How much of what is written by authors, poets and lyricists is autobiographical?

If we were to write and censor with this in mind, then we wouldn’t allow our minds to soar to the fabulous. Not that I am saying the following poem that I will be “putting out there” in a performance session today is fabulous. Nor am I saying that it is autobiographical. But I am sure the audience will be looking for the elements that are truly me. So I will leave you to contemplate, where did “Pink Lady” come from?

Pink lady

            Lady of the neon light

            Flashy bold, flashy bright

            Eye-popping, traffic stopping

            Brazen lady, city light.

Lady of the Friday lights

Disco cruiser, social boozer.

Flaunty, naughty

Pink Lady, shady lady.

Sunshine baby

What would you have me write,

Aphrodite, in her nightie

stealing out in morning light?

Pink Lady,

Delicious.

Pink Lady,

Wicked.

Pink Lady.

Pink lady

Delicious

– apple of the lovers bite,

Loves to give out true delight

Forbidden as lovers plight.

Pink lady

Bits and tits

– has the room where lovers fits

all their tiny slits and clits.

Pink lady

Fast young lady

Plays Elbow-titty in the city,

playing with the young lads .

Playing fast and hard and gritty.

Pink lady

Sadie

– cleaning lady.

Shining in the darkening night.

Uptight, and out of sight.

Pink lady.

Pink lady

Pity

No longer shining in her city

Now her face is not so pretty.

Sings a sad and lonely ditty.

Pink lady

fading lady

Propping up the dusty bars

Of outback pubs and golf club bars.

Fading like the morning stars

Making eyes at young footy stars.

Pink Lady

Hear your braying,

Don’t you know your old and graying?

Can’t you hear just what they’re saying?

As the gin from you is spraying.

And you’re left their old and swaying

Orderin’ yet another……

Pink Lady

That moment

digs a hole in you

dark and endless

unseen to the eyes

but feels like a sting

every time you breathe.

This hole

needs to be filled

like inter-stellar space,

those vast gaps,

craving intensity

like gravity.

You start putting things in it

all the good things you ever had

all those other moments you knew

all those you remembered

all those you forgot

but it needs a lot

it needs more than that.

So you take your confidence

and you put it in there

and then comes the pride

it doesn’t want to let go

but the hole needs to be filled

so you throw it in there

with all the rest

with all the happiness

you once thought you deserved.

It still craves for more

Then comes another moment:

the moment of choice.

One last choice.

You can put your own self in it

and close the lid;

put a gun in your mouth

and pull the trigger,

or inject yourself with snake venom

and drop dead

right there

right then

to end it

once and for all.

Or:

you can choose to move on

to keep on going

to keep on breathing

keep feeling that sting

again and again

living with this hole inside of you

that you know isn’t even half filled

you know it will require more

you know you will have to feed it

with other good things

but you can choose to live

with the weight

of a memory

of that moment

which took everything away

and choose not to quit –

and the pain, the misery

and everything that comes with the decision

will be all yours.

We are who we choose to be.

– Muhammad Yahya Cheema
Nov ‘07

Some friends you meet on occasion for coffee on a day when you’re free,

Some you meet for a chat which leads to coffee, a meal and maybe a drink even when you have work the next day,

Some you meet only once a year but you have known them for so long that the time between is not so important,

Some are there for you to listen to and others there to talk to,

Some grow distant over the years,

Some are hard to figure out and remain a mystery,

Some are there by extension and are maintained through politeness of conversation,

Some friends you always contact first while others mostly reach out to you,

Some remember your birthday every year,

Some you only hang out with in the presence of another friend,

Some you usually meet one-on-one and others only in a group,

Some share your interests and that is the topic you revolve around for hours on end,

Some teach you something new and inspire you to change/learn/explore,

Some friends just are.

FEASTING ON THE WORD

God’s Word is a must for the Christian life. His Word is life to our soul. His Word is our roadmap to Heaven. His Word brings comfort and peace. A good way to start the New Year is in the Word. His Words are true. They will never fail. We can depend on God’s Holy Word.

         For some years now I have read through the Bible twice every year. If you picture the Bible to be a mighty tree and every word a little branch, I have shaken every one of these branches because I wanted to know what it was and what it meant … Martin Luther

Feed My Soul

Strength for our fainting soul

Strength to make us whole

Peace to our lives each day

A roadmap to lead the way

Love and joy and Heaven too

A lifeline to get us through

Worries and fears dissipates

Fellowship Divine I anticipate

From the throne room of grace’

Till one day we see Thy face

-Brenda A.

i went up to the tree just to see if i could fly from its branches 

but all i could do was look above 

i was met with shady glances

and i wanted 

and i wanted 

to be the spider in the birds nest 

to tag along for a ride or two

to be the window into timelessness

to peer into a different view 

to be the feeling you get when the morning light burrows its way to find you under the sheets

to remind you today is potential

We are alone now and I can see you.  Do you see me?

