Inspired by a Creative Commons stock photo taken by Julien Bachelet

"One in the Morning"

2-20-18

One in the morning
Desk lamp still burning
Staring at a black screen
Unsure what to write next
What has never been seen?
Or put into readable text?

Pulling an all nighter
Hoping for something brighter
Imagining a brand new scene
To make minds wonder and think
Throwing everything at this project
Even the damned kitchen sink

One in the morning
How can it still be?
Just realized the clock is stuck
But doesn't matter to me
The sun is rising, what luck
I'll write about the sunrise, see
And maybe something about a duck...

There have been those that say that I'm at my best when I'm writing poetry. And I think there's some truth to that, But whereas many poets adopt signature styles or themes or motifs, I refuse to. As “refined” as poetry often seems to be, the thing that I like most about much of my own poetry is that it's unrefined. I feel that what makes the best poetry is raw emotion and unfiltered thinking. Most of my best poems are products of sheer inspiration.

That isn't to say you shouldn't slave over a poem. There are a few that I have, and I always feel unhappy with those. I've come to feel that no poem is ever truly complete without a reader, and the poem actually completes itself within the reader. Most of my poems can have multiple interpretations and are left open-ended quite intentionally.

Poetry is a way for me to share ideas and concepts that I feel mere prose do not properly capture. This necessarily means that I often abandon rhyme scheme, but not always. I tend to use stanzas, but not always. There isn't one poem I can really look at and say: “That's definitely my poem.” I purposely do not have a favorite way to write poetry. It is just what it is for me.

The reason that I use the idea of “from the pages of spiral notebooks” as the overarching “theme” of my poetry is that in many cases, that's where most of my poetic work has come from. Some of my poems came from scrawls in the notes of various classes over the years. Many literally came from spiral notebooks dedicated to stream of consciousness and journal writing. Yes, even now as many are input into a phone or typed on a computer in their initial form still have that free spirit to them.

The idea of poetry for me is that each individual piece has its own voice, its own purpose, and its own personality. They are blossoms, each with its own DNA and individual spirit. Over the years, I've pruned the garden for poems that lacked flow or essential purpose, but the misfits are usually left alone. The variety is what I appreciate most about my own work. I want it to stay random and spontaneous. If I work too hard on one poem, what it does say for my others?

These are just thoughts on my own poetry. When it comes to others' poetry, my viewpoint is rather different. I fully appreciate the blood, sweat, and tears that go into many poems, how carefully many words are chose, how the rhythms and meter are so carefully crafted. Once I tried to do that with writing lyrics, and sometimes a lyric still comes along, but I no longer expect them.

Poetry is whatever it is to you, but more importantly, a poem is at its best when it completes itself in the reader's mind. That's what poetry is for me.

"This is Our Triumph" is a free verse poem about taking control of your own life by choosing your own road. It's based loosely on the inspiration of a stock photo.

"This is Our Triumph"

All bundled up
My bag is packed
Only the clothes on my back
And what's in my modest pack
Are all that I have
I leave the rest
Behind

This is our triumph
To bring only
What we need
To free ourselves
Of the excess
To only be us
Free

This is our triumph
To take this journey
The travel itself
The adventure
The road our home
Wandering yes but not
Lost

by R.A. Rowell; Co-Owner of Intent-sive Nature & the Brand Shamans network

"The Eulogy" was originally a creative piece written for a college Communications class assignment.

He was seen by many, but only understood by few. Sometimes he stated the obvious, but sometimes it was news. He loved the scent of coming spring, and even the death of fall. He heard so much nonsense, but found a way to make a little sense of it after all.

This is a tribute to the passed soul of a poet, a teller of both tall tales and the stark realities with which they contrasted. Some of his dreams were never realized, but through his memory hopefully some of them shall be. He wanted most to be remembered for the good things he left behind, and so he shall.

He soothed and calmed, as well as puzzled and befuddled through his countless works, the numerous verses and the many stories he wrote that seemed to have no real ending. But that was just the point. For him, the Universe was far too infinite to define, as hard as he tried to do just that. He gave up on defining existence long ago, for he nearly ignored defining his own.

He tasted bitter defeat in love far too many times, and to give so much love unrequited stings far more than most contended souls could imagine. Eventually, his luck finally turned and he found happiness, or at least, he learned to be content with what he got. He was never happy with the world in which he lived, and perhaps he was childish in his view that things were so unfair. But it was just how he was. He let everyone know that he never really wanted to grow up. In his mind, he was always in some ways still a child.

He loved sports, and while he lacked the talent to play them well at any true level of competition, it didn’t stop him from writing prolifically about them. Sometimes it was for his profit, but often more for his pleasure. But for the most part, in his mind, he was always in the backyard of his imagination playing out some outrageous adventure, except sometimes what he thought was imaginary, was actually true.

For the better part of his later life, he spent most of his time busy being a kid with his own kids, and perhaps, he spent his whole life just for that. Growing up for him was just an inconvenience. Anytime he got to be a kid again, he did. His children were his greatest inspiration, and he once said he was absolutely blessed to be so lucky.

One of his greatest wishes was to die before his faculties were taken away from the ravages of advancing age that so often claim them. Sure enough, in all of his eighty years, he never lost them. When he was discovered having passed overnight, by his bedside was yet another work, the epic poem about his life which he had started several years before. At first, it seemed that it was still technically unfinished, but as we all know, sometimes having that definite ending takes away from the story. For, as he once wrote in a famous essay, “How many lives end before we can define a happy conclusion to them and how do we know that the most important accomplishments are obvious to everyone?” So many of his were, indeed, but perhaps, he left more than we even realize.

As I read the final lines of his last poem, I realize that for all his struggles to write that perfect ending for his life, he truly did. His final line reads so simply yet eloquently: “In the end how we have played the game of Life is far more important than the final score.”

"Hold Onto Me" is a poem about a guy who just can't seem to let a beautiful girl out of his mind, heart, and soul, because he feels like nothing without her.

2-7-2018

Hold onto me
If you let go
I may fall
And shatter

But the brown-eyed goddess
Says to me, "If I love you
I must set you free"

I shudder and shake
Unsure why she should
Let me go so soon

Hold onto me
I say to her
Your beauty
Is magic I need

"You have it within you"
She says to me
"To be free and fly"

But I will never forget
The touch of her skin
The soft of her hair
The warmth of her smile

"This is not right"
She says to me
"You will find yourself"

Somehow...
Someway...

I want to believe her
Even still today

2-3-2018

I dream the dream
I talk the walk
But will I ever truly
Walk the walk?

Talk and talk
As we try to walk
Our dream in the distance
We forever stalk

I wish I were
Made of finer stock
I wish my resolve
Were of harder rock