"Purple"

"The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts, some figures and instructions for dancing"

- Peter Gabriel

"What do you think of when you make love to me?"

I looked into her eyes, searching for an honest answer. I was so in love and, in this fraction of time- in  this moment, it was magical, spellbinding, and undefinable. An enchanted evening that Cinderella would envy.  I swear there should have been cameras on us filming because everything was absolutely purely picture perfect. I swear the chair makers should have given up their trade, because there was nothing in the world that could be more comfortable than what I felt in that exact moment. I swear the night sky was created just, and solely for this one precious and profound moment in time- the time she looked up at me as my nude body rested on hers and she asked me, about my thoughts.

I dare not give her a cliche answer- she was too smart for that anyways. I dare not give her a fictional answer- she deserved better than that and the words had not yet been invented. I dare not give her a fantasy- for I didn't have to; she was my muse and my reflection. She was the sparkle that illuminated my night sky, she was the reason the song birds sang. I closed my eyes and blocked off all worldly thoughts. I heard my own heart beating. I heard my thoughts disappear. I saw the world I knew close in as darkness swallowed it whole.

Silence.

All around me,  in that moment, there was nothing but silence. So I searched the deepest corners of my feelings and patiently, I waited. I let myself escape in that moment and quietly, and eagerly, I listened. And with joy - as if it had never spoken before - my heart began to wag its' tail with excitement upon my arrival,  and sang to me. My heart, to me, filled with joy and coupled with the pure bliss of the attention I was giving it, answered her question in reverence- beat after beat. The pounding in my chest made my body quiver in excitement and for the first time my heart, in its own voice, whispered to me.

And then it happened.

Slowly, I began to hear another voice. A familiar voice that echoed within the confines of my soul and etched its' message upon my heart. The voice was her heart and it began to speak to me. And as plainly as I knew I could breathe, I knew the sound of her love. I opened my eyes and she delicately inquired, "Where were you?"

"Purple", I answered.

I could tell she was just as confused as I was upon my answer so I tried to explain, "When I make love to you, all I can see, all I can feel over and over again is: purple.  I'm so in love with you that all I taste, all I smell, and when I clear my thoughts and listen all that is there is the color purple". As honest as my answer was, I couldn't help but smile a little when I said those words and as smitten as she was, she smiled back.

"Guess what?" she asked.

"What?"

"Purple is my favorite color!"

I collapsed on her and began kissing her: more deeply than any kiss could ever be measured and more passionately than any kiss could ever be imagined. I found in that moment that love was stronger than me and that love could conquer me. I was her Clyde, I was her Jack, I was her Romeo- I was, anyone she wanted me to be.

But I wasn't what she wanted.

Purple and I dated for many years and those years were the most heart wrenching years I've ever known. The ups and downs would sting and scar as only love could conjure. Save my daughter, there was no other person at that time that I had ever loved more. I had many relationships before Purple, and I'll have many after her as the years will prove, but to this day, Purple is the holder to the keys to my heart. She stole them from me faster than a bank robber would steal keys to the vault.  To this day, I still think about Purple and I always wonder the dreaded "what if". But that question will never be answered, and I'm ok with that. Purple was not good for me. Most things we love never are. Cupid has a sordid way of masking the devil in the very things we adore. Purple wasn't a devil, but she broke me into a million tiny pieces, and she kept those keys she stole.

I met Purple on a whim. I was photographing her cousin and Purple loved the pictures she saw. Purple had never modeled before and was interested in having her pictures done. We spoke on the phone, and we agreed to do a shoot, but there was one problem. Purple lived too far away and the distance was overwhelming. But alas, we were kids back then, and when your young the heart doesn't understand distance. Purple visited me despite the distance, and if ever there was a thing called 'love at first sight', Purple and I were living proof. I  gazed upon her beauty and wondered how God himself would allow such beauty to grace the world- for a beauty like hers was heavenly. Purple and I talked, and, we danced- oh how we danced! We danced under the smiling stars, we danced to the corny music, and we danced like no one was watching. Laughter was our best friend and every where we went the three of us were the life of the party. Our love grabbed us, wrapped us up like a new-born, and carried us away to that place where never-ending stories are written- and it was amazing.

