Everyone wants more of me
Work wants more of me
Church wants more of me
Friends want more of me
The gym wants more of me
The boys want none of me
Until there’s a little less me
At least the bed will accept me
And I’d give it all of me, willingly
But more of me
Is more than I can give of me
To anybody
Several weeks ago my fellow blogger Keeks wrote about some newfangled thing called blackout poetry. I had never heard of such a medium as using already printed words to form your own creative output. It’s like sculpting your own poetry from a block of newscopy – or in my case, magazine print. I was intrigued, and made plans to try it out.
Well, many weeks later (sorry Keeks), I’ve finally gotten around to it, and you know what I learned? It’s fun. And thought-provoking. And time-consuming. And I need more interesting magazines. 
If you’re curious about this completely unheard-of way of writing art, check out my tiny production below. Keeks also has a more informative post here. Be warned, though: you might just find yourself picking up more newspapers and magazines just for the articles.
Desperate sea of humanity
crashing upon these shores sublime
windswept along into another time
swirling out from forgotten space
in wispy tendrils of outstretched hands
sweeping past to bury the lands
now stand apart and look
to see if you discover your family tree
or better, find what life after may be.
inches stretch, straining
slowly, agonizingly
into miles on end
~~~
minutes stretch, straining
slowly, agonizingly
into hours on end
I’m working on a little side project — one that I may divulge more info on in the next few weeks. In the mean time though, I thought I’d give you a little taste of it through a few pieces below. Hope you enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
days go by and by
like the songs playing inside
my cavernous mind
in here ev’rything
echoes bouncing loud and soft
telling the new like old
I have things to do
wonderful things, truth be told,
if I could focus
I simply wander
without will to accomplish
the things I wonder
put pen to paper
or fingers to lettered keys
would be a feat, please
my hands together
needle, thread, and pattern to
follow and create
crafty, yet simple
reconstructs the old unused
for new purposes
recipes unfold
like deliciousness waiting
to be discovered
so are my creatures
complete and corporeal
only in my mind
Filming, white
shadowing, billowing
The cloud forms in front of me
Separating what is beyond
But there is no going back now.
Much as I would want
To hold fast to the life behind me
There is only the mists
Into which I must go.
Light cloud
Smoke and vapor
Obscuring this hidden world
From the rest;
Just as they would have it here.
Who knows what’s beyond this veil?
Only those who dare press through.
But perhaps the real question is:
Who truly lives to tell the tale?
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