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She Called Me a Poet

Response to a GIF prompt and a question from Daniel:
What 3 things should a literary artist understand?

RIP Nispey Hussle


She called me a poet
To what do I owe this
Because when I speak other’s notice?
That my verbs stray to word play?
That I’ve recited what you’ve heard me say?
That when my pen and pad are in separate rooms
I feel a sense of doom
As if a sentence soon
Will be sent that I’m meant to remember
And I’ll never get the message I’m intended to?
Is it that my mind is rent in two?
That I speak in dreams
Saying secret things
And still seek to bring
Without surcease a string
of lyrical meaning
as clear as a shriek that sings?

No, these don’t make a poet
They are evidence that I dabble in words
Or that I babble absurd
But not why I am what I am

A poet isn’t made by words
By definition, words are made by the poet
Meaning that my essence lies in precedence
To the premise that I pen my pensiveness
Something pushes me over the precipice

Three factors remain preeminent


I produce my art for art sake
Lyricism is simply the way that I breathe breath
Metaphor the way I seek sense
Publishing the way I cheat death
I write or else I keep tense
You see, poetry is just what happens
When I’m left around paper
My fingerprints when my fingers print

Poet, you must write for the art


I present my art for heart sake
God gives gifts to be re-gifted
I must write so your soul will be lifted
I bend meaning to make the way you see shifted
I open rifts with words riding perfect fifths asking the question maybe if
It is not for me, nor from me, but through me
Poetry is my compassion, meant to be heard
Create for your audience

Poet, you must write for the heart

And finally


I produce my art for …
For-saking the label
For-giving the critique
For-going the recognition
Fore-stalling the question
What’s my for-mal title
Or my for-mer career
Because these “for”s make it forced

Poet, you mustn’t write for the part

To be a poet isn’t to fulfill a role but to fill a hole
To feel whole
No one can name your art
Or genre
Be authentic

She called me a poet
And I never needed her to
I was always what I am

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Response to a GIF prompt from Danny


I need a minor second of your time
Because if we don’t have harmony,
You’re no friend of mine
Because me and my friends align
At least three quarters of the time
So we ought to be just fine.
It is instrumental
If we couldn’t be in a band together
We certainly couldn’t stand together
How did we even land together?
Must have been we were fans together
Maybe then we should make plans together
Because if you rock with me at the concert
Throw the horns up like we’re rams together
You and I can be just fine
Like we’re touring in the van together
My friendship is like rock stardom
It looks real good until you have it
It looks like glamour but it’s havoc
If you can survive it I’ll be your groupie
And we could make it through anything
We both give zero damns together
I don’t care what your beef is
Cause I don’t want to butt heads
What’s said is much less than the music
I don’t want to hear it if it isn’t a lyric
So let’s do what’s best for us
Be the hook on my chorus
Write the words like a thesaurus
And while you’re at it
Look up another word for “bestie”
And find your name there.

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Love is God

A god that needs my defense has lost my belief, while I will advocate the Devil and not abdicate my seat so long as I strike at his head and he at my feet.

A saint is one who can fight for rectitude, disdain the sin, and still accept the two.

Photo by Diana Simumpande on Unsplash

Testimony carried on a woman’s voice rejoiced. She became a Christian when her fiance proposed, for which she prayed of him. And now with praise for Him she swears to her God by love’s own seal that He is real.

Sooner would I swear on the waning moon than would I on waxing love, for the former will remain and loom, while the action of the latter’s not the same at noon as it is at one.

Love is always certain and often wrong and while the lover is lost in song love becomes lust and longs to feel in touch what’s turned to dust but was once was felt within like gust in lungs.

Your paramour was not the one. And if not then your proof you’ve got is gone. For gods are like the faithful, many are called, and you choose but one. Even false gods seem graceful, shining like gold under a ruthless sun and later are culled by the truth and shunned.

Your paradigm was not the one. And if not then the ruse of God is done.

Or is it only just begun?

If there is no soul mate? Would it sow hate if there’s no fate and it’s all for show sake? Does that diminish love or the lover?

I think that love remains enough. Love does not need a name. It feels the same whether it heals or reveals a pain. The force of falling fills the veins with a coursing rush of will that isn’t ever all in vain.

Love does not exist for the lover. The lover exists for love.

Love empowers our lover. Our lover is the one. Our lover is the only. Our lover rules our heart. Our lover commands us. Our lover can do no wrong. Our lover is always with us. Our lover is worth defending. Our lover is better than your lover. Our lover is a lot more like God than God.

