wasted

If I only live one more day

Will I sit on the couch and mope?

Will I watch daytime TV?

Will I waste it in traffic to go down the shore?

Would I get wasted, or something more.

Will I keep doing what I do

Will I change my routine?

Do I have another day left?

Who is to be sure?

I mope on the couch some days.

I waste hours in traffic

I have been wasted before

I lost years of my life for no good reason.

Who is to tell me I have another day left?

I sure as hell can’t,

 yet my day will be wasted again tomorrow

somehow.


the angel inside

My hands are dirty.

My eyes are dark.

Words and images

Are screaming about my head.

I attempt to control them

Through paper and canvas.

They are cluttered and messy.

I hear silence echoing in anger.

Hollow walls and

Broken passion

Interrupt my process.

When will this end?

 

When will it begin?


Wonder

anticipation

frustration

aggravation

impatience

fortune

disappointment

letdown

regret

disillusion

unacceptable

wonder

 


I Am a Chicken... Try and Catch Me!

 

When I was young, my favorite poet was William Carlos Williams because of his short verses and word usage. I loved how he created beauty in less than twenty words. My favorite poem is "The Red Wheelbarrow." I have a copy hanging on my wall now.

The second half of the poem says:

glazed with rain

 water

beside the white

chickens.

I didn't realize that this poem had more meaning than a wheelbarrow hanging out with a couple of chickens. The poem is telling us that chickens are the mascot of a farm. If you ask anyone their first thought when you say farm, what will they say? Certainly not a wheelbarrow. They may say cow or goat, they might say corn or tomato. I guarantee you will get many that say chicken.

The chicken is the face of a farm, and the wheelbarrow is the worker. The worker that hides in the background, doing all the dirty, grungy, nobody chores. The chicken is getting all the attention. They get fed, they get to run around with their chicken friends, and all the nonfarmers think of them as the stars.

As a child, I didn't understand that. I was the chicken. I was the star on my farm. To a degree, I still am a star, in my own mind. As we grow older, we become the wheelbarrow and let the chickens on our farms become the stars. As we age, our ego and experiences show us we no longer need to be the chicken. We love becoming the wheelbarrows for our loved ones and ourselves.

I thought I was doing a great job as the wheelbarrow, but I wasn't. I was a chicken. I am a chicken at heart. Being a chicken is okay. There is nothing wrong with being a chicken. Chickens serve a purpose on the farm, somebody needs to be the face. We all can't be wheelbarrows.

The wheelbarrow was not my thing, which I see. I will do my chicken dance and be proud. I am a chicken; try and catch me.

The Red Wheelbarrow

William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

 

chickens