The years that followed were were nothing short of still-life captures of a romantic party. But not even this romantic party was destined for that elusive fair- tale ending. You see, love isn't scripted and it's pain can be found in the saddest love songs.  Purple and I shared endless nights of love, glorious days by the pool, and enjoyed watching our girls  become best friends. But we also endured bouts of jealousy, rage, and cheating. When love is so passionate, love is also so dangerous. When something is powerful enough to give you life, so is it powerful enough to destroy you. I should have known when Purple decided not to accompany me to a funeral when a dear loved one died, that Purple was not the one for me. For how could someone you love, leave you alone when in your darkest hour they are needed the most? I knew the answer in that moment, but love puts blinders on you like a horse and what's obvious becomes as cloudy as the bathroom mirror after a hot shower.

I would later find Purple in the arms of another lover, and my brain would finally catch up with my heart and force me to move on. And I'm glad I did - for the both of us. Yes, we were so much in love, but we were not the soul-mates we hoped to be. She would eventually find love again, and eventually I was able to glue all those million tiny pieces back together. The funny thing is when your torn to pieces and your life falls apart, if you are courageous enough to pick yourself up and dust yourself off, you come back stronger. And that's just what I did. Many years would pass but eventually my heart would dance to the same beat that Purple introduced when I see a butterfly flutter by.  It's true, my heart would clam up after Purple and many heart-wrenching poems would be published because of it. As punishment, my heart wouldn't lend me it's voice for many, many years. But, even the strongest muscle in the human body cannot stand up to Love's lessons and eventually, I would hear my heart's voice again. And it will be beautiful.

I know Purple was my first unconditional love and I hope I was to her, but I think that is just my ego wishing upon a star. The truth is I still think of her often, and though we never speak, the piece of her heart that I carry with me often whispers that she too,  still thinks of me every once in a while.

And that, makes me smile.

"Angel"

 "..it was us way before then, and we're still together. And I meant every word I said, when I said that I love you, I meant that I love you forever." -REO Speedwagon

In the background as I write  REO Speedwagon reminds me of yesteryear. Being the romantic I am, and carrying the lonely heart that beats in my chest, listening to REO after midnight is probably not the best idea. But life is what it is. I reflect on past loves... this is part one of "Angel"...

 I was young at heart but a bit seasoned in the ways of love when I met Angel.. we met from an online site and the first time I saw Angel in real life I was concerned that she wasn't my "type". I was arrogant and cocky and "knew" that I had the world at my beckon call. Angel and I talked for a moment followed by a quick lunch date. Right away I could discern that Angel was the type of woman that was very career oriented and she had already at an early age worked her way up the corporate ladder. She was, impressive. The attraction was mutual.

Had I known then, what I know now, I would have proposed to Angel the first day we met and there is no doubt in my mind that we would have lived happily ever after - that is, unless I did something to screw it up. Which I am fully capable of doing.  But sadly, the day we met,  I did not propose to Angel. What I did do, is continue to see her. However, a short while after we started dating,  I realized Angel wanted more, she wanted a relationship, but... she was scared. She was recently divorced from a man that stole her heart and left her wanting. And though her divorce had been over for a year, she had not found herself in the arms of another lover until I came along. She shared her thoughts with me and I respected them, and I respected her, but I did not respect love. Angel and I began seeing each other and our children came to be family. Angel, I believe at this time saw a future for us that involved wedding bells on a beach on some cozy Florida coastline. Unfortunately, wedding bells were not ringing in my ears- at all. As Angel and I courted I could not shake the feeling that I was not in love with her and that I was treading on dangerous grounds. At this point in my love-lives of past, I knew all to well the burn of heartbreak and I didn't want to impose that on anyone, especially Angel.

Angel asked for a commitment , a relationship, a status. Regretfully, I declined. Angel and I parted ways but circumstances and a small town, meant we saw each other almost daily. We were amicable but I could see the distance in her eyes. I could see the heart that was now being protected. I could, if I ever had the courage to look long enough, see the hurt I caused. I tried not to look at her very long during those days. It wouldn't be until almost a year later that I would come to realize that I did love Angel and that I walked away from her not because I didn't love her, but because I was scared to admit it -not just to her, but to myself. And sadly, I wouldn't realize until years later that this self sabotaging act would evolve into a habit.

