The Endless Saga

torn

2012-01-26T17:35:00.002-05:00

putting a life back together
is like putting together the pieces
of a photograph torn in two

you line the pieces up
so that they make sense again
and the crack that once tore
you in two becomes not
a separation, but a life lesson.

2011-12-24T05:34:00.002-05:00

It’s just before Christmas
I search for the right face

not this one, no, not that...
I’ve lost it, or rather
I’ve misplace it

just upon awakening
this morning
torn away from a dream
haunted by memories
of another world,
another life

suppress
suppress
suppress
put on
your brave
face of
happiness

it’s Christmas
and the children
will be home
soon.

August 3, 2011

2011-08-03T04:44:00.003-04:00

loneliness

no matter how loud
the television is on
alone is still alone

no matter how many
times the refrigerator
is opened and scanned . . . again and again

for something, but what?
nothing in there can satisfy
this need to fill this emptiness

no matter how many times
something beautiful is created
something beautiful, too, is taken away.

T. S. Eliot

2011-06-03T00:53:00.002-04:00

"Where is the life we have lost in living?"

Haiku

2011-04-20T15:32:00.001-04:00

rows of white crosses
we leave our tears
upon the ground

(C) 2010 James Eric Watkins

Truth

2011-03-02T21:58:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I think people (we) would rather live in ignorance than know the truth. The truth that underlies this thing we call reality. Things we can’t see. Things that only some can see. But there are universal truths. Or are there? What is truth? Something we see? In that case, I propose that there are many things that we cannot see with our everyday eyes, through the lenses of this agreed-upon collective realm, reality. And anyone who has seen more than what’s on the surface can tell you one of those universal truths that exist is that all of us, every human on this earth, has the ability to do more and see more. As simple as it sounds, all one must do is look without looking for anything, then they will begin to see.

I speak of one true reality. Things that are actually there but not everybody can see them. One example I can pull from my own life is the seeing of what must be photons, those little packets of light that Einstein described that make up a fuller more visible light such as a more panoramic shower encompassing the land. My children see them too. We’ve just been talking about them over the past couple years. I’ve spoke to a poet or two that attest that they have experienced the same phenomenon as well.

I thought about trying to draw one of the packets

But it’s nearly impossible. The packets that I have observed are made up of tiny light mushrooms with their heads being small and containing the bulk of the light being pushed forward by a short-lived tail. One could even liken them to microscopic worms that are somehow made visible by the sun’s intensity to certain people for certain unknown reasons. They pop into and out of existence so fast and frequently that drawing a depiction of what the eyes and the mind actually do see, could pose difficult.

But it would be worth the effort.

Let’s talk about other truths. Truths that are discovered but never found, like black feathers upon the dry ground, lifted and taken without a single sound.

Someone once told me that the truth was nothing more than the most popularly-believed lie. This, too, could be true. This truth of lies can be found in the political machine designed to crush the lives of the heard, bone by bone leaving the indentions of the innocent behind..

Truth. Let’s talk Plato. He certainly believed that the world we see is not all that there is. We are oblivious to truth, Plato might say. Or at least I would imagine him saying that. I said it. How’s that? Anyway. Truth.

Many things that contain truth are built upon and are held up by the beautiful and wise ideas of the past.

Christianity. If Platonism were to be removed from it, would it still stand? The answer to that question is no. St. Augustine believed that Platonism prepared him in thought to discover realizations while studying scripture. Because of, in essence, Plato’s ideas, that were used by St. Augustine in his biblical interpretations, and, thus in his influential philosophies, Christianity (as it is commonly thought of) would indeed crumble if Platonism were somehow extracted, making it too weak to stand with so many pieces missing.

Dualism: Plato’s theory of the forms, a realm of beauty, perfection, and true knowledge, rather than the world of sensory experience. In such a higher realm it is not difficult to place the concepts of God and heaven, and rationalize them (with faith). What Plato called the highest of the Forms, the Good, Plotinus would call god. Although this god he referred to was not the God of the Christian faith, (I feel) it was important (for Augustine) in transferring Platonistic ideas into Christian Doctrine. Of course, he excluded other aspects of Platonism that did not coincide with his faith. The ex nihilo theory, for example, contradicts the seemingly most practical of all practical thoughts, one that Plato would have definitely agreed with, that creating something from nothing is impossible. Or is it? You tell me.

What about quantum physics. Atoms can be in more than one place at a time. This implies other dimensions. Multiple realities, other possible outcomes. I thought about these other dimensions and multiple realities for years but quantum physics gives me scientific evidence to examine.

But the fundamental question still stands. What is true? What we touch. What we feel. Who we love.

Is truth relevant? Or does it bubble up in hot magma deep within the center of the earth? Or some far off universe we will never know the name of.

2011-03-02T21:35:00.001-05:00

I’ve written so many pieces that they sort of, well, they sort of flutter around the house like something that flutters from hand to pile to stack to folder to box and back to stack and off to flutter again. Literally hundreds have made their way into the mouth of no return, moth eater, something that flutters eater. Never to be seen or heard from again. No post cards from exotic beaches. Gone. Here’s some stuff that fluttered into my hands, and I just couldn’t let it go. I don’t know why and I don’t know when I wrote this. I’m not sure if it matters. But here it is.

Birds of a Feather

their black beaks
dipping in and out
of sorrow

their feet stick
in the dank mud

they gather here
to drink from
a lake of tears
their feathers
painted with pain
their dreams

stranded at
the bottom
of the lake

waiting to be
broke free
again to breathe
rising to
the surface

Some men would look at my life and say that “ he has nothing.”

But I have multitudes beyond
what are reachable for them.

I have sat atop the mountain
in which they were afraid to climb,
swam the river that they not dare
wade one foot in, taken the lover
whom they were afraid to talk to.

I have cried when they could not
show their faces and understood why
they themselves could not cry.

I have loved that person who
did not deserve
to be loved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

who are you

2010-12-31T00:50:00.005-05:00

I am America.
English. Cherokee.
Irish. And Polynesian.

Look at my hands
Travel the deep scars
As far back as they will take you.

Listen to my heart
That beats half-dead
Inside my body.

Look at my eyes. Deep into the Darkness
Of my soul. And you will know

Who I am.

(C) 2011 James Eric Watkins

Hello . . . Hello . . . Hello . . . .

2010-12-10T15:34:00.003-05:00

is there anybody out there . . . .

I will be on the radio next Thursday reading a poem by Robert Frost.

It will air at 11:00 am. Southern Indiana Time.

96.7 FM

2010-12-05T14:10:00.002-05:00

"I know you and you know me. One thing I can tell you is you got to be free."

I just wanted to say that I've been swamp and haven't had a second of spare time (which sucks because one shouldn't have to spare time, especially with friends. I'm talking real friends, not everybody whose on your damn facebook or my space, but a thing one can really believe in, people that we can beilive in.)

Anyway. I love you. And you know who you are,

Be well in all that you do, my special friends.

~ James

Visual Poem

2010-08-09T22:17:00.005-04:00

A Calm Beyond Midnight

2010-07-01T15:04:00.000-04:00

Away from the day
(away from the sun)
sitting in a cabin
surrounded by a forest
I find myself
once again
listening to
meditative waves
of silence
and stillness
seeping into my consciousness

in a calm
far beyond
the reach of midnight

where the full moon’s light
softly falls upon the dark-blue night
radiates into anyone who believes.

(C) 2010 James Eric Watkins

2010-06-26T00:11:00.002-04:00

Confessions of a Troubled Youth

I stole a Cutlass Supreme when
I was sixteen, drove it to the coast,
torched it on the side of the highway.

I could feel the heat on my back
as I walked away, see the flames
as they rose higher into the night.

