Creative Arts Club - Terre Haute / Greencastle

My throbbing head, swollen and oppressively vacant, burdens heavily in my palm.

Tactile awareness has abandoned the appendage linking one to the other.

Emotionally disembodied, I wonder at what has diminished my being. 

An age-withered orb of pale flesh, sparsely sprinkled with drab anemic hair, short and scraggly. 

An exposed ear, pulled down by a sagging lobe, pokes above a finely furrowed cheek. 

This senseless orb squats on the filmy, blue-veined skin of my stubby nape. 

Drowning between spindly, saggy shoulders. 

Conviction no longer strong enough to survive the surrounding ocean of despair.

 

In the woods where shadows creep,

Dark figures gather, but they’re not deep.

A raccoon in shades, looking way too cool,

Raiding your trash like, “What the hell dude,

Let’s go eat!”

The owls are all hooting, and acting all wise,

But they’re just gossiping and telling damn lies.

 “Who’s got the snacks? That human’s a fool,

Let’s swoop in quick; it’s a free-for-all, now that is too cool!”

A squirrel struts by with a nut in its mouth,

Thinking it’s hot stuff, showing off its tail and saying,

“Check out my stash and no, you can’t have a bite!

I’m the nutty king of this world and it’s one crazy night!”

So, in nature’s dark corners, which may make us laugh or fear,

There are figures so wild— and it may not seem to0 clear.

But for every scary shadow that lives in the night,

There’s a damn silly critter saying, “Chill out, dude. Tonight, it will be alright!”

 

the guilt of my actions gnaws against my skin,

while the constant questioning of who I truly am has come from within, 

my thought process walks on a jagged edge, and my memory draws a blank, 

time is telling me that my emotional well-being has indubitably sank. 

there’s this fear of being morally evil scraping against my ears, 

developing unrealistic beliefs of things outside of my control, 

the baggage of my past and present have blended and began to unroll. 

where does this belief come from, what ever shall I do? 

this is no fear of spiders, this is nothing that influences a breakthrough, 

how do I stop this questioning of my faith or covering my footsteps without a trace? 

they call it a vicious cycle that never ends, but hopefully one day

i shall finish this race.

I am not yet gone, but the grim reaper lingers in my home

He pours himself a cup of tea, and I can smell the chamomile from here

We are sitting at my kitchen table reminiscing of the century

Though conversation is hard with his breath holding my tongue

He speaks of angels and demons and offers me a cup

This is his home now, it has been for years

Calloused hands and a rickety cabin

The days have been short, but the hours have been endless

Old work boots and a mausoleum of what ifs and why mes

Draw the shades in hopes to protect

Not myself from the light, but the world from the melancholy in my eyes

My misery could surely flood the Earth

And I no longer have the vigilance to build an ark

When Death reaches out his hand, my fingers no longer tremble

His cloak smells of mint and lavender, and the world is still turning

For many things that seem threatening in the dark

Are welcome in the sun

And what is death if not a new beginning?

 

One piece a day was all that woman chewed,

On the occasion she’d gnaw on some mango,

Other days she’d pull out some fine mint,

She could never make up her mind though,

Of all the flavors, what flavor of hers would stick?

She’d lay out all of the pros and cons,

Even good friends of hers would give her hints,

But that poor woman could not make her mind up,

Her days would go by, and the time would tick.

At last, this cycle of hers became a vicious habit,

Relying on all the wonderful, different flavors to get her by,

All unique in their own way, but mostly to her eye,

Constantly cycling through the flavors, no time to even cry,

It didn’t make her happy at all, not in the slightest bit,

When the day was all said and done, she’d finally get to quit.

Very often she’d lose some of her flavors,

They would conveniently fall into another woman’s purse,

Getting bored of that woman’s indecision,

But only she knew that this was her curse.

Growing tired of herself, she let all of the flavors go,

She gave her jaw a break, letting the feeling woe.

Drowning in her own isolation was all that she could do,

Since the poor woman was tired of her indecision too.

