one heart trying

Sittin’ back relaxin’, sippin’ sweet tea from a black tin left by the former tennant, a never has been.  Ice already meltin’ from the hot tea and summer swelterin’.  Waitin’ on a day that’s gone, or half gone, to cross the beltway and visit a friend who just moved to a ‘commune’ anticipatin’ life’s great things.  Someone complained to the county about me indirectly, and the old wooden furniture in the frontyard.  This stint and fresh start is hard. Not sure if you’re invested in the picnic table or the bench that hid in the shade the tree made in the beginning part of the day see.  I write away and decide today, if anything I have to say will ever make a difference anyway.  This generation is about glitter and twitter, facebook and only plusses in the gradebook.  A dismayed look, because they’re so damn busy, they’ve forgotten what it is they can hope for.  Everyone has a dope roar, and a fresh idea that they link up and sync up, while drinkin’ a stiff drink up to the brink of their cup.  My girl places a white bowl of salt on the table, and says that if I want, or if I’m able, I can add it to my sandwich and make it taste better.  But I’m so famished, I take a rain check for later, and thank her anyway for the suggester.  I don’t know how she does what she does, but I’ve learned to never doubt her.  I’m the angry shouter, but I learn something new everyday about her, and she helps remind me of what I can really shout for.  A life that’s about more.  More than look at me now, with nothing real that I’m saying.  More than delayed gratificayin’ and nay sayin’ playin’ filled with cynicism and hate when it is real hope for which the world’s waitin’.  So if someone from the county’s complainin’ about a rotted bench that is straining to stay up, decayin’, being an eyesore, around which no rich kids want to be playin’, I’m going to still focus on swatting the locusts with a little verbal hocus pocus.  Words do make a difference.  I’ve heard the words before from a different stance.  A different dance to a different tune.  I may be a different type of baffoon who today didn’t wake until almost noon because he stayed up well past two.  However, in the beginning was the word, and the word was with God.  And if I, staying up late at night, fighting inside my own head, trying with my might to write something that might make a difference get that nod and that wink from on high, then its worth it.  I may not be the true source who was able to birth it, but I can be shown it is more than a cursed fit.  Its a blessed fit.  And you may have guessed it, as I suggest it, or already know that I’m a poet.  But to me it is more important to be a vessel.  Getting these ideas outside of my mind and my chest will somehow instill the will in the entirety of me to go on one day at a time.  She did this, he did that.  They said this, and I’m fighting my rhyme.  Wearing tattered sanuks and jersey shorts, with battered looks on the jersey shore.  I want more out of my life and through my life, and perhaps through my strife and elation, forced humility and anticipation, I may just be handed a key to the kingdom and a clue to the equation that has plagued men from the dawn of civilization.  What is worth living for, giving more, crying for, and dying to self for.  Love.  Above, below, to the left to the right and beside.  Outside inside, in our midst and across the great divide.  Within us to begin us, able to befriend us and end us.  Still and small to lend us, big and bold to mend us, beyond time and space to rend us awestricken and jaw dropped.  Able to make me smile with each drip of hip hop that has dropped from my tongue, even if I am the only one who has ever heard it.  If I stay up all night with the spirit beside my side it is worth it.  Standing on a makeshift stage resting on hardwood floors, it may seem hard to look for more.  Basement below, attic up top, trying to collect the drips that drop, to be able to take small sips from a cup that won’t stop until my hop becomes flying, and a break in the crying becomes ceaseless relying.  I aint preaching, I’m just trying to make a difference, even if just in one heart.  Mine.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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1 Response to one heart trying

  1. ned says:

    yes. particularly into the moment being described, the details [it makes me more curious] & less headiness [which is where i spend most of my time already] ::: so, i welcome the escape to your frontyard. take me places, please. show me where you’re sittin’, what you’re seein’, & dress it just enough with the heady banter, to make me wonder what you might be thinking in such a imaginary place. this is it.

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