partially executed bravery ususally results in painful failure


the time when I thought I could spring up very high on a diving board and curve my body up and over like a rainbow, to get in to the water pin straight and diagonal, hands pointed above my head. The classic dive. Whilst midair I realized it was not going to work or I got scared. Whatever the reason was, I belly flopped HARD! It jolted my neck like sedan whiplash. That plane of water slapped me hard and taught me a lesson. That lesson is the title of this blog.

One time I thought about making a snappy comeback in jest by using the voice and words of Eric Cartman. I chickened out on the voice, and what I said didn’t come across as being a quote from a foul mouthed cartoon character, but rather as my own feeling about the situation. That lead to a big misundestanding later, and a great deal of awkwardness.

I was in the spelling bee when I was in sixth grade. I studied my ass off. I was so sure that I was going to do great. So many times I had stood on the stage at church and sang, my knees quivering, and would go cry after I was done. Not because I had done poorly, but just from the sheer terror of being watched by so many people made my nerves fray. When I went to the spelling bee, I had unusual courage. I bombed. I was the third one out. The word that was the nail in my coffin was one that my mom gave me a pneumonic device to remember. It was wrong though, so I had memorized it wrong. I wasn’t mad at my mom. I was mad at myself for having been so bold, brave and confident. Never again, I vowed, would I ever be so sure of myself.

If you ever feel like putting yourself on the line, make sure you go full balls out and see it through, or have the wills or skills to do it in the first place. Otherwise, it’s gonna hurt. Have you ever seen a tattoo where the person chickened out half way through?

Published in: on November 30, 2009 at 11:59 pm  Comments (2)  
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On days like these

ink creeps down the confessing page

rain slides down the windows

and blood weeps slow through my polar veins

the coffee perks and drips in sync

and someday soon

all these liquids will efface

amalgamize in a swirl in the palm of my hand

and I will smear them down my sullen face

ink rain and blood

Published in: on November 12, 2009 at 11:05 pm  Comments (1)  
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Maritime Melancholy

Months lost at sea
with all these knots
and thoughts
that will not hold tight
slipping and giving the wind my sails
The creaking sway
a lullaby of loneliness
a cradle
a heaping ladle
of maritime melancholy
my flag, a sun-bleached map
Is it a voyage when you are lost
and content to be tossed
upon the miles of tumultuous waves
praying for landlessness
hopelessness, a welcome compass?
Published in: on November 11, 2009 at 1:31 am  Comments (2)  
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Rendered Handsome

He is alabaster
with a sheen
and brass knob,
polished clean
chiseled brawn
catching the afternoon sun
How he glistens
smooth to touch
His sculpted curves
give me a rush
Apparently, the Lord’s work is done.
Published in: on November 11, 2009 at 1:16 am  Comments (1)  
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Under the Shade Oak Tree

relaxing in grass
I’m gonna spread myself out under that shade oak tree
and close my eyes;
feel the breeze flow across my cheeks
my arm flung on the ground behind my head
light and hollow inside,
heavy as wind chime lead
singing, clanging songs as it moves me
this serenity soothes me
If I could only squeeze
the essence of this peace
preserved into a vial for consumption
when the fires of hell are raging.
Published in: on November 9, 2009 at 10:42 pm  Comments (1)  
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No words can touch the tender love
of mother holding babe in arms
nursing, whispering, dreaming, singing
it is the harbor away from harm
The child’s heart, a seed
from the mother’s fruited tree
grows before her very eyes
into ripe maturity
With guarded heart, she tends his scrapes
wipes his nose and meets his teachers
watches him shave for the first time
and roots for him from the high school bleachers
The letting go comes very slow
if ever it should occur at all
she sees the man before her
yet to her, he’s still so very small
No words can touch the unspeakable grief
of mother holding babe in arms
an urn of ash from a horrid crash
her harbor utterly disarmed
Published in: on November 7, 2009 at 1:15 am  Leave a Comment  
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