F.E. Feeley Jr.'s Blog, page 24

Beyond the Witching Hour (poem)

[image error]

[image error]

Aries Laments (Poem)

[image error]

Dichotomy (Poem)

[image error]

April is National Poetry Month and a friend gave me a prompt. Dichotomy. Today being the anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, the birthday of Dr. Maya Angelou, as well as the tragedy of what happened in Syria – my mood wasn’t cheerful. But here you go.

 

i close my eyes and let my hands

run across the keyboard

i sit in silence and wait for

the words to come

i wait for the door in my mind

to swing open

and the words to tumble forth

the way a river runs

 

i listen to the sound of the air conditioner

with my feet tucked underneath me at my chair

i feel the body heat of my beloved

pet right beside me

and am comforted by my lover

sleeping near…….

 

……today I mourned the deaths in Syria

what a heart wrenching scene  I watched the bodies and cried

with a prayer stuttering at the back of my teeth

I realized also today was the day Dr. Martin Luther King died

 

Someone asked me to write a poem about dichotomy

about the great gulf fixed between two different things

and tonight I can’t help but think of the state of the world

between what is now and what we used to call, humanity

 

It used to be that neighbor watched out for neighbor

that children were raised by the mothers up and down our city streets

now we’re cutting off healthcare, welfare, funding for the arts

calling it Justice – when old folks don’t have nearly enough to eat

 

Our presidents in times past never took office with malicious intent

at least Andrew Jackson believed he was doing the right thing

but now terror stalks our houses of government

with old enemies our grandparents all fought against

 

Where neighbors once stood shoulder to shoulder to shoulder

now we let young black men get gunned down with cell phones capturing the scene

and that young Spanish girl who lives down the block – yeah

her daddy and her mother – the breadwinners of the family – won’t be here next spring

 

Something’s run sour and bitter and brittle and cruel in our midst

something stinks to high heaven where milk and honey once flowed

someone’s left the barn open for the wolves to come feast

and it happened because the children of the greatest generation’s ignorance – thought liberty – as a concept – was getting too old.

 

So if you wanted a poem about dichotomy – here it is

and one more thing before I let you leave this place

the world was once destroyed by contrasts but none so malignant

as the idea of superiority inherent in the anglo-white race.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

[image error]

(Photo by Jacob Owens)

I love to write. I love to create. Most of my writing as of lately has ended up here on this blog in the form of poetry.  Sometimes – like today – I’ll write the occasional ‘think piece’ so forgive me for interrupting your evening.

But I wanted to talk about my other writing. Books.  I am a five time published author.

I recently read a thread (I can’t stop rhyming apparently) where a wonderful young woman I know asked about the expenses of writing a novel. And people began to list them. Editors, formatting, proofreading, cover art, website, word processor programs, fees for organizations, travel expenses, and so forth and that was all self published folks.

Those who had gone the traditional route, while not having the cost of editors etc. brought up contractual pay. A certain percentage for physical books and a certain percentage of ebooks is given to the author in the form of royalties and so on.

And then both mentioned piracy. The theft of e books and the sharing of them on Facebook pages and websites as well as on those Piratebay download thingy.

There is one thing that keeps me writing – and it sure isn’t the money.

It’s love.

I love connecting with my readers whether on here or through a book review for my work.

But an author needs to be paid for their time and effort.

There are those out there who insist that work should be free. I have been posting images off a website called Unsplash.com that offers them for free as long as you cite the photographer who took the photo. Their work is stunning and when I finish a poem I go to that site to hunt for a picture that seems to fit or comes close to fitting what I just finished working on. – and then I share that poem for free.

Even this blog costs me money. Now, I’m not saying I want you to start paying me for this – that’s silly. I chose to share my poetry with the world. Mostly, because I want to grow to be a better poet but also because I feel like someone should try and spark or reignite the love for the written word.

However, a friend of mine and fellow author who read the same thread commented with this:

“I’ve spent three years, off and on, working on a sci-fi novel. Of course, most of my novels don’t take that long, but they do take two or three months. Even if I made a few thousand on one of them (which is pretty good in this genre), I shudder to think what that would work out to as an hourly wage. When I worked in Tech Support, I earned that in a month. Authors don’t get paid enough. Certainly, we don’t get paid enough to keep doing it, if they only reason we were writing is for the money. I can’t really fault readers for grabbing whatever is cheapest on Amazon, but don’t blame the authors if we can’t give all of that work away for next to nothing.”

I agree with that. And I don’t see why other people don’t or won’t.

