolute we pass laws to make destroying such a wonderous thing the most heinous crime.

But hearts are made to be broken. Like any good thing they must come to an end. Fixing a broken heart is a dirty job to be sure. It can seem impossibly daunting when you see the countless twisted shards strewn across the floor like shrapnel. Your hands are sure to get bloody with the sharp edges of raw emotions cutting into your fingers. You'll suffer setbacks of missing pieces. Even when you finally finish the puzzle and the pieces back together you'll see veins running through a once clear and seamless surface like cancerous fingers gripping your heart and refusing to let go.

Here is the part where so many of us go wrong. In the name of safety and a misled effort to avoid the same tragedy again we lock our heart away in a dungeon. Caged up like a criminal, as if to say it was at fault. Too open, too accepting, too trusting. Instead what we should do is cast open the doors and let the light shine through us.

Sure it won't shine the same. But that simple shimmer is replaced by a full spectrum of hues and brightness. Those white veins turn into twisiting pillars of light. Tiny inflections in them make the light dance in new and wonderous ways.

Hearts are made to be broken.

Now Serving...

So I've missed a few days of my challenge. But I'm not giving up. I'll admit that I'm struggling to feel inspired. However, I'm going to continue to press on.

Yesterday

Like an old black & white family photo
Like an over-used ink cartridge
Like a high school t-shirt
Like a well worn favourite vinyl record
Like a 2nd hand Barney video cassette
Like acid washed jeans from the 80's
Like the last scene of an epic movie
Like using a tea bag the second time
Like the hood of an old forgotten Chevy
Like a black shirt after 50 washes
Like a Michael Jordan jump shot
Like prayers after September 11th
Like the faith of most my friends
Like remembering a dream the next day

...it is fading.

Another Monday Missed

Although my thoughts
Blend together, I'm able to
Concentrate on the
Dialogue written on the page.
Each rhyme is
Frozen in time.
Giving rise to the
Hope that when finally
It's my turn, I'll
Just let the mic burn.
Killing all the
Lame MC's with flames.
Making sure that
Never before
Or ever again you
Put the emphasis on
Quality over quantity.
Rather, you
Should reveal the
Truth of the matter and
Unfurl your
Verbs from nouns.
When will you end those
Xenophobic ways?
Your zen is
Zeal of yore.

December 11th

In Gaelic my name means little king. Though I am ANYTHING but little I was once a king. For a few short years I had my very own kingdom. I was the lord of the night.

I'd like to think I was a good and righteous king. Probably because I didn't feel like royalty at the time. I felt more like a wandering vagabond on a spiritual pilgrimage to a place I hadn't yet found. So for a time I remained.

My favourite part of being king was to tour the land. I would aimlessly visit every acre and wood, every hamlet and rampart, every port and bridge.

Each evening I would stroll by trees and homes. In the silence of the night I could the heart of the land speak to me. It would speak lovingly of how it spent the day. How children ran and played among its fields. How farmers would sing praises of the earth while they tended to their fields as long as the sun shone. How most people went about their daily business unaware of the beauty that surrounded them.

These stories weaved their way into the pattern of my heart. Into my heart where I now keep those memories safe. It was those stories that made me love my kingdom and truly desire the best for it.

There can be great peace found in quiet reflective solitude. For some it's meditation upon enlightenment. For others it's prayer to the divine. For others it means journaling the journey of their spirit, heart, and soul manafested in a physical life. For me it was the silent reflection found during strolls through the park alone at night. The time when, myself and all of creation, were quiet enough to hear the soft gentle whisper of the creator.

I may no longer be a king, but I still feel royal. I may not always have God's voice in my ear, but I will forever know what it sounds like. I may no longer be able to enjoy the quite stillness of midnight treks through the park, but the power of their memory lives on.

#5 - Love Professed

A sea is storming inside of me.

Rather than the flutter of butterfly wings,
My stomach is more like a cacophony of seagulls.

My heart is pounding against my chest
With the irregular beat
Of wings upon wings,
Of birds upon birds,
Endlessly buffeting against each other.

The waves are crashing all around me.

You see I had a plan
And before that plan I had a plan.
Plans with specific steps to take,
Critical decisions to make,
And a map with markings to follow.

I had a plan a and a plan b,
But now I see they're pointless.
Like trying to nail jello to the wall
They fall apart.

I'm surrounded by an endless range
Of white capped mountainous waves.

My attempts to control a world with you in it are brushed aside,
As if to fate my plans, my master blueprints, were mere dust in the wind.
So I embrace it.