What is it we fall in at all with our gods that powers God? If lovers are only lovers though love, does falling into it place God above?

The woman was wrong. Her love did not prove God. Her God proved love.

Love does not need my defense. Love can be sensed and perceived. Love earns its belief.

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    National Poetry Month 2019

    I designate myself a poet reluctantly, as I know while I often write work that isn’t prose, I’m still unsure if it is true poetry. My dissonance is reconciled when I tell myself that poetry is art and that art is a process. So long as I earnestly attempt or practice poetry, I am a poet regardless of if I’ve ever successfully written an actual poem.

    Having said that, I qualify myself to participate in National Poetry Month by submitting 30 poems for 30 days over the month of April. And now being an official participant, I as an emissary extend the invitation for you to also join along. I’m not actually sure if there are “rules,” but what I’m doing is simple. Start writing a poem every day, finish that poem by end of the day. No overthinking or harsh judgment. Whatever state it is in by end of the day it will be considered “done” and will be posted and shared. All styles of poetry are valid and welcome, though I will focus on narrative, lyric, and imagery.

    30 Poems for 30 Days

    • Love is God (4/1/2019) - A god that needs my defense has lost my belief, while I will advocate the Devil and not abdicate my seat so long as I strike at his head and he at my feet.
    • Groupie (4/2/2019) - I need a minor second of your time Because if we don't have harmony, You're no friend of mine Because me and my friends align At least three-quarters of the time So we ought to be just fine.
    • She Called Me a Poet (4/3/2019) - She called me a poet To what do I owe this Because when I speak other's notice? That my verbs stray to wordplay? That I've recited what you've heard me say?
    • Running From my Fear (4/4/2019) - Again I have been running from my fear And for a minute there, I lost my self From darkness did the terror swiftly near Unsettling as night, my path engulfs A stumbling escape on weary legs A chariot by motored wheel brings death The road before obscured both dark and vague And panicked air left hanging on my breath
    • Held (4/5/2019) - An embrace is a tragic reminder That I can hold on to love But never possess it. Phantom limbs leave a numb tingle where they used to surround me And I chuckle when it occurs to me I can no longer juggle your emotions Without your arms.
    • A Toast (4/6/2019) - Climbed a straight ladder Just to place my mind over my grey matter Stay scatter brained prattle lines lame chatter "Cheers!" Look away, glass of champagne shattered
    • You’ll get it in the end (4/7/2019) - Everyone's ex is crazy Including your ex's ex. And maybe your next. She has received harsh names But Karma is nothing but elegant
    • “Why”s Make the Wise (4/8/2019) - The question resembles the answer Like the lock resembles key Necessity is the silhouette of a solution And as the Chasm is also the shape of what is yet to fill it
    • Rise, Phoenix, Rise (4/9/2019) - Rise, phoenix, rise To the zenith in the skies You're the freest as you fly You're surprised But you survived
    • Mote of Dust (4/10/2019) - Cosmic existential woes Pour with the torrential flow Venture toward the center And I enter elemental glow
    • Bathe in Night-Sun (4/11/2019) - The sleepy sun releases her grip from Where she hangs in the sky Floating slowly and gently to the ground Like a child blown bubble Made of match flame and filled with joyful breath
    • Where there’s smoke (4/12/2019) - It can take less than a minute for a fire to take your life As it swallows the oxygen from the air around you When you are near me Is this how you take my breath away?
    • Excuse Me, Can I Help You? (4/13/2019) - Excuse me, can I help you? Am I the card that life has dealt you? If so you can shuffle again There's been enough of you men And your solicitation
    • Bitch, I am Fabulous (4/14/2019) - You may need to call an ambulance for the awesomeness avalanche. It would be to your advantage to advance with caution Because each portion of my power quotient is potent.
    • Office Gossip (4/15/2019) - We all come here to earn our bread But really, it's a rumor mill instead Grinding grains of truth into flowery Half baked stories
    • It Looked Good on Paper (4/16/2019) - A day reads as a passage read aloud That more resembles hallways looked up close And leads to tiny, cluttered chambers cramped With verbose mind and punctuation thoughts.
    • I Have The Best Words (4/17/2019) - I know words No words leave me stumped I need more words. Twitter. Donald Trump.
    • I Struggle With Words (4/18/2019) - I struggle with words Like I struggle with bowling balls Once I send them off They never seem to hit quite right
    • Love the way you love yourself (4/19/2019) - Love the way you love yourself If you find you don't Love yourself differently Until you do
    • Prince of Lies (4/20/2019) - You may paint me a villain Once I was your prince But now Machiavellian Caught with my hands stained in vermillion
    • Affection Confection (4/21/2019) - My love is a confection mixed with bitter herbs Tubes of sour lemon icing, disguised in pink and blue Milk white filling leaks from parted lips again Half baked emotions don't contain the recipe flavors
    • Diamond Jacket Button (4/22/2019) - Conversations hung in the air suspended on rising warmth from an active street Billowing syllables soup into a moist ether
    • Stretch (4/23/2019) - I always remember to stretch in the morning.In a therapy session, I was once askedwhy I looked so uncomfortable.I replied that it was because I was in a therapy session.The therapist told me to relax,and for the first time in my lifeI was prompted to stretch. “Never be too afraid of formalityto give yourself the […]
    • A Triolet on a Valley Near Banner Elk (4/24/2019) - Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek Cavernous mouth that no supper could fill Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
    • Familiar and Distant (4/25/2019) - It's ironic, when asked to recall my family's voice my first thought is a threat to literally put words in my head.
    • Allow me not to introduce myself (4/26/2019) - An introduction is the act of colliding my ego against social expectation. Whichever is most brittle determines how awkward I feel
    • If I lost my name (4/27/2019) - If I lost my name How would I be called? Would it be by my calling? I would like that to be How I am known To mold my spirit to My purpose
    • He Realized He Had Forgotten His Wallet (4/28/2019) - He didn't make it far before he realized he had forgotten his wallet but he already decided it wasn't worth continuing on.
    • This is the location where I’d like for us to meet (4/29/2019) - Cobblestone and brickwork from an alleyway emerged At an intersection where two narrow roads converged Opening a pathway to a seldom traveled street This is the location where I'd like for us to meet
    • I struggle with the code (4/30/2019) - My face is worn by a million men With a mouth that speaks for a multitude Each word must be beaded On a narrow thread
    National poetry month is both freeing and frightening as the empty page invites both types of vastness.
    There will definitely be an overflowing wastebasket by the 10th of the month.