Art has value. Even in this day an age where technology is king and the market is saturated- content SHOULD always be king. Always.

With Huffpost and online publishers offering ‘exposure’ to writers – that’s the same as piracy and it’s in the same vein of those who complain about the cost of a book.

Another commenter and author stated the reasoning for all of this, perfectly:

I’ve often thought the balking over book pricing stems from the fact that, not only are the arts in general devalued as a matter of course, but people tend to think writing is easy. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard “Yeah, maybe someday when I have time I’ll write a book,” and I want to say, “Okay, you have fun with that, let me know how far you get.” Because it isn’t easy. People just think it is. Right up until they try it. Just because a labor doesn’t require a lot of *physical* labor does not mean it isn’t difficult and doesn’t take a ton of skill.

A good author will have decades of writing and learning and honing and reading behind every word that makes it onto the page, and people seem to think that just… I dunno, materializes in the writer’s brain or something. That they didn’t have to *work* at it.

The general atmosphere of today doesn’t help much. Bloggers are expected to hand a piece over to a major website for free because they’ll get exposure. Book pirates think their thefts are justified because they think every author makes Stephen King-King-level royalties. A work of art posted on the Internet is up for grabs.

Historically, we (authors) were the bards and the poets who were offered a seat beside the fire, sometimes right next to the king, and a hot meal and some gold coins in exchange for a story, because those stories were valued, and so were the ways in which they were told. I think that skill is taken for granted today, and so the value of a good yarn told by a talented storyteller is just… not quite where it should be anymore.

Love is a powerful emotion. But should things get bad – love does fade. And I am afraid that until we’ve learned to start appreciating art again we’re going to lose artists to the necessity of having to put food on their table.

You don’t work for free. Neither should we.

 

I remember (Poem for the Lost)

 

[image error]

(Photo by I’m Priscilla)

April is National Poetry Month and I had made a request of my friends to give me prompts to work with so I can write a poem for each day.

My friend Becky gave me a prompt that read, “Finding the strength to go on after our loved one dies.” She’d tagged several of her girlfriends who they themselves had lost spouses.

This was daunting. But I hope I did okay. Here’s the Poem.

 

I remember

I remember when you got down on your knee

When you held a little box out in front of you like an offering

To God above.

I remember the look of hopefulness and vulnerability in your eyes

And when I said, ‘Yes’, I remember holding your sweet face in my hands

As you cried.

I remember – when our first child was born

The panic in your face when I told you that time was fast approaching

I saw the blood drain from your face as the pain in my body

Cranked up into ungodly levels

And I remembered the awe on your face when you held our child for the first time

I remember the first time we got into a terrible fight, the hurt in your eyes

Slamming doors, both of us throwing words like daggers

and cold shoulder moments both of us wounded and suffering

relieved only by the lovemaking when we submitted and admitted that the fight we needed to have

was had, and the fever broken

I also remember the little things –

The way you smell, the way you felt, the way the bed springs groaned when you awoke in the morning

And the way you took your coffee.

I remember looking at your sleeping face, in the wee small hours of the morning

and smiling just a little

And kissing your warm cheek

And I remember the day you died

The shock of It all, whether a long illness or a sudden disappearance

Like a whiff of smoke that nothing could prepare me for.

I died along with you or at least that’s what it felt like

And I couldn’t figure out how such an exquisite pain wouldn’t

Allow me to lie down next to you for your final approach

To the throne of God

How was it that I was still able to breathe?

For the next several months – like a ghost I wandered

Half here – half there with signs of you abounded

In the pictures, and the clothes that you left in your closet

And the phone calls from your family, your friends, and your colleagues

“Yes, I’m fine.” And “The kids are okay.” And “Sure, I’ll see you at Christmas.”

But what hurt most of all is when something would happen

And I would turn to say, “Hey, love you’ll never guess who…”

Only to catch my breath as I suddenly remembered

I was speaking to an empty bed, chair, room.

After the initial shock of what I was doing

Left me sobbing and half out of my mind

I finished my sentence, “…. I ran into.” And proceeded to

Describe to you the scene like I’d done a million times before.

And there you were smiling, in my mind – still only half listening

Nodding here and saying, “Ah,” at exactly the right moment

So – what I really mean to say and I’m sorry that I waited

That it took me so long to figure out that you were here all the time

In the faces of our children, in the things you left behind you

In the friends and in the memories, that line the walls of our home

But the sweetest thing you gave me was the life we lived together

And the things that I remember – I remember all the time

Words are things (Poem)

April is National Poetry Month and my friend Phyllis gave me a prompt.