I open my sails to the full force gale winds of the perfect storm.
The precious cargo of my love MUST reach it's destination at port.
So I risk it.

The deafening roar
Of crashing waves,
Pouring rain,
And creaking wood
Fill my ears.

Then,
Like a brilliant diamond in the sand
Hope shines through the darkness.

LIGHT!

A lighthouse.
OUR lighthouse.
Warning me of the rocky beaches that surround you.
Yet calling me, beckoning me, to your safe harbour.

Alas,
With the calming lap of the water against my hull to steady my heart,
With the solid shore beneath my feet to steady my soul,
I have the resolve

To pull out the ring,
Get down on one knee,
And offer you my love.

Number... I lost count already?

Frozen.
No eyes... no mouth... no face...
Yet it mocks me, taunts me, to do my worst.
So why am I gripped by fear by the mere presence of this faceless monster?
It's not as if one mistake will forever be marked in stone.
But it's blank emotionless stare wears me down.

After an eternity of seconds I reach for my sword.
Mercilessly I swing full force at my foe.
I stand back for a moment to admire the damage I had dealt.
But just a moment, nothing more.

I dare not give the fear a foothold. So I twirl about in a mad dance. A blurry flurry of slashes, parries, and thrusts. Each time the blade finding its mark. With the enemy mortally wounded I finish him with one final stab.

Slowly I take in the marvel of my work. The madness of my movements seems to have had a greater plan. The slices in his flesh seem to form runes of strange design and his blood, black as ink, spells out the words of...

a poem.

It's that time again. When the cold bites at my fingers and toes. I get nothing but blank stares as I light a smoke to at least fill my breath with some warmth. I'll make it.

In a few months though, I'll be cursing my own name. Why didn't I take the road South? Or why did I leave it all behind? These and a million other doubt will keep my company under the highway as I wrap the blanket of bourbon around my body snugly. I'll make it.

Ten years now these streets have been my home. Day in and day out they are all the same: struggling to hustle some dough. But eventually even an old soldier like me find himself struggling to keep up the fight. Don't worry about me. I'll make it.

It's being alone in the still of night that seems to take a part of your soul away with the break of each dawn. I might be a shell of what you knew. But at least I'm not wearing a mask like you. I'll make it.

It's getting dark now. I'm tired and ready to sleep. The scars on my arms and feet keep me warm. It as if I was 6 again, falling asleep in front of the fire.

And with that thought I drift off...

December Poem #1

Fresh.
Freshly fallen.
Freshly fallen snow. It's like the majesty of heaven laid out before us. A carpet of whiteness so pure as if to declare the coming of royalty. But not the vain kings & queens of ages past. Ones who clothed themselves in the richness of burgandy and velvet.

No, this is the Prince of Love. And so, he brings the light of life. So brightly blinding the world it covers seems somehow dim and drab by comparison.

Freshly fallen snow. Like angels on high they fill the sky. Slowly they dance through the black night air with the grace and elegance of little ballarinas.
Each flake a masterpiece of beauty.
Each flake a different story.

Each flake.
Each flake falls.
Each flake falls to the ground. The stories build upon each other into epic adventures of sledding down hills and then hot chocolate with marshamllows. The beauty grows until it seems the angels are making themselves in the snow! Each flake falls to the ground perfectly like each stoke of a master artisans brush across canvas.

All this... in each flake of freshly fallen snow.

Points Are Not The Point

Well, last night I competed at the 2nd Burlington Slam Project. I started off with my new piece "What's The Point?". I only got 25 points I think. An average score of about 8.3, which is okay. But I'd like get some more 9's.

Again I was in last place the second round so I was the last slammer to take the mic. Which normally just means you're nervous all the way until the end. But the band downstiars always seems to start before we are done. This made it a little tough to do a soft touching reading of what I called "The Christmas Love Poem" (the poem I wrote for my then girlfriend and now fiance for a Christmas present). That being said everyone went "AWWW" when I was done. LOL Especially when I kissed my fiance before taking my seat. The judges gave me a 26 point something, which is an average of 8.8 points.

I know they say that "the points are not the point, the poetry is the point". And it's true. But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be nice to place a LIIIIIIITTLE higher than last place each time or maybe even when it!

Come on though, I've only done this three times! I've just started doing this as a hobby. I'm going up against people who have been doing this a LOT longer and have their peieces much more practised and honed. Most of them have their own book, or cd, or have featured at an event! So it's not that I'm epecting to be there already. But like I said, it'd nice to get just a little bit closer.