Why did I do it? You might ask.
Because no one asked me not to.

(C) 2010 James Eric Watkins

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-20T18:22:00.001-04:00

to those still with us . . . .

and to those who watch over us.

I will never forget the face of my father.

Summertime Suppers

2010-06-08T21:51:00.002-04:00

Summertime Suppers

thick-cut tomatoes
pickles, onions, buns,
baked beans and ballparks
burgers bursting with hot juice
on the back decks, by the poolsides of our lives

with blackened grill marks
searing the surface of our summertime suppers

with family and friends,
red plastic cups
and
paper plates.

(c) 2010 James Eric Watkins

(A) Modern Man

2010-05-04T00:06:00.003-04:00

I am a modern man.

I seek to interweave
science and spiritualism
(the way Einstein inter-
wove time and space).

I am a man of reason
as well as one of mysticism.

I am (a)

modern man.

(c) 2010 James Eric Watkins

Bret

2010-04-23T20:36:00.001-04:00

I hope you pull through, brother. May God watch over you.

You are a lot to so many. I am listening to every rose now with tears in my eyes.

I was teenager when I first heard a Poison song. And now, myself at thirty-six recovering from a heart attack and a life’s worth of treating my body badly and Bret at forty-seven and having a brain hemorrhage that may serve as the catalyst to his demise, I feel like apart of me is dying also. He wore way too much make-up back in the day, but they rocked. They always did, and always will. Bret’s masterpiece, Every Rose Has Its Thorn, written while he sat on the floor of some (for him it must have been) lonely laundry mat is revolving around and around in my mind and soul.

For a Friend

2010-04-08T03:21:00.001-04:00

When all is gone
look and you’ll find me.
When all has failed
look and you’ll find me.
When the storm is relentless
there, behind the tree,
it is there that you should look
and it is there that you will find me.

Spring Rain

2010-04-01T20:42:00.001-04:00

I recognize you
like an old friend
like an endless monsoon
that I revisit (like a headstone)
or rather revisits me
in intervals that stretch
throughout time
so that they seem
to be all one memory
here in this moment—now
watching the way the water
beads on the window screen.

(c) 2010 James Eric Watkins

Lennon and Lavender

2010-03-30T14:06:00.003-04:00

opening sounds of piano
embrace my essence
like an old friend

and I smile, press my face
against the warm glass

the road-side reveals
tiny lavender flowers
and all other colors fade
into the passing blur
of my perception
beyond the dirt that streaks
across the pane of my passenger window

the motor accelerates us

yet the petals of lavender
are as well defined as your
memory is in my mind

as your words are:

still daring us
to press the boundaries
of our imagination

(c) 2010 James Eric Watkins

Deep Sleep

2010-03-23T01:50:00.001-04:00

Deep Sleep by James Eric Watkins

Serotonin seeps from the creek
of my mind, drips, nearly dries up
as I climb on to the back
of the dream bird

and take flight
its black-feathered wings
soaring through the night

The pineal gland master of ceremonies
is a wise but sometimes psychotic
conductor waving his hands wildly

while melatonin rains from the sky
I taste the fruit dangling in the dark
dripping its juices onto my lips

Images flash: faces from the past,
places, situations that defy all logic
but are somehow relevant to the
accumulation of personal thought

in the so-called reality
of our awakened world.

(c) 2010 James Eric Watkins

It's been four years...

2010-03-10T14:26:00.004-05:00

so many things have changed.
Except for the love I held then
and still do hold onto now

Back in 2006 around the time of my birthday
two people that I loved very much passed away.

My wife's grandmother who used to call me her favorite
butthead and a friend's infant son born with a heart defect.

Click here to read what I had to say around that time.

My birthday also marks another painful day.
My father passed away a week before in 1994.
His name was James Allen Watkins.

A Temple

2010-03-09T14:22:00.002-05:00

It's time
to turn
this body
into a temple

to worship it
like a God

to cleanse
myself
completely

before knocking
on its door

(c) 2010 James Eric Watkins

Haiku

2010-02-16T22:09:00.002-05:00

snowy morning—
hands wrapped around
a steaming cup

(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins

Bird of Prey

2009-12-15T23:24:00.003-05:00

The glare
from the black
bird’s feathers
blinded me with a single stare.

I looked away, looked back,

watched him perch
in an old oak
outside my window.

I began to recreate
his story in my mind,
just what it was that led him here to this tree.

But then he turned and looked at me.
Our eyes met for but a single moment

just before
he flew away

still clutching
my imagination

in his claws.

(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins

Hello My Friend.

2009-11-29T13:54:00.005-05:00

This is from back in the summer,
or perhaps spring.
I think it was before I had my heart attack,
or one of them.
It turns out
that, most likely,
I've had others.

I wrote a new poem,
which is posted below.
I hope that you enjoy it.

I used to deer hunt with my father
before he died.
I never killed a deer.
And now, I'm glad
that I didn't.

The Hunter's Fresh Kill

2009-11-29T13:52:00.001-05:00

The Hunter’s Fresh Kill

Once a heaving beast
running through the forest
he now lies in pieces
in a large bowl

brought up and over
the side of a pick-up
truck by a feller with
an accent and a col’ beer
in his other hand.

He offers to share
the feast. I accept
the meat, call upon
the creator to bless it.

The meat is washed
cooked and eaten
thereby giving purpose
to the hunter’s kill

and a final prayer
is said for the spirit

still running
through the forest.

(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins

The Quality of Mercy

2009-11-22T21:00:00.002-05:00

“The quality of mercy is not strained
it droppeth like the gentle rain
from heaven upon the place beneath.
. . . It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

— William Shakespeare

Rush me forth
into your heart
hear me

for what I say is the way
even though I stray from the path

I can only admire enlightenment from a distance
from further and farther and further away
like a distant star twinkling in the night
from further than a crawled mile on a gravel
road, palms and knees torn to bleed, moistening
the dry dust beneath. More like to the outer edge
of the milky way.

But here now,
it is time for us to travel.
the torches are all lit

and most will die out
before we reach
the millionth mile.

That place in the night it is unreachable.

But it’s the way we travel, the way we move, that is of most importance.

He

No matter how well
I seem or how long
it has been between
outbursts,

he’s always there
just beneath the surface
waiting to be released

to lash out
to scream

he is the bad man
and my body and mind
his habitat

No matter how high-minded I think
I’ve become or the level of patients
I achieve, his face always rears again.

He is angry
for being abused
for being born
for having to watch
his aunt die in the same room
with him when he was nine
and for watching his mother
lose her sanity as a result
for watching the late-night fights
the cocain binges and the whiskey
splattered on the wall at 2:00 a.m.
for his mother being beaten
while he helplessly was forced
to stand by, for hearing the smacks
and cries from the darkness of the next room
where he prayed to god to save him.

But god never came.

I—I am madness
with a twist of reason
watching benevolence
like a distant star

he—he is all anger

(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins

lots of new content

2009-10-27T23:19:00.001-04:00

@ Promise of Light.

Just check out the front page for more info.

Art Discussion

2009-10-23T14:02:00.000-04:00

Join in the discussion.

