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June 21, 2011

I was going through some old poems today because my friend Charlie and I decided to have a small poetry reading. It’s one of the things that I enjoy most about meeting up with him, because we always get giddy about sharing our newest creative endeavors with each other. It always ends up inspiring each of us to better than the other. But I put that modestly, since we both know that I’m always going to be better than him at everything. Yes, everything.

But on a slightly more serious note, I came across the following poem. Most of the time, when I go through my old work, I just get some pretty good laughs. But once in a while, I’ll find something that surprises me. This is one of those poems which  I only vaguely remember writing, but yet am somewhat proud of.

If I remember right, I wasn’t entirely sure of the whole message I was trying to get across with this poem, but I think I was trying to grasp a similar concept that I wrote about in my “Patience.” post. As a creative writer, I’m always trying to push myself beyond ideas and concepts that even I understand at the time. It’s kind of cool to see that I was thinking about the same idea but couldn’t very clearly articulate it until a year and a half later. That’s often the case with my poetry, songwriting, and fiction, which tend to be pretty abstract for the most part. Then my nonfiction/blogging/journaling comes in later, once I’ve stewed the concepts over well enough to articulate more clearly. I guess it’s kind of my system; my process. But if you read this poem and then read my post on patience, I think you can see what I’m talking about. Everyone needs some kind of system. This, I think, is a little insight into my process of interpreting the world.


Today I heard a strange sounding voice

that seemed as if it had something to say

I couldn’t quite make it make sense,

maybe it was my own head playing tricks,

for sometimes strange sounds are made by rain.

Either way, I’d like to wait until tomorrow

to figure it out, for I’d rather watch the sun go down

Yesterday’s tomorrow I shut the door

the opening let in the wind again

Could that sound be the sound of the squeaky floors?

Is it the voice I once heard,

or thought I heard once before?

Either way, I’d like to wait until tomorrow

to figure it out, for I’d rather watch the sun go down.

Yesterday made me lose my senses

and yet I never left.  I think I need to leave.

As I went to have a stroll

a carousel I found

going ‘round

and ‘round

and ‘round

It somehow seemed familiar,

it somehow seemed the same

I’m somehow feeling dizzy

And yet I think I’ll stay

Yesterday I made my way home to find that nothing changed

Today, the tapping on the window pane sounds like a grey grenade

Or is it that crazy voice again

but this time in an angry yell?

If it is, I’m still afraid

This could be anything

Can dead things speak in sounds so distinct?

If it happens again tomorrow

then I’ll know it’s real

and then I will respond

Today I sat there waiting for

the voice that never came.

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