A year passed after Angel and I stopped seeing each other and Angel grew into a different person. She grew into a successful, radiant, beautiful barracuda that would chew men up and spit them out. I watched her over the course of a year leap from one man to another. Her beauty and demeanor sprinkled eloquently atop an encyclopedia of confidence was memorizing to men and envied by women. She was upfront with them; she admitted that she wouldn't be faithful to them if they fell for her. She warned them that she wouldn't fall for them. She had in fact turned icy cold when it came to matters of the heart. She was rather parsimonious with her feelings and I knew why. I began to wonder if she would ever love someone. She blamed her career. She would say to me that she wouldn't get involved with anyone because her work came first. The truth is she worked way too much and I even warned her for it. I believe in hind-site my warning was prophetic.

Yes, we were friends during this year of her change. I say change, because she did change. She changed from the sweet, seemingly innocent beautiful person that believed in love- into a cold hearted woman of the world chasing paydays, living the nightlife, and doing shots with the "in crowd", rubbing elbows (and presumably more) with the rich and famous.  But let me make it clear, she was attractive in a "I know who I am and what I want" kind of sexy way, but my Angel.. the Angel I met for the first time while she was on the phone, my perfect Angel,  was still hidden behind the facade and I could see it.

It happened at a party we both attended. Famous people were there and the drinks were flowing but nothing mattered to me when all of sudden she decided her hand at karokee. For the first time, I saw her glowing. I don't know how to describe it other than to say that the entire room disappeared. The spot light was on her and I certainly thought she was singing exactly and only to me. And in an flash, as if I had been carried out of my body and into the future, I saw her standing in front of me with her face veiled and our children giggling. I saw the happiness we would share for the rest of our lives after saying "I do". I fell  completely,  and madly in love with her. I didn't see it coming, and worst of all -neither did she.

Angel had been dating someone when this revelation came to me, and I knew that. I didn't care. I knew that they did not have a future and he was just a "toy" for her. I knew her better than anyone else.

I called her after the party. I thought she was still in love with me. I hoped I was right.  I poured my heart out to her and found out that I was wrong. She was not in love with me anymore, but I did not believe her.  I pursued her as much as she would allow - which wasn't much. Day after day I proclaimed my love for her. It wasn't until I felt the constant sting of rejection that it started to sink in just exactly how much I must have really hurt her. She was boxed up like a package and I knew it was my fault.

Several months passed and I watched her, painfully, bounce from one "relationship" to the next. I chose not to date, for how could I with my heart belonging to another? A year passed and my withering heart began to cry out-loud for loneliness' sake. It was Christmas and Angel had been in a relationship that I actually began to fear. She would talk to me about it and the sparkle in her eyes were daggers to my soul. I tried to play it off, but she knew - or how could she not know- that I was still in love with her. The fateful day she killed my heart was a Tuesday. She called me and told me that she was going to Paris and that her beau was going to propose and that she would say yes. I held back my tears but I knew I could not give up. "You're not meant to be with him",  I exclaimed.. "You're only getting married because you want the marriage, you DON'T love him- do you??!"

She paused.

Her pause sang heavenly notes to my soul. She couldn't answer. I demanded that she admit she still loved me. She would not. "Can you not see it? Can you not see that WE are meant to be?" She claimed, she didn't see it and with that -my dying heart at that very moment took its last breath. I answered the phone that morning as a man in love hanging on by a string, and hung up as a man having lost love. Having given love its final goodbye and having buried my heart in its sordid grave.

The day of the wedding came and went. She wasn't there. She broke  up with him only a few weeks later. She told me in person. It was after 10 the night my doorbell rang. I answered and to my surprise I saw my Angel. "What are you doing here?" I asked with every guard of my well being put up. My heart had shed enough tears and I wasn't about to give it to her again.

Funny how love is never easy.

She came in and leaned against the wall. I asked again, "What are you doing here?" She couldn't look me in the eyes, my heart started pounding in my chest. I was shocked at how easily my heart was ready and willing to take another beating, to take another chance. She glanced at me and for the first time since we met, I saw the beauty in her eyes again that I once loved so much. She said sweetly,  "I came for you.."

