Tag Archives: Poetry

Take time in the morning to

12 May

assemble and enliven your character.

You want certain facets to change?

Re-write them.

You’re displeased with something?

Remove it.

You hold the pen. The pages are yours.

Be the author,



7 May


Explore the plausible seas–

Read my Me, breathe free.


Times when nothing propels

1 May

you, know why you’re not motivated, not charged with a new charge and sight.

for interpretation

30 Apr

She tells me something,

I listen but don’t at all, not a 


I glare, meditate, then die.


9 Apr

I can only. Right now, as the day gets closer to its end.  Me about to go upstairs to bed before my wife texts me and tells me to do just that.  I smirk a bit, finally on the Road I’ve been meant to be on.  Studying, in class, undergrad and grad, all those memories and scenes returning… the one spoken word piece I wrote in retaliation to what a poetry “professor” remarked about one of my pieces.  I smile, slightly, not giving too much to air, but I’m collected and assembled in this character.  Who Mike Madigan is, right now, on this floor.  I’m in an umbrage of understanding.

Reviewing my progress.  Guess you could call it a self-assessment, I guess, I don’t know though.  Is it?  Honestly, I don’t care.  I’ve come to a place and point in my story where I don’t over-invest in what I have little or no control over.  OR, even total control.  I’m not concerned with control as much as I am composition.  Not wanting bed, only more time to meditate, collect, think about next day, what I’ll say in class, and how I’ll amass my notes and say something of “value”.

This feels funny.  Not sure if it’s confidence or some bravado that I’ve always wished I’d possessed and now for some reason in this late stage of my life I do—  How.  Why.  Don’t ask those questions, I tell myself.  Consolidate… reiterate, mediate, paginate and promulgate.  You see something at a certain point in your story.  You’re not sure what it is exactly, meaning you don’t have a particular moniker or classification, but you’re magnetized by it.  And you lead, while you follow… following your own lead to that prize and premise, seductive mise.  More understanding, lesson, collection.  The answers catapult themselves to me in eagerly healing hives.

from an essay

7 Apr

…finally returning home from the labor place, son still awake and wanting to play.  I gave in and sat with him and joked for a bit.  But now, I just listen to rain.  Just listen, readers… see yourself in some other form, some other plain, plateau, pose and placement.  No that alliteration wasn’t intentional.  Or maybe a bit.  But I’m home, finally collecting the way I want to, not having to dodge all the people at a Starbucks and just sitting down on the floor, which isn’t at all comfortable, and centering in musings.  What I muse over now, life… where I am in it and what my story’s doing.  Feeling like a student again.  Showing up to class, not sure what’s going to happen or what I want my aims to be.  Blending paragraphs and poems, not at all expected but entirely admirable since I’ve decided to further sit and center in my decisions.  I’ve always wanted to be a thinker, a professor, like Dad.  No, he wasn’t a teacher, but a pilot which is galactically more interesting.  But he always struck me as an educator, a Philosophy professor, and he was a Philos’ major.  I see this writer at my aimed-for campus, which I’m not going to again reverb, offering postulates on those questions, what’s posed in Coelho’s work—


27 Mar


Be creatively adept.