I love you.  

I can see that you pick your nose and sweat like a pig when you are sick.  You take shits  and smoke your pipe.  You pack it full and inhale deeply.  It is not a form of meditation for you.  You cannot let go.  You cannot give in.  You cannot love (me).  

You text (hugs).  

You neglect/ forget to hug me in person, but I still love you.  

You smile every time.  I see you. 

We despise words on the phone. 

When we are together, they despise us. 

I see that we will never meet.  Eye to eye. 

I only remember the color of one loves eyes.  Grey open spaces. 

Your eyes are heavy, dark.

you have become a chain.  A chain I love. to wear.  

 Do you wear me too?  

 I think you do.  

And we both think we are better than the other.

I wrote this shortly after losing my dad, to sudden illness called A.R.D.S or Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. After battling ards for almost a month they told us he had no activity in his brain, so my brother, step mom and I had to make what to me was one of the hardest decisions of my life to date, and that was to let him go.

This poem tells what I went through during and since that day.

I stood there crying holding your hand
This didn’t go the way I planned

I begged and I pleaded and ask you to stay
as you slowly, quietly slipped away.

I stood there sobbing longing to hear,
“Hey Darlin, How are you? I’m glad your here”

I’ll never hear those words again,
Or see your silly little grin.

Some days I’m angry, some days I cry
Some days I sit and wonder why.

You’d want me Happy, not crying or sad
I’m sorry, I can’t help it I miss you Dad.

Dedicated to my Father, a good man taken way to soon.

By: A.L.E. 9/15/07

Science has proven that people who express their gratitude daily are 25% happier and significantly healthier than those who don’t—and doing it takes as little as a minute a day!

11-23-09 — Monday — I’m thankful that most of the accidents of life are not serious. My son had a straw in his mouth, was running … (I know, I know.  How in the world did I let that happen? Well, guess what?  Kids do stuff when you aren’t looking!)  It was jammed into the back of his throat, apparently not by his sister whacking him with her book, to the right of his uvula across the soft palate.  I am grateful nothing terribly damaging happened though he can’t eat.  It hurts to swallow or yawn and he cried non-stop last night as we tried noodles, Keefer, and other soft foods, finally discovering the only thing that didn’t hurt was milk.  But he hasn’t done any lasting damage.

11-24-09 — Tuesday — Today I spent a 1/2 hour getting PT on my cheek for “clenching” my jaw which has given me TMJ.  And although I am obviously really grateful for this care, I am incredibly grateful to have health insurance. Because this is one of those things that I would not have sought treatment for if I had no insurance.  Or get my eyes checked soon.  Because I’ve been waking up with headaches about three times a week for unknown reasons.

11-25-09 — Wednesday — It’s 5:30 am and I wake early in order to get a minute with my coffee and thoughts before I rouse the children.  I am grateful for these few minutes.  I want to be a more intentional person, directed by purpose rather than the winds of the kids.  Their moods right now are gale winds (especially the tweener) that knock me sideways more often than not.  I am grateful today for new days, second and third and on and on, the chances to make this day a good one. Whatever may have happened yesterday can be set to rest and this day can begin fresh.

11-26-09 — Thursday — Ironically I wrote nothing on Thanksgiving about what I was thankful for, but I enjoyed and was grateful for a full tummy and family to share it with.

11-27-09 — Friday — Something’s going on and I can’t put my finger on it.  But I am feeling funky — Not thankful at all.

Guru ku Pelita ku.. Kamu membuat ku..

Dari tak tau menjadi tau

Dari hitam menjadi putih

Dari keruh menjadi jernih

Dari tak bisa menjadi biasa

Dari gelap menjadi terang

Dari kurang menjadi lebih

Dari kosong menjadi isi..

Dari bodoh menjadi pintar..

Guru ku..akan ku balas apa semua jasamu

Sekarung berlian kah?

Segunung emas kah?

Atau dengan semua mutiara di seluruh samudra..

Tidak guru ku..tak kan mampu ku bayar jasa mu..

Hanya doa ku agar tuhan menepatkan mu Di surga yang tak berbatas waktu..

‘Gimme the money!’

he said
in my face
my face staring straight
long lashes pointing like cutty grass
sharpening a knife
on edge

‘Gimme the keys!’

she said
between two unfinished corners
footsteps sidestepping a rusty nail
tripping over indignity
as it crawled between the wall space
catacombs

‘Gimme the fucking money!’
‘Gimme the fucking keys!’

a grab, a push and a shove
takes the piss, misses the bowl by a mile
handbags with long straps are useless.
Max was only vinyl like a 45
with a great big hole in the middle
only good for one thing

my arm hurts my shoulder plug
ripped from its wall socket
my power bill standing on end
like the hairs on the back of my neck
I guess he got the money
I can’t figure out where he left the keys

© Copyright 2009 Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

I was born twice

Look at me different

I didnt ask for this

Im gods special child

I have questions though

What’s my gender

Am I more women or man

You decide

What would you do?