2009-09-20T15:47:00.003-04:00

Some Thoughts

2009-09-02T23:17:00.001-04:00

You know that’s the thing about this fucked up life, this collective realm we wander in, here, on this earth, is that, as humans, we love. And eventually love becomes loss. Always. It is a constant current that thrashes against our faces and bodies, minds. Sometimes we thrash against it futilely. But it remains. We have to find that spot, that place where we can breath in the madness of the flow. We all suffer at different times and levels in our lives. But we lose. Life: it is a game we are born to lose. Unfortunately. Unfortunately, it is the divine power of love, that thing that makes us human, that is a steady stream of pain in our lives. Because that greatest of things, love, means loss. Every time. But in moments of clarity and optimism, it is, too, that same love that makes us press on. It is a better understanding that I seek, a state that I long for but rarely ever reach. love. It drives me to the page. It is a force. An energy that just doesn’t fade. It never goes away. Maybe it takes on different shapes, merging into something universally larger. Maybe I’m more confused now than when I sat down to write. Maybe. Maybe we should always strive for optimism, even in the darkest of nights. What about karma? Do we inadvertently cause our own pain? I think there is some truth to that. But at the same time no. All the world’s pain could never be provoked. And for it to afflict so many people, beautiful people, people that their aura can be felt hundreds, even thousands of miles away. I don’t buy it. I've done many things that I’m not proud of. And I’ve paid for them all. In one way or another. Again. Have I gained any level of deeper understanding from this exercise of emotional expression? I’m still not quite sure. But I feel a little better. Not so much an understanding, but a calm, and a hope...for hope. Goodnight my friends. This is Sir James signing out.

In the Moonlight

2009-07-15T17:54:00.005-04:00

I sit alone in the night.
I play my songs for you.
You blow against the tall-tasseled
grasses like you were wind.

Cars pass by
on the gravel road
twenty-five yards away
raise the dust against their red brake-lights
as they drive down the hill

never knowing
that I sit alone
and play my songs for you.

You.

No pick in hand
fingers and thumb
moving up and down
swaying to the sounds
of the tall-tasseled grasses.

And the shadow
of my curly hair
casts on the paper
like one side of a conifer

as I write
as I sit alone/in the moonlight
and trade your memory
for the sound of my voice.

2009-07-06T14:34:00.002-04:00

Some crazy stuff had happened to me lately. Besides the heart attack and the surgery, (here's the article I published: http://www.courier-journal.com/article/20090605/OPINION02/906050305/1016/ARCHIVES) just about a week ago or so, my domain name promiseoflight.org was bought out from under me. I had the heart attack and surgery at the time I was being sent the notices to renew it. Also, I was trying to eliminate extra costs and was phasing out the email account they were being sent to. Anyway. I fucked up. The on the phone was right. It was my responsibility to update my information. And it had been auto-renewing so long that, in the midst of it all, I just forgot. Now, it’s promiseoflight.com. Or at least it will be when I get everything worked out. I just received a ton of great submissions too. And when the website went so did my editor’s account. And everything was lost. Haiku from all over the world is lost.

Anyway. None of that stuff really matters. All that really matters here in the blog world are the friends that I’ve made and the love I still hold for them in my heart. It hurts me dearly not to hear from them anymore. But I’ve shoved all the painful stuff down with the rest of it. I’ve got to get caught up on school work and get back to work in the library. We need the money something terrible.

Moving forward. That’s my theme. As I read today on another blog. Accept the things that cannot be changed. And move forward with the changeable. That paraphrasing of course.
Be well all. And know that my love is as great for you now as it has ever been. It oozes from me.

2009-05-26T20:44:00.000-04:00

The following is all jumbled up
in space and in time
like me.

I sit here in this empty midnight
waiting room. Cold clean air sifts
down through the heartaches and tears
that inhabit these walls. The best in the
world they say. The best surgeon they say.
These things latch onto the fear. They
pull at it, but the fear is stronger.
Open Heart Surgery. Even for me,
a man who fears so few things, these
three words whip my psyche like a slave.
The bright lights
blind me. The sterile walls surround me.
The catheter travels up and through my artery.
The artery is completely blocked.
Plaque hardens in the valve. Too
close, too dangerous for a stint
or the balloon procedure.
OPEN-HEART SURGERY
is your only chance.
I stare up at the lights .
They flash with confusion.
Small white flakes fall from
the porous ceiling tiles as I lie in blank glare.
Beyond these thin curtains,
they laugh, make plans for their weekends.
I think of suicide . I am selfish.
The old lady in a blue robe
walks around the waiting room
and down the hall, staring out the window.
Does she find hope in her glare, her stare,
her gray hair, red lipstick?
She walks out the glass doors with wooden
frames and gold-gilded handles.
I want to say hi. But I am silent.
People walk by, give fake smiles.

2009-05-13T14:26:00.000-04:00

I tend to hold back information I put on my blog for fear that it may upset someone. I’ve held back pictures, oh the pictures I’ve wanted to post.

But now I just wanted to let you know that I had a heart attack on Saturday. I suffered through it for 15 16 hours at least, maybe more. My wife came home from work and drove me to the hospital. (I told her it was merely indigestion.) I would not go in however once we got there, thinking of the last time I went. They poked and prodded me all night and finally said that nothing was wrong, so I didn’t want to go. Instead I went home and lay down on the couch and continued to have a heart attack all night, telling myself it was indigestion and that it would all be over soon.

I went to the local physician yesterday, had an EKG. I go in tomorrow for the catheter and stint. I am still in somewhat of a state of denial. I am only 35. What does this say about the way I’ve treated my body?

The trigger was when I over exerted myself Saturday afternoon. I live a sedentary lifestyle and should not have been chopping through thick vines and brush with a hand saw and onlt my bare hands. I never forget who I once was. The reason I cut through that stuff like it wasn’t even there in fraction of the time it should have taken is the same reason, even if I haven’t drank in over a year, that I will match shot for shot, beer for beer, with anyone from the "old gang." (Most of the old gang is in prison by the way). It’s who I once was. But, clearly, those days are gone now. I can’t walk ten feet without having to lie down for an hour. I am so tired.

Soft Spring Afternoon

2009-05-07T18:57:00.002-04:00

soft spring afternoon---
bees hover above clover
the trees are lazy

like me.

Today's Quote

2009-04-22T10:57:00.002-04:00

I thought I'd share Today's Quote with you.

It is truly one of wisdom from Mary Wollstonecraft.

"Virtue can only flourish amongst equals."

Quiet Realization

2009-04-21T16:30:00.001-04:00

Smoke fills the room, lingers
and turns to dust. An eccentric
depressive man sits at a desk
and notices the mild sunlight
from the skylight above. He
has been selfish in his thoughts.
He is ashamed. The rain starts
again, lightly blown by the wind.
And he realizes these things.

Be-Longing

2009-03-10T18:14:00.006-04:00

Driving to work today, I noticed that the shadows were bolder beneath the trees,
felt warmer from where I was sitting.

God writes poetry in the sky, paints it on with watercolors.

Darkness begins
to gather on the grass,
creeps across it slowly
as the sun sets

Together again
you and I the Night.

What shall it be?
Shall we read? Study?
Write a story or perhaps watch t.v.?

Or shall we just sit here and be?
Clear our minds of all so-called reality.

Shall we write poetry?
Ah yes. We both agree.

The Night belongs t o Poetry.

a man weeps
in a chair
next to a window

where

loss remembers
a boy crying
in the March rain

Alexander— my beautiful son lies sleeping
on the couch while the dog beneath my chair dreams.
Alex joins in.

His Gentle Hands

2009-03-06T12:48:00.005-05:00

His Gentle Hands

Last night I thought
for a second
that I had forgotten Dad’s birthday

Look at the day
no snow, no cold
and I feel well

Pull in driveway
search my mind, numbers, dates

A tear rolls from beneath my shades
as I step into
the sunlight
and stand
in a time-pocket

Hot neck and face burn
while my father’s hands caress
and the wind breathes
through the blue silkiness of my shirt
into my skin
out and into the forest again.

