Random Poetry Drizzle: Ode to a Lonely Icicle

Hello there, little icicle,
How lovely do you sway,
My cheeks are frozen
But you were chosen
To melt my heart today.

Yes I am romantic,
Please! Stay awhile.
Won't let it go
Made it so
Frozen, my heart in your smile.

Is this the case? No.

You're cold, dank, damp
Hard, uncompromising,
Not tantalizing
Not tasty, melt too hastly
Little piece of a tiny cloud melt in the mind of a fantasizing
Writer's Cramp.

Faith Is Hard

I hate the word spiritual.

That's probably the wrong word to say.  Rather, I detest with every fiber of my being that degenerate word.  It is not an adjective, it is not a noun, or an adverb, and it cannot even begin to describe what it is aspiring to.  In fact, the only proper meaning for this word is that it gives a proper definition to those who choose to ascribe themselves to such weakness.

The spiritual person is not a person of faith.  They are a person "of all faiths," never being held down to one dogma or another.  They take freely from all, be it Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, even Wicca and Satanism at times.  Unfortunately, these spirituals have never studied the works of Paul, or the Torah.  They could not define what the Qur'an means to the nations of Islam, or the multitude of gods that reside within the hearts of Hindus.  There is no study, there is no deep reflection, in fact there is no true faith.

The spiritual person is one that does not offend.  He is not a person of faith, and does not wish to describe himself as atheist or agnostic.  Those are negative words, confrontational words, words that by definition are against religion.  The spiritual person is not up against religion.  The spiritual person merely wants to have nothing to do with it.

They do not see what religion means to an individual.  They see conflict, they see problems without solutions, a world blind that does not want to see.  But this is not what religion is.

Religion is pushing the mountains into the sea, the will of one joined by the force of millions. There is not a single voice, but a chorus of multitudes.  See how the mountains tremble at this force, and the very bones of the earth are shaken from their core.

Religion is the small voice in the corner of a diner, reading texts and asking how ink can cause the mind to reel in joy.  Watch that daughter, see her face as she reads.  Her face is tightened, inquisitive but not fully comprehending.  Then, a moment of clarity, followed by a brief instant of yet more confusion.  Then a dawning, and the eyes lift off the page, and are closed in contemplation.  She finishes her meal, walks out of the diner, and does not change.  There is no revelation, no deep truth revealed that day in a cold diner.  But she is closer.  Ever closer.

Faith is hard.  The mountains will not move alone, nor will the screaming hordes be silenced.  But stand in the storm, see the world through a new lens.  Watch it whirl without contest, and be moved.  Be moved to believe.

Random Poetry Drizzle: An Ode To Coffee

Sing, for the day has begun!
No, no no no I will not escape
This glorious trap of pillows and blankets.
I will be restrained
Til buzzing continues until I find release
And shout, angry at my freedom.

Sing for the day is dismal,
Gray and foreboding with promise.
Oh, joyous foreboding, go away
Until I hear a drip.
A drip.  A slosh, a slip.  That is all
I ask of this day.

Sing the song, embrace the ritual. The ritual of
cleansing.
Clean away the sacrifices of yesterday.
Today's ashen bones are ground, their scent already
Excites the mind with the promise of new life.

And O!  The liquid.  That ruddy muddy liquid
Pours forth from the gods.  In supplication
I hold my hand forward to drink
From the cup of Today, the cup of Awakening.

Sing the Song of Glory:
Ow!  Hot.  Black as tar.  More please.

- Jack Holder

Random Poetry Drizzle: You Will Fail

I will never be Good Enough.

The cold grips at my heart, my stomach,
Steals my breath as it steels my fear
Into Ice, frozen in perpetuum.
I am locked away, and alone.

But warmth comes not from within
Alone, and the hearths without can heat
The heart once lost to frost.

The heart drinks in this ice melt,
And grows strong.  It is toughened by the long winter,
No longer lost on paths of ice and snow.
It has been that way before.

Tomorrow I will learn from today's chill,
Not content to simply stave off cold bones
And Icy veins.
There is more to life than Shivering.