My head started racing with a zillion responses but my voice was not found. Instead my lips pulled me into hers, and I kissed her. I knew that I would not let love go. I knew that this was my chance. I knew that cupid was smiling that night and that I need not be arrogant, nor test the waters. I knew that I needed to love her and let her love me. And so, I did.

But alas love is not kind. Angel and I did not love as we should have. We tried, but old habits are hard to break. We both faulted on love's gift. We both walked away with a promise to remain friends. I watched my new found friend sink back into man hopping and I carved a piece of my heart with her name and gave it to her. In return she graced me with me a piece of hers.

Love is a funny thing... Angel and I could never be together the way we wanted because of circumstances beyond our control, but something (cupid perhaps) has years later changed those circumstances. And while I still think of Angel as one of my most beloved friends, I often wonder- "Could I have been wrong about our future, that I so vividly saw?" It  wouldn't be for another year before I would dare lend my heart to another girl after finally parting ways from my Angel. In fact, two lovers will pass between the time Angel and I walked away until now. I think about Angel often... I don't suspect that we will ever know the passion we once had.  A passion that was so intense we could hardly contain ourselves. Our intimate moments would be entertained anywhere at anytime during those days. We were in love and didn't even know it. I don't think we will ever see those days again and I'm ok with that.

Faithfully, my Angel, you will always be able to seek refuge  in the warmth of my arms. I wish you happiness, but above all, I wish you love.

-Box of Rocks

A new poem that I might work on and elaborate. I like the ABA in this one and I enjoy the challenge of staying true to the meter (iambic octameter) which is really why I like it so much so far.

A black island in a blue Sea,
Fire on thought
-This construes me!

Speckled smoothly where angels kissed,
Oxen shoulders 
-Never remiss!

A gallant articulation
Flocculent lips
-Adoration!

A quick wit and a gentle trod,
Perceptive eyes
-Cryptic facade!

First Lesson in my Creative Writing Series

In a small effort to help people become better writers (something I believe to be one of the most important assets any person can gain) I have started a Creative Writing Series. The first lesson deals with the topic of "Getting Started". Many people have versed reasons that  they cannot get started in writing. Summing up whatthey have proclaimed, "There is an inescapable fear that looms over thier shoulder while staring at a blank screen or sheet of white." This fear, and how to overcome this fear is discussed in detail so that one might be more equipped to overcome such fright.

