Beyond the Clouds of Misunderstanding

There is something to be said for allowing a piece to stand on its own. This is, ironically, the title piece of the book I never published, "Beyond the Clouds of Misunderstanding"...

I encourage you to look into the mirror and

Love what you see. Be secure in your

Self. It makes sense for me

To want you to be the best you can be.

Everything I write is about one

Individual being the best he or she

Can be. Everything I write is about one

Strong person standing up for self,

Having the courage to face fear -- to stare

Down hatred -- to deny naysayers -- to cast

Aside guilt without a safety line --

To take the leap with faith in the self,

In yourself, in myself. I like what I see,

And work to continue liking me. Do you

Want to look back and smile? Shed denial!

Take pride in what you have accomplished.

To be happy, be strong, be you,

Be happy. I encourage you, because

I want more of me in the world.

The weak are violent -- the frightened are weak --

The haters are frightened -- The ignorant hate.

I want more of me in the world.

Be strong -- Take courage -- Love -- Explore -- Learn. Grow

Beyond the clouds of misunderstanding. Everything

I write is about one strong person standing

Up for Self. Everything I write is about

Many one strong persons standing up for themselves.

Solidarity of guiltless individuals will bring us

Beyond the clouds of misunderstanding.

Blue Wednesday Morning

Something old, something, new, something borrowed, something blue...That was the template I set for my first four posts. The time has come for blue. Unfortunately I could not find the file for this piece, though I know it is saved somewhere. Instead I have typed this one from memory. The piece was written as a song. This is definitely my most performed piece, most notably at Bar 13 on numerous occasions. It contains a chorus and three basic stanzas, however I have written it here in the manner in which I have performed it. I open with the chorus in three refrains, and then repeat the two refrain chorus in between stanzas on the first pass, then hit all the stanzas in a chunk, finally breaking down on the final two lines of the final chorus. Maybe I'll record it someday.

"Blue Wednesday Morning" was one of the first pieces that I wrote after my father died. He died the day after Mother's Day, a Monday in 2002. His mother found him. I was notified that night, and I drove out to Ohio to be with the family. I did not grow up with this side of the family, so I was caught up in the mixed emotions of meeting family for the first time and losing my Dad. They were all quite religious and, to say the least, my father was not. I knew they would try to remember him with religious platitudes which had nothing to do with the man I knew. So I spent the week leading up to the funeral, working on a eulogy that would speak for my father as I knew him.

We buried Dad on a Friday. Dad was a man inclined to test the courage of his convictions, and on that day I found that I was too. People told me that they were moved by what I said that day. And though I was the only speaker whose words were not drenched in saccharine religiosity, I am inclined to believe them.

After the service at the mortuary, and the burial on a grassy knoll beneath a weeping willow in a cemetery along an old dirt road, mountains buffeting the horizon, we turned to a church basement for the reception. The family was a mix of Baptists and other denominations. This particular venue belonged to Born Agains. I thought it an odd place to remember my father, but I had not made the arrangements, and my father was at home among all sorts of people, even those with whom he disagreed. But my guard was up against the needling proselytizing for this as a time for the need of faith. My father did not live his life on his knees, and I refuse to remember him that way.

It was about this time that my father's cousin Lee, (my cousin also by the cousin math), approached me to offer his condolences, heavy as a bucket of holy water. "I am a pastor in my church back home, in West Virginia. And I spoke to your aunt Wilma, and she spoke with her pastor here, and they both agreed that it would be okay if I said a few words from scripture at the service here on Sunday. Are you going to be here at the service on Sunday?" he asked with expectation.

"I don't think I can stick around," I decided. "I have to get back to New York."

"Well, I wish you would stay." He nodded like my own personal Dr. Phil. "You need to find God."

The perfect Dad joke struck me, "I didn't know he was lost."

His was a nervous chuckle. "You're funny, just like your father. But, you do need to find God."

"I appreciate the offer, but I do have to get back to New York."

