Wake Up. This is ours.

This? this is our poem.
The white space on this white flag
oozes with indifference
and reeks of apathy. Not toward writing,
not toward words, but toward anything.
So we share this, and give the finger to surrender.
Wake up, and listen to the tug in your heart that says
You're here for a reason,
and that there is something bigger,
and that there is something better.
And this? this is ours.

So we share this with the man forced to write in red
when his black ink runs dry.
This, this is ours.
We share this with the man in a cast
unable to open a jar of jelly on his lonesome;
forced to squirm his right arm
into his left pocket reaching for the advil
he unwittingly put there.
This is ours.
We share this with student having to choose
between his bicycle in wintry weather
and the unreliable stained public buses to get to class.
And we share this with the woman who doesn't have the choice,
exposed to bone chilling wind at the frigid bus stop
with a child kicking at her ribs.
We share this with the homeless man picking the Thorazine shuffle
over walking with voices, even if it means
taking an extra hour to walk to his underpass house,
furnished with a throw away lazyboy
and a second-hand painting intended to turn
his hole into a home.
This is ours.
And we share this with the girl who misplaces everything,
the father who misses work,
the boy who misses his mother,
and the acne covered teen they call a faggot in the locker room.
We share it with the ones still asleep.
Wake up. Because this? this is ours.

It is ours and it is for us.
It's for the bulimic girl who wished
she was relevant.
It's for the bachelor who sits alone on his couch
wishing he had said something
all those years ago.
This is ours.
It's for the 3rd grader who digs in the dirt
with sticks looking for sticks,
and the 1st grader who marries him
some 15 odd years later.
It's for the child pulled along
when he was curious about the man
dressed in woman's clothing.
This is ours.
It's for the only roommate who does dishes,
for the freshman who only feels loved when she gives herself up,
and for the ones who can't write, won't write,
or don't even think about writing.
This is ours.

Wake up, because we are not
going to let the white page
be a white towel. You see,
this white space,
all this white space,
is meant to be filled,
with people.
With stories, with struggles, with triumphs.
All of it. And those who can write, will write,
and are always thinking about writing
will not let those stories disappear.
They are worthy to be written
to stand up and be accounted for.
So wake up, you're being written about.
Wake up, take to the streets, and give the finger
to the white space that tells them
that they are nothing, and exist only
as white space on a white page.
So wake up, because this?
this is ours.

the Bride

it was only fitting

that as I stared

the singing ceased

there were

no words

for what I felt

as I looked at you

the room became cluttered

with theology, thoughts, and time

Enter the Dragon, AKA Jamie

So if you haven't noticed (which you should have) we added a new member to the Yellow Notebook team. (This makes it sound like there was already more than one (There wasn't.))

This is super exciting for a number of reasons:
1) I love Jamie.
2) It adds some variation.
3) We get to look at and critique and improve one another's stuff.
4) It makes this a team thing and less awkward.
5) I can leave notes like this.

While I'm at it, I want to mention another blog, dontwasteyourcancer. I don't want to take much more space here, so go to it and have a look to read what it's about. I also want to mention how much I love her complete lack of capitalization.

Go Wolfpack,
Jason

Creation; an ode to Mr. Robert Norman Ross

In the beginning.

He wasn’t an old man sitting on an oversized throne.

He had no long white beard, no booming voice, no magic wand.

He had an afro, and oddly, he did have a beard, but it was well groomed and dark brown.

He had a palate of paints, which he held ever so close, but no so close as to mar his partially unbuttoned, collared, long sleeve, baby-blue shirt.

He also had canvas stretched out, even to the ends of the world itself, and he stood in front of it, the way children stand in front of elaborate gum ball dispensers.

And he had it covered in a thin layer of Liquid White, but that was before the cameras were rolling.

Now, the painting had not yet been formed and imagination hovered over the canvas.

And Bob said, “Let’s brighten this guy up!” And he mixed some Yellow Ochre, Titanium White, and the slightest touch of Alizarin Crimson; he brushed it on, it began to glow.

And he saw that it was good.

With a crisp fan brush he drug the Prussian Blue and Ivory Black together to create an expanse.

And Bob said, “Let’s get that two inch brush with the tiniest amount of thinner, and just pull these apart.” And he separated them. He called one Gorgeous and the other he called Magical.

And it was so, cause this was his painting, but you can separate yours however you want.

And Bob said, “We need some dirt for some trees to grow in and happy critters to live on.”

So, Van Dyke Brown and Dark Sienna were smooshed onto that canvas and became the ground.

Bob knew that smoosh wasn’t a real word, but people knew what it meant and so he used it.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “We need some happy little trees in this painting!”

He planted vertical trunks of Burnt Sienna with a very very small amount Midnight Black, because it can be overpowering.

He generously mixed the Sap Green with Viridian Green and with a circle brush he caused the leaves of those trees to sprout and grow.

And he saw that this was good. Yet, he decided to put one more big tree right there in the front (because, you know, Bob, he can’t resist).

And Bob said, “We need a sun in this rascal of a painting!”

He dipped his finger in the the Cadmium Yellow and he lit the sun like a candle in the sky.

With a dot of Titanium White he placed a glare on the greater light, and he took the number five knife and he scraped off the excess, so it wouldn’t scorch the landscape he created.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “Let’s pretend there are some old fish in that pond, cause I love to fish; but I always throw the fish back, put a band-aid on his mouth, tap ‘em on the patootie and send him on his way. And! We need some birds in this gorgeous sky.”

With a, "schwoop," he put the birds in the sky (because, you have to make those noises for it to work).

He saw that those birds needed some clouds to hide among. Now, clouds are very, very free so he put them wherever they wanted to be.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “Ohh we have to have some critters – some rabbits, and squirrels, and maybe an old opossum – to be friends with! Its okay to be friends with animals, people might think you are a little weird, but artist's are allowed to be different."

The critters he put close to the trees and bushes so they would have lots of places to hide and live.

And he saw that it was good.

And Bob said, “I mainly do landscapes so I won’t paint the people in this picture, but they are there. And they love it there, cause they are happy, because they are like me, and I created this place with only things I like. You make yours anyway you want it to be, and that’s just right!”

With the #6 Bristle Filbert brush dipped in Indian Yellow he signed his name.

And he saw that it was very good.

Thus the canvas was covered and the creation complete.

His work was done, it was time for Bob to rest.

And Bob said, “Well, the little clock on the wall says we’re just about out of time. Happy Painting and God bless.”

http://www.ikbis.com/freestyler/shot/97703

http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=genesis%201-2:3&version=NIV

What I Hope to be the Break of a Writer's Block, Or, My Taste in Girls and A Hygeine Confession

Exercises Shmexercises
all they do is exacerbate the blank
drawn on everything else.
So I'll steal from Ani Difranco
about things being grey
(but in the sense you can write about),
and pulpy receipts in pockets
much like Alanis' hand.
Which, I wish was in my pocket
while I hailed the taxi cab.
Just saying.

Because at least they have
break-ups, beaches, or bums
to write about, not to mention
the angsty, off-color,
haven't showered three days
sex appeal.
I just have a notebook
at the breakfast bar in the kitchen,
unshowered for three days
but only because I haven't thought about it
and not a choice I made.

Litany by Billy Collins

In my creative absence, here's an uncreative post of another poem I am a fan of. The 3 year old isn't the writer, but I really like the way he reads it.

An actual bike wreck.

Writing or typing is really really hard with one arm, and discourages effort. Also, this is not a poem.

Go Wolfpack,
Jason