Writing, and all it’s charms

I graduated, yeah, from a masters program. MFA in creative writing. In all that glory, I find I still don’t have what I need. I still feel lost and/or confused as to how and when I keep writing, and if I am even good enough…will they like it, will it grab anyone, am I the only one who likes my stories? The trials of writing a story or novel can take endless hours, for some. I am one of those. I pound it out when I feel like it, and simmer on it, the story, while I sit around and wait. But, what am I waiting for? To keep the writing going is the hardest part of graduating. My deadline is now on my own regard. I also don’t have a professor looking over my work letting me know what works and what doesn’t. To keep up the writing, the story telling, to share it with the world is not the easiest task.

Perhaps it’s my dialogue about the writing, calling it a task creates a motivational blocker. No, really?

I have to change the narrative, writing is now my art – paid or not – a job that will share my voice. Why I started writing to begin with was for my voice to be heard, you can’t silence me in my art. So, if I feel so strongly about the story and a character’s Why, or How, and their outcome – then why do I feel like the writing is a task? Because when I’m in it, and the character is talking, it is the most enjoyable part of my day. I tell myself to change the narrative, but change it to what?

Change is the only constant format of life, everything else is a crap shoot. So I take the challenge of the change that has been presented with my art. My narrative will be that writing is my art. I do it because I love it, and it’s how I can be heard…but will this change. Yes. I’m sure the doubt will strike me once a day, or more. So, to continue in this forever-changing-world that will trigger doubt, I can embrace the fear, hold it close and turn into fuel, courage, and see the charms in writing, not the task.

The changing narrative will be my challenge. I see this. I know this. Not the writing. The writing will be my charm in life.

POEM

                             An American by Constitution

OK.
Volunteering to go fight in a war, is hard.

Hard, for the family she leaves behind.
America’s soiled by a single father

Who can’t afford the rent. While a United States
Senator falsifies his Net-worth to the IRS.

Who marches to the beat of plenty?
The CEO who’s holding it, a refugee who needs it, or

A President, who will destroy it. Pro-choice
Between men and women carry different values;

Then you add Black Awareness Day, Christians and Muslims killing each other,
Infidelity among neighbors, prison facilities for alien children…

The list can be made new everyday,
How many pages do I have here?

Now I stand ashamed of myself.
I drank too much wine, and voted too late.

Another Poem

The Devil Talked Back

Been almost eight years
since you slid your fingers
around the neck of my body.
Do you miss me?

While you’ve been gone others
have enjoyed my smooth syrup,
mixing with elixirs, easily swallowed,
using me until night’s end. I don’t mind.

For you, I wait. I sit within my dated
barrel and age—the older the better
they say.

Some enjoy me sweat and sour, or
with sugared cherries—Manhattan please.
Or, perhaps a Sidecar. No matter.
You know me best, naked and neat.

I don’t feel ignored by the absence of
your touch. I know your blood flows thick
without me. Yadi, Yadi, I know you think
about me everyday. Just one more taste.

No-one will know, it can be our secret.

I can hide behind the linens in
your closet; The backseat of your car;
In the bathroom on the airplane—
mile high club?

Is that too much? Go on then, let me age.
I know you like a challenge.
I am everywhere. I’ll be waiting.

A Poem

Girls:

The joint couldn’t have been any bigger than my first studio apartment.
I entered through a haze of smoke to the innards of a beast’s heart.
Red all around me, with welts of black in form of table tops.
The stage was short in height but ran along the whole of one wall,
The wall of the room which had no windows.

In fact, come to think it,
The whole bit was dark, not a window insight.
The only way out
Is the way you came in.

My feet vibrated along with the base, making my shoes slip on and off
As I walked towards the bar. Metal stools lined up and filled with asses,
Bare asses. Each girl wore a blonde, red, or brown wig—couple of them
Had blue streaks. I found an empty seat and slid into it, next to the blue.

The bartender asked me, “What’s your poison?”
“Bourbon, straight.” I played with a lighter, ran it through my fingers rotating each one.
“Five. Five dollars.” She snapped my money faster than I could think what the change would be out of ten.
“Can I have ones…”
But she already knew and surrendered five crispy, one dollar bills. I snatched them up and handed one back, “Thanks.”

She didn’t say a word, just flipped her black hair off her shoulders
And straightened her Betty Page bangs. Her red and black corset
Pushed up on her body, raising her bust and spilling her cleavage.
Tattoo’s of pin up’s traced her arms, shoulders, and lower back.

Her eyes narrowed.

A Poem

Asking for Forgiveness

Dad. Keep playing the guitar while
I tell you about my real fears, my
wishes. I wont lie, I wont hide.
Forgive my foolishness. Please?

He exclaims, my dad, his wishes.
Come see him play, come watch,
Stand next to him, and read the
lyrics coming from the stand.

Marriage and kids, how do I tell Emma
that I can’t be the Auntie she deserves.
My dad asked, What have you learned
from living on the farm?

I wanted to tell him that I learned I was
exactly who he raised me to be, instead
I answered, I learned how to drive a tractor,
clean a coop, and dig up garlic. Sweaty mess.

My dad wrapped his arm around my shoulder,
and I know he’s trying.