    My goal is to improve as a writer by using National Poetry Month as a period of practice and refinement. I also hope to help further discover and develop my own personal voice. In short, this will be a playful experiment. Hopefully, it will also be fun, insightful, entertaining, interesting, and meaningful.

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      I love taco and salad bars because they allow me to make my own mistakes. A restaurant structure that allows me to push aside the needless skill and mastery of culinary training so I can pair chick-peas with imitation crab meat on a whim.

      It entertains the idea that if I like something and I like something else, I will undoubtedly love them both together. No where else in life, except in a place where I will both go out to eat and still do my own cooking, can I consider contradictions, peruse paradoxes, or dance the dance of dissonance so viscerally.

      Photo by Dan Gold on Unsplash
      Photo by Dan Gold on Unsplash

      Visually, it is a Jackson Pollock potluck. Strings of color, dots of flavor, explosions of edible artwork on a leafy green canvas or a potential experiential installation waiting to be painted on my tongue from off of a cornflour easel.

      And it is never good. I mean, it’s not bad. I mean, it’s adequate to satisfy my hunger and fulfill my tongue’s addiction to the taste of salt and fat, but not good.


      Meat and okra.

      That sounds like a real thing, doesn’t it? And while I may never plate, pair, or proportion it quite as well as an Iron Chef challenger, I still feel accomplished. I made this! Well, I put them in the same styrofoam container, but does having a simple recipe alone make for poor food?

      And why should it matter? This is an expression of myself meant only for myself! I wasn’t planning on sharing, anyway. Not any more than we all share ingredients from the same trough of roughage and bacon bits.

      I love taco and salad bars because they remind me of life. My un-tossed tray of greens and beans exactly like being. An unorganized, somewhat intentional intelligence at work. Never good, but almost always better than bad.


      Me, the over ambitious designer of my experience, trying to pair sleeping in with excellent fitness on the same tray. In life it doesn’t work that way. Not really. Life is not as perfect as a salad. Or a taco.

      How could it be?

      I mean, when there are employees at the bar, they don’t even judge me for what I ask them to add on. Yes, I said sprinkle cinnamon on my chili, thank you.

      I love taco and salad bars because they give me the creative freedom and control to enjoy whatever I like, even if I don’t enjoy it, without consequence.

      To know that no matter the mess I make it is never so unpalatable that I might want to quit the salad bar forever.

      To make mistakes I honestly won’t make twice.

      To feel like I’m healthy even if I drizzle extra ranch over my greens because I’m eating the greens.

