They Say

Here is the third thought-provoking piece by Mike Filce, our guest poet for the month of May.

They say

They say many things
of life’s regrets
of the readiness to die
before one’s time
yet that can only
be where it is
and not before
and certainly not later.
They speak of muse
that wandering rogue
who chafes and scratches
and fails to live up
to his name.
I am proof, after all,
of dreams deferred,
readily devoured,
euphemistically,
forgivingly applied —
that absence of measuring
until some later time
which never has to come
at this rate.

Copyright 2018 Mike Filce All rights reserved

Sons and Daughters

Our guest poet Mike Filce brings us a piece this week about a poignant parenting perspective.

Sons and daughters

A daughter
caring, nurturing,
nothing to please
to serve,
even her brother –
who has already
learned that he’s
the type girls
will want to
take care of –
he’s in training.
and so is she.

 

Copyright 2018 Mike Filce All rights reserved

They Say

Our guest poet for the month of May is Mike Filce, who shares with us his special brand of contemplative free verse.

They Say

They say many things
of life’s regrets
of the readiness to die
before one’s time
yet that can only
be where it is
and not before
and certainly not later.
They speak of muse
that wandering rogue
who chafes and scratches
and fails to live up
to his name.
I am proof, after all,
of dreams deferred,
readily devoured,
euphemistically,
forgivingly applied —
that absence of measuring
until some later time
which never has to come
at this rate.

© 2018 Mike Filce All rights reserved

Mike says: I live in South Lake Tahoe and teach English at South Lake Tahoe High School. My wife Anne and I have two children, both currently attending college.

Human

It’s our last week with Briana Herr, and we’re sorry to see her go. But next week, we’ll feature the work of S. M. Holland, a poet and author of the Get in My Head series! Check out Briana’s last poem below:

I am not some kind of toy
That you play with.
Moving my parts,
Hitting me against the floor,
Bring me to the mall.
And then put away once you get bored with me.
Only to pull me out again,
starting the cycling anew when you remember me in the closet.

I am not an CD
that you pop in a player.
Singing along to my lyrics of my soul.
Only to take me out and put back in my case.
Hoping that the scratches and smudges from your fingerprints will just evaporate away in there,
by the time you get my songs stuck in your head again.

I am not a playground.
A place to go for free entertainment.
To touch, poke and prod.
A place to run circles around and trash
Leaving maintenance and upkeep to an unseen group.
To Abandon when storm clouds come out
only to come back on the next Sunny day.

I am not a thing
To be used and abused.
To be throw out when you’re through with me.
Left on the side of the road,
hoping that someone will take care of me.
Only to buy me back when you need me again.

I am not an object.
I have thoughts and feelings.
Hopes and dreams
Drives and ambitious.
Flesh, muscle and bones.
I breathe air. Blood rushes through me!

I am
A human.

hiya! my name is Briana F. Herr,
I’m a coffee addicted night owl. I love Anime, comic books, video games -yeah, pretty much anything nerdy.-

I love musicals and cheesy Disney channel original movies. I hate slow walkers, waiting around, waking up early and adulting.

the empty room

Sitting in an empty room
The rushing of blood is the only noise that could be heard.
As it travels from my heart to my toes and back around.

When that becomes too much to stand,
I turn on music.
I fill the room with words and lyrics of the rise and falls of relationships and human emotions.

But the quietness is still there.

So I turn on a TV too.
The noises of letter based sounds almost give me my fix for human interaction.

But it’s silly to have both a TV and music playing at the same time.
So I always end up turning off both of them.

The high pitched ringing in my ears settles in.
The noise that happens in the absence of any other sound.
The low melodramatic hum that just services me the harsh truth.

The room is still empty.

So I take to the outside world,
The busy Street, the crowded areas.
Lights and sounds trying to fill the open air.
The friction of shirts and coats rubbing against each other
As people hasten past me,
Satisfies my need for physical contact.

But the uniform pounding of lost soul’s feet aligned with the tune of my hammering heart.
Feeling like one of many red blood cells trapped in a vein,
I pulled myself out.

Down the isolated road home
it soon dawned on me, like the rising sun
with Rays of pinks, oranges and bubs of baby blues.
It wasn’t the room that was empty.

The feeling was inside of my chest.

hiya! my name is Briana F. Herr, I’m a coffee addicted night owl. I love Anime, comic books, video games -yeah, pretty much anything nerdy. I love musicals and cheesy Disney channel original movies. I hate slow walkers, waiting around, waking up early and adulting.

thought about you.

