Smile
Show me that the seeds of your discontent
Have not taken root
Display for me
That sign of eternal,
Internal well-being
Smile
Show me the wisdom of my ways
Your soul unfazed by unreasonable demands
Heated irons held to your skin,
Pain and anger held within
With teeth clench of
Show me twenty-eight ways I haven't done wrong
Leap-year me into a season of self-righteousness
With an intoxicating elixir so strong,
Nector of a deaf, dumb, and blind nether-god
Antidote to sodium pentathol and leather wrist straps
Just
Give me some of that ole reassurance
Tell me that it ain't so bad
Sing undisguised work songs to me, white as cotton,
Take me back to
Simple days of rules of order
Proper divisions and simple instructions:
Tote, lift, hump and hew
Soft, humming nights and
Busted mouths oozing red and brown
Smile,
Show me all thirty-two,
Lift your tongue to show me no hidden razor blades,
Show me your molars hiding no encapsulated cyanide
Show me no incisors sharpened for mortal combat
Let me touch your lips and mouth familiarity,
Bring me closer to you, the way it once was
Peel back your lips and bless me with your easy fortune
Open your mouth
And
Smile.
Ken McManus (New York)
3/31/11
Jamie Kennedy "Grim Fairy Tale"
If a boy who is never going to be a man
named Peter Pan ever comes to your windowsill
and knocks and asks for your hand
to fly you off to never land
Go
You don’t even have to leave a note
Just float away
because tomorrow land will never be better than today
Life is a grim fairy tale
And she makes me believe
She believes that mermaids swim with her
That dragons compete with airplanes for runways
That unicorns put the holes in Swiss cheese
and we hide from wolves under blankets of wool
And I make believe that I can be here
Forever
That parents can stay together
That every snail you step on has its own separate snail heaven
and the sorrow of Angels makes rainy weather
At night I say don’t be afraid of the dark
because on the other side of the earth
Fairy’s wings are shimmering in the opening dawn light
The sun will always come out tomorrow
And Barbie is always going to have a date
The white rabbit is always going to need a late pass
and every mirror you see
is a looking glass
So hold onto your fantasies like Frodo clutched onto his ring
because the never ending story will end some day
She makes me believe that a kiss
Will wake up any princess
when her mother is a sleeping beauty
I will never wake up to again
That death isn’t the only happy end
So she teaches me to make it all up
Because no matter how many nightmares the boogie man can give you
you can never dream enough
Just turn on the nightlight
Eat every apple every snake offers you
with rosary red lips red as Snow White’s
Dance with every Prince Charming you meet
because Cinderella never knows when it is going to hit midnight
I make believe that I have all the time in the world
for my little girl
Daddy still lives in a world of fantasy
and you’re my ivory key to the secret garden
where we have tea parties with the Mad Hatter
and if you ever fall down a rabbit hole
you don’t have to call home
unless I can follow you down
Just you and me
She makes me make believe that she was a queen since birth
I as her father figure fold her in my arms
to defend her like arms against mother earth
because life may be a grim fairy tale
But she makes me make believe
to never let reality
tell you what your imagination is worth
3/29/11
Taalam Acey 'Permission to Speak G*ds Work"
Taalam Acey may be the hardest working spoken word artist of his
generation. He's published a novel, an award winning memoir and 9 spoken
word CDs. Taalam has been a full time traveling poet for over a decade. Tens
of thousands of people own his work and many, many more have seen his
performances. Acey performs regularly in more than 50 cities in the US
and abroad. On average, he is on a plane once every 3.5 days. Taalam's work has been featured on BET and in Essence Magazine. He has
been a frequent guest at dozens of colleges and Universities and has
lectured on contemporary spoken word at the prestigious Graduate School
of Education at UC Berkeley. Acey has twice been featured at the Essence
Music Festival. He's been quoted in several newspapers, including the
Washington Post, the Philadelphia Weekly and the New Jersey Star Ledger.
In addition, Acey's work has been associated with films that have
garnered an Audience Award and a Special Jury Prize at the Sundance Film
Festival. Acey is also an accomplished slam poet who has won slams throughout the united states as well as in Germany and England. His greatest compliment came from no other than Stevie Wonder when he called Taalam an "Inspiration."2/16/11
Scott Compton "True Love"
Copyright © Scott Compton 2004
2/4/11
The Found Poem
The found poem is called just that because it is not one the writer set out to write. For example, in a creative writing class students may choose words from a variety of literature sitting before them that really strikes a cord. Unbeknown that the words thay have chosen will be passed on for someone else to use and create a poem from. This amazing piece was written by a truly gifted writer, Jillian Quinn, from ten words another student picked out. As writers, we all know how challenging writing can be but try creating something as eloquent as this with someone else's words. It is just a hunch, but I think Jillian has yet to see what a true gift she has. With her modesty will come riveting work that I look forward to seeing in the future.