I will Never be Good Enough.  But I will Change Minds.

- Jack Holder

Random Poetry Drizzle: Night Mourning

In night there is Mourning.
Thrice it spins through the air
And settles in joy here.
Let me describe it.

Loss of profound nothing,
Feel the weight of obscure
Pain, what we can't describe
Since it never occurred.

As the lights flicker on
The mind turns inside out
Discovering a lack
Of new paths to turn.

Sleep comes. Sleep goes. Sleep hides.
Where do we go from here?
Right where we were going.
Tomorrow's better.

-Jack Holder

December 2014

Would You Frisk Me?

To whom it may concern,
I don't know what happens in Ferguson, Missouri.  I don't know what's happening in Los Angeles, or El Paso, or Miami, or New York City, or anywhere else that this may happen.  I just want everyone to look at this picture.
It's me.  I'm a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant who can trace his lineage back to the Mayflower.  If you would stop me on the block for walking, then Darren Wilson was right and proper.  But if you would never think I had committed a crime simply because I was walking, then Michael Brown should be alive now.  He was profiled for being black, and young, and obviously guilty of something.
Please don't let this double-standard remain.  Don't let me walk away and he remain to be frisked.  Please don't let this stand.

Breaking the Creative Wall

"Writer's block: hitting your head against a brick wall and expecting silver to gush from the wound."

"Creativity: Spinning rainbows out of ashes."

"Inspiration: The divine reaching down and smacking you with a gold platter."

All written by me.  And all in moments of peak frustration.

Writer's block is something that writers talk about hitting for a certain period of time.  Going months, possibly even years without writing a single word.  It's a phenomena that we don't understand, being unable to strike a key or splash ink on a page without cringing at the very sight of it.  Anyone who declares themselves of the writing persuasion has felt this curse.  I think it hits me about once a week, if not daily.

Frustrations mount in this art.  You look at these words, these meaningless words, and think that your work is nothing more than refuse.  Where is the spark, that inspiration that drove you to the page?  Where are the words that just sing through your mind?  Shakespeare did it, Dickens did it, Fitzgerald did it, and with words that I'm supposedly using.  So why does everything fall flat?

Here's a collective message for all writers out there: your best work will look like your childhood scribbles.  It will never get better, and generally get so much worse as time passes.  Your familiarity, your knowledge of the entirety of the work will make every word seem like it was plucked from the bottom of the creative barrel.  Words that may be splendorous to the populace, will seem passing to your eyes.  And the frustrations will mount.

We do run out of creative thoughts.  I'm not going to lie and say the well within ourselves will never run dry. It shall, and we shall continue writing, and it will be terrible.  But too often we do not draw deep enough, do not go far enough, because for the most part our writings will go unread, our thoughts unspoken, and our dreams unfulfilled.

For any reading this not writing, or performing, or creating, please understand that what you see of our creative selves is the barest sliver of our being.  We try desperately to hide our thoughts as we fling them through the air, hoping that only the best will sail away.  Most writers live in the constant fear that the entirety of their thoughts will be published, will be read by the world.  And that is a darkness, real or imagined, that we perceive in ourselves.  That is why many have writers' block.

There's a problem, and it has been identified.  Great, what's the solution?  What is the curative for this self-inflicted wound?  Simple: being.  Talking.  Doing.  In a word: verbs.

Verbs are the lifeblood of creativity.  Actions, life, the lifeblood of creativity are all described in verbs.  Going out with friends.  Getting so drunk you fall over.  Walking reading playing talking praying laughing weeping living.  These verbs fill us with experiences, with emotions that we can translate into thought and beauty.  Just go out there and live, in whatever way your please.

My goal each day is simple.  Write five hundred words a day, of something.  Today, I've succeeded.  Tomorrow, maybe not.  But every day needs verbs that do not start with sleep, or eat, or watch.  Writing is a by-product of life, and enhances its cause to the fullest effect.  Writing is life's grace.

Hmmm...I think this might actually have some merit.

Stay strange, folks