Revel, bask, bathe in this warmth
this day, this warm metacarpus
touching my features

I worship the sky
and rinse
my soul in showers of rays

Blue silk body
leans forward
but my visage does not

His gentle hands remain

And there she was
holding me in her arms
We danced in the wind and sunlight:
A very slow-motion.
Back and forth, we swayed

Hue prisms through my wet lashes
separates incandescent green, and reveals
a transparent tranquility, and our movement rests

“You know I still haven’t caught anything.”
“ What do you mean?” she said as I gazed up
and pointed at the overhead power-lines
which had a piece of fishing line with a river-sinker
and hook, hanging there as if below the lines
a body of water existed.

And we both laughed, into the open air
laughed for a few seconds
and returned to our lover’s clutch
to sway and cry in one another’s arms.

Intellectual Rock

2009-01-15T19:38:00.002-05:00

Rush is what I call intellectual rock. Dig it:

You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice.
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.
You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill.
I will choose a path that's clear.
I will choose freewill.

2009-01-09T00:59:00.002-05:00

Listen to the light.
~~~It knows best.
~~~~~It grows into the vortex.
~~~~~~~It does not resist.

Some Thoughts

2009-01-09T00:51:00.004-05:00

In the employee lounge earlier today I sat, (in our new 28 million dollar building) eating a turkey on wheat sandwich, looking at the compacted white snow outside the window on the rooftop, staring passed it at a grouping of trees, hovering in free thought, just being, and then I began to picture the evolution of man and of how God, Goddess, or a God or Goddess may have had a hand in the direction of our evolution. (Of course this is but one of an infinite number of possibilities that I’ll not dwell on here)

As the human race we consider ourselves the only animal, the only living thing that possesses depth, the only ones that experience uniquely this world we all share— all living things, and possibly even inanimate objects may have experiences that are just not known to us. Trees, for instance , who’s to say that they do not experience life in a way that we could never understand, on a level that we could never understand. Our perceptions are our world. But we are not alone. How arrogant it would be to assume that we alone weave the cosmic web of experience. But to realize that we are all part of a greater universal whole of thought that contains us, that is an extension of our being, of being itself, this is where we touch a higher knowing, a higher realm of existence. More than what we are. The world as a whole, we experience it, so maybe it experiences us as well.

And then I bit into a ripe pear—
so sweet and juicy with brown scratch marks
etched into its green flesh. My lunch break was over.
The pear: consumed.

A Bit of Tomfoolery

2009-01-02T16:16:00.003-05:00

For all my depth,
I ask this of you now—

Was Don Notts really one of Mick Jagger’s alter egos?

Compare their facial features and expressions.

Hey you!

2008-12-15T00:37:00.004-05:00

I’ve heard this music in a dream before. Somewhere. Here. I don’t know. But you were there. And the truth was there too. And the dark bare cold branches creak and thrash around in the wind roaring like a jet engine low in the sky. But why? Why does the way the smoke moving around my hand as I pull it away from my mouth hold the key to something, something that I don’t quite understand, something I’ve searched for my entire life but cannot quite put my finger on at this very moment.

Hey you! would you help me to carry the stone.
Open your heart, I’m coming home.

But it was only fantasy.
The wall was too high as you can see"

No matter how he tried he tried he could not break free
And the worms ate into his brain.

Hey you! Out there beyond the wall
Breaking bottles in the hall, can you help me

Hey you! Don’t tell me there’s no hope at all
Together we stand, divided we fall

~ Pink Floyd ~

Monotony

2008-12-11T19:29:00.001-05:00

Monotony clings to me like spilled honey
slowly it pours over me, sticky but not sweet--- bitter
each nanosecond stretches out into forever.

2008-11-07T17:03:00.001-05:00

cast
splash
ripples . . . silence

2008-11-05T11:17:00.005-05:00

This one will be published soon.

Dark Tales #1

2008-10-20T16:55:00.001-04:00

Click here to read.

I had several submissions to the project.

But only one that I didn't have to rewrite.
It merely needed minor adjustments.

Enjoy!

And when we do it next year,
hopefully there'll be more quality submissions.

Worshipping Walt

2008-10-17T13:50:00.006-04:00

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

I am reading a new book about Whitman and his closest disciples: Worshipping Walt, written by Michael Robertson, published by Princeton University Press.

He is simply the greatest poet to ever live. He is eternal and universal. It was Whitman who helped me to realize that God is everywhere, in nature, in all things, even ourselves, in the leaves of grass. He has taught me much.

But I have learned something from all of you too.

Let me share with you the qoute from the top of the introduction page. It made me have goosebumps right away. It is from "Song of Myself," just as the opening to this post is also from.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems.

2008-10-10T12:55:00.004-04:00

PUBLISHED

2008-09-04T01:32:00.004-04:00

Fully-Extended Lawn-Chair Back-Porch Star-Gazing Meditation

Hazy white, blue night
deep space light —

Smoke curls, swirls, ascends from my lips
like spirits from the earth

gathers
in clouds of contemplation

the higher they rise
the thinner and more wispy
the thoughts become, until dissipation
changing from something to nothing to everything.

Tiny yellow horseweed blooms
burst and scatter pollen on the porch-rail
sway against a starry-night
background. The wind licks
my bare skin like a lover.

Three suns die
their final expressions
written across the sky.

These Peaches

2008-08-13T22:38:00.002-04:00

These immature peaches
are like poetry pieces
that are underworked,
and not yet ripe.

Their size is small
but that’s not it
it is on the inside
that they lack substance
anticipated hues and textures.

Patience is key.
After all, the tree is still
relatively young . . . just another year
or two, and they’ll be so sweet savored by the tongue
nourishing the mind
replenishing the soul.

Oh but their smell
and the way they roll
around on the table
makes them poetry

or peaches
I haven’t decided which.

2008-07-18T09:22:00.002-04:00

I suppose no one will be checking anything out with the impulsively posted, obstaclized link I provided.

I'm not sure what I was thinking, probably rushing and multitasking as I tend to attempt to do.

James got drunky last night. I don't do it often, but when I do, the alcohol vanishes like life itself in some strange ritual on a merry-go-round to and fro the cooller or ice-cold beer box, becoming intoxicated and sobering in and out of lucidity, in and out of a magnaifying-glass sunburn water-filled pool of refreshment.

I woke up yesterday morning, brushed my teeth, grabed a frigid perspiring can of reddog, nasty high contented bite of a beer while singing a Morrison tune and toasting the begginning of a very long day, smashing the thirty pack we, just two us, drank another two fifths of wine, some jager and a twelve pack of bud long necks before ending the day with a card game that I lost.

Today I'm as red a lobster and never felt better.

won't do that again any time soon.

Dark Tales #1

2008-07-11T15:05:00.002-04:00

Send your dark tales: submissions@promiseoflight.org

tanka

2008-06-20T20:01:00.000-04:00

wind

invisible you
awaken my follicles
enliven my mood
touch each leaf in your passing:
evidence of existence

Omega Horseman

2008-06-18T00:38:00.002-04:00

The wind flared up each side
of his tattered brown hood,
and with a waving motion, it closed
around his faceless form, pushing forth
the smell of rotten meat, forcing it upon my senses.

And I gagged as his beast-like screams scurried
from his mouth and into my ear canals,
small streams of fog following behind.

His presence zoomed-in to mine, standing
just inches in front of me. His hand: as cold
as bare feet in the snow when he laid it upon my
trembling shoulder.
Fear stuck in my eye like an icicle,
and my tongue began to bleed. I turned
and spit warm plasma into his hollow eyes.

And the ground laughed beneath us.

Suddenly I heard the metal-on-metal screech
of a thousand trains slamming into my head.

"Please God, I don't want to die!"

"My daughter just turned two years old. Please God no!"

"Sir. Sir, can you hear me?"