“The Power of Words.”

Here’s my Poem

 

[image error]

(photo by Kristina Flour)

Words are things

You can’t heft them, hold them

Turn it in your hands

You can’t wrap your body up in them

Or make love to them

But they touch just the same

 

Words are things

Like people they can heal and they can hurt

Steal, pillage, and murder

Raise a nation, raise a family, or raise the devil himself

 

Words are things

Like bullets out of a gun they can tear flesh

Like water they can sooth a parched soul

Like terror they can stalk the night

Or like starlight they can guide our way home

 

In the beginning…

Per ancient text

It wasn’t people, or places, or things that arrived first

In the beginning was the Word

And the word was with God

And the word was God

 

Words are things

And their power is infinite

Though finite beings whip them past their teeth

Without thought, without so much as moment’s

Hesitation.

Of gods and monsters

[image error]

(Photo by: Dimitry Ermakov)

I just watched a Ted Talk about a woman named Linda Murphrey who escaped her fundamentalist father (Jack Hyles) and through years of therapy – started to come forward with some of the things that he did. (watch the video here)

I feel gross. I feel like I need a shower. I feel angry and bitter and frustrated that a candid world refuses to see some of the things that goes on around it.

In short – I was triggered.

While she was speaking all the things that I went through in life started parading around in my head like RuPaul’s drag show.

But this isn’t about makeup or dudes in dresses.

These things were repressive and angry and ugly and cruel.

And the nastiest part of it all – is that these are supposed to be the best of the best kinds of people.

Religious and spiritual abuse may not have a place in a psychologist handbook of “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

But it’s real.

And it’s intimate.

And it’s skanky and vicious and twists people up inside with things that can neither be proven or disproven, using rhetorical flourish and hyperbole to scare people into submission.

It’s about power. And it’s about control. And it’s about keeping people socially retarded – so that you can keep them how you want them doing whatever it is you want them to do.

And just like with all things – it’s not fair to paint all religion with the same brush – but dammit – if there is a God he’s just going to have to understand that I’m so freaked out by the idea of having to fall within a certain sect or believe a certain way or say a certain prayer – that I can do neither but obey my conscience and hope – that that’s enough.

And trying to explain this to someone is like trying to explain color to a blind person.

If you’ve not been there – you don’t understand what it’s like.

Because it’s at such a level of space cadet meets the tooth fairy – people laugh it off. Or give a passing “That’s bizarre”.

But if you’ve lived it – if you’ve been a part of something like that then you know deep down in the marrow of your bones the feelings of ‘wrongness’ that is associated with cult like behavior once you’ve stepped over to the other side.

We as a country were ready to accept the scandal of The Catholic Church because we’re fundamentally bigoted toward them. Their priests and nuns don’t marry, the Catholics once ruled the known world, and hatred of them is ingrained in our socio-political culture.

Same goes for Muslims. They talk funny and the men wear dresses and their wives look like a veiled “Cousin It.”

We’ll accept their ‘evils’ without a second thought because they blow stuff up. I mean, there are 1.5 billion NOT doing that – but whatever.

But when it comes to evangelical protestantism – we won’t even try and acknowledge the scope or magnitude of it’s collective power – except when it comes to election season.

But fuck a doodle do, man. I lived in it. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord and the vintage where his grapes of wrath were stored and just a 20 minute video and I am right back there once more.

20 years and thousands of miles ago – I’m right back there.

I’m triggered.

I understand there are people out there who want to avoid triggers as much as possible – I get their reasoning. Trust me, I feel their reasoning right down to the soles of my feet.

But dammit – as long as I live there will NOT be a moment when I observe something like that I won’t stop and say something about it.

So -ready, aim, fire, I guess.

Which way do I go? (Poem)

So, April is national poetry month. So, I asked several people on my social media to give me prompts to write about. This one comes from a friend named Sue. Her prompt was, “Out of Step with Everyone Else.”

I hope you like it.

[image error]

Left, possibly

Right, maybe

Perhaps I’ll just let the stars tell me

2,000 years of collective human knowledge

And the world is stumbling over itself.

I’m not sure where to begin, now

Everyone says they have the answer, how?

How do they know which way is up

When it seems the whole world is upside down?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

For Frost that was enough

But the road less taken has been taken

Till it’s worn right down

I – am but a woman

But I am every woman when Chaka

Sings soulfully through the earbuds in my ears

When I walk my dogs through the park

I see the birds and trees and think

That nothing could possibly be wrong

But I feel so out of place

Now, which way to go?

