A little snapshot of a poem I wrote recently.
From the sacred
Mania and domination
History and habit
I have seen the unseen
The same blindfold
Fallen from grace
Mother Earth gives life to energy
Blindfolds falling off
I opened my heart
That my breath
Is my spirit
Journeying into transcendent realms
Into a distant heaven
Illusion is our blindfold
I was recently talking to a Bay Area native about music. Do you know how rare it is to meet a native of the Bay Area? Well, a native of anywhere? We are constantly all moving, and wandering the planet for one reason or another. Our talk? Music.
Now I can get down with most types of music. So open your ears, and open your eyes. Sometimes you may just find something that you’ll really like. His goal… turning me on to some Pat Metheny.
The man… silver hair pulled back into a braided pony tail. Apple cider vinegar a day type. His cousin learned guitar from Jerry Garcia. He protested with black panthers in Berkeley and Oakland. He lived through the crack epidemic brought on my you know who, and lives to tell about it.
The movie, “Soul” by Pixar brings up the recent Jazz topic too. Perhaps the newest hot button lately? Escaping your conscious into subconscious with jazz. Look at the painters who lose themselves in jazz while painting, or the writers who lose themselves in writing… with a beat rolling and jumping and flying and diving.
It is now that I really know what this guy is talking about. So… forget your typical sound baths with crystal bowls. Well, don’t forget about it, if you like it … then keep on keeping on. But the point I guess, is that you can get the same feeling from this that you can of that. Because sometimes it is nice to just escape to another planet of sound, and land back on earth soundly.
My generation. I am not a millennial, and I am not generation X. Us late 70’s and early 80’s babies did not grow up with social media keeping tabs on everything we did. We played Oregon Trails, and watched Mary die of dysentery. We climbed trees. We took candy from kind neighbors. We rode our bikes. We yelled over the tall trees to our other friends to come out to play. We threw down our bikes where we pleased. We played time machine in the closet. We paid a nickel for a lollipop at the corner market. We would go swimming, play telephone, and dress up. Do dance routines, croon overs to pop stars played at level 13 on the boombox, and swoon over Johnny Depp’s Cry Baby poster in the corner.
Our parents were products of growing up in the 50’s and 60’s and partly 70’s for some. They lived through a lot of change, the Vietnam War, voices of liberation, breaking freedom, and the ever emerging music scene surrounding rock n roll. Their parents lived through the Great Depression, and World War II. The evolution of rock n roll, blues, country kept spinning into some of the best music our little world has ever seen in my humble opinion. Mom and Dad would run off to an AC/DC concert. Grandma would sing along to the Supremes, and teach me the hand signs to the music. What about Great Grandma? Did anyone ever notice those older older generations didn’t act the same as the rest? They were more reserved. They acted “old”. Maybe it is because they were kind of old?
What is it to act old or older anyways?
Q-tips as my Grandfather called them. You know…that couple who walks about with white hair and white trainers. Those are Q-tips. My grandfather who I like to think is pretty cool told me that little definition. Were the Q-tips acting “old”? Maybe? It is hard to say without talking to one from the Q-tip tribe. My grandfather still acts young…actually no… he acts like himself! This is probably the most important thing to do, right? When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you see the wrinkles, and the whole life you have led? All of the stress, and challenging lessons you have endured? Do you see the happiness, joy, and love you have experienced? Do you think about all of that at just a glance? Chances are you do not reminisce every time you look at your face in the mirror. Do you see the twenty something? The thirty something? The forty something? So on, and so forth? Or do you just see, “YOU”.
I met a man recently who was close to 90 years old. He looked like he was in his 60’s. I asked him what his trick was. He said that he supposed he didn’t “act his age”. He asked me, “What is it to act your age anyways?”, and I said I didn’t really know? He said he remembered his parents, and how they were cranky, depressed, and serious all the time. Is that old? Is that acting your age? When an adult is acting like a child, and we say act your age what do we really even mean? I guess to act more responsible. He went on to say he just does what he wants, and what he feels like. He doesn’t really think about his age. He just does what makes him happy. Maybe that is why he looked so young. He didn’t act old and serious like his parents who both later died of cancer.
I talked to another woman today about aging. What is it to age, and act our age. Are we actually ever done developing? When is a person done learning everything they can? The truth is that no one is ever done developing. We are all half baked. We are never really done learning things in this world. You can fight against learning new lessons. You can think your mind is done developing, and wait around to die. But what quality does that give to your life? I have seen first hand the people who we think are toast, burnt ends, overcooked so to speak, and they still are the last to accept impending death. Again, the mind is ever evolving, and ever developing. Some of us accept death, and some do not. It happens to everyone though. All we can do is try to enjoy this ride whether is be incredibly messy, or with the grace of a butterfly balancing on a blade of grass. If we did what we wanted all along would it make dying easier? Who knows! But it honestly couldn’t hurt in most circumstances.
So we all do the best we can. We are the Fool card in the tarot deck with the innocence of children. We are lucky that we are from previous generations that want to be themselves, listen to the music they want, wear the clothes they want, and be the people who they want to be. THIS is what makes people appear younger than they really are as we age. We have fought for these freedoms in the past which had lead us to this very spot. Todays grandparents can be hippies, rockers, artists, eclectics, and whatever they damn well please. That is something that is pretty fucking great to me. Also how about freedom of speech! (wink, wink). It is great that our previous generations have set us up to live our best lives. Just remember, we all are a work in progress, and we are all just half baked. So… keep on cooking good looking. You got this thing called life. Don’t waste it. It’s your own recipe.