To the dirt, to spring mushrooms, and to the stomachs of birds,
To fly in some alter sky, without swaying heavy with limbs .
The Found Poem
The old gnarled tree, all twisting twine and thistle jowls,
Scabby with bark, and knotted in bowed knuckles,
Scabby with bark, and knotted in bowed knuckles,
Wore a crown of wood tips, bald of leaves.
His branches whistled in the spirit, not of malevolence, but of an aged thing,
As a storm approached from an ocean due east.
His branches whistled in the spirit, not of malevolence, but of an aged thing,
As a storm approached from an ocean due east.
A time ago he had hollowed, he no longer stretched towards the sun.
Crooked and hunched he came to wonder,
If he were to fall by no one would he make a sound?
When some merciful wind left him fallen,
Would he be dawned to repent, or in opposition be stricken by nothingness?
Become bloodless, possessed as the pulp of the earth, and in death return to awe.
If he were to fall by no one would he make a sound?
When some merciful wind left him fallen,
Would he be dawned to repent, or in opposition be stricken by nothingness?
Become bloodless, possessed as the pulp of the earth, and in death return to awe.
To the dirt, to spring mushrooms, and to the stomachs of birds,
To fly in some alter sky, without swaying heavy with limbs .
This, the old tree hoped, branches welcoming to wilder winds,
To caramelize for the flowers until each bit of him oblivion consumed,
To become something as simple as twine and thistle blooms.
To caramelize for the flowers until each bit of him oblivion consumed,
To become something as simple as twine and thistle blooms.
Copyright © Jillian Quinn 2011
1/31/11
"True Love"
I search deep inside my thoughts and soul for the words to create.
I crave and yearn for the words to write.
With my words I'm taken to another place where creativity and expression
become the session of my art.
I live for the written word to open aspects of my mind I might not
otherwise find.
I watch as these words begin to flow across this page unleashing subtle
rage wisdom beginning to grow.
I hide behind the words I write as a means to show my depth and sensitivity
or to find some objectivity.
I cry these words with tears of fears that my voice is still not really
being heard.
I hold them next to me tight for without them I grow silent and cannot
speak up to become defiant.
I express these words in my way which is any other way that might be… your
way.
These words that become verse tell my story but just to know me without
them would not be to truly… know me.
I breathe these words like the first breath I ever took; eyes open wide to
this hook just asking you to look.
Before these words I began to articulate from my tongue I never had a voice
to shout my self was in doubt.
Without these words I lived in isolation because the voice it gave me
saved me, set me free and raised me.
Now with my words and rhyme I can insight, empower and drop rain of
knowledge to those who grasp this plight.
The expression of love and the feeling itself is defined by a word.
True love for me began with this blank page waiting to be standing on top a
stage whether or not the camera will ever be raised. As I wrote this I inhaled it as if I toked it with my minds
elation beginning to float now I can speak this with my tongue and throat.
Copyright © Scott Compton 2004
1/24/11
Christine Gifol "Catcalls"
Copyright © Christine Gifol 2011
1/8/11
Scott Compton "Dear Dad"
 |
At age 19 I lost my father very suddenly due to an illness, I think to this day, my family is still confused about. He spent two and a half days in the hospital and was then gone from our lives. None of us could have comprehended the seriousness of his medical condition, as the Doctors couldn't seem to diagnose the situation. As a result, he died before we could even begin to think we might need to say a much needed one last I love you or an emotional goodbye. Twelve years after his death I wrote this piece because the adult I had become grew to understand what I truly didn't see in my father as a teenager and what I missed out on as a result. In a sense this piece is like a letter I wrote to my father to apologize for my young like mind that just didn't understand.
Copyright © Scott Compton 2011
1/5/11
Spoken Word Artist Or A Poet; What's The Difference?
With written word, the inner spirit of a poem is there on the page, and
the poet connects individually with the reader. The page dictates the
line breaks, and the reader determines the pacing and tempo when the
poem is read silently in the reader's head or out loud. The words are
there to savor or to return to whenever needed by the reader.
Books are comfortable companions that surround the reader with intimate
connections from the writer. There is an individual communion and
healing between the poet and the reader.
Once that poem moves off the page and is performed with the rhythm and the soul of the artist it makes
a different kind of connection, a connection with the community, and it
now speaks to the masses. The artist determines the rhythm and spirit of
the poem and sometimes starts to merge other art forms into the performance as well. The poem is now alive being acted out or told like a riveting story.
Poets aspire publication while Spoken Word Artist aspire the stage and the masses.
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