Something Inspired by Classtime

What are my beliefs, you ask?
I've got a list eternally long,
But the beauty of beliefs, my friend
Is that they're often magnificently wrong

We argue our beliefs as if
They're solid--cast in gold
But most of us go to the death
Believing what we're told...

Question my beliefs, you say?
I'll die the day I lay down to bed
without a doubt about my "knowledge"
Or my politics boomeranging within my head.

Your fathers and your mothers
Shove their bibles before our eyes--
I've chewed faith up--I've spit it out,
I count them all as spectacular lies.

I say, question your own beliefs
Or they will ruin you from within
To question your whole living,
friend, is to be born again and again.

I don't know, I think this one has some potential, but I don't think it's done yet. Any suggestions? When 'Hep' was talking about beliefs today in class, I was struck by his words "when beliefs are wrong, they're usually spectacularly wrong." Heavy words. They made me think, and when I think, I think in rhymes...so I spent the rest of the period admittedly in and out of the conversation, but more driven into playing with these words you see here, love 'em or hate 'em!

A Hot Spring Moment :)

The beer, my dear, it is no consolation
and the warm water caressing my body no relief

the rocks I sit upon in the spring--they dig

just like the pain I'm feeling on this pebble reef.

I ache to feel you cuddle near my chest

I yearn to run my fingers through your hair

Away for just two nights near drove me crazy
To know you live and breathe without me there.

My heart could self-destruct from pain I'm feeling

though I must admit I haven't shed a tear

Their eyes look down upon me from all directions

And the wolves would have a frenzy upon my fear.

You grow and learn and try new things each day now

And I'm not the center of your glorious world

I'm not so naive to think you'll die without me

But the sense of need is wanton from you, girl!

I sit here in this hot spring--naked, lonesome

and the steam can fill my lungs, but not my heart

I'm leaving this pool to find you, love, my life-line

Because true Hell is you and I apart.

Some V-Day Reading

So this weekend, my husband did the sweetest thing on earth and sent me on a two day escape to a cabin out in the middle of nowhere towards Montana with a bunch of middle-aged, menopausal hens who cracked me up from dusk 'til dawn, and who poured beer and liquor down my throat for hours on end...woo, I hadn't done that in quite sometime, as a baby sort of hinders your party life :)

The last night there, though, I was kind of a party pooper because I was having Morgan withdrawals, so I curled up with some literature and got my read on! I read quite a range--some of Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography for my Am Lit I class, I finished Chaucer's 'The Miller's Tale' in middle English for Goode's Briterature class, and finally some smokingly great poetry by a new (to me) poet named Sarah M. B. Piatt. My favorite by Piatt was hands down, Shapes of a Soul, in which the author tells her husband that over her dead body will he have married this saint of a woman...she is not a gentle housewife, but rather a ravenous tiger, wild and crazy. I loved it!

I judge a great writer on their ability to inspire me to write, which she has done. I needed to get some poetry out of my head, so next on the agenda: a little poetry from yours, truly!

Phew, that was hard...Flash~~Sonnets.

My Love Story...well, I decided to get REALLY creative, and challenge myself to the extreme here--It's not all that long, but it's definitely flash fiction, with a twist of sonnet and a splash of ALL IAMBIC PENTAMETER! I don't know about you guys, but I'm pretty sure I just blew myself away. It isn't the best, but I completely feel 'one with Shakespeare...' I hope you enjoy it!

I
He woke up from the craziest dream he’d
Ever had in his non-conformant life
He dreamt of his childhood, and through his teens
A flash even of his beautiful wife
But of the picture images he saw
And remembered when he awoke, he knew
The biggest problem, she wasn’t his squaw
It was the face of the girl all in blue
As she walked her fingers across his chest
And his spirits grew for his mistress’ charms
His affair was in his eyes by far best
But awake now, he was not in her arms
He’d fallen asleep in a cave so deep
Into his mind, unconscious his life seeped.
II
A cry, he heard for his love was too far
“I’m dangling my dear-- an edge over here
I can’t see you and can’t tell where you are”
He reached for aching rear, and wretched in fear
His arm was trapped beneath heaviest earth
To save her was what he must try to do
“My mistress,” he replied, “not since my birth
Have I wanted something so much as you,
But my arm is held tight beneath a rock!”
She whimpered at this, held her composure
“You will be free, love, to come save the day
Or I’ll die here from overexposure!”
He tugged on his arm, but sadly stayed caught
He absolved to die, though his love would not.
III
The black bird of the deepest hole stood guard
And tongued his massive leather wings of doom
The insect eater’s guild drew up upon their card
For those who flourished on the dead here loomed.
Echoes of them carried deep into Hell
Where the odds were stacked high against lovers
And creepy-crawly critters reside well
In carcasses they build their perverse covers.
The drip, drip, drip off the stalactites
The rapid and unsteady pulse of breath
Whimpers from the lady, nearly falling
All these noises foreshadowed early death.
But from his jeans produced a single blade
His only hope to cut himself away.
IV
“Come quick my love,” She said , “ farther I’ve slipped!”
He tensed his arm under the rock and groaned
As into his bruised flesh and bone he ripped
Blinded for a moment by pain he moaned
Cartilage fought him, and tendons did snap
While the poor lady cried all of the while
She knew not of the two inch and a half
Or perhaps just merely in denial
The surgeon swore at the virgin mother
Whenever he had but a breath to spare
One side of his arm-- through to the other
Love’s adrenaline kept him unaware
Free of the boulder, to his love he flew
Saved his woman and proved love so true.