If thoughts were raindrops
The world would be covered in an boundless sea
Deep and blue as your eyes
and with infinite possibilities
of what scary things hide underneath,
I’m Just another sucker drawn to your light.
Drawn to the false ideal.

If thoughts were grains of sand,
It could count all the seconds that have dropped away before me.
All the moments I have spent with your face imprinted on my mind
Watching my life slip away with.
Counting to the end of my time.

If thoughts were fingerprints
I’d be covered in yours.
From my head to my toes,
seeping into my soul.
Until the lines on my skin look like your fingertips
Scarring my body with your mark.

If thoughts were matter.
I would be in the middle of a black hole.
A dark void to be swallowed whole.
Totally Surrounded By your presence,
a endless pit of negativity.
Unstoppable force of destruction
Until nothing was left of me.

But thoughts are thoughts.
Racing around with no control.
They run through my mind.
Looping on repeat with no end in sight,
On Repeat with Nothing but my regrets with you.

Bipolar Weather

This month’s guest poet is Briana Herr, aka Booboo! She brings us this deep, painful poem with a disclaimer.

This poem was inspired by individuals struggling with untreated bipolar disorder. If you’re having trouble with your own mental health, please call this hotline: 1-800-273-8255, and/or tell a friend.

You switch between the seasons.
One minute you were summer,
All sunshine and melting hot air.

Next moment you were winter,
falling snow and blistering cold storms.

It’s hard to keep up with your bipolar weather.

Sometimes you’re muggy days,
Fair grounds and laughing people.
Far too soon it turns into frigid nights,
Below freezing and total blinding white out.

I switch between the seasons.
One minute I was spring,
So full of life and warm breezes.

the next moment I was fall,
withering away and full of pouring rain.

It’s hard to keep my seasons in check.

Sometimes I’m sunny days,
singing birds and blooming flowers.
Which turns into windy nights,
withdrawing animals and dying leaves.

We’re never in sync,
When I’m bouncing spring,
you’re ice over winter.
When you’re hot summer in full force,
I’m drying out in fall.
I really can’t keep up with our bipolar weeks,
Either way I’m always caught up in some kind of rain.

hiya! my name is Briana F. Herr, I’m a coffee addicted night owl. I love Anime, comic books, video games -yeah, pretty much anything nerdy. I love musicals and cheesy Disney channel original movies. I hate slow walkers, waiting around, waking up early and adulting.

Coins

This is our final poem by guest Gabe Jacobs. We’re sorry to see him go, but exciting news: Briana Herr, or “Booboo” as she’s known, is our guest poet for April! Please give Gabe a fond farewell today and Booboo a hearty welcome next week.

There are two sides to every coin

But the value doesn’t differ

Every other hand holds truth

With none more true than another

 

Heads pound and pump policy

Tail feathers prominent and proud

Peacock pecking orders prove

That all people prefer perfect

Black and white

Infallible

Unforgiving

Good and evil

 

Only to be disappointed time and time again.

My name is Gabe Jacobs, I am terrified of inadequacy. I miss Anthony, and I believe Michael Bay was Shakespeare in a past life.

Silk

Oh what wicked webs we weave

Dancing in a ballroom cocoon

With silk on the soles of our shoes

And an aversion to all our past places.

Where we step the string follows

Where we fall the floor shakes

So we step carefully

To avoid past mistakes

The first beats are easy

I focus on your eyes

Our feet move freely

We hardly have to try

As the tracks roll on

Your fangs become clear

If home is where the heart is

Why the hell am I here

A wolf in sheepskin

A spider’s seduction wins

As skin fades from your face

And so the hunt begins.

The first few webs are fragile

New and unprepared

But as I run through an old memory

I get caught up, ensnared.

Stuck for what seems like forever

Maybe things weren’t so bad

I reminisce

On the chances I’ve missed

As your webs begin to spin

If I wanted to leave I should’ve

So I start to dance again.

My name is Gabe Jacobs, and I am terrified of inadequacy. I miss Anthony, and I believe Michael Bay was Shakespeare in a past life.

Picture credit: Arnaud de Vallois. Check him out!

Ivy

Gabe comes to us with another poem! Read below and let us know what you think!

Hands that don’t know how to feel
Reach to a father who didn’t know either
She had no control
And neither did he
Newborn innocence
Meet young adult ignorance
she grips his finger
With the strength of ivy on a tree
A grip that holds him down
keeps him sane.
He lets out a thank you
And she lets out a sneeze

My name is Gabe Jacobs, and I am terrified of inadequacy. I miss Anthony, and I believe Michael Bay was Shakespeare in a past life.