My ears were like two big-screen television sets
with the volume turned all the way up,
blasting white noise into my mind.
But after some time,
some words managed to escape through:

"Does it hurt anywhere, sir?"

"My neck. My neck hurts."

It felt like the top of my head exploded,
like my spine had splintered somehow.

"Sir, do you know who Christopher Reeves is?"

As I heard these words,
I can remember the sweet smell
of perfume from the hands
that pulled my head out of the glove box.

"And you have seen him after his horse back riding accident?"

"Yes."

"Then don't move or you will be just like that! Okay?"

"Okay."

"You may feel a slight pinch, sir."

Shortly after what felt like a large bee sting,
a warm sensation traveled up my arm and spread
over my entire body. My shirt: cut up the middle
with cold scissors chilling the skin on my chest,
my favorite pair of jeans, cut up the seams, shredded.

And Death seemed to be pacified,
perhaps even satisfied . . . for awhile.

But sometime later, after the holes in my head
and the vertebrates in my neck mended themselves,
He came calling again. My arms were weak with weary
and my mind was amiss. The day was all too dreary. I don't
think my head touched its pillow for about three days. My eyes:
swelled, cracked, wide-open. I recall the miserable heat, hot
shower-like, stinging-sweat made viewing anything almost
impossible, but I continued to build. The rough, rectangle-
shaped, massive truss slid through my hands until it abruptly
stopped and pierced them with tiny splinters of pine; This
is the last memory I have before I was flipped upside-down
and driven headfirst, over a story, into the concrete floor.

Death is a sensation like no other.

"Joe! Joe! Take care of my kids, Joe!"

"Okay Eric, I will, don't worry!"

"Son-of-a-bitch! I'll never live through this one!
No one could live through two broken necks.
Tell me the truth! I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not stupid," the nurse said as she held my hand
tightly and asked if I could feel the pressure from her squeezes.
My wife sat caressing my other hand, my cold and lifeless
fingers as I entered a different realm, one that exists only on a
psychological and spiritual plane. One might think seeing and
hearing your father, who passed away eight years previously,
could be shocking, but quite the contrary, it was rather
comforting. The helicopter ride: exhilarating.

Another pair of jeans cut from my shivering body: priceless.

Now, on this day, I take nothing for granted, appreciate
even the slightest aroma of the Rose of Sharon
and the silk-like feel of its petals against my skin.
The sound of my children playing on a warm day,
any day, sends me into a state of bliss.

And although contentment seems a gentle breeze,
I sometimes listen to the ground for hoof-beats . . . or a laugh,
knowing that the Omega Horseman,
someday — will ride again.

But this time, I’ll be ready,
turning the darkness
into light.

Untitled

2008-06-12T18:48:00.003-04:00

What am I doing here?

My head and neck hurt so fucking bad.

My heart pounds my chest sore.

And my face slides into my hands.

Behind this screen I hide in pain

and pretend to have a purpose

while the world outside looks hazy and hot

The air: undoubtedly thick.

Three hours left . . . .

The sun will be setting as I walk out.

I picture it immense on the horizon

a deep bright orange orb

sinking

the radio blasting

“Cashmere”

as I drive home.

`

I'd like to say a few words.

2008-06-09T00:38:00.008-04:00

I feel the meds in my knees, this is an indication that I could be asleep in about twenty minutes, if a creative spark doesn’t allow my mind to NOT shut off.

Picking through the
seeds and stems
of today’s memories

I find you
sitting, silently
waiting patiently
for my arrival

dimensions of red, orange, purple
bursting blooms adorn the path
in this aesthetical, peaceful
garden
where a butterfly lands on the back of your hand
standing as a symbol.

(Most people perceive that the butterfly’s purpose is purely aesthetical, if they consider it at all. But it is also a symbol, a display meant to teach us the art of metamorphosis. But the butterfly cannot teach us, she can only allude to its beauty. The art we must teach ourselves, to be transform.)

Be like the water. Flow.

Monday Morning
(June 2, 2008)

I got that phone call
again today, the one where
you hang up the phone
in a slow, silently sad way
and another friend becomes part of the dream.

There are two worlds which matter most to human beings: the collective, agreed upon reality based on concepts based on leaps of the imagination (Strange how that is.) and the personal yet universal singularity of what I sometimes refer to as the dream.

Plato called it dualism, the belief that the world we live in, according to Plato, is not the true reality, but that there is another realm of human being. The realm of the forms he might say, the only place where perfection exists. And others might call this place heaven. Certainly it is thought of by Christanity as to be quite a specific destination. But I say a happy, subjective yet all compassing existence is obtainable for any one wishes to beileve that it's possible.

(A lightening bug is crawling on my leg now as I type. I look down to see his flashing light, look to the left, see the flashing light on my computer, and then see a most strange similarity in the way the lights look and the way in which they pulsate.)

It is the dream we seek,
a state of perpetual inertia,
being launched into a realm of pure thought,
having no containment
simply free,
a personal yet universal
singularity of eternity.

Some maintain that they live for this life. Some: for an afterlife.
But it is the balance of purpose that evokes a smile from the human spirit.

And since there is no definition in this realm, no containment, we must absorb as much of this world’s love and beauty so as to make a smooth, happy transition in the next plain of existence, where there are no limits.

It is human evolution to evolve into pure thought.

You Seeking Hope

2008-05-31T00:47:00.002-04:00

reach out for my hand
while crossing the stream
understand that
first I’ll listen
and last I’ll speak.

I have come to help you across
help you believe again
my friend, release the sails
into the wind again
my friend. I have
a knapsack full of light.

Look inside

as we walk the rock ledge
of blue slate with fossilized
shells and roots embedded
into the bumpy stone surface

seeking answers
down by the creek

where the warm summer grass grows
tall, and cool blue flowers
around the trunks
of green-leaved trees
and calmness flows
into the channel
of our souls
refreshing mind
and body as one
unified whole

crossing over the threshold
to the dream, wading through the thoughts
of the stream

until we reach the other side

Expressions of a Fine Artist

2008-05-28T23:00:00.003-04:00

Spew color from the tip of your tongue brush
as truth absorbs into the fabric of your expression.

http://www.promiseoflight.com/expressions.htm

She's got the creds and a wholelotta talent!
Check some of her work out and leave a comment.

Shadows and Reflections

2008-05-22T20:03:00.001-04:00

Shadows and reflections

Scratch out the rough drafts of yesterday’s life.

Write in the new words and feelings of your new life,

ones coinciding with parallels of numerous possible realities

that can change within a mere nanosecond of thought.

Some may pass through death without even knowing.

The portal to the dream is always opening, waiting . . . .

Staring into the Greenness

2008-04-29T17:14:00.005-04:00

vvvPondering upon
vvmeditating on
the seasons
the revolving, evolving door of life
vvstops for a moment
vvvwhile still spinning

And I see the Spring so clearly

vvvlost in a vortex
vvof thought. floating
standing. staring into the greenness
the grass is so tall
vvit swallows any stray
vvvwandering cats or dogs

vvvfrogs or tiny action-figures
petals or dreams
vvvcarried by the wind

or otherwise . . . that have fallen

And Love Began to Rain

2008-04-24T15:25:00.002-04:00

Overnight it seems
the cherry tree has blossomed
tiny pinkish-white petals flow in the wind

sweet-smelling blooms
hang on and the sky
not only whispers

But shouts of spring . . . .

And the love began to rain inside my soul

Proof of Good Memories

2008-04-15T10:44:00.003-04:00

After watching Dane Cook

outbursts of candid
emotion
fill the room

my laugh
reminds me
of my father’s

I can remember
the last time we laughed
together

we were watching
the Three Stooges.

we laughed until
the tears rolled down the cheeks
of our so-alive faces
holding our mid-sections
in a wonderfully aching display
of laughter
between a father . . . and a son.