And so it happened that I spent the second week of the mourning process alone in my apartment. During the drive home with my mother, we stopped at a park that had been recommended to us. Now, the name Gavin means hawk, and my dad had always been fond of eagles and trains. While we stood on a bluff, overlooking a river that cut around the foot of a jutting mountainside, with a train track along its base, a hawk soared through the sky, swooping down to maybe twenty feet above my head as it glided in a semi-circle and then drifted across the river. Then a lonesome whistle blew, as a freight train of at least a hundred cars wound along the track below. While the rest of the family focused their grief upon the bible, it was in that hour upon the bluff that I began to forge my own sense of peace.

Once back in New York, I decided to take my mind off of my loss by focusing on a movie. Perhaps I could have chosen better. Perhaps I chose perfectly. I saw "The Road to Perdition", essentially the tale of a boy who loses his father just as he is beginning to really know him. For 117 minutes my eyes rivaled Niagara Falls. I left the theater knowing that I had to say something more for myself. I had to create something that spoke to my relationship with my father, something simple that I could remember and call upon whenever my emotions threatened to overwhelm me.

Late in night of my first Tuesday back in New York, I began writing. My first efforts were too much on the nose, in artful, inelegant, missing something. My Dad was a fan of blues, and jazz, and most of all bluegrass. I tried to emulate those styles, but it did not work. When I had first begun studying drums, back in grade school, my dad had given me two cassettes by swing drum legends Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich. So it was only fitting, that in the wee early hours of that Wednesday morning, the piece that stuck would come to me with an upbeat, swinging tempo and lyric scheme.

I never did write down the music that was in my head, and I've since attempted the piece a cappella in other styles as well as swing. I've sung it on stage, and I've sung it to myself. I've sung it to mark the special occasions he and I shared, and I've sung it just because...I always miss him. And this is how I keep his image in my head. For anyone who has ever missed someone, this is "Blue Wednesday Morning"...



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



There were things said and left unsaid,

Ideas floating around in my head

Wish we had more time to spend

There's a hole in my heart that needs to be fed.



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



Daydreaming in the middle of the day

Daydreaming, wondering what we'd say

daydreaming my life away

The world is calling me to come out and play

Gotta take my dreams and be on my way.



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



Yellow buttercups growing on the lawn

Sunrise creeping up from the dawn

Red, red robins singing a song

Dew drops falling on the nose of a fawn

Life keeps rolling on, and on, and on, and on, and on...



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.



There were things said and left unsaid,

Ideas floating around in my head

Wish we had more time to spend

There's a hole in my heart that needs to be fed.

Daydreaming in the middle of the day

Daydreaming, wondering what you'd say

Daydreaming my life away

The world is calling me to come out and play

Gotta take my dreams and be on my way

Yellow buttercups growing on the lawn

Sunrise creeping up from the dawn

Red, red robins singing a song

Dew drops falling on the nose of a fawn

Life keeps rolling on, and on, and on, and on, and on...



It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back the clock.

It’s a blue, blue, blue Wednesday Morning

And I am wanting to turn back....

I Dream of Paradise

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...This is the template I have chosen for my first four posts. And now we are up to something borrowed. The true poetry aficionados among you may recognize a few lines from one of the lions of the poetry world.

In tenth grade my English teacher, Mr. Nangle decided to forgo the proposed curriculum, (I think it was "A Tale of Two Cities"), and take my class on a journey that differed from all the others. We began a poetry unit. In the course of our lessons, Mr. Nangle gave us the first two lines and the first word of the third line of a poem, then unknown to us. He sent us home with the instructions to finish the poem.

I always suspected that some of my peers may have sought out the origin of the poem, in hopes of impressing our teacher. I, slacker that I was at the time, didn't much care to know the origin of the lines. My preoccupation had long been for heavy metal lyrics, not poetry. I set myself the task of completing the job as quickly and competently as possible, and damn the consequences.

As I attempted to embody the spirit of the first two lines, I was reminded of an image from an old Disney movie, of two animated birds flying around each other with a ribbon in their beaks. Clearly the opening lines were intended to indicate the emotion of love. I decided to riff on that. But what did I know of love but affected teenage girls who would barely even look at me, let alone return the emotion. No I did not know of love. I could only dream of it. But I could not say so outright. What guy could? By and by, I set myself to bury these emotions in a poem.