      When do we forget how to congratulate ourselves for just living like we congratulate ourselves for just being at the salad bar? When do we forget how to take the good with the bad? To pair them together? To eat our messes like we own them? To still believe our lives are worthy even when they are a mess, just like how no matter how much nonsense we throw on it a salad only becomes more and more like a salad?

      I love taco and salad bars because they remind me of Eden.

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      Flickering in the corner of my eye
      Sparks of red and waves of heat
      Surrounded the vision of a dancing flame
      Which warmed me to be near
      Though who’s blaze
      Behooved me to stay my distance
      I could not touch for sake of it
      Nor approach for her brightness
      Yet in glancing I found her more-so lovely
      As it seemed to fuel the pyre
      Encouraging her vibrant glow
      And enlivening her
      With tumbling dark wisps above
      I am allured by her
      To receive baptismal benediction in fire
      As she stirs my spirit
      And engulf me with your tongue of flame
      Smother away my breath
      In your smoky plume
      Envelop me within you
      Let me learn your temperature
      And as my body too ignites
      I will then scorch you in kind

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        A Who Gets a Clue

        A young Who in Whoville was feeling quite down
        He moped and he moped and he moped around town
        He moped until in an old tavern he found
        A wealthy old Who who was buying a round.

        He sat by the bar, ordered drink and a chaser
        The wealthier Who asked him, “Why the long face, sir”
        And then did that sad Who look at him sadly
        “I need lots of money, I need it quite badly!

        My medical bills come to such an amount
        I grow even sicker each time that I count
        I need need a new Huvulu hovering car
        So I can make sales, for I travel quite far

        My mother is aging, my daughter needs clothes
        My wife needs her hobbyist tools, so it goes
        I’ve built up my debts in attempt to make due
        So my life is quite hard, but sir, tell me of you.”

        That affluent Who sat himself rather tall
        He cleared his old throat and began with a drawl
        “I’m Finneas Flavius Finkle the Fourth
        Son of the Mogul Sir Finkle of Gorth

        I’m visiting now to review my investments
        To see which will fail, and see which are destined
        To 10X my money, and those I will choose
        To spend some more on, the others, set loose.”

        Now this caught the ear of the sadder of two
        For never before did he meet such a Who.
        “For handouts I’d never request on a whim
        But Finneas, sir, my outlook’s quite grim

        I have a small savings, enough for a month
        A greater amount I used to have once
        But now it is spent, the rainy day’s here
        Sir how should I spend it, would you please share?”

        That Finneas smiled at the sad Who so kindly
        “What is it you do, sir, would you remind me?”
        That sad Who, he answered, with minor chagrin
        “I sell door to door, needles and pins”

        “That market’s no good,” said the wealthier fellow
        “To it say goodbye, to others say hello
        You best look around, pins and needles are dead
        When everyone has them, well now they need thread!”

        This marveled the Who to hear oh so wisely
        “Oh thank you, good sir, for what you advise me!”
        And so he ran home and took all his cash
        And ran to the Thread store, he ran with a dash

        He bought all the thread that he could at the time
        He bought every spool with his very last dime.
        Well sure enough soon as he made his investment
        Another who walked in with tears in this vestments

        “Sorry to run in here making a racket
        I’ve holes in my socks, in my pants, and my jacket
        Please sell me your thread so my clothes I’ll repair
        I’ll buy it then I’ll get out of your hair”

        Well now the sad Who had no sign of his sadness
        But now he was filled with threadly fueled madness
        “This store has no thread left” He said to the guy
        But I think I could find some, I think I could try.”

        “Oh please” said the Who, in his torn apart coat
        “I leave in an hour and travel by boat
        I must look my best for a meeting is soon
        And if I can impress it will mean quite the boon!”

        “And what could you pay” said Who 1 with a smile
        “Well, all that I have” said Who 2 in a while
        He reached in his pocket and pulled out a spool
        And made all of his money back on that poor fool!

        The Threadman behind his old counter amazed
        Immediately ran to his phone in a craze
        “Order me thread, for the price has now soared
        Get all the thread that the shop can afford!”

        Back at his home was a Who feeling glad
        With all of his savings and thread that he had
        He surely would soon be a millionaire
        Living in luxury without a care

        The next day he went to buy even more thread
        But the prices were risen by 10 to his dread
        He didn’t know if he could afford the price
        But he bought 10 more spools. He bought 10 more spools thrice!