Oh, that feeling of self-loathe never subsided,

Her friends would invite her to new candy shops,

But even then, she never could hide it.

They encouraged her to try the gum flavors again,

But she was sick of all the fun and games she played with them.

This poem was never about gum.

 

I am from an old brown couch covered in dog hair,

from homemade cleaning products and garden grown food.

I am from trees and built from Ceder. I am from the fields of crops and

Queen Anne’s Lace, the blackberry bushes and the tall trees we pray won’t fall

on the house during a bad storm.

I am from large family get togethers and multiple Christmases.

From Blackwells and Scottens, Pullens and Fishers and Meyers.

I am from saying “she’s ornery” instead of “she’s crazy”

and using homemade and natural remedies.

From listening to country music while we are just relaxing while camping.

I am from a family who believes deeply in the Cross,

and from parties we would hold at the grandparents’ churches

because God knows our house isn’t big enough for that.

From green tomato pie, homemade bread,

and homemade ice cream that is more like custard.

I am from a grandfather who played guitar,

who started going through hard times after his stroke.

I am from a family of hunters who taught me what I know.

I am from love and lessons.

From pain and mistakes too.

I am from a large family tree with its roots stretching deep.

 

I am from the fragile antiques scattered throughout the living room,

From Marlboro cigarette cartons and their smoke that always fume,

From an old-fashioned tv, with no antennae, a VHS movie heirloom.

I am from a discolored yellow home, dwelling on a hill,

Right between two businesses, and the vegetable gardens we fulfill.

I am from the tall sunflower’s planted all around the house,

To project a happy family inside, (they were hardly ever doused).

I am from the tomato buds and cucumber seeds we planted every year,

Who would know the dirt on my knees would be the last thing I would fear?

I am from my Gigi's kitchen table on a beautiful Thanksgiving Day,

And the bickering back and forth of my family didn’t allow me outside to play,

From my parents to my grandparents, I truly felt that I was led astray.

I am from the emotionally unstable, trying to keep their heart above suffocation,

And the aggression and depression that would soon follow a broken foundation,

From “You are just like your mother!” to “Don’t be like your father.”,

And how the house only fell silent and at peace when I began a negotiation.

I am from the small towns and quiet roads of Putnam County, Indiana,

From the colorful pastures and mountainsides of Watertown, Tennessee,

just the fried morel mushrooms on the table in spring made me feel free.

I am from the grief of my passed away loved ones, my Nana particularly,

The way she spoke to me with love and taught me, through the chaos,

that it’s okay to be me.

Eons ago, when I was a boy,

oh, how Thanksgiving brought me such joy,

Turkey, stuffing, cherry delight,

and games with my cousins

until late in the night.

The food tasted better then, at least in my mind,

and those whom I loved were all still alive.

Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and Dad,

I hadn’t really learned yet how to be sad,

But one particular Thanksgiving eve,

the flash of a face my imagination did see,

It was the forlorn look of a lonely old man,

sitting all by himself with a plate in his hand,

His friends and loved ones had all gone away,

and there were none left to join him on Thanksgiving Day,

The thought made me shudder,

And I pushed it away, to the back of my mind, where I hoped it would stay,

I knew that my family would always be here,

bringing love, support, and holiday cheer,

But the years ticked by like a cruel old clock,

and my innocence faded with each new loss,

Now, at the table sit four empty chairs,

my parents and grandparents no longer there,

And sometimes my eyes, they well up with tears,

when I see the old man as I look in the mirror,

But my four children are my saving grace,

and it’s here in the present where their memories are made,

So, I hug, tickle, run laugh and play,

for I know that my chair will be empty someday,

But for now, I’ll be thankful for all that I have,

and hope someday they smile when they remember their dad.

 

Sky, royal, navy

Clouds are crisp and wavy

The sky shines a brilliant hue

The everlasting wonder of the color blue

Seagulls cry out from ashore

While the vast ocean lasts evermore

The ocean blue waves tickle the sand

The beach brings peace I could never understand

The sky, the water and the magical chicory

Blue reminds me of a silent victory

Its range is vast and profound

In it, my soul was lost but now found

 

 

My name is Too.

