I wish my kids/
could write/
and speak/
about shit,/
and their bodies,/
drop the F-bomb/
into a mic;/
pour their hearts out/
like water on the fire/
of their pain,/
the way you,
brave young souls,
do,
shaking at the mic,
shaking your torments out,
so we,
your friends,
can hear,
digest,
honor,
and crush
your Angst
under our wandering feet.
I wish my kids
could write and
speak and
vent
about shit,
so they wouldn’t feel
like crap.
My mother started/
to shrink at Stonehenge, but then/
moved to Wisconsin.
Lips which kiss in love/
tender, not passionate lust,/
are yet innocent.
Kind words falling from/
pure and innocent lips must/
just bring happiness.
Why do we put/
restrictions on the Muses?/
We should open up.
Or
always let them in
OR
Why handcuff Muses?/
Let’s always invite them in,/
where and whenever!
We ought to be strong/
hosts of our happiness, not
servants to our fears.*
Taken from a poem read by a young woman at Speak For Yourself open mic night, Enliten Cafe’, Provo, Utah
If everyone is/
singing and writing about/
pain, you’re not alone.
Two songs that inspired this poem:
David Bowie’s Rock n Roll Suicide
AND
REM’s Everybody Hurts
In a desert,
some guy —
I don’t remember his name —
was singing
about a horse
in a desert.
We danced in the desert,
but no equine, she.
So I watched
and saw
what she
and others
could not:
Her luscious pink lips,
parted slightly in a smile,
the gentle curve of her body
as it swayed to and fro
to the music
while her hair,
waved back and forth
as though a blonde mane
caught in a mid-summer’s desert
not sirocco
evening breeze.
The sparkle and laughter of her eyes
as they caught
and reflected
and augmented
the spotlights.
The brilliance of her smile
exposed,
as she laughed with youthful glee,
recalling perhaps
those teenage years
when she first danced
in mid-America
to that song.
Her wise father said/
nothing about heavenly/
angels. Earth’s hosts came.
Your life and light shine./
You’ve already started to/
change the world. Keep on!