Tag Archives: poetry

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

9 April, 2013

Posted under

determination, fiction, poetry, prose, storyteller, The Novel that Will Get Me Published, writing

Comments

Leave a comment

Happy as a Chondestes grammacus

Hey, I did it. I finished The Novel that Will Get Me Published. It was kind of surprising, actually. Finished is around midnight, Monday morning this week. When I realized I was done, I just kind of stared at my computer screen for a while. I think the shock has worn of now…I think. Hey, come on, the thing took me eight years to write–but I did most of it in the past year. And now it’s done.  The first book I wrote in a year; the second in five years. (Those ones suck. I don’t want to talk about those.) But this one is weird. It’s different. It’s…special. Aww. No, seriously, it is.

Now I can’t look at it for a couple days. But then I’ll go back and read it. Then I’ll start editing. I already know who I’d like to send it to for critiquing. Then after that: some more editing! Then it’ll be time to put together publishing packages [which I remember so fondly]. (Oh, look how excited I am! I’m already thinking of everything I get to do next! I’m happy as a lark. A darling lark!… ‘the hell kinda bird is a lark anyway?)

In honor, I suppose this poem is appropriate:

Scriveners
JCD Kerwin

My pen writes
in a different way
each time I hold it,
as if to say,
“They’re not done yet.”

(December, 2011)

And my break’s over. Stay off drugs, kids.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

20 February, 2013

Posted under

determination, poetry, writing

Comments

Leave a comment

Barefoot Wednesday Poetry

Never Ever Forever
JCD Kerwin

I’ll run barefoot
through the jungles
and in between
the catacombs lost to places
Man will never go again.

I’ll smile like the natives
painted blue and red—
the colors of the blood
dripping from my feet.
But I won’t give a damn,
and I’ll just laugh harder
when my shins begin to crack.

Because I won’t pretend
I’m an iron man
made of adamantium,
or a super man worth damn.

Surrounded by shadows and trees,
lost species and relic dreams,
it’s okay to just be me.

I’d rather feel the rush
of wind against my skin,
than against wings I don’t deserve.

I’d rather run around the world
for a thousand years,
than grow feathers from my back
just to fall

like all the times before.

(November, 2011)

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

15 February, 2013

Posted under

determination, poetry, self-portrait, spoken word, writing

Comments

Leave a comment

Because It’s That Kind of a Day

Autobiomaniacal
JCD Kerwin

They call me Mista Jazz
‘cause I sparkle with all the razz-
le dazzle and the speed you wouldn’t believe
Speed Racer never tried to beat.

I’m a picture-perfect stately heir,
so debonair with an austere air,
as I straighten up my tie that lies
in strict conviction that I’m better than I am.

I’m a fly guy—
a pussy cat you can pet, you bet,
if you get past my clicking claws.
I’m a dandy Sam, a Dapper Dan,
who watches winding watches ticking in my hand
just to manage something
left behind by a more worthy human.

I’m not the best that you saw;
I’m just a jackass behind the walls
of the jail I created from the fables
I tried to make you understand.
I am an arrogant little prick who licks
my wounds when something doesn’t go right
in the perfect little world I created
with words meant to water down the lies.

And I broke the hearts that wanted mine,
that I never took the time
to bother with because I wasn’t
ready to love someone far more deserving than I.

(Don’t like what I see when I look in the mirror;
can’t comprehend why Blue thinks that I’m a winner.
Makes my heart feel like melting ‘cause
I’m just a worthless windup wretch
who grasps at bones to make myself feel better ‘bout
the mutt I spy in puddles.)

I’m just a wannabe in words,
a whore of language, left languished
on a stuffy mattress eaten out by lice.
Will never be a puppet poet master or
a fury fiction maker like the gods
who line the dusty shelves of libraries in my mind.

Can’t hurt to try,
to get by,
twisting words around like acrobats on wires.
Perspire—mix water droplets on my head with blood I burn in fires—
as I try to climb the catacombs of courage
I buried down inside.

I’ll try to fly,
to spread wings broken back in time,
and see if words can hold the meaning I always
thought they did, in dormant domino lines.

To wait for the kick is just to stall,
so I take the buck and crawl
away into the sky…

My wings might melt in fire but
at least Blue wings will catch me
when I fall.

(December, 2011)

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

6 February, 2013

Posted under

poetry, writing

Comments

Leave a comment

Queens in Ice Castles

White Evergreen
JCD Kerwin

Where we were,
it must have been winter.

It smelled like ice
and tasted like an apparition
of Frosty the Fucking Snowman.

I think you made
glowing icicles stick
across my skin with
your Shangri-la blue lips.

(Ice Queen of my dreamscape.)

I believe it was
some frosty world
made of see-through castles
and beds of mammoth furs.

(You gave me instant hypothermia.)

Where we were was ever white
and never ending;
where we were was a wasteland
of pine needle green.

Where we were was just a dream,
just a dream,
just a white evergreen;
just a damned snow globe of memories.

Now you’re just…
a plastic, painted ballerina
forever spinning to Für Elise.

(August, 2012)

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

5 February, 2013

Posted under

poetry, self-portrait, spoken word, writing

Comments

Leave a comment

Flicker

Flicker
JCD Kerwin

“I don’t care if you wear your hair
like young David Cassidy or Demi Moore in Ghost.
Though, I like it longer ‘cause
you look a little funny when
you’re grabbing at nothing while
you’re screaming palindromes in the dark.”

In another life I
was named after Jeremy Finch.
I’m defined as “renegade.”
I’ll hit Mister Radley’s door and
take off like I’ve got wings on my sneakers.

I’m not scared.
I can do whatever I damn well want to do.
Let’s play Grown-Up Truth or Dare.

I’ll make papier-mâché horns
and tie them to my head so when
I’m called a monster,
it might finally be true.

“You’re slightly insane, I think.”

(I think they’re right. I know it.)

It’s not because I write or
I’ve never felt alright;
I just don’t know how to walk without
leaving my shoes untied.

Now I’m squishing in my Chucks because
I dove into the deepest end
without looking.

Red-rover,
Red-rover…
The life-jackets fell over and
I’m falling because I counted to 100 but
no one’s answering the name I call
when I look into the mirror.

“You just haven’t found yourself yet.”

But I’ve been here all along
and that’s always been the problem.

(March, 2012)