The Art

It wasn’t the way I walked

Or the style of my hair

It wasn’t even my smile

Or my personality, which you knew nothing of

It was who you thought I was

A Conscious kind man who helped his mama do the dishes

And the cooking and the cleaning

Who let his sisters braid his hair full a ribbons and pretty things

Who scratched his knee and wasn’t afraid to cry

Because tears don’t make me less of a man

Who thought heels were just as sexy as jordans on anyone on any day

Who shot a pimp for beating on a woman

Who raised pets like children and dreamed of fatherhood

I would paint these things for you

the sky line with multiple horizons

And shades

Endless hues of possibilities

Of who I would be to you

I would please you

From your toes to your thighs and up up up and back down down down

I’d please you until you cried

And after the painting and the panting

I’d unravel you like a ball of yarn

And learn more of your more intimate things

the absent fathers, the heartbreaks, the rape, the doubt, the shapeless attitude, bleakness, strife

the bubble gum poppin needy love me-s the teach me knew things

and then I’d paint some more

The thought of becoming the mother of my child

My submissive bride

Who would run bubble baths for you and rub your back?

I’d paint the story of the rest of our lives

Mistakes

Misbehaving love

Taming

Taking it slow

Who would paint these things

And not complete them

Who would earn your trust

And bend it

Make it heel

Like a horse

Who would earn your respect

As a means to make you rest

In the arms of many men

Who would do these things

Who would take your money

And your time lead you to the bottle the dime bag then the powder and the needle

Who would do these for you

Sex you up

big hair and jewels and jems

shirts short skirts

eye liner

lipstick

who would paint these things for you

i would

because I love you

I was organizing some papers and I came across an old poem I wrote out a couple months ago and thought I would share. Its entitled “Ideas”.

Ideas hang like beads of silk,

Ready to explode, ready to break,

Delicate, intricate, unveiling signs,

that either grow, or fade to blank.

They delicately sway defying conformity,

oddly jealously, they catch ones eye,

Making a stand yet barely holding strength,

Will it fall? Will it stumble? Will it shy? Will it retreat?

Idea, O Idea! You glisten, you provoke!

Like a child you declare,

Like a madman you look,

You search to and fro

For a mind to consume,

Yet no one is looking,

Their hearts full of doom,

You groan, you squirm, unable to express,

Your voice is clammed shut,

Your eyes stray with disgust

Whose soul will hearken to the glare of idea?

Whose mind will meld? Whose ear will yield?

Ideas, oh yes, are all around us,

Yet we take not the time,

We choose not to look,

Instead we go on with eyes of black,

Unable to break open,

Creation lacks.

The game lost,
Still pinches my brain,
Rising adrenaline,
Full fledge in veins,
Yes its like, battle,
A battle lost,
Had to be won,
At any cost,
Reasons are many,
Excuses even more,
Like hunters brooding over,
The escaped wild boar,
Lots of books say,
Learn from the mistake,
But they never know,
What is at stake,
They say failure,
Is the best teacher,
Who will explain them,
Its for the class richer,
You miss your shot,
You lose your life,
We are those who live,
On the edge of knife,
The fire within,
Should never extinguish,
Or no human,
Is ever distinguished,
That’s all we learn,
From the battle lost,
So how do we compensate,
And at what cost?
So, my colleagues,
Please wake up,
Rise on your feet,
Its time to make up!

I would like to be a drop of rain,
Full of love, and least pain
Would fall on you,
Starting from forehead,
Through the eyes,
To the cheek rose bed,
From your eyes,
Would steal all dreams,
Halt at your lips,
Silence all the screams,
Moving to the throat,
Would steal the songs unsung,
Then would race down to heart,
On the wall of which, my picture is hung,
Would take my time,
And go round the belly,
To steal the sweetness,
Of residing sweet jelly,
Then as if satisfied,
Not really, to the fullest,
Would wonder along your lavishing curves,
Reach to the feet, would take rest,
And then as you walk on,
Will go to my life’s end,
Absorbed by the mother earth,
With the soul left to suspend….

I want to be thankful and I want to say thanks
But not in the usual sort of way
Where the list of all I have grows weary in wonder
Wondering if I have covered it all in a word of thanks.

No, I want to be thankful and I want to say thanks
For all I do not have, and may never have
Thankful in that sort of way
For then if I were to ever receive
There I would find myself thankful indeed.

© Robert AuBuchon Jr
November 2009

A new liquid hath entered my blood,
Burning and aching my veins,
It starts to take over my nerves,
As my body begins to shake,
In an attempt to raise my hand,
I slowly realize I have no feeling in it,
My limbs become numb,
As the pain slowly creeps up my body,
I give one last scream of horror,
As now my whole body becomes cold,
I now close my eyes,
Awaiting for my death to come,
The end was in reach,
The poison had won in the end.