Once I had turned in my paper, I was prepared to forget about it. But a week later, Mr. Nangle revealed the origin of the lines. They were the opening lines of "The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. As we reviewed the poem in class, I began to believe I had gone terribly wrong. There was no "...Patient etherized upon a table" in my poem. I could not see then that I had inadvertently captured the same spirit of unrequited love, expressed by the great poet.

I sat through the class shaking with terror of what comments Mr. Nangle might have written in the margins. I also feared the revelation that I may have revealed to much in the writing of my poem. Finally, as the class was drawing towards its close, Mr. Nangle prepared to return our papers. Before he did, he made a statement. He told us that all of the papers were good. Two of the papers were exceptionally good, and that one of those was remarkably so. He said that this one paper was so good, that he believed it must be read in front of the entire class. He was staring at me the whole time he spoke, and I was sweating like a fever, but I had refused to acknowledge the possibility that he was speaking of my paper.

But then he looked at me and said, "Gavin, would you to read your poem?" My tongue crawled up into my mouth as my throat began to close. I was certain then that my sweat glands would flood the room. I shook my head "No." Mr. Nangle was also the Public Speaking teacher, which heightened the pressure. He tried several times to get me to read my poem, but I just could not. Perhaps I wasn't so tough after all. I thought I was going to die, right there in tenth grade English class. Finally, Mr. Nangle asked if I would mind his reading it for me.

Was this some kind of trick? Was everybody going to laugh at me when he had finished? He was a good teacher, a teacher I liked and respected, a teacher who had gracefully put up with my sometimes less than stellar attitude. If he was now going to exact his revenge by making a laughing stock of me in front of my entire class, it seemed like it was something that I would just have to endure. Mr. Nangle asked me again, "Would you mind if I read your poem to the class? It really is quite good."

I could not quite grasp the trick, but here were the consequences. Somehow, I managed to croak a "Yes".

As Mr. Nangle read, the attention of the class was rapt steadily on the tenor of his voice. My poem actually sounded quite good coming from him. I wished I could read it like that. When the poem was completed, Mr. Nangle reminded the class of its author, and the class erupted in spontaneous applause. They saw me! They actually saw ME! I was really there, and I had done something. I still wasn't sure what it was, but this was certainly something new. Through all the years of having parents and teachers tell me I could write, none of them had been my peers. This was the first indication to me, by someone who didn't have a vested interest in filling my head with sunshine, that maybe I really was good at something. Maybe I could write. Maybe I still can.

Despite having borrowed the opening lines from T.S. Eliot, I consider this my first poem. Before “Atrophy” could give me license as a poet, this piece showed me that I had something valuable to contribute in this realm. To all my peers, especially to those who were there that day, and to Mr. Nangle wherever he may be, this is "I Dream of Paradise"...

Let us go then, you and I

When evening is spread out against the sky

Like two Doves with kindred eye.

Let us go into the night,

Down by the dock to wake the moon

Like love birds when they swoon...

Let us sail with the wind,

Where the sea is hypnotic blue,

And there is not a soul about, save for me and you.

I wish it could be like this for all time,

But I must go and spread my wings.

Hide your tears from lover’s spies,

Beware of those who tear the bonds from souls of twain,

For Fate shall bring me back, and when I return,

Not once again shall we be parted,

To join the ranks of broken hearted.

Then, and now, again we shall sail,

Sail where the deep blue sea meets light blue sky.

When we reach this place,

When all the flowers set to bloom,

Let us take flight into the cloudless domain above,

So we might live with eternal love, where all is fair.

Alas, this land of which I dream,

This paradise so sweet can never be.

For in this land of reality,

There is more to life than living.

Together, let us Dream.

Smile

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...I said I would follow a template for my first four posts. There could be nothing newer than the piece I wrote this morning. "Smile"...

Pausing as the moments pass

Attention turns me to the looking glass.

My expression before the bathroom tile

Reminds me that I ought to smile,

For amidst the fury and the sound

I am here above the ground,

And though it is not always bliss

I must carry on for those I miss. 