~~~

Minty Green Memories

The smell of this tea
so steamy it takes me
walking through childhood pastures.

It takes me down
down by the creek
the one back home in Indiana
the one that overflowed
from one pond into another.
Spearmint grew leafy and green
along the edges.

I used to go there, alone
watch the water flow
over smooth colored stones
breathe in the minty fragrance

shaded from the rest of the world.

I often go there in my mind
but I am still a child.
He should stay.
He is safe there.

Cool Spring Morning

2008-04-12T09:55:00.004-04:00

Buzzards: big, chicken-bodied-like
ugly birds gather on the ground
around a dear carcass of brown
and white crumpled skin folding in
on a raw meat meal, picked at
by bloody, yellow beaks

over and again
on a cool Spring morning . . . .
driving to work

And I think
to myself how strange
it is that a bird soaring so high
could be so beautiful in the sky, yet so ugly on the ground.

New Content!

2008-04-04T14:56:00.009-04:00

Ckeck out what's new at Promise of Light!

Expressions.

Angel Speak.

Mary's Hideaway.

Poem of a Soldier.

Windows to the Universe

And here's a few lines from myself:

Girl in the Hall

how lovely she is
with her long dark hair
and soft tan skin so beautiful
she laughs. I watch her
as she watches the people below
in the rotunda, laughs . . . .

and she walks away
never knowing of our encounter
of how much it meant
to me

April 4, 1974

2008-04-04T09:35:00.003-04:00

I’m thirty-four today. And I’m so much more than I’ve ever been before. I love so much more than I’ve ever loved before. And the pain, it surfaces when I’m alone, when there’s no one to hide it from. An antenna of emotion I am. Sometimes, filtering music or literature through the channel of my soul, I cannot hide it even when judgment is mere feet away. Perhaps it is my most valuable attribute: Empathy. I didn’t ask to be able to feel this much.

But I do.

“So I walk up on high
And I step to the edge
to see my world below.
And I laugh at myself
while the tears roll down.
'cause it's the world I have known.
Well it's the world I have known.” ~ Collective Soul

Those might not be the exact lyrics but there the ones in my head right now.

Love, James

random thoughts

2008-03-07T14:33:00.000-05:00

Memories: Some polish the bitter to make them sweet. We do this to maintain some semblance of sanity, to peer through the glass of a healthy outlook, perhaps. At some point we are able to just be far enough away from passed-on traits, good and bad, that we can stand them up, walk around them, examine them. Then, ideally, take the good and leave the bad.

That sounds good on paper.

But the truth is we can’t ever really leave the bad behind
We just polish. Polish. Polish. And stare at the shine.
The blur blends. And the whole becomes beautiful.

That Feeling

2008-03-07T13:54:00.000-05:00

Original energy encompasses
the senses. As the universe
suddenly opens her eyes

every follicle on the body becomes alive
every hair is stimulated, stands
receives signals

like tiny antennas of emotion
absorbing yet radiating
simultaneously

so that it’s the spirit from within
that connects with the skin
that opens up the pathway

to the light
so that all
becomes

one.

2008-02-21T12:50:00.002-05:00

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I'm sorry it took so long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once I rose above the noise and confusion

Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion

I was soaring ever higher

But I flew too high

Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man

Though my mind could think I still was a mad man

I hear the voices when I'm dreaming

I can hear them say . . . .

~ Kansas

She Cries

2008-02-15T14:30:00.004-05:00

She cries

in her car
alone, actively listening
to the song playing on the radio

She participates
expresses the words
entering her mind
then bursting from her lips
instantaneously

the music penetrates
layer after frozen layer
until it finds the inner-most
realm of soul, still as warm

as the day she was born

and it is from this solitary place
deep within the nucleus of herself
behind the closed doors of emotion

that she cries.

I cry in the car
all the time. Sadness
is my closest companion.

So, I channeled the poet for her, whoever she is.

I’m working on another piece that explores
the connection between music and the depth of our souls.

Perhaps I’ll put it up for a day or two.

Thanks for reading, and for being my friend.

Love, James.

Stand in the Light

2008-01-23T23:21:00.000-05:00

Stand in the Light

Even though
the cold lies
just beyond this window

on this side
winter wanes
as my face and chest are revived

revived with the warmth from millions of miles away

my stomach, too, warms as I lean in
closer, over
the kitchen counter

paying no mind to the
few greasy forks
and baby bottles
that protrude from the soapy sink water

I glance into the eye of the sun
swear I see the wingtips of a light angel: stretching
blinding me with the brightness of an ineffable beauty

and I look away
close my eyes
and turn back again

lean into illumination
further into the light and absorb
absorb the light from millions of miles away

and something calls to me
to stay, to stand in the light
of this cold January day

Comment on & Post Poetry

2008-01-13T14:26:00.001-05:00

Okay. I’m building this a little at a time,
because I’m what’s known in the business
as a technotard. True to form. So go sign up! Comment! Post something!

Suggestions are more than welcome.

Morning

2008-01-12T12:28:00.000-05:00

Morning

Fog rises
Sunlight
falls upon the mountain
snowy white

And the darkness
of night
hides
once again.

2008-01-12T12:22:00.000-05:00

Flowers & Vortexes has changed from a bimonthly
to quarterly magazine. It’s just too much work for me.

And So . . . .

2008-01-01T21:44:00.000-05:00

the year passes by like tattered blue tarps flapping in the snowy wind

Circumvolve

2008-01-01T20:45:00.000-05:00

Again They Die

Yet another year passes
by, and the flowers die
again . . . again . . . again they die!

Cold rain cries cold color from their eyes
And again . . . again . . . again they die!

The land: white. Lifeless.
A few cardinals
feasting
on dead roses.

Striking red poses against a snowy backdrop.
And again . . . again . . . again they die.

In the Morning Night

2007-11-28T03:16:00.000-05:00

searching corridors
of night, I find Truth hiding
in a darkened room.

the bad time is here.
the cold time.
the sit in the kitchen
with no shirt and absorb
the cold time. the
brain of pain time.
writing with a black ballpoint
pen time. the no real light time.
the dark time. This is the bad time.

out here, in the morning night
3:00 a.m. finds me again
waiting for the sun

while praying for clouds
and wishing for a peaceful dream.

Good Night.

a quick peek through my window

2007-11-18T14:45:00.000-05:00

I’m havin’ one of those days when I’m all alone and have PLENTY to do. But poetry keeps calling to me. So, in between studying art history, here’s a little snapshot for you.

Snap-Shot

red Arizona stone
sitting in a Kentucky home
just being, participating
in being alone, in stillness

while the last warm day
before winter shines
through my window
of experience.

Excellent Lecture, I Must Say

2007-11-13T23:26:00.000-05:00

Tonight at Hanover College,
I observed Ed Begley Jr.’s environmental lecture.

He spoke passionately. Yet his hand
was like any other man's--- with a passion.

I am tired.
I will
write more
later.

love, James

Release Date: November 1, 2007

2007-10-24T22:49:00.001-04:00

Flowers & Vortexes

presents

Selected Poems of Xristi Megas

Her Name: Bright as the Sun

2007-10-06T00:31:00.000-04:00

When she would go to the edge of town, peeking up through the sea of tall, golden grass, he rode his strange metal horse, but instead of four legs, it rolled on two wheels. As he would pass, she would raise her head, just above the tassels of grass, so that the deep blackness of her eyes watched his feet, shoed in brown leather, peddle his bicycle down that dirt road with dust streaming from his back tire and into the air, trailing behind him like the unseen scent-cloud of a defensive skunk, and sending out a signal with her quiet laugh. Before he could turn his head, usually so fast that his funny-looking cap’s bill would spin to the left side of his pale but extraordinarily handsome (so she believed) face, she would submerge herself beneath the surface, leaving only slight movements of grass that could easily be described as the wind.

