Poem: I'll miss absurd solitude

Black Bleakness

Gentle Meekness

Combined with a fierce sense of self

Together a paradox

Yet no conflict is born

Internal or otherwise

Only my own agenda is in play

No other voices to silence

Or give in to

No pressure

Unless I want it

My machine turns

There is warmth with others

Abstract love, fun, and memories

But there is peace here

Though my thoughts can be chaotic

They are familiar

No cigarettes but I have music

And a pen & paper

Even without

I'm not lonely...

(Belart)

Poem: Self Defeat

A guy who believes in nothing
How do you get him down?
A man who can’t express himself in a simple smile or frown
There is nothing you can do
That he himself has not done

For he thinks of all the negative and bad
Before your chance can even be had
A self defeatist some may say
He feels as if he never has his way

Life is unfair he thinks
Then he curses himself for thoughts so weak
Who is on his side if he is not his own ally
Who believes in a man who doesn’t believe

No one
That’s who

(Belart)

Poem: Talking

To talk or not to talk
that is the question
and the direction
of this piece

When a voice is not used
is it to be considered abused
And when it is not loud
you won't connect with the crowd

They say silence is golden
but the silent warrior is olden
now stuck in the past
we now talk so damn fast

Patience is a virtue
let me make my point
the time for you to talk is over
but you like to hear your voice

Is it all vocal narcissism
or is there a point to communicate
if we are silent should we hear
the sound of gesture which is silent

Wait for it
you'll see a sign
something that only talking
will always hide

(Belart)

Poem: A Young Man's Point of View

Break your fast this morning

On these my words of Glory

Be a Champion in the a.m.

And a Conquerer in the p.m.

The World is yours

So take it whelp

You’re a man

You don’t need no help

Don’t be a bitch

Or a pussy made man

In this world

You need to take action

A man takes, burns, and pillages

From other towns and villages

He protects his own though

His women and children

Be a man

Take when you can

With no heed to others

Just TAKE

Fuck Foreigners

Embrace family

Embrace your strength

Flaunt your strength

Don’t show them Weakness

Don’t show them Meekness

They’ll kill your dumb ass

So absurdly fast

We men need to be strong

If not our lives are just plain wrong

What Woman will take us

What life is there for us

…

I Have to ask myself

Can I not care?

About the others here besides me

Who coexist in peace

Fuck that I’m a man

Not a pussy

I’ll shoot them

I’ll stab them

I’ll fucking protect what’s mine

From other pillagers

And would be Conquerors

They may be men

But I’m the fucking Alpha Male

The biggest strongest bastard

In this box

I’ll do what I want when I want.

And NO ONE can stop me

(Belart)

Poem: A Restful Moment In My Life

This Earth is blue
A Cerulean marvel
A watery marble
There are landforms here
On top of the ocean
There's an abundance of air
Always in motion
It's easy to live here
And Cohabitate
Us men, birds, lizards
and other prime-apes

Surround me with wind
Surround me with water
Surround me with fire
Surround me with earth

Surround me with Wind
and its flowing grace
The touch of its breeze
upon my face

Surround me with Water
the cool blue
To wash away my sins
And other things too

Surround me with Fire
its smothering heat
With its Fiery grip
I cannot compete

Surround me with Earth
on the day i die
From ashes to ashes
A man can finally lie

We men are born of the elements
And so shall we die
To turn the great wheel
And to feed the Earth

Return to the great dwelling
Return to the womb
Ashes to Ashes
Body to Earth 

(Belart)

National Poetry Month Submissions!

So National Poetry Month is upon us (this is a holiday???) and I feel that the timing couldn't be better.  I'm going to submit a few poems that I've already written and try to come up with some new content.  I'm not the best poet mind you but my siblings have some of the best poetry I've had the pleasure of reading and some of that greatness had to rub off on me--sike!

I'll try to submit one poem a day for the rest of this week.  It'll be old and new stuff.

Kindle Book Preview: Average Joe and the Extraordinaires

The P.I.

The silence was broken along with Joe’s current train of thought as two voices came closer.  They seemed to be getting louder and angrier as they approached.

“Remember that favor you said that I had.”

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna call that in now.  This is hot stuff!  Big time terrorism, and this boy has something to do with it.”

“This boy has nothing to do with anything.  He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Now that they were right by the doorway, their voices became hushed, but Joe could still make out what they were saying.

“Whatever the case, this guy is my prisoner, and my detectives will interrogate him and get his statement.”

“Listen Carl, I don’t want no damn statement.  I just want five minutes with this kid to see if he ran into one of my colleagues in there.”

Carl: “That’s why I brought you here.  I didn’t walk you down here for my health.”

There was a bit of silence.

“I’ll be honest, Carl.  Some of what we’ll be talking about you shouldn’t be hearing.”

Carl: “What’s the point in us even arresting this kid then?”

"You can ask him anything you want, I just want to get him off the record."

The one named Carl let out a huge sigh.

Carl: “Hank, if you do anything to mess up this case, I’m gonna deck you.  Your big ugly gray mug is gonna go spinning into orbit.”

Hank: “Five minutes, Carl, that’s all.”

Carl: “You got your five minutes. Use ‘em wisely.  And he better be in usable condition once you’re done with him.”

There was silence followed by footsteps, then more silence.  The wooden door creaked open and in entered one of the talking men.  Joe guessed this one to be Hank, who, to Joe, looked very old and tired.  The man’s clothes matched his hair, gray and unkempt.  He bore down on Joe with his grayish green eyes and Joe struggled to meet his gaze briefly and resigned to stare at the floor.  Joe’s brief glimpse showed him that the man wasn’t too tall.  The way his shoulders set and all of the frown lines on his forehead gave Joe the distinct impression that this Hank was not a patient man.