That’s the million dollar question

Do I follow midnight’s long procession and wait

For the sun to speak to me which direction I must Trod?

Or do I decide to cast my gaze inward

Find my truth built somehow inside me

And let my footfalls fall upon my undiscovered country

of self-reliance or some untapped reservoir of faith?

Right, possibly

Go left, I dunno, maybe

But wherever I go I don’t think I have to

Fear teeming crowds of curious minds

For they’ve all made their decisions

Embracing clichéd difference of opinions

From Humble neighborhoods, straight on through to

Beverly Hills

So, I’ll find my path my own way

Listening solely to my own conscience

Change direction when I feel the earth trying

To tell me what I should already know

For I am wiser than my years, now

I know easy answers are mostly low brow

So, I’ll dig my own path willingly, deftly

Fearlessly, until like Stevie

I’ve taken this love and I’ve taken it down

having found the answers then…then, I’ll turn around

Ode to a Black Woman

[image error]

(Photo by William Stitt)

When you speak

it can be light and playful and full of

“Guuuurl.”

and with a flip of your hair, and the narrowing of your eyes

you can turn lighthearted banter into a sermon and summon the wisdom of all the ages.

The spirits – they flock to you when you walk.

The eyes – they turn to you when you talk.

And when you dance – Lord, when you dance. Thunder knows no better competitor.

And for this white boy, you were a safe haven

granting me mercy and grace – when you yourself had little to spare sometimes from white people sometimes from your men in your own race.

You showed me how to cook – Ms. Brenda, I see you there.

And when you called me ‘baby’ -“Whew, lord…” why, I melted into the floor.

Straight through – all the way to China.

Seriously, “Where’s the body ma’am. No one will ever ever know. “

I’ll set my watch and salvation and my money in the bank on it.

You come in all shapes and sizes and tones

sometimes you come with an accent like Creole, or African,

or trailing the speech of whatever time zone you happen to occupy.

Sometime it’s Spanish and sometimes it’s French

and sometimes it’s ‘hood’ when your angry, something you can turn off and on like a light switch.

But where ever you are or where ever you’ve been.

On the stage, on the floor of government,

or in the grocery store or at church

people watch you

sometimes those eyes aint no good

sometimes those eyes are just wide with awe

if you want to know for whatever reason gazes are cast upon you

its because you are something to behold

whether you’re young or whether you’re old

people know when a black woman is in the room

So in this world, with it’s dizzy distractions and dissatisfactions

of lazy minds and backwood ignorant interactions

where white means right and everyone else is left

feeling tired and worn and see through

there’s a black woman, arms folded under her bosom

rollin’ her eyes the way we all wished we could

So whether you’re a Whitney, a Maya, an Oprah, or just you

Just you is enough – overwhelmingly enough

to find, and be, and speak the truth

and the truth is this, it’s always been this

And I know it hasn’t been said enough

and I know saying so will make some sorry ass throw a fit

but our world has been made better simply because you’re in it.

Yes, our world, my world, this world has been made better

simply because you are in it.

Mother Mary (Poem)

[image error]

(Photo by Alina Sofia)

Mother,

My consciousness wanders in the cool of the evening

When the sound of the air conditioning unit hums it’s perpetual song

After the rains have swept heaven free of sticky summer air

A Marlboro red burns between my fingers as I linger in my chair

The smoke climbing blue grey tendrils upward and out of sight

My lovely slow death, when I think about life

As my wind chime tinkles away in the breeze

My lover is fast asleep mumbling in his dreams

About his worries, and grinds his teeth and apologizes for not being the best of the best of the best

To phantom faces of his industry

A race never ending to simply live in this world

But he is the best

And he is who I think of

My Jesus at five foot eight inches tall

My Atlas, my St. Michael

Beloved, enchanting my immortal soul, and giving rest to my weary mind

And pleasure to my wanton body

He stands guard at the doorway of my heart

I’ve never known love like this

Sweet Mary, sweet mother please hear my truth

I fear the cup of my heart is filled with holes,

While my mind is filled with razors

Understand that his love keeps me hungry

And the wine has yet to be bitter on my tongue

Even though he slumbers, in mumbling shifting sleep

And as minutes tick by, shifting sands, in the cool night air

Let the day’s last cigarette burns slowly down

Let me love him, and keep him, and I’ll love you

With the love of a long lost lonely child

Until the oceans and my words run dry

My husband

Mine

Amen