How do you do?

My arms and neck

Are far Too

Long and willowy, as a giraffe’s.

My midriff is much Too

Pudgy, like a hippopotamus.

My feet are Too

Huge, gargantuan even.

My personality is simply Too

Pliable, I’m a contortionist

In the presence of expectations.

My noodle is sadly Too

Smart for my own good;

I can’t seem to

Stop dreaming.

My heart is pitifully Too

Big and emotional,

I’m terrible at parties, but

Would you invite me?

If I may be so bold,

I have been told

Your name is Too too.

Is it true?

Let’s be Toos together

And each be called Enough.

 

The simple childhood days

With no cares and no worries

Having fun was so easy

Oh, those simple days

Being so excited to play in the rain

And splash in the puddles

Trying to make the biggest splash

And playing pretend

That simple joy

Long forgotten after those childhood years

That simple childhood joy lost in the weight

as stress of the real world

Be a child while you still can

Enjoy those simple times,

Those simple joys

‘Cause if you don’t,

You will wish you would have

 

Our life danced to an old record player,

Spinning around and around.

We laughed, smiled, cried together,

At each sweet melody and sound.

We danced to that old record player,

Twirling through each lovely night,

Singing off key, but still happy,

Till dawn’s first kiss of light.

You always held me close,

As we waltzed in that living room,

Hands and hearts intertwined,

Eternal love was our doom.

We’ve long since passed away,

But if given the slightest chance,

Turn that old record player on,

And I think our ghosts might just dance.

 

People are so much like comets,

I don’t know how we didn’t see

That those wonders in the sky,

Are a bit like you and me.

Comets travel around space with a path

Set out for them that they might not know,

Like how God has a special plan for each of us,

So we can reach our full and bright glow.

Comets lose extra baggage on their path,

Or things that just weigh them down,

Just like God graciously helps us do,

When we can’t get off the ground.

Someday you might feel like in

Circles you continue to go around,

Just losing pieces of yourself

You love and recently found.

You might feel like you are going nowhere

And forgetting the wonders you’ve seen,

You doubt your amazing worth

And to despair you begin to lean.

You might think you are drifting alone,

Roaming through your own space,

But others are out there too,

Just flying at a different pace.

But remember, when comets pass by earth,

Many watch and stop to stare

At such an awesome sight,

And the beauty comets wildly bear.

Don’t ever feel worthless, my little comet,

For someone is always watching out

For you and your destined path,

I know this without a doubt.

 

I’ve always wanted to be perfect

ever since I was born,

living my life in such a way

that I would be loved and adorn.

I built up a façade of my own:

beautiful, brilliant, and bold.

Simply trying to be perfect

for all of the world.

But I’d mess up, not being enough,

hurting those around me.

I’d try to cover it up,

so perfect I would be.

Like a painted wall standing proud,

coat after coat I’d add,

covering up each and every mistake.

A little good to hide the bad.

There are so many coats.

The colors are running together.

The paint is dripping down,

like drops of rainy weather.

Don’t look yet, smile, say you love me

ignore all of the things I’ve wrecked.

Close your eyes, I’m covering the bad.

Now open. Please tell me I’m perfect.

 

(Nontraditional Haiku)

Clouds of ‘no-see-ums’,

a ball of pin dots floating,

swirling in the air.

Swirling dots splatting

en masse, greasing my windshield,

nasty summer gnats.

Only sound heard - wee

‘fft’s from kamikaze bugs,

dead before their time.

 

Devils populate my phobias,

on six or eight legs.

They grow fast, breed, eat their mates

and lay their eggs.

Asian beetles cut sharp like needles.

Bedbugs bite throughout the night.

Fire ants burn those who don’t learn.

Jumpy fleas cause disease.

Millipedes creep with sticky feet.

Other bugs stink, snotty slugs slink.

Roaches encroach, no need to poach.

Scorpions sting, flies buzz on the wing.

Ticks stick and make us sick.