Poem: “Dedication” vs “drive”

Dedication is consistently committing continually.
Dedication is quiet.
Simply determined, without question. It’s my life, and I choose it every day.
Dedication is renewed.
Appreciation of what I have, and doing what is necessary to attend to it.
Dedication is old, and proud.
It’s the result of hard work, and the certainty of more.
It’s like love.

Drive is gotta get it, gotta have it.
Drive is loud. Revved up.
Drive is “watch me”. Drive is not… yet.
Blood pumping through my veins.
Drive is young, and gotta grab this opportunity and not waste it.
*Proving* myself. Needing to.
It’s like winning someone over.

Dedication is soft and sweet and calm.
Providing safety and stability.
Relaxing into a flow state, and knowing what usually works. And if it’s not working, dedication is trying something else. Because I would do anything, naturally.
Dedication is direction and a pension. A safety net.
It’s respectful space.
Dedication is “I chose this already”. If I don’t have this job, dedication is showing you how I would do it.
Take it or leave it.
Dedication is a stroll on the beach and a kiss in the moonlight.
Dedication is fluffy towels and waking up to the smell of brewed coffee I prepared earlier.
Dedication is holding your hand.

Drive is motivation.
On a high. Pushing through. Meeting that deadline.
Drive is flash, and brash. Drive is passion.
I am driven to get this. If I don’t have this job, I am driven to convince you I can do it. I have all the skills.
Drive is a demonstrative show. Romance. Brilliance.
Drive has to brake, at some point.
Drive is fire, and drive is what impresses you.
Drive is getting drunk on champagne and dancing on the beach. Not having a care in the world, as long as I have you.
Did you want coffee? Driveis a Grande macchiato, to keep going through the night.
We’ll have a sexy shower after, but there’s no fluffy towels ready.
Drive is the best fling you ever had.

Poem/Question: Why do you write?

When you hate, what you read, from the day before

When you’re never finished

When the feeling never comes

And it’s hard to remember…

Why do you write?

 

When you’re not sure even you believe

In the words

When you’re not sure it does good

When you question this odd hobby

That sits you in a crumpled heap on your chair, again

And there’s an answer lurking inside of you

But you’re not sure it’s a good one…

Why do you write?

 

When the people you care about, tell you to get real

When people you want to care about you, don’t

When you receive no recognition

When there seems to be no beauty in your words

And it’s everything you dread…

Why do you write?

 

This could be like Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ – then, you’ll be a writer, my son:

When you can do all the above and keep going.

And not give up the dream, even if it’s necessary and good to take a break from it, for life,

But you grow in that break, and you return to that dream with different perspective.

When you can doubt yourself but work through those doubts, and learn about yourself

And you can still, confidently in a crowd, or alone at night, you can still call yourself a writer.

Then, you’ll be a writer, my son.

 

I’m a pointless writer. (Poem)

I’m a thoughtful, flighty writer

A philosophical dream

Cynically idealistic, honestly fictional,

I’m so full of fancy bullshit, and inspired by the same.

I make apt observations of contradictory truths and beautiful paradoxes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m fun and I’m game; (I’m nonsensical and competitive).

I’m stupid with intelligence enough

To know what’s wrong with everything I’m doing…

and I probably know what you think of it, too.

I’m egotistical and sensitive,

silly and sweet,

sincerely trivial.

I like trying new things

Like word salads

and world literature

and whiskies.

I dance with my words like similes (they are notoriously bad dancers).

I’m humbly pretentious,

self-consciously brave,

and here’s a pointless poem;

the best kind of rave.

Poem: Triple Dip

Triple Dip

A writer’s tale of the recessions

 

At the first dip my editor wanted me to move faster. With no time to love or study, I flew across the world in a hurry. But my work life flashed before my eyes when I was first at the scene of a crime. I saw the truck drive too fast and life cut too short and I ripped up my notebook of futility and thought. I felt too much to be objective about a homicide’s inflective.

 

At the second dip my editor wanted me to stay down. I wrote alone in a darkened room and withered away. I analysed obscurities and lost my spontaneity. I choked down cheap rum to mellow my protests as I pursued a career in a mess. I kept in line but eventually cracked at the limit of wasted time.

 

By the third dip, I wasn’t sure I needed my editor anymore.

I said my life is in progress and needs a first draft. Your edits to my freedom now seem rather daft. I keep my mistakes and my quirks and the pain that still lurks when I doubted I’d make it today. You want to digress but I define my own success and now I understand me. I had to kill the editor before the editor killed what I could be.

 

Life and work mooshed together in code.
Performed at Forget What You Heard (about spoken word).

Who will write poetry about the economy?

Allow me to introduce…

Criminonymous: A criminologist and advocate of restorative justice, truth and reconciliation for the most harmful crimes and social conflicts (and everywhere else where it’s appropriate).

This is an astute poet well versed in economics, crime and restorative justice. I re-publish his poetic call for action to direct our economic productivity and attention to a not-for-profit banking system.

Sounds much better than the current situation, doesn’t it? Until philosophers become Kings, and poets become economists… Continue reading