Derailed

Talon Ribsam

Derailed

 

Someone cut my brake line while I was having a drink on Tuesday night.

Now      I’m zipping past blurred lights, remembering thrills, remembering pointless guilty pleasures, catching glimpses of mechanical parts rusting themselves for the machine rather than chasing ideals before due for inspection.

Now I’m watching movies in fast forward.

 

December Rose

Talon Ribsam

 

December Rose

 

My my, what a flower! Bursting

Through the black and white frost

Just to cast a smile towards a weakened sun

 

Gusts of crushing wind came slapping

Viciously against the pink petals

But not every natural beauty is a fragile one

 

Upright, facing the faded flash

The soft heroine stood strong and alone

Waiting patiently in a fluorescent pose

 

My my, what a flower! Dangling

Over a bed of death, eluding

The coffee-stained expiration of a December rose

 

~ for grandma~

Ars Poeticunt

Talon Hunter

Ars Poeticunt

I.

Silky smoke floats from a Marlboro Edge,

stinging weary eyes burned out from

pixelated computer screens.

Stacked due dates overwhelm the poet

searching for the right words.

II.

Quiet sleep language mumbles from her throat,

knocking me off my rolling chair

. She says, in delirium, a bird flies between us,

but nothing could ever come between us.

III.

Why do I wish for sleep when slumber will condemn me?

Why do I resent her paraphrased yet elegant dreams?

Do I have a rendezvous with failure,

or is her bird a reminder to soar?

IV.

Capital J’s dominate the page, while numbers batter my brain like swords on shields. Dates. My love sings a tune for the flight as I gather my wings and jump; no one knows how we sidestep ravines or how we laugh demons into the underworld. These fingers don’t flap, rather, they tap keys and grip pencils, scribbling all the wrong words.

V.

Muses often inspire by example and conceal reasonable doubt. I am fickle and jaded for my muse is my rambling mind, cursing me with fatigue and perching me on the highest tower, expecting a leap into black holes and untested Waters, haunted by historical penmen.

Work in Progress

Although photographs are seemingly the new “timeless” descriptions of people, I am working on a piece called “Time Capsule”. In the piece, I will be describing every aspect of myself in the most realistic, yet poetic, tone in order to maintain a larger image of myself than one pixels can capture. I don’t want my grandchildren’s children to think I was a standard, one-dimensional man with no soul or feeling to distinguish him from the rest of humanity. I believe this work will require more drafts than any other piece I’ve done and I hope to gather some assistance from fellow writers and bloggers. To be continued…

Days of Calling

Homeless children scurry the broken streets,
Trying to find hidden secrets left in the alleys,
They yell and screech nicknames and “Over here!”

Businessmen walk coldly by with briefcases
Filled with files claiming someone else’s money,
And the dirty children starve

One time I heard a boy of 7 or 8
Call for help like  no other had before
His mother had died but he didn’t know

Dumpsters lined the buildings and cats
Strutted like drunk women leaving
Bars on a clear Saturday night in the city

One wrong turn and a girl found herself
Slammed to the ground by a dark man
Calling her a sexy little bitch,

But miraculously she was saved
By a girl of misfortune, a friend in the streets
She was called a “hero.”

Magnetism

You’re a special kind of beautiful
                       tempting me to kiss you
Many faces pass me by
                      with lust pinching my nerves

You’re a special kind of beautiful
                      tempting me to kiss you
I don’t want to straddle you
                      I don’t need you to find my soul

Charcoal  lashes curled elegantly
                     overtop frosted gray marbles
And thin silent lips with an impatient
                     glow of loneliness
How that freckled canvas moved me…

You’re a special kind of beautiful
With a voice as delicate as glass,
                     I am hypnotized.

Day 2: Excerpt from my Graduate Program Application

This is just the first paragraph that asked what Creative Writing meant to me. Let me know what you think!

As cliché as it sounds, when I create poetry or short stories I feel a distinct freedom many people can never grasp. Writing creatively requires an artistic touch and a profound imagination in order to find the perfect pieces to the puzzle and assemble them in a unique fashion.  The importance lies in the process and the product, as both are mechanisms for expression, coping, and learning.  Some people use music or art as their medium of expressing feelings and dreams; that’s what creative writing accomplishes for me. The power that accompanies original writing is invaluable. I can explore the craggy cliffs of Ireland or the fictional medieval marketplace in the great city of Puckshire while sitting alone at the Inkwell in Long Branch. I can force you to loathe a doctor for refusing to treat a single father’s work-related gash because he didn’t have the proper insurance documentation. I can illustrate the filthy factory scene where his injury took place using only descriptive words. I can break your heart with applicable tortures, I can lift your spirits, I can desecrate your beliefs, and I can beguile your spouses into pages plastered with words all from my very own bleeding pen. In times of heartache I’ll always have a paper sanctuary, and in times of despair I’ll always be able to visit my personal version of Neverland. There is a particular level of discipline required to thrive in the challenging environment of the creative writing process. The researching of form specifications and appropriate synonyms in the midst of writer’s block can be a daunting task, but the challenge and possibility of resulting greatness encourages me to thrust through any obstacles that present themselves. Creative writing means that I can express myself however I please for no particular purpose and a large portion of people can fall in love with my interpretations. Maybe I’ll never become a Stephen King or George R. R. Martin in terms of fame and fortune, but if I can obtain the same benefits out of creative writing that spurred these greats onward in their careers, then it’s all worth it in the end.