Joe dared to look up at the man again; his grandpa wouldn't approve of him looking away.  The man’s gaze was fiercely trained on Joe, and Joe began to fidget and squirm in his chair.  He tried to sit as still as he possibly could, barely managing to breathe in the process.  Joe let out all the air as slowly as he could.  As the man approached, Joe tried to offer a bit of awkward stilted conversation.

Joe: “Hello, sir.  How can I help you, sir?”

Hank: “By dropping the crappy pleasantries, this ain’t the prom, kid.  You’re wasting both of our time.  Now, you can answer my questions like a good little boy.”

Joe’s stomach twisted and turned.  He didn’t know what this man wanted or even if he had the answers that he was looking for.  It had just dawned on him how much trouble he was in.  He was a terrorist — to the rest of the town at least — and would be tried as such.  They’ll probably give me to a firing squad for treason or something, he thought.

The old guy loudly snapped his fingers.

Hank: “Pay attention, Joe Shmoe!  I don’t have a lot of time.”

Joe looked the man in the eyes and nodded.

Joe: “Yessir.”

The old guy pulled a chair from outside the room and sat. He studied Joe for a moment and found his opening.

Hank: “What happened in that stadium, kid?”

Joe didn’t know where to start.

Joe: “Well … um … me and my friends wanted to see the Pickers, and Mod—”

Hank: “Enough foreplay, kid.  Start from the explosion.  You were there for that, right?”

Joe: “Yessir.  It happened during the second quarter.  I was watching the game when it happened.”

Hank: “What happened to your friends?”

Joe: “I don’t know.  I didn’t see them after.”

Hank: “But they were sitting right next to you, right?  How did they get out but not you?  What the hell were you doing in there that whole time?”

Joe froze.  He didn’t know what to say.  Most of what he did earlier was probably very illegal.  The old guy was sharp as a tack.  He was quick to notice Joe’s hesitation.

Hank: “What the hell were you doing in there, kid!  Talk!”

Joe pushed his chair back and spelled it out for Hank.

Joe: “N-no.  I want a l-l-lawyer.”

Joe tried his best to sound a lot bigger than he actually was or felt.  Hank had risen out of his chair so fast and with such fury that he looked like a man half his age.  Joe sprung backwards and out of his seat as he tried to scramble away.  There was venom in the old man’s glare.  He screamed at Joe.

Hank: “Do I look like a damned cop?”

After that his voice lowered to a subdued growl, but his demeanor was no less intense.

Hank: “I wasn’t born yesterday, Joe.  I do know that you were somehow a part of the night’s activities.  You wouldn’t have come out of the building nearly a whole hour later if you weren’t.  Why were you so scared of those security guards at the stadium?  You ran from them like you were running for your life, and the way that you tackled that last one to get outside … you weren’t just scared of getting into trouble or getting a little roughed up.  If that were the case you wouldn’t have so willingly surrendered yourself to the boys in blue.”

Joe stared at the floor and gave a soft shrug.  He honestly didn’t know if he should answer that.

Hank: “Why’d you give up once you made it outside?  If you wanted to get away so bad, why didn’t you try to keep running once you made it out?  What about those guards inside frightened you so much?”

Joe looked at Hank for a while before he decided that he was better off not talking.  He wasn’t sure if it was a bit of savvy that he’d picked up from all those cop shows he watched, or fear that stayed his tongue.

Hank took a moment to reassess the situation and let out a sigh.  He wasn’t dealing with the hardened criminals that he was accustomed to dealing with.  He was dealing with a young teenager.  He needed to change his approach.

Hank: “Listen, kid — Joe.  Anything you say to me now won’t be used against you or those you care about.  I just want answers.  I lost someone in that stadium and I just want to know if you saw them.  Now, can you level with me, kid, we don’t have much time.”

Joe: “Who — who are you?”

Hank: “My name is Borland, Hank Borland.  You’re a kid, so use my last name.”

Joe: “Are you a—”

Hank: “I'm not a cop, but I used to be one a long time ago.  Right now I’m looking for a woman named Dahlila.  Did you see her in that stadium?  About yay high and tougher than Kevlar.”

Joe’s heart and stomach jumped at the name.  He was sure that everything that happened under that stadium had just been an alcohol-induced dream. He was sure he’d never see nor hear of or from Dahlila.  Now Borland was tossing that name out like he knew the woman.

Joe: “Blonde hair?”

Borland: “Where did you see her?”

Joe paused.  He didn’t want to put Dahlila in any danger, and he remembered how he found her, all tied up in the underground part of that stadium.  Who put her there?  Joe’s face must’ve given away his thoughts, because Borland pursued the subject more aggressively.

Borland: “Listen, kid, Dahlila is important to me.  Please!  Tell me where she is.”

Joe: “How is she important to you?  Answer that for her sake.”

Borland pulled out an old and worn-out wallet, and in it sat an old and worn-out photo.  Borland took out the photo and showed it to Joe. 

Borland: “That little girl there is Dahlila when she was younger.  I helped raise her.  She’s as precious as my own daughter.  I need to know where she is.  Please, tell me where she is!”

Borland pleaded his case, not only with his words but with his eyes as well.

Joe had sympathy for the man, and felt he could trust him.  He told Borland about everything except the shape-shifting, because he hardly believed it himself.  Borland was ready at the end of his tale with questions.

Borland: “Do you know where the girls were headed?”

Joe: “I don’t.  We were separated.”

Borland: “I see.  What about the little girl’s name?  Do you remember it?”

Joe: “Her name was Melissa.”

There was a flash of recognition in Borland’s eyes and he whispered, “That’s good,” so low that Joe could barely hear him.