London Poem: Day 350

2 August

It started slow, and
Ended just the same.
The breeze’s cool, lazy loop
Eating away at the day’s heat,
Suspends the heart, like
Puppet strings left for the night,
To remind the lonely mind that
Home, too, is a lonely hunter.
The sun, folding into itself,
Eats its own to give way
To night, and the approach
Of flight.

London Poem: Day 345

28 July

I was born here,
The curves and gracious
Contours are mine, given
To me by birthright –
The first step, closed
Around my foot, and here
My heart sings electric melodies
To eat away the uncertainty
It all offers.
The notes that bend,
High between the buildings,
Both arrest and push
My body forward.
Our light seems to have slipped away.
Home is you all along.

London Poem: Day 338

21 July

On a string, the push and
Pull of sweetly singing notes
Make everything seem as though
The world is laying in wait
For the return.
Over the trees, speckled thinly,
The song is nothing more
Than comfort; thick, full sounds
Telling the story of a life in
Necessity, a life not forgotten,
But held in remission.

Dreams Still Occur in San Francisco

They say old dog’s can’t learn new tricks. Well, I have an old dog and he’s learning new tricks on a daily basis. For instance, he stepped in gum over the weekend. Also, he barks at anyone who is not white. He’s learned to be a klutz and a racist in his older age. However, in the owner’s defence, he was rescued, so those may be skills he’s always carried with him and is now only letting loose as he grows increasingly comfortable. The fact is, he’s learning new things, despite their deplorability.
The same can be said for one of my dearest friends. He’s slaved away at a job he’s hated for near on a decade. He’s worked and pined to make a small living. Through grad school, time as an illustrator and an artist, this job has always been there. When I returned to San Francisco, I found him in one of his darkest states. The world was getting to him.

But, let’s be honest. It wasn’t the world as a whole, it was the insular world that is San Francisco. Much like other metropolises, this is a city of transplants, bringing a wealth of skills along with them. Those that have been here, have seen their ability to compete flail and falter. The artists and the creative’s are falling behind.

To make a long story short, he decided one day, that he needed to change. The prospect of being discovered flew further, and the reality of those student loans loomed larger than ever before. So, he set out to find a career. Without a computer of his own, he peered over mine for weeks on end and learned everything he could about the world that now existed in San Francisco: developing code and everything that came along with that.

Today, he was offered a job at a terrific company. He’s in his thirties and this is his first grown up job. But, in that speaks volumes of what can be; the true Horatio Alger story. From nothing, to something. Yet, what makes this so fantastic to me, is that at his root, who he is, is someone that creates. Writing, illustrating, whatever, it’s who he is and that will not be lost, instead it will be built upon. As the drudgery of becoming a working stooge grows larger, he will see the length and breadth of which creation lives in his heart. Time, otherwise spent spending that newly acquired significant salary, will become precious. Time will become a commodity in which the ideas important enough to linger long enough, will have to come out; they will have to become living things.

This is the new artist. This is the new creative. Time is the cruel clicking mechanism that means nothing, yet runs our days. Once those minutes slacken, the ones left to yourself mean more. He will create, and he will out create me, and that makes me happy.

He has all of the talent in the world, and I know, more than I know most things, he will make use of those spare moments to make something we all look at and feel something towards. From art, what more can we ask for? And for time, well, what do we all dream of having more of? It is just a matter of how we use the time we have.

London Poem: Day 53

9 October

Forget what you heard about language.
Communication binds us, but words fail.
We bob between the constant struggle to articulate
What it is that floats in and out of our head,
While trying not to give away too much.
It never works.
Words come in,
looking for an exit,
To find all of the doors have snapped shut.

London Poem: Day 47

3 October

I think about what’s between the world and me often,
That poem, and how I will never fully understand the alienation
Of the displaced man, or the disenfranchised.
But, how far have we come?
I don’t know.
The history of man has painted the world a grey shade:
Hunger and strife is no longer saved for certain people, sure,
But, there are guidelines hardship adheres to,
And the shade of color still appears pertinent.
I am displaced, removed.
However, I live without worry.
I will never completely be there,
And that’s a blessing,
To never know the details of such strange fruit swinging in the stifling,
Sultry air, or the sounds of bombs singing in my neighborhood.
But, to know that man,
After seeing what history has drawn for us,
Can still live this way, brings a different horror to light:
That this will never end.

London Poem: Day 37

23 September

It is lines and formations
At stand still that initiate progress.
A strange contradiction.
Faces blur into one
continuous mold of the same life,
And the same people.
But, new terrain promises new beginnings,
Though the mind will one day
View all of this as natural.
It must find new means to incite motion.
The world will surely continue twirling,
But the mind will latch and cease to see such movement.
In good times there will be worry,
But for now,
New images will entrust freshness

London Poem: Day 31

17 September

Lives intertwine and become one.
Whole worlds mesh
And what does that mean?
The lingering effects of a life removed.
What is left when all of the pieces
Lay flat and not arranged?
One life, lived by two
Swallowed by fate or misfortune,
Whichever may befall first.
Measured steps echo in their tiny footfalls,
Timid to find the result too soon,
And too eager to turn around.

London Poem: Day 30

16 September

What boils over slowly
Allows damage to never appear until,
It’s too late.
Anxious hearts move without motion–
Bouncing surely to unheard melodies
As that heat inches upward.
But the transparent sounds preserve
Time and keep the mind preoccupied
As water begins to drip
Methodically in unvaried patterns.
What damage is building!
But eyes, as part of the mind,
Go blind and as it all builds, together.
It just continues as the rhythm conceals
What is truly important.

London Poem: Day 25

11 September

We wander through tiny streets
Calling out words and sounds
That bounce back carefully.
As the world moves and twists
We too meander, aimless,
Not knowing that as we twist,
We too twist.
Alleyways grow and shrink
In unending succession
Revolving like arteries
Through the center,
Moving in circles to pull
The soft soul asunder.
Those words and sounds grow fainter
As what our eyes see
And our heart feels polarize–
We get lost together
Through narrow causeways,
Concealing difference,
To brighten a budding silence.