-K. K. Powell
Reminds me of a doctor I used to work with in a teaching hospital. A resident would put their hand on the patients bed. He would snap at the resident to stand back. If he had a ruler he would have likely snapped it upon the residents wrist. Years later I saw this doctor with his wife outside of the hospital at the airport. Naturally I said hello. His wife smiled sweetly. I extended my hand, she accepted. He said smugly, “This is wife.”
Was he rude? Was he on the spectrum of autism? Was he socially awkward? Who knows? I was not fulfilled with this answer. I said, my name is Keri… I’m sorry I didn’t quite get your name? She replied… but now the name is lost in my memory.
This is wife.
Well as hard as the truth hurts A LOT, I recently found on Instagram today that my work had been stolen by a more popular poet who has been published. It’s my own fault. I never did any copywriting. Still it stings like a bitch! So this website will only be for my own thoughts on others work, posts of work I like, and thoughts on other things. No more of my poetry, nor stories until they have been published though for my own protection.
Fuck you to the guy who blazingly stole my work. I never realized you took pieces of my poem and posted it on your Facebook claiming it to be your own. Especially since a woman had what was “your words” tattooed on her. You’re a phony…and those were actually a woman’s words to begin with… not a mans.
Nobody likes a thief.
Just goes to show. Protect your work people.
I apologize to any follows who liked my poetry and/or stories in the past. I will keep you all updated on any published work in the future.
Three fat sausage fingers slide up and down her shoulder.
His pony tail smooshed to the back of his head…shifted to the right.
He didn’t have time between his nap, and the show.
Too much pot he smoked before the show.
Shewp, shewp, shewp, shewp.
My eyes grow wide.
Fuck…I am stuck next to these two for the next hour and a half.
As the man on the other side sucks his spit through the canyons of his teeth.
The pulled pork threads sit locked and loaded
I want to hear the speaker speak,
I consider asking these annoying people to stop with their annoyances.
Shewp, shewp, shewp, shewp.
Scratch, scratch, scratchity scratch, scratch, scratch.
My upset and overwhelmed brain begins to force my eyeballs out of my head.
I point a my index finger to my left ear to the incessant arm brusher.
For fuck’s sake.
Is the public display of attention THAT important.
Stop that already!
I visualize a mad man lunging toward him.
Grabbing his fingers, and chopping them off one by one.
Wait, is this a nervous tick?
Am I being a dick..?
My tiny index finger is this man’s saving grace.
Just go get some fucking tooth floss you indigent!!!
Nope, don’t say it.
Don’t be rude.
You drove a long way to hear this man speak…
The speaker speaks.
I fumble in my chair uncomfortably.
His voice rises just enough to muffle twiddledee and twiddledum.
A girl giggles nervously.
Another howls like she used to at a 1980’s arena rock concert.
My name is Ashley…
As she kisses her nineteen year old boyfriend on the lips.
Slips the tongue.
A french one.
We all know about THAT one.
He speaks, and reads me a tale or two
Lightning strikes from the rugged dark blue and grey clouds above.
His voice carries
as the thunders roll through the purple hills.
Crisis averted for twiddledee and twiddledum.
I use this blog more for poetry, but today I am writing something a little more personal. It is about the process of being a writer. Starting, stopping, being welcomed, being rejected, and that awful day of accidentally losing all your work.
Have any of you ever lost all your work writing?
As it turns out, I was not so great about keeping my work backed up. Two years of research, and writing of ideas… gone. Poof. Smoke bomb. Gone like the wind. The dust has settled now.
What I didn’t realize is if there is too much music stored on a Mac Book Pro, that it will literally wipe out the writings on Scrivener. That is exactly what happened to me. Luckily it was just research. Luckily I write my outlines on paper, and there weren’t too many projects already started. So after some research, and re-writing the good ideas I can remember…I have started again. Where some folks feel bad about my loss, it actually isn’t that bad. It just tells me what I already know. Time to actually jump on an idea.
So I am looking at this as a fresh clean slate. The days are getting darker, and my writing is getting better. At least I think it is? I still continue to write poetry. I still paint. The idea is… never give up. Today I started writing a new novel. I could not be more excited about the twists and turns it will take. My trusty sidekick doesn’t sit too far away in my apartment while I write. Sometime she grumbles at me for a head scratch, or a ball toss which is a much welcomed break.
Lesson learned. Back up your work, before it goes bye bye. Stop being weird. Stop thinking nobody wants to hear your story. Stop being fearful of the judgement. Just finish it, publish it, and the universe will do what it will with it. These novels are just my brains way of painting a picture. More for me than the general public. There is a certain vulnerability displaying your imagination to everyone. It is much like the feeling of standing naked in front of someone for the first time. It can be exciting, and terrifying all at the same time.
“if it doesn’t come bursting out of youin spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.”
There are times when there isn’t anything coming into my head. No witty quotes, funny stories, creativity, nothing. Just a blank slate. The truth is… How can you force it. It’s like taking a shit. You can’t force it, or you are bound to get a hemorrhoid. The forced stories/words also coming out being total… You guessed it….shit. So instead of feeling bad about a lack of inspiration, and wanting to pound my forehead unto the table out of frustration… I wait. I read. I look at art. Drink wine. Nap. Keep working the day job. Learn from others… and take more naps. Because if I don’t think it’s great, I certainly won’t put it in my novel not my blog.
Thank the heavens above and below for Charles Bukowski… and the soft vices which won’t kill us…too quickly.