And so, twice a day, every day for more than a week, he traveled, on his bicycle, down the same stretch of road, trying to catch a glimpse of whom it was on the other end of that entrancing giggle. One thing he knew for sure was the sweet, soft laugh had to belong to a female, goddess of the planes. ‘Perhaps, she’s a fish who laughs and swims through oceans of sparse brown grass, awaiting to kiss me, alas, she will smile, alas,’ he wrote in his journal one day, while contemplating her existence and stopping to eat a sandwich, underneath a gigantic oak that shielded him from the harsh heat of that dry summer day.

Rocket Man

2007-10-03T20:44:00.000-04:00

She packed my bags last night pre-flight
Zero hour nine a.m.
And I'm gonna be high as a kite by then

I miss the earth so much I miss my wife
It's lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight

And I think it's gonna be a long long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I'm not the man they think I am at home

Oh no no no I'm a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone

Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids
In fact it's cold as hell
And there's no one there to raise them if you did

And all this science I don't understand
It's just my job five days a week
A rocket man, a rocket man

And I think it's gonna be a long long time...

These lyrics were written by one Bernie Taupin,
and, of course, were perfomed by Elton John.

There was a time,
oh yes indeed, that these
Lyrics applied to James.

But I have since been freed
from most all the masks I once wore.

I am a librarian now,
so far from the dark places
I once inhabited,
this mask is comfortable

feels like no mask at all
at times

It just needs an adjustment
here and there
and intellectual intervals of indica inhalation

how the old crowd
would laugh
at me

and how I would not
care

just some words
no poetry
here

"I loafe and invite my soul." ~ Walt Whitman

2007-09-05T23:57:00.000-04:00

hovering within
a moment, I found
god today, on a path
in the forest, under
a lush green canopy of leaves

the light peeking
through the silence
and the sound of song birds . . . singing
beauty coming into focus
harmony into balance

it was there, next to a tree
draped in snake-like vines
wrapping around my mind
the smell of warm honeysuckles
thick in the air, it was there

standing still, that I found god.

Rock n' Roll to Further Human Enlightenment

2007-09-04T19:36:00.000-04:00

(Don't Fear) The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult

All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain..we can be like they are
Come on baby...don't fear the reaper
Baby take my hand...don't fear the reaper
We'll be able to fly...don't fear the reaper
Baby I'm your man...

Valentine is done
Here but now they're gone
Romeo and Juliet
Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet
40,000 men and women everyday...Like Romeo and Juliet
40,000 men and women everyday...Redefine happiness
Another 40,000 coming everyday...We can be like they are
Come on baby...don't fear the reaper
Baby take my hand...don't fear the reaper
We'll be able to fly...don't fear the reaper
Baby I'm your man...

Love of two is one
Here but now they're gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear she couldn't go on
Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew then disappeared
The curtains flew then he appeared...saying don't be afraid
Come on baby...and she had no fear
And she ran to him...then they started to fly
They looked backward and said goodby...
she had become like they are
She had taken his hand...she had become like they are
Come on baby...don't fear the reaper

Do more than just read the words.
Sing them to yourself. Into the open air.
Breathe them into the depths of your soul.
We can be like they are: This is enlightenment.

F & V: Online

2007-08-18T23:19:00.001-04:00

Here is an online version of Flowers & Vortexes. Enjoy!

Situation Update

2007-08-17T18:48:00.000-04:00

I was very angry but trying to think rationally when I wrote my previous post (a journal entry that really doesn’t belong on this blog, just because it’s not anything as described in the title of this blog, but I digress). Of course, I didn’t beat the man senseless, or even scream at him for that matter, those days are over for me, at least the fighting. But I do feel, since I involved you that I should reveal some relevant information, to 1.) I admit, to further explain but indeed demonize, not the man, but his behavior; and 2.) To clarify the situation to those of you whom I’ve involved.

Okay. This is what I know for sure.

Alex came home from practice the other night and cried, and said he was scared to go back to practice because a man with a red face (indicating that he was angry) walked up to him, after tackling his son, and told him: "you’d better not do that boy!" then stared at him for the rest of the practice, which intimidated my son. (And Alex is the star player; the coach begged me not to take him off the team. Although I hadn’t given it a thought: digressing further.)

I had been meditating on the subject and even practiced it, practiced being cool with this guy, and saying the right things, staying focused as not to stray from the point and respond with character assassinatipns and so forth. We had sent a note, attemting to arrange for the boy’s father to call me when he arrived home that evening. I had it written out, as I said, so I wouldn’t stray from the point of the confrontation.

I had to let this man know this was unacceptable:

Hello. I am James Eric Watkins.

And your name is?

Did you walk onto the field, during practice, where your son and my son were instructed to tackle each other, proceed to yell at my son and continue to stare at him for the entirety of the practice?

And if so, why?

Tackling is a part of tackle football, hence the word tackle.

I would appreciate, in the future, if you have any grievances about the way my son plays or practices tackle football (and Alex didn’t do anything wrong, I know mt son, plus another mother saw the whole thing. They were merely doing as instructed, and the asshole...I mean gentlemen just got pissed about. Just grow up man...digressing...diogressing....yeah....), please address them to his coach, his mother, or myself.

But the guy didn’t give me a chance. He called yelling and screaming, cussing his ass off. I end up just saying: "listen to me, listen to me. No one should intimidate a child" But he wouldn’t listen, just deny that he would do such a thing (he probably goes to church every Sunday morning, the fuck.). So I stopped him and said:" well. I can’t make you be man enough to admit what you did was wrong. But I keep you from doing it again. "Because I’LL BE SITTIN’ RIGHT NEXT TO YA." and I waited for afew seconds. No response. So I hung up.

So I called the president of the football league to arrange a meeting, with the coach, myself, the guy, and the president, just before practice. The meeting never happened. Practice was cancelled, and I’m not sure the guy would have shown anyway. I was the only one at the park, waiting like dumbass in a fucking hail storm, come to find out the man had expressed concern to the president about what I might do to him. How guilty is that...digressing..digrossing...yeah

All I wanted to do was to get my point across that this, again, is just unacceptable behavior for an adult to display:

Okay. I’m going to be brief and to the point, actually three points.

First, I would ask that you allow me to say my piece, completely, before responding, without interruption.

I have three points to make:

1.) No parent, including myself, has the right to speak in an intimidating way (attempting to frighten my son, so he would avoid tackling the man’s son) to a child while they are at football practice, especially another parent’s child.

2.) Intimidating another parents child is unacceptable behavior.

And 3.) I would appreciate in the future, if you have grievances about the way my son plays or practices tackle football, please address them to the coach, his mother, or myself.

Thank you for your time.

The guy won’t do it again. I’m sure. I’ve outed him to the president, the coach and several parents. Plus, I think he’s felt a little intimidated himself as of late, so I’ll just let it go.

I think I’ll just write the guy a letter, so I can have closure, and just continue to be....

Thanks guys. I love you.

your favorite lunatic, James

Roll One!

2007-08-14T22:37:00.000-04:00

Okay. Here we go. I’m being tested. To see if this enlightenment stuff has any real weight to it. I know it does mind you. but do I have it? I mean do I really have it? What it takes to take the high road. My son comes home from football practice. (We didn’t have the fucking money, but hey, I’ll go without so he can have a chance to have what I didn’t. you know the fucking story right?)

