Hello, little gypsy

Done your little seduction

Your eyes leave me tipsy

A perfect production

Such dramatic flair

My love I openly declare

I can't help but stare

As you slip away

 

Into your practiced

Shadow dance of obscurity

Fade off into anonymity

A fruitless invisibility

Trying to believe

In having invulnerability

This emotion overload’s

Not just a trite ritual

 

Oh, little gypsy

You’ve so captivated

All of my curiosity

Lured me in accidentally

With your friendly generosity

I cannot be aggravated

Because you have

Become so dear to me

I love you forever

My little gypsy

Epitome of all my dreams


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

Starting with the definition of nothing

And moving onto to something less

Feeling emptiness is only the beginning

There’s a feeling even worse

 

I hear her purr, but it’s not for me

Jealousy boils within, but that’s not for me

There is far more to her than any eye can see

Even when she looks inside herself

The shadows and silhouettes of demons

Are all that she ever sees

 

Doing her best to satisfy her demons

Satiate their appetites of lust

On her own after years of shattered trust

There is so much beauty amazing

Under that blackened emotional rust

 

Her mysterious, curious gaze

A light about her slender frame

Cutting through the thickest haze

Her precious brown locks

Frame her pretty face

You see on her face a smile

But behind it confusion and haste

In a hurry to figure out what

She is supposed to do next

 

I’ve read her eyes

Seen no life in them

Her body may be warm

But her soul is cold

And her heart is stone

Her pheromones contagious

Men are heartbreak prone

To her wild emotions outrageous

 

Animal passions

No place for compassion

What you’d expect

You got the opposite reaction

Feeling ignored, truly so

Critical analytical mind

Picking out all your flaws

Spitting them back at you

Without any true remorse

 

Always deeply affected

No one can forget her face

She is a scar on the memory

And a scar on the heart

Once you discover how deep she is

You never really pull yourself back out



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

All the color’s drained from your face
O Shania, why do you hide
In such a cold, dark, empty space?
Bring your talents of words out here
To no doubt a far better place

Bullshit, she'll cry, this is my time
That I can spend alone, you know
My isolation is no crime

Shania, you can’t hide away
‘Cause of the horrific events
Of one disturbing, fateful day
You’re so pretty when no one else
Can tell, ‘cause they don't take the time
To look at how you can light up
When you flash that delicate smile

Shania, share with me your words
No I‘ve no plans of submitting them
For some literary awards
Such recognition's useless, really
Your imagination I’ll defend

Yes, seems I've found some special gift
In finding you here, ‘cause of you
These wild thoughts I can now sift through
See naked truths we so oft miss


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2003-2004

As someone who grew up with aspirations of being a novelist, you would think that I have constantly had many plots and themes running around my head on a daily basis. You would be correct. Actually, I still do have story ideas that pop up quite numerously on a weekly basis, but most of them I don't bother writing down anymore. That's because I gave up on trying to write novels. Here's why: I can't actually fill out a plot.

It's not for lack of trying believe me. I've been trying to write a novel since I was in junior high back in 2001. I've started and stopped dozens of projects, just because I didn't know where they would go next. Truthfully, my ideas were really those of flash fiction proportions, but I had this obsession with trying to string them all together. For whatever reason, no story idea I have is ever small. The problem is I map it all out, then completely change my mind, making everything I wrote obsolete or pointless.

I've always had this belief, however, that fiction should reflect the often seeming randomness of life. I used to have this saying, things are not as random as they first appear. There are patterns to everything, but these patterns are often so cosmically huge that they are pretty much invisible to most people. I've identified a few shocking patterns over the years that connect a lot of things that seem incredibly unrelated, and these are the patterns that I try to incorporate into my storytelling.

It would seem then that it's not that I'm a bad storyteller. I'm just horrible with plot. I can't even compose a short story that makes sense, or that's interesting enough, at least. Yet I've never been able to master the art of "flash fiction." It's interesting because that would seem the genre that best reflects my often poetic creative style. But it never really occurred to me to focus on flash fiction because I felt it was too brief for me. I had these grand ideas that I wanted to go on and on about. But since my plots would meander and drag on and go completely off the deep end so often, I've just abandoned them time and time again.

But seriously, the very fact that there is so much written that's all over the place means something. I actually didn't fail in the way that I thought I did. I've always wanted my work to reflect the "ultimate random" which is to say that I always meant my stories to be all over the place. Yet I tried to pull it all together into a traditional story that people could read over tea on lazy summer afternoons. Obviously, that is not what my work is meant to be for. But the work involved in trying to convert all my aborted novels into flash fiction pieces is going to be... interesting.

Anyone who can plot and keep a novel on track - kudos to you! I have the greatest respect for you novelists out there. But I no longer am one. I'm too much of a rambling man, I suppose. That doesn't mean I won't write books, of course. My dream of becoming a published author is still quite attainable. But it would appear that flash fiction will be my calling from now on. Time to figure out how to condense each of my stories into 300 to 1000 words. Oh, hurray.

Have you ever dabbled in flash fiction? I'd love to hear your tips and tricks on how you work on your pieces!

Inside’s a maddening collage

Of vivid mental photography

Some of it dearly beautiful

But a lot of it pitiful

Sad stories repeat and proliferate

As all the tears flood around me

I find it increasingly hard to concentrate

 

Seeing those sad faces over and over

Always the best friend to the pushover

Trying to wake the sleeping children

From under their thick ignorant cover

Too much bullshit that’s been fed

Into their innocent lil’ heads

But truly they understand more

Than is expected and accepted

 

Cursed photographic memory

Forgettable scenes of the nobodies

Unforgettable thru unique perspective

With a mind well cognizant of

The fact we’re far more than bodies

Run by chemical action and reaction

Inside an album of the forgotten

My photographic memory’s a curse

Has me often living in reverse

My only comfort is that things

As they are - could be far worse




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

What a fantastic prelude

To an awakening most rude

You’ve all been blinded by the lies

They’ve made you so confused

What is left to reach for?

What should you awake for?

 

What does tomorrow have in store?

Just to repeat the same old bore?

There is a way out of this loop

Stop looking for secret messages

Hidden in your alphabet soup

 

Don’t let them make you jump

Through another unnecessary hoop

And now you awake anew

As today, you fly the coop



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

I don't recall exactly who this poem was written about, but it's short and sweet. It's upbeat and positive, so I'm happy to share it.

"As the Blue Eyes Explain"

Blue eyes, you came at first as a complete surprise,

Now I look around and see all the truth behind the lies

You unlocked a part of me others could never see

When you look at me - I feel so alive and free

Definitely knowing I will survive, you’ve inspired me

As long as you’re there, though life’s still so unfair

It’s awesome to have someone that cares

 

Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005