Words Much Like Poetry

Failure is not falling down, but refusing to get up. An old Chinese saying.

I began keeping a journal in December of 1994 at the age of twelve. At some point in the first year of the faithful chronicling of my legend, I read the Diary of Anne Frank. I found myself suddenly bored with beginning each of my journal entries with the oh-so-usual Dear Diary, but I couldn't for the life of me find a "pet name" that I thought really striking. In October of 1995, I finally settled on D.D., which stands for Dear Diary. 10/24/95 Dear D.D. I feel so miserable right now. My heart aches so much for me to confess my true feelings. The torture my mind and heart (are) experiencing is almost unbearable. For so many weeks there have been few times I have cried, but I think the days of my crying every night are coming back. I am so desperate for what I want to be given to me. Many a time I have (en)visioned the things that I want. Yet every day is another disappointment. Bye! And so, she was born, this inanimate object which over the years became akin to a living en...

I can't remember the exact age that I took an interest in writing. I do remember my first self-published work though. It was entitled "Wrath of the Red Bird" and must have totaled no more than 4 loose leaf sheets of stapled-together paper. I was nine. The short-short story reflected a concept I was nearly obsessed with at that age. I was, and still am, a comic book fan. Terrible of me not to remember the name I gave my main character, a twenty-something woman who was known for her kind heart. I believe the story was thrown out a number of years ago, a victim of one of my late father's cleaning rages. Or, it's somewhere on this continent, in a room I haven't ventured into since a year before my father's death. If not there, then perhaps I left it in Kenya, buried in a box full of memories left in the safe care of my elderly grandmother. Let's, for the sake easy reference, call the main character of my first short-short story, Petra. As stated, Petra was...

the tender weightless misty threads wisped, spiraled up and met with the stately figure they kissed and caressed tender curves, hugged as they rubbed and rose, skidded upon a heaving curve, hit upon the parabolic obstacle and dispersed a hiss upon the glowing brands and new misty weightless rose they knew their enchantment, they knew their instrumentality snatched, they jetted into a dance with garments, a fanning wing tugged at them until they entered the twin cave and a dark bony clawed hand intruded upon the flawless milky skin hoarse cackles mixed with velvet whispers and drool stained the silk and satin pale skin glowed and the curves convulsed narcotic evanescence hovered expectant- a squeal arose from within as coarse and sharp violated supple soft eyes, unblemished white, glowing hankered at her and a stained grin arose from the creature as it held the chain that bound a celestial the damned one rattled the fetters as he hobbled forward and yanked the immaculate into a dirty ...

we boast of a cradle of life the genesis of which we have put a price on we prize not the vanishing green and take lightly the price we paid for it were we not as one, as we reclaimed that which had been snatched from us, the legacy that our forefathers left us, and charged us to nurture? yet now we rise against each other plunder the irreplaceable from nature use what is left as weapons to further greed for power soon the ground shall burn uncovered, unrained stained with sweat and blood despair and regret do we not all sweat salt and bleed red? do we not all love and mourn for our loss? do we not all hunger and thirst? what then is our distinction? let then our dream be fulfilled let harmony reign let us heal our land and lands and never forget we are all children of the Most High.

While angry longing sweeps gustily through the channels that make of my soul a darkened maze, I listen to songs that have become like unto classics. And the thoughts and feelings that they were once soundtrack to, flood the angry longing, turning the world, this place where the meadowlark sleeps, into something more. The light becomes softer, gentle. The scrape of chairs and the ringing tones of cellphones, and the tenor and bass, alto and soprano of un-silent voices fade into the bearable facsimile of a drone. Oh, truly, in this moment, with Oasis's Wonderwall playing its sharps and flats, this path I've embarked upon once more is too poignant for angry longing to hold much sway.