I know that the biggest thing that's holding me back is MEMORIZATION! Everyone loves my pieces. And NO! not just my fiance, friends, & family saying so (though they do and seem genuinely surprised when I get low scores). All the poets and performers I look up to and admire have approached me and said so. I've even had a few say that I have "presence" on stage and that it would come across so much more if I was able to get off the page.

So when it comes down to me getting higher scores and possibly winning or getting accolades and compliments from other poets, I prefer the latter! However, I'd also like to be complimented on my stage presence too. So it's a good that the wedding planning, day & honeymoon are going to keep me too busy for another slam in the next couple months. That way, the next time I hit the mic for a poetry slam, I'll have the pieces down pat.

The Renaissance

This poem is a modernized version of the Gil Scott-Heron piece "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised". Only, instead of a revolution I want a rebirth, a renaissance, of creativity & excellence in art, music, & poetry. Fittingly it was the other poem I performed at the very 1st Burlington Slam Project.

The Renaissance

The renaissance will not be televised
You will not be able to see it on cable.
You will not see it on ITunes, TiVo, or Youtube.
You will not be able to see SuperBowl commercials,
Or half-time wardrobe malfunctions due to a 2 second delay.
Because the renaissance will not be televised.

The renaissance will not be compromised.
The renaissance will not be available on Blu-Ray-DVD
Encrypted high def with an FBI copyright warning.
The renaissance will not be sound bites of Bush
Declaring "war on terror" & "evil-doers" like Saddam
Hussein, Osama Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda only to be
Stuck in Iraq years later with no exit strategy.
The renaissance will not be compromised.

The renaissance will not have its world premiere at the
Grauman's Chinese Theater and will not star Beyonce,
Lindsay Lohan, or Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn.
The renaissance will not give you another face lift.
The renaissance will not get rid of wrinkles.
The renaissance will not make you look ten years
younger, because the renaissance will not be advertised, brother.

There will be no color-coded terrorism threat advisory scale,
United States Department of Homeland Security, or
Emergancy Readiness kits with duct tape in them.
The NSA will not be able to get warrantless wiretaps
For KEYWORDS like "bomb" or "jihad"
The renaissance will not be terrorized.

There will be no footage of pigs beating down
Rodney King on instant replay.
There will be no footage of brothers beating
Reginald Denny on instant replay.
There will be no coverage of Rev. Al Sharpton
Eulogizing James Brown at the Apollo theater
There will be no LAPD car chase of O. J.
Simpson riding in a White GMC Bronco,
Going 40 miles an hour down the LA Freeway,
Wearing black Isotoner gloves he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Survivor, American Idol, and Big Brother,
Will no longer be so damned relevant, and
No one will not care if Britney finally got back
Custody of her 2 kids because people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The renaissance will not be commercialized.

There will be no video blogs or highlights on
Entertainment Tonight of Paris Hilton going to jail
For D.U.I. or Miley Cyrus going platinum.
The theme song will not be remixed by Bad Boy,
Jermaine Dupri, nor sung by Tupac Shakur, Biggie Smalls,
Kanye West, Soulja Boy, or Black Eyed Peas.
The renaissance will not be glamourized.

The renaissance will not be right back after an Email
From EBay, ECommerce, ETrade, or EHarmony.
You will not have to worry about Anthrax in your
mail, a bomb on your plane, or water in your carry on.
The renaissance will not go better with rhymes
The renaissance will not be longer than 3 minutes and 10 seconds
The renaissance WILL be found here at the Drake.
The renaissance will not be televised, compromised, advertised
Terrorized, commercialized, or glamourized.
The renaissance will be no cover brothers;
The renaissance will be live.

Two Large Double-Doubles

Thanks to Burlington Slam Project one of my very first Poetry Slam performances is now on YouTube. As if pictures of myself weren't bad enough, I now have to suffer through watching myself butcher my own poem. If anything... I need to PRACTICE. Here it is:

Two Large Double-Doubles:

Well I felt the need to "roll up the rim"
So I headed right away to see Horny Tim
I pull up quick onto the scene
Ready for my next hit of caffeine

For a fresh cup I "always got time"
Oh wait... it's my turn in line.
I said "Large Double-Double and make it 2"
He said "Sorry man I ain't hearing you?"

2 large coffees double cream & sugar
Say that’s all that I want to order
Just 2 large coffees double-double
Said that's all that I want.