Life is but a butterfly,

You flap your wings and then you die.

But beauty reigns before the fall

So while you can, drink in it all.

If there is anything lost love could give

Let it be the inspiration to live.

Transcending beyond the pain and strife

Unraveling the bow of life,

To challenge all I thought I knew

And then to tie it around my day anew,

Go make a muddy mess of my waking hours

And rinse it off in thunder showers.

As blood charges through my veins

I will be the lightning when it rains.

Though darkness may shroud the night

Dawn always returns the light,

Sun always rises in the sky,

And Icarus always longs to fly.

But I am not made of wax,

Will fortifies my dreams against attacks.

I must know I cannot sink

So long as I will dare to think,

And thinking girds against the storm

So that I may mold my lifelong form.

A folded flag in a case with my father’s name

And photographs of friends and family do the same,

To place a value on what was lost

So there are no illusions about life’s cost.

Loosing those you are thinking of

Does nothing to diminish love.

I am stronger than I may seem,

And they are part of how I keep my sheen.

Moving forward through the day

Thoughts of how they might part the grey,

Reinforce the memories that drive me all the while

To seize the day and crack a smile…

Atrophy

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...My first four posts will follow that template. I begin with something old. Atrophy was not the first poem I wrote, but it was the one which freed me creatively. This simple piece marks the point in tenth grade, during Christmas break in 1991, when I decided to give myself license to be fully open to the creative process no matter what it might cost me. On its own it might not be a great piece, I don't know, but it is the piece which enabled the writing of every other piece that came after. I have often read it as the wine bottle across the hull of a virgin open mike, so I find it only fitting that I do so again here. This is "Atrophy"...

Of what I’ve said

And what I feel

So full of pain

When nothing’s real

Looking down

Upon myself with contempt

I live in sorrow

I walk in anguish

As the night comes

To forgive my sins

It is enthralled

By the blinding cry of agony

For I cannot let out

What I will not let in.

Welcome to the Skeeniverse

There is no money in poetry, or so it is said. And in my experience, publishers are reluctant to accept anything that challenges traditions or breaks from their narrow perspective of what poetry should be. But I've been writing poetry for more than twenty years. I have performed at open mikes in libraries, book stores, restaurant basements, community centers, bars and cafes, including The Nuyorican Poets Cafe and Bar 13 in New York City. I even did a few slams, though the concept does not particularly appeal to me. But most of what I have written has not been seen by more than a handful of people.



I tried to publish a selection of my poetry in book form in 2005, but the publisher was not forthcoming about their self-imposed limitations, and I was forced by circumstance to walk away. Ever since that incident, I have harbored in the back of my mind an inclination that I might again someday attempt to publish a collection of my work.



I have found a publisher which doesn't seem to be hampered by the same restrictions, but it is expensive to self-publish. Frankly, I don't want to go through the trouble and expense of publishing a brick and mortar book until I can prove to myself that there will be a market for it.



This blog constitutes my attempt to explore and develop a market for my work. My intention is to publish a sampling of new and older work here on blogger, so that I can find out what kind of attention my work draws. I am also considering using blogger to raise funds for publication, either overtly or by leasing out add space. I'm inclined towards the later on a limited basis, so long as the adds do not distract from writing and the blog can be kept accessible to the broadest possible audience without incurring any required cost to the reader. I don't know a lot about how all of that works. I will have to learn as I go. For the time being, I will have to consider the Skeeniverse a work in progress.



When I was a teenager, my buddy and I used to go into bookstores during our lunch period, sit down in the poetry section and just randomly pull books from the shelves. We would read to ourselves, and any time one of us came across something noteworthy we would share it with the other. This same sense of adventure has informed my life and my writing ever since. My hope is that I will be able to capture this sense in the presentation of this blog. Some of the work will be funny. Some will be sad. Some of it will seem simple. Some will be challenging, in any number of ways. And if I have learned anything over twenty plus years of writing, much of it will be inspiring, empowering and hopeful. My words are the vestments which adorn my life, and this is me laying them upon the bareness of the page...