If you enjoy it, please pass it on or share it. (I get paid for page views) :)

~~~

Getting Started When Getting Started Isn't Getting You Anywhere

The first installment of the How to: Creative Writing Tips has arrived! This particular subject- "Getting Started When Getting Started Isn't Getting You Anywhere" is not my favorite subject as I find the overall explanation rather boring. Because of that, I almost chose a different matter in which to begin this series. However, it is obviously one of the most important aspects of the Creative Writing process, namely because if you don't start, then you cannot finish! In an effort to make this lesson a bit more conducive and genuine to the sum of what this series professes, I will attempt to avoid the mundane answers and explanations that are most often found circulating this query. Read the entire article here.

Learn how to write and gain a better life!

I am often asked by friends if I could help them re-write their resume, or a recommendation letter, or a proposal for job placement. I am asked this because my friends know that I know a thing or two about writing and (apparently) they don't. I am usually always very surprised at the level of writing coming from my very educated, very well read, very smart colleagues. For some reason, they don't know the value of being able to write well. I have expressed to my 10 year old daughter over and over and over again this sage advice, "If you learn to write well, you can do anything in the world you want to do". Now, that is not to say that the Forrest Gump's of the world cannot succeed, quite the contrary... but let's face it, there are not that many "best friend of Bubba's" amidst our ranks.

For this reason, I've decided to start a lecture series that will be as interactive as my audience wishes that will "teach" you how to become a better writer. Specifically, how to be a better "creative" writer. Please read this article and come back soon for the first installment!

Knowing how to write and how to write well is one of the most herculean attributes any individual in any career field can achieve. An eminent author will use his ability to help him reach any goal he has set forth. Sending a well written email to one's superior suggesting a new advertising campaign, could give one the edge needed in order to gain that highly coveted promotion that is up for grabs! Writing a heartfelt letter to the potential Landlord of that home you wish to rent could be the difference between acquiring the home, or it becoming a sanctuary to someone more qualified . Knowing just the right words to say in a proposal may land you that contracted job you so desperately desire. And finally, learning how to properly develop your characters in your novel or short story could determine the difference between selling to an audience of 10 or an audience of 1000.
Creative writing is nothing short of advanced communication. Being able to convey your message in either an appealing, entertaining, direct, or passive way enables you to communicate with your audience on several different planes. Read on.....

Surely She Should...

I've posted a new poem. Inspired by the 'V for Vandetta' movie, I tackled the letter "S" and decided to tell a story. I like for my reader to discern their own meaning of the poem/story but will post the meaning if it's not obvious and requested. I hope you enjoy and it inspires you!

Surely She Should...Standing, shaking, solemnly
searching for sweet
serendipitous Serenity.
My soul slashing, scratching, seizing,
standing.... Read more here



scroll for explanation:




























in a nut shell it's about one man's search for love. He stands there amiss searching for love as his heart and soul yearns day after day. Friends and family give their two cents but to no avail so much so that silence (being alone), he contemplates, might be better than actually being in love. Many beautiful potential mates come his way and he is forced to ask himself whether he should speak to them, or just admire them from afar. So many lovers he sees that he reminds himself to remain selective, yet because of the selection process there are not many to choose from. When suddenly along comes the girl of his dreams that he starts to admire. he would give up his everythign to be with her if she would but notice him, but alas she has not noticed him and how he cannot understand why love has treated him this way. He is in pain and he hopes that if for no other reason than him being in pain that she will finally notice him.

I dread reading...

So, I've been writing since I was a rather small child. I fell in love with words sometime around my high school years. I began writing poetry once "love" reared it's ugly side- which again, was around high school days. I started writing horror at an early age because I was most interested in Stephen King.. and coincidentally, his books and Poe's stories were a great inspiration to me early on. There were many more, but that is not the intent of this blog... this blog will be a bit of  a venting session because quite frankly I feel like I will explode if I read another dreaded ill-written poem!!

I used to teach creative writing, and back then I got paid to read people's horrible, ghastly poems and stories. Let me be clear, I'm not talking about JUST punctuation (that was usually the least of the dread) , I'm talking about originality, voice, flow, development, structure etc. Back then and still today, I just could not and cannot comprehend how people could write such horrible "sounding" poems and stories! My outlet was that my creative writing class was known as a very "hard" class and you had to have some serious guts in order to take my class. Most people didn't stay and most quit. But the ones that did stay became much better writers and went on to write great stories and poetry. I was so critical of what was passed onto my desk I often wondered if I was just too obscene with my corrections. I would turn in stories that were half full of red marks and suggestions and corrections. Only 'half full" because across the top of most papers I would write the infamous, "I could not stomach to read the rest." (Most papers I could only make it half way through) So there is a little preface to this blog...

So here is why I might explode.... I've recently joined an online writing community, and I've posted just a few poems of old that are to my liking, and decided to browse other poems that are within the community. I really didn't have high hopes, but considering this is an actual writing community, I figured I'd find one or two that could keep my attention. WRONG! I browsed for a while, and could usually only make it through the first couple lines. I literally asked myself, "Do they even READ these themselves?- out loud??!" One way to correct a poem is to read it out loud. Once you read it out loud you will notice flow and voice errors. These authors I suspect were not taking advantage of that very simple tool. BUT - it got worse!! After the poems I would scroll down and read the tons and tons of accolades left in the form of comments on these pages and pages of horrible "poems"! The accolades upset me more than the poem themselves because it only served to reinforce bad writing! But then I figured something out.. on a few of the ones that had tons of comments I noticed that the profile picture was of an attractive woman. Then I noticed most of the comments were from men. Is there a connection?- I believe so. Now, with ALLLLLL that said... I know some of you may think: 'Well poetry is personal and it can sound like whatever the author wants'... and to you I say very simply.. look at Poe, or Shakespeare, or Hughes, Cummings, Frost, Langston etc...  and you will read flow, word choice, voice, structure, punctuation, development. I don't claim to be a Master Poet, but I do look to these for inspiration and purpose. I think I read through (at least a few stanzas) of over 20 poems. So yes, I dread reading any further but will continue my search to find a diamond in the rough.