He said "Sorry sir, can you repeat that?"
FILL TWO LARGE CUPS WITH COFFEE THAT'S BLACK
Into the drive-thru mic I said in a scream
THEN TO EACH ONE ADD TWO SUGARS & CREAM

"Let me repeat that back to you, please
Breakfast sandwich, with bacon & cheese
And a caramel iced cap with a mint shot too,
Is there anything else I can get for you?

2 large coffees double cream & sugar
Say that’s all that I want to order
Just 2 large coffees double-double
Said that's all that I want.

Listen, all I want is my two coffees
A dozen times I've asked you, "Please!"
Really bro I ain’t getting older
See I know my drink be getting colder

By this time I'd had about enough
So I put the car in gear and just drove up
All this drama to get 2 coffees in a cup?
Give me a tray with two cardboard cups of...

2 large coffees double cream & sugar
Say that’s all that I want to order
Just 2 large coffees double-double
Said that's all that I want.

Now I ain’t had a coffee yet today
So I gave him the money and drove away
I popped back the lid and I’m about to take
Just a big old swig and I can’t wait

Where’s the java I’m supposed to have
Where’s the mocha I’m supposed to grab
I can feel my blood pressure going up,
MAN!!! There's nothing in the cup!!!

Burlington Slam Project

So everything is coming together for next Thrusday night at the Dickens pub in Burlington. It's going to be the very first Burlington Poetry Slam. It's being put on by Tomy "Bam Bam" Bewick.

Tomy has been a staple in the Toronto Poetry Slam / Spoken Word scene for the past 4 or 5 years. After numerous moves throughout the GTA and always making downtown for events Tomy finally decided to start something for his own hood.

Eventhough Burlington isn't "technically" in the Halton Region it's still a heck of alot closer to Acton than downtown T.O.

This will be my 2nd Poetry Slam appearance. This time no covers are allowed so I have to do my own stuff, which (to be honest) is a little frightening. But I'm prepared to make it all the way to the 3rd round with 3 poems. 2 of them I had ready for last slam and 1 brand new one (just finished today).

Almost everyday a new idea for a poem pops into my head. The hard part for me is putting pen to paper (okay, finger to keyboard) and actually writing it. The idea for this poem came from an underground Christian Hip Hop group called DeepSpace5. On the track "Stick This In Your Ear" an emcee called The Listener does a verse where he actually speaks the formatting.

And since Googlebot is likely the only person reading this blog right now I'll post it here, before the competition, so you can see what I mean:

Punctuated Hate For The Man

I don't understand how you can hate me question mark
You don't even know me exclamation mark
I know who I am period
You know who you are period
But when it comes to knowing
All caps bold me you have a question mark

New paragraph tab Ignorance Causes Emotional Turmoil semi-colon
It apostrophe s impossible for me to present my quotation self
In a way that you will italics understand period
Am I the bold sex that is raping your soul question mark
Am I the bold class suppressing your mind question mark
Am I the bold race enslaving your body question mark

New paragraph tab Knowledge Reigns Supreme Over Nearly Everybody semi-colon
I have a solution to your problem
Ampersand head dash ache comma
It will keep your quotation foundation from crumbling period
Instead of seeing me through lenses of hate comma
Listen close to my raw unfiltered truth exclamation mark

You ampersand I aren't that different period
We both have a soul parentheses spirit that comes from the divine period
Divinely inspired knowledge says we should quotation Love God
Comma ampersand love people instead of harbouring hate for our brother PERIOD

4 8 15 16 23 42

Lately I've had a horrible case of writers block. I have ideas coming out the wazoo. But when it comes to putting them in the form of a poem I struggle. So I started surfing for stuff about Lost to distract my mind and give me something LOST related to talk about until the next ARG gets going. So I thought I'd write a poem with a LOST twist. The idea being that the numbers of words in each stanza would equal each of the Lost Numbers. Then I decided to insert different lost words, phrases, episode titles, etc into the poem. Finally, when I posted it online I decided to link each LOST word to its page on Lostpedia. So here it is...

I feel so LOST.

The DHARMA of my karma is long gone.

I was once a MAN OF FAITH, but now WHISPERS make me doubt the truth

And OTHERS have kidnapped my heart. So now hatred and loneliness are my CONSTANT in life.

Death looming over me with OCEANIC weight like nightmares of faceless MONSTERs whose footsteps EKO after me in endless pursuit but never strike.

When THE ISLAND of my discontent washed up on shore I took a oneway trip THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS. Now left has become right, and right is all wrong. So DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN'T DO because you don't know JACK!