        Now that old Threadman feeling quite keen
        Has more money than his thread shop’s ever has seen
        Soon was the word that thread was the thing
        That money and riches and power, would bring

        Soon every Who down in Whoville had spools
        They had spindles and reams, they had needle point tools
        Thread fever attacked and it did with a heat
        Buying and selling and trading elites

        Every color had its own unique market
        Prices would rise and would fall right on target
        And wasn’t that first Who once felt so small
        Well now he’s the richest Who here of them all!

        His car was a beauty, his daughter was dressed
        His wife lived in leisure, no sign of distress
        He quit his old job and now lived in a mansion
        With rooms filled with thread, so he built an expansion

        For months this continued but soon there was trouble
        This wasn’t a market, no sir, but a bubble!
        Soon thread speculation proved out a disaster
        The price of thread fell, well and then it fell faster!

        The Whos they all panicked, the rich and the rabble
        They built their whole town as a Tower of Babel
        And down fell the bricks, fell every last one
        Until poverty struck, now Whoville was done

        One day came the mogul, his venture to cash
        The only non-thread based new business, the last
        He sold it and closed it and nearly left town
        When he saw his old friend, and again he was down

        “Seems like your town’s in the midst of recession
        You ought to spend wisely instead of just guessin
        Well now all the money is vapor, you see
        Well maybe for you, but just not for me

        You see while your city’s a ghost town, quite dead
        I owned all the factories spinning the thread
        I closed them as soon as the price rose too high
        Knowing a bubbly busting was nigh.”

        “How could you lead us into this position
        Surely you saw this, you surely envisioned
        Once I was poor and that was enough
        But to be rich, then poor, well sir that’s quite tough!”

        “Now sir,” said the Who of a wealthier sort
        “It’s you who spent all of your cash,” with a snort
        “I told you, quite wisely, to trade in some spools
        But you sir went all in like a blind bumbling fool”

        With that the Who left, and Whoville was alone
        With the worthlessest thread, all money now blown
        Now if ever a deal seems to good to be true
        Well it probably is, don’t get strung along, too!

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        Sensual Meeting

        Response to a free-write prompt

        Her curves were perfect from spine to sphincter
        God made miracles each joint he linked her
        A tincture
        No strings attached
        Love potion number nine, brew another batch
        Bring it by the glass and by the bottle
        Mind the throttle, pull the lever
        Let’s endeavor to explore
        Behind closed doors
        What’s in store
        In this room in Ibiza
        This woman is a trip
        Have to go renew my visa
        She’s a pleaser
        So am I
        She invites me
        So I try my luck
        And gamble with the slot machine
        She tells me that it’s hot
        What a lovely scene

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        I long abandoned my bed and my bedding.

        The soft and comforting surface

        Designed to embrace my form

        My firm yet yielding sleep nest

        Where I should reap best wood saw Zs

        Did not suffice my needs

        I was left restless pressed against it

        As if my head were set against the chest of

        A lover I did not love

        Like a mistress you never miss

        Like a mate who doesn’t matter

        A mismatch

        I ran from my mattress

        In my immaturity

        Like a child fighting naps

        Only to fall asleep in his mother’s arms

        Yes, I have denied springs with no roses

        Memory foam I’ve been too exhausted to recall

        Because their support

        Was insubstantial

        So I sought substance

        Sought the maternal bosom

        Which can silence her cantankerous child

        I find my slumber on the cold, hard ground.

        Now I am no masochist

        I found maternity in massive matter over mattresses

        You might think this is madness

        But imagine this

        The ground is with me wherever I go

        The ground lifts me up when I’m down

        The ground witnessed my first steps

        The ground will be the last loved one to hold me when I die

        The ground looks enchanting when holding a bouquet of flowers

        The ground isn’t ashamed to get dirty

        The ground serves up enough food to feed families

        The ground gives the best hugs

        The ground will keep my secrets for years

        The ground literally understands me

        The ground is always there to catch me when I fall

        The ground never thinks too highly of herself even when everything rests on her

        I find my slumber on the warm, soft ground

        Carried by humble, substantial strength

        I rest my body into the earth

        And though not the mother of my birth

        She is who birthed me

        Who birthed us

        The first of a long line of matrons

        Whose patience is as vast as a she is spacious

        Pay your graces, and lay your faces low.

        Bow in homage

        Home is where the heart is and if your heart is honest

        Rest into breast bone of she whose gravity is ever calling you back home

        Settle in the soil like loose roots

        Caress the carpet like two boots
        Let your weight go

        And close your eyes

        And climb into my bed with me

        Resting in nature’s nursery

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