Because we’re not perfect and we should see what that looks like in written form-
We all have the same words at our disposal and it’s intriguing to see how we use them so differently-
You may find hidden attributes within your personality-
Creation of words written into phrases or stories may put into motion action for yourself and possibly others-
It’s good for the heart, mind and soul-
If you don’t, these words will chase you-
As Emily Dickinson once wrote, ‘Your thoughts don’t have words every day’ and when they do, I think we ought to write them down-
One, out of two,
sitting in Women’s lit.
They didn’t like me
then they liked me.
I read out loud
I read Emily
I read Bronte
I know what Plain Jane means.
They let me in.
Observing society is like reading Edgar Allen Poe mixed with Mother Nature
While Emily Dickinson watches us all
Estranged from Beauty- none can be-
For Beauty is Infinity-
And power to be finite ceased
Before Identity leased.
-Emily Dickinson, (1474) Final Harvest.
And might you all have a good, and beautiful, day.
A word is dead
When it is said,
I say it just
Begins to live
-Emily Dickinson. Final Harvest, (1212).
Thoughts? Is a word ever dead? I think not. Besides that, notice the capitals. Ignore rules and write how it is.
I love to read.
Yesterday I purchased two used books from a very used bookstore
Hemingway and Steinbeck
I lazily tossed both on top of a shelf in my office
Maybe I’ll read them at the same time
One cubby hole down sits Bukowski
which happens to be next to a few books that I’m published in
and on the floor, near my right foot, The Unabridged
Edgar Allan Poe. That’s literally the name of the book
In back of my chair is a box that I have yet to completely unpack
In the box are a number of books, books, books.
On my desk sits Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson
It’s impossible for my person to become bored
oh, and I just found Papa, A Personal Memoir written by
Gregory H. Hemingway, M.D. in back of the monitor
I could clean my office but the life would be sucked out of the
otherwise very empty room
I don’t think I’ll do that. Hell, I haven’t even mentioned what’s in the dry sink.
Personal space is a beautiful thing, if we let it be.
I finally opened the box. We recently moved and the box has been looking at me for long enough.
Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink – enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine-
To go elastic- Or as One
The Camel’s trait – attained –
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind-
And there was Emily. In the box. This is the poem I opened the book to. In my opinion Emily’s writing is brilliant and what her poems do to stimulate my mind is unique.
Emily Dickinson wrote a line that is currently stuck at the front of my thoughts. It’s as if the thought is a shape and it’ll not come out unless otherwise known to not have been; or to be? Either way it’s a shape. Possible ever changing. All about a thought and how words and thought don’t need to coexist every day. Don’t we though? Live on, please, and look outside your window, once again handing poems down to the children; having never been inside? I lived near your house, Emily. I don’t know that I didn’t feel your presence, but I do know that’s it’s possible. And my thoughts, with their words, thank you.
I was asked to do a book signing
in Kittery, Maine and in New Hampshire
near the lake region.
Now I’m sitting here smashing a beer
wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
I felt pure embarrassment when asked
to do something I’ve prayed for.
She even helped me with that-
to not feel embarrassed.
It was her book store and her idea.
It’s just one very short story.
Is THAT worth a book signing?
I’m nobody, who are you?
Thank you Emily, you are brilliant.
I’m a man who takes care of our son
every day, picks up toys, gets on
hands and knees to wash around
the toilet, and then finds cat vomit
in the cat dish. Wasn’t that nice of him.
I work during Gavin’s nap and I work
at night, to catch up on the work I couldn’t do
while I was cleaning, or picking up toys.
My days of flying around this country
Branding financial institutions are over.
Or, are they? I left that behind by choice.
Maybe I ought to do this. Sit in a book store
and talk with people who love to read and write.
Maybe I will.
Maybe I’ll bring whiskey.
I’m the type of guy that will stuff my brain inside as not to let it show. When push comes to shove I stand on a bloody face with my boot on a head reciting a poem mixed between Emily Dickinson and Charles Bukowski knowing no one will understand why I created blood. And fuck them all.