V
He may not bring you Valentine flowers
His absent mind might forget a sweet card
Dumb guy might snot rocket in the shower
Or call our mother things we think quite hard,
A toilet seat up is a thrown fit, too
As is empty ketchup in the cooler
Gifts for your birthday are too much to do
And he may somehow think he’s your ruler
A diaper for him may be Herculean
A man, though sure does seem to try his best
Or times he’s drunk and can’t get the key in
There is something better than all that mess;
A man who without fail loves his queen bee
Will every time give his right arm for thee!

Oh, Sweet Jesus.

I hate it when I write a TON of amazing stuff about Walt Whitman and then my DAMNED computer erases it because I'm an IDIOT and navigate away from the page. I'm seething.

Reckless Kelly, "God Forsaken Town"

This song is by a band from Stanley Idaho, 13 miles up the Yankee Fork, who are making a big impression on Texas country right now (go Idaho boys!) Anyways, they wrote this song about Hurricane Katrina, and since I am inclined to find beautiful literature intertwined with music, I wanted to share this with you. You can listen to this song at Recklesskelly.com or just ask me and I'll bring it to class, because it is a very heavy piece of literature.



"They say we've got to leave but there's no place to go

This ain't the first time we've weathered out a storm

I ain't got nothin' but at least I know it's mine

And I'll be goddamned if I'm leaving here before the day I die,



So let the rain sting my neck

Let the mighty Mississippi take this God forsaken town,

Let the storm and all its fury come and carry me away,

Take me to that place somewhere on higher ground



The voices on the radio were cracking off and on

The court is underwater and the levee's all but gone,

There are children in the treetops, and soldiers in the sky

It's too late now to leave, we'll never make it out alive



So let the rain sting my neck

Let the mighty Mississippi take this God forsaken town,

Leth the storm and all its fury come and carry me away,

Take me to that place somewhere on higher ground



Everyone sit tight, help is on the way

I don't think Junior is going to make another day

We've got a sawed off and a red hot .44

So all you looters best come heavy when you're knockin' on my door



So let the rain sting my neck

Let the mighty Mississippi take this God forsaken town

Let the storm and all its fury come and carry me away,

Take me to that place somewhere on higher ground



We all know this crescent city just won't be the same again

And I'll still be standing when the saints go marching in



Xs on the windows say there's no one left inside,

If you count the painted numbers you'll know just how many died

And I'm one in half a million so at least I'm not alone

The hurricane is over now, but the storm keeps raging on



So let the rain sting my neck...

Let the mighty Mississippi take this God forsaken town...

Let the storm and all its fury, come and carry me away...

Take me to that place somewhere on higher ground.......



I think you should definitely listen to the song--the lyrics are amazing but the music does it much better justice.

Writers and Homosexuality

Isn't it fascinating that some of the most romantic poems, songs, and such come from gay writers? Not all, but a lot. And not all of them are black and white gay or straight. It has been speculated that Shakespeare was possibly bisexual, Dickinson may or may not have been bisexual and Walt Whitman was obviously gay. Melissa Etheridge writes the most BEAUTIFUL heart-wrenching lyrics about love, and she is a great big lesbian (not that she herself is great or big, but that she is totally, 100%, indisputably a lesbian)

I don't think it has anything to do with the fact that the bat for their own teams, but the search for love brings forth these raw emotions. Love is such a powerful thing, the ability to do so plated deep within our beings, and without which some feel they can not survive. It is the story of the love birds; one can not live without the other. It's The Notebook where the elderly couple give up living in eachother's arms and take their trip into eternity together. Gays have a ridiculously hard time finding 'the one' for a lot of reasons: most people who are gay (if not all) go through this period in their lives where they have to hide their sexuality and actually deny it to those they love the most. In this point in their lives, they may fall in love with someone that they end up turning their backs upon because society deems their lifestyle unethical. Can you imagine? If ever you have thought poorly about someone on the terms of their sexuality, think about having to muffle and bury your inner lover, think about forcing yourself to turn yourself off to love!

The search for, denial of and final embrace of love for somebody makes it so much more explosive when you finally allow yourself to enjoy it. There is my theory as to why homosexuals and bisexuals write some of the most beautiful poetry and prose about love.

Now how about if I throw in a crazy controversial picture just to see what y'all think!? How do you feel when you look at this picture? The way you answer this question should tell you a lot about yourself; Do you feel offended? Disgusted? Jealous? I feel very happy that love like this exists, whether or not they both have penises. I find it beautiful, because love, my friends, IS beauty.

My Love, For my Husband on Valentines Day

My heart,

it literally hurts

when I look at you

not a broken, bruised pain.

XOXOXO

XOXOXO
It's a green gas, caught

beneath the covers with your lover

And the hurt in your ribs

after you laugh until you cry.

Wowzers, Whitman

My goodness...what a movie, what a life, what a man! Walt Whitman was a man who strove so hard to do great things for people--to find that greater good, and he didn't even know that he was that greater good, and that he himself, was completely unique because he didn't just say; he did. What a beautiful man. Wow. Now, his writing I'll be getting deeper into as I lay down in bed tonight, but simply reading through it has not really done much for me because it's a little too...something, I can't quite put my finger on it. For one thing it's long winded, like Will said in class. Now that I've seen his biography, though I'm pretty sure I'll be able to understand it better. How amazing that our two first big writers were never appreciated until after their deaths? Two dozen copies of "Leaves of Grass" were sold in his lifetime, and there are millions of copies circulating now...think about that! Through his life of doing good and writing it down, trying hard and writing it down, struggling and writing it down...he was building his own immortality--but he knew it. Gosh. I was really impressed and I wish that I wasn't so sickly right now because I would babble for an eternity, but if I'm going to drag myself to class tomorrow, I'd better go to bed so i can kick this cold, which is making me feel awfully zombie-esque.