Anyway my boy is good. (It’s not cause he’s my boy. He’s a natural at everything) He makes a tackle tonight. The boy’s father yelled at my son. Told him something to the effect of "you don’t do that boy!" or some such shit. Alex told me, and I fucking (I’m so predictable) went the fuck off. I wanted to know the boy’s father’s name. Come to find out he lives right down the fucking road. I rush to the car. Tammy’s screaming "please no. I don’t have bond money. I have no money. There’s only enough gas for me to get to work tomorrow. You’re above this. You are above this. You’ve came so far. You are...."

Whatever it was I stopped. I will try to handle this like an adult without violence. In an ideal conversation I might say, or hopefully walk up to him and say: "I couldn’t wait to meet the man who intimidates a nine-year-old boy at a football practice...for tackling another boy, who happens to be his son, in a tackle football practice where they are instructed to do as such. I am James, the nine-year-old boy’s, Alex’s, father. And what might your name be, I’d call you sir, but I’m not sure the term applies to anyone who would display such behavior, to a child no less.
But face to face. Man. I don’t know. This isn’t just an issue. This is my son. I need to meditate. I’m sending my number for the man to call me. I hope I can be cool. I want to. This is just unacceptable. I’ll have to be there. with him. All the time now. The heat’s too much for. I nearly had a heat stroke a few years back, I’ve been ruined everysense. Bla...bla...boring noise....
Maybe meeting in the middle of my bipolar madness is the way. Something like. I’m James. Alex’s dad. Imabout the crazy mother fucker I know, and I live just right down the road from ya. So next time you address my son in that manner, I’m gonna come down there and split your fucking head wide-open. So. Do we understand each other?

"Roll another one, just like the other one."

Meditate.
Translate this anger
into positive energy.

Did I mention roll one?

For Lori

2007-07-31T17:28:00.000-04:00

Your Eyes

a rare kindness
I've seen in your eyes,
felt in the reflections cast

from the waters of your soul,
of your pain, of your love . . .
scattered from the surface

like light into my eyes.

oh but I see you.

clearly.

as if you were
standing
right in front of me.

a saddened kindness
rising up from the depth
in your eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I know all too well
that there are no words to suffice
when someone we love passes away,
especially when that someone is our father.

These are just some of my thoughts and feelings.
I love you, Lori. You are as special as one can be.

And my soul aches for you.

~ James

2007-06-29T23:42:00.000-04:00

It seems I will never escape the nightmares that have plagued my sleep for many, many years. I have a great deal of poems that have never made the leap to a forum in which they could be read by others, probably a book or two of them, at least. But picking up one of these "stray" pieces of paper today, I am reminded of the constant battle that I am forced to live with, to sleep with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Burn Mark

I’ve never used
this old desk – as a man.

I sat here, but not here
talking on the telephone – as a child.

This burn mark
it’s from dad’s cigarette
Merit I think it was.

I touch it, move
my finger over it
back and forth
the width of it.

And somehow
by touching it, I am
closer to him

to that time.

Nightmares.

Nightmares: every night
last time dad was older
we were running toward
each other, shooting our guns.

He has been gone for thirteen years.
But when, when will I find peace?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lately I can’t seem to find the poems.
I’ll write three pages of warm-up poetics
and end up writing a haiku that no one will ever read.

I don’t know where they’ve gone.
I’ve become every song. "Ground control to Major Tom."
I am the poetry. I am poetry. I have become the poetry.
It stands from my every pore, worships the haze of light
that surrounds the night and the moon on a hazy hot evening in June.
Where have all the poems gone.
Have they passed away.
Have I said all there is
to say.
Voices drift afar
far the friendships they once were.
But why?
Focus. Where are the poems.
Where have all the poems gone.
Where do they sleep.
Do they creep
between the cracks
beneath my feet
or drift far into the heavens
like smoke twists into outer space
separates and dissipates, communicates
a language unknown but universal
to the stars.
Where have all the poems gone.
Have they passed away
given way to Marx’s herd mentality
thinking patterns underneath
an empty night sky?

microscopic drop
awakens anticipation
only to stay dry

Expressions

2007-06-13T02:57:00.000-04:00

Click on the title to view the newest edition to POL.

I'm just gettin' started.

Eat Sand

2007-05-21T23:09:00.001-04:00

So. I was over at my brother Mike’s and I saw a photo of soldiers huddled, squatted, probably praying. And I remember mention of a phone call of a phone call at 3:00 am from Iraq. My cousin Ritchie, he’s a young pup in a big dog’s war. I warned him. But he heard only the sound of freedom, freedom from his parents. Now. Now he’s in a war. The phone call. He was distraught over a friend, a friend that had been by his side through training, through battle, through it all. And now he was gone. Walking into the room. He stood by the window, took a drawl off his cigarette. Said something to Ritchie. And jumped out of a three story window to find his death lying on the ground below. He said he wished he had listened. That his views had changed. That people are people. And that they shouldn’t kill each other. But to this young man, death was preferable to life in a war in Iraq. Be strong soldiers. Be strong. Eat sand. Reflect when the time is right. But for now. Just be strong. And eat sand. But come home alive...with your mouth parched. Ready to drink your freedom...from war

Everything is Broken up in Dances

2007-05-13T11:02:00.000-04:00

smile in the sunlight of a beautiful
Mother's
Day

Paper

2007-05-13T10:53:00.000-04:00

Glowing white accepts me
my words

for whom we are
realizes

how far I’ve come

that it will take a lifetime
to overcome these memories
of crying, barely able to count

bleeding by......mother’s hand.

Rubbing tears
and hate
with blood
onto my tiny beaten face

I stare into the bottom
of pain
of the kitchen garbage can
through this shapeless blur

and there, staring back at me
my new-to-me white shirt
lies crumpled
and torn
streaked with red

On some level, my sympathy
allows the man to understand

but he will never.

The child remains
on the floor
with another nosebleed
because he didn’t wind

the vacuum cord up properly.

"Mother did it need to be so high?"

To Be Eaten By Worms

2007-05-12T22:03:00.001-04:00

Click on the title to read my latest
academic (for the most part) paper.

I had but one true criticism:
In the last line of the first paragraph,
"A bit too poetic, James, for a formal academic paper."
~ Philosopher, Becky Meadows-Wilson (this I can handle)

balance (revised)

2007-04-30T22:56:00.000-04:00

Her fullness
accentuates
multifaceted points of light
beams, streams, star-like
gleams penetrate blueness
of night, falls upon my feet
in between shifting shadows
of tree's leaves and branches.

Ours is a love affair
a token from the beginning of time
unspoken, unbroken throughout tunnels
funnels of centuries and minds

I come alone
to bask in her
brilliance, to listen
to be heard . . . without a sound

Universal emotions
our affections
mutually radiate far into the blackness

And in the midst
of our
unconditional love
I find

balance

Earth Day

2007-04-21T23:05:00.000-04:00

April 22 is Earth Day.

Cherish your earth every day.
Celebrate it, honor it, appreciate it,
learn ways to protect and preserve it,
teach and encourage others to do the same, on Earth Day.
She’s beautiful. She’s ours, and we are hers. Let us love her.

Be Transformed

2007-04-20T01:01:00.000-04:00

Do not conform any longer
to the pattern of this world,
but be transformed by the renewing
of your mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Romans 12:2

I view Christiananity and the bible
as parts of a larger whole, a pool
of knowledge to gather from.

I found this quote worthy.
Furthermore, it seems to encourage
a truly enlightened state of mind.

And now, a Cherokee Prayer:

O' GREAT SPIRIT
help me always
to speak the truth quietly,
to listen with an open mind
when others speak,
and to remember the peace
that may be found in silence.

My point is just love each other.
"Why don't we listen to the voices in our hearts?
Cause then I know we'll find we're not so far apart." ~ Uriah Heep

Absorb every moment
as if it were about to be
gone.