A Slam Poem for Those Who Live Quietly

Here's another of the poems which came out of the portfolio. I'm going to try and get this one recorded - it's a very visceral poem.

Life

When grief and loneliness
pile up inside, creeping vile,
from the pit of churning insecurity
to spill out your mouth and eyes - smother heart –
life is the brilliant thing which will show up to ravage you -
make you whole. It comes
as poetry of time and place,
found in passionate voice
that sets a room on fire,
or leaves it quaking
in sudden silence.

Life is what we see in the slanting shade
of every memory we’ve made –
all that we’ve seen, replayed
in perfect glinting moments,
tiny and shifting and
full of a strength won in blood. Layering
muscle onto frame,
never ask for less of a burden,
only wider shoulders.
We beat the steel of our hearts new,
pounding and pounding in flame,
re-forging with every loss.

When life cracks you one across the jaw,
it is only to remind you that men
don’t go down easy.
That anyone can be strong on a good day.
I save my strength for the days
when the only thing you can do
is to stand back up and stare life down,
to yell through clenched teeth
and blood sweat,
“You god-damned son of a bitch!”

Life is determined to keep breaking me down
to the fiery knot inside my gut that pulses
and reminds me why I choose to live life
honestly. To love,
and never be ashamed.

Life is a rainstorm through clenched teeth –
We drink down what we can keep.

95

So here's a poem that got posted earlier, but which has been completely re-worked. This is another of the poems which came out of this semester's poetry class. Fairly sums up how I feel about Connecticut most days.
So, 95:

I.
These days, I’m too familiar with the blazing track of
a summer sun on my face,
setting over this asphalt welcome-mat --
Interstate Ninety-Five, roaring north.
This state makes my blood roil.
The setting orange light
flares between the lost trees
and dark forests. The grey lanes
fly to the horizon, and all I can think
is how close I am to losing myself again.
Kept inside this rotted tree,
I am sick of scrabbling for cracked open acorns -
fallen crabapples.
Driving as fast as I can,
all of the pretty Connecticut girls are going north,
wrapped in sunglasses,
passing me by.

II.

Ninety Five, into the harsh spawning sun
glaring on westernmost Connecticut,
Ninety Five down the dagger bright strips of asphalt
crossing through the strange no-man’s land
of almost ordered forests -
The four miles where nature seems to hold her breath
and huge dawn arcs above -
Ninety Five quivering on the speedometer as I’m banging
sleep-numbed fingers against the steering wheel,
grimacing my way through a song,
Ninety Five down Ninety Five, ripping across a road that’s never meant
anything to anyone.

III.

These days, writing myself dry in the dark mornings,
I am finding my way clear of
the stench of déjà vu.
Breathing heavily to empty lungs,
All of the air I’m holding
spins out to stop and slow,
harden into concrete.
These days, lifting and carrying,
straining with all I have,
I’m building up again.
Finished with living in the rubble of a home.
Finished picking through debris and
calling it justified.
Kept between and around each slow beam of sunlight,

I am running south.

Another Dream

So it's been a while since anything got posted here. I'm finished with the first semester of sophomore year, and I'm happy with how it went. I wasn't as productive with poetry as I'd hoped to be - the class I took let me down significantly in that regard. Over the next couple of days, I'm going to post what I developed, and hopefully get some new things churning.
So, here's a poem.

A Retelling

Walk in circles long enough,
and you’ll always find yourself in the center.
My feet trace the path of my thoughts,
winding the sidewalks of my city.
Under the bright lights spawning
the mad drunk energy of Saturday,
out through the deep calm and hidden tunnels
of patient Tuesday night Charleston streets.

I wait in my quiet way for
a breeze off the river,
some serene thing to lift me up.
The night holds its breath
until I find myself
leaning against a dark rail on the dark edge of Charleston,
watching a ponderous behemoth silhouette itself
from across the bay. White light shines
through the cracks in stacked shipping containers.
The wind is blocked. All I hear is my own
quiet breath, in time and tune with the waves. It leaves me tired,
exhausted – I find a song
on suddenly numb lips.
It is enough to carry me home.