Monthly Archives: October 2013

What Dreams MAY Come

 

Perchance,

These words fall not upon deaf ears

Or an erstwhile impenetrable soul,

Perchance,

These words enter through loving eyes,

Knowing that these sentiments rare,

Are the truest form of me,

Expressed herein,

Delightfully,

Though feared lost in translation,

Cultural mores,

Yet here I stand defiant,

Like a child at play,

With you,

Tickling the fancy of your greatest desires,

Roaming free and invited into the dreams you seek,

Piercing the armor that you so deftly have created,

Come to you like a knight,

In tales of yonder,

Where the damsel in distress,

You,

Is saved,

Figuratively and literally,

By me,

Here and now!

Perchance,

These words enter into your mind,

Understood by ripe passion,

Filter free from worry,

That they may alight your greatest fantasies,

Here and now,

Of the life you crave,

The life you deserve,

The life I’d like to make with you,

Perchance,

These words enter you like water,

Finding the path of least resistance,

Where they hit right at the heart of you,

Like the gods ambrosia,

Intoxicating you with a restored vision,

Sacred,

Beautiful,

For what was and what could be,

With you,

For you,

For us,

Perchance!

Perchance,

These words could unlock the chambers of your insecurity,

Demanding nothing more of you,

Than that delicious smile,

The one that lights up every room,

With your eyes dancing like an inverse moon,

Eclipsed,

By you,

I will go in this way,

Discovering that what may be may be,

Come,

To this,

At the head wondering, wandering and wishing,

To share with you,

Every moment,

Perfect, imperfect and all together plain,

Though with you,

None could be plain,

For you are like that fairy tale princess,

And I a low suitor,

Longing to raise up to become that knight,

To take you to the life you’ve always sought,

Perchance!

Perchance these words restore that faith lost,

For reasons inconsequential,

That neither define me nor you,

Nor the clear admiration and adoration that we share,

Perchance,

These words,

Beg the reason of reason released,

For in affairs such as these,

The heart and soul,

There need not be reasons,

Only compassion,

Understanding,

Trust and the daily affirmation,

That I am yours,

And you are mine.

Perchance,

These words,

Could possibly heal your wounds,

Could possibly reveal you to you,

And thus more to me,

Beyond the naked expression of beauty that I have

Already born witness to,

Captured as I have been,

By the radiance of you,

Bedazzled by the awe that you inspire,

Uplifted by your sweet gentleness,

Hoping,

Panging,

Yearning,

For you to see,

Who I am,

Who I seek to be,

With you…

Perchance!

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Can You…

Can you…

Can you forgive me…

 

I hope you can

And trust you will;

 

For I pang for a life of,

Once upon a times,

And happily ever after,

With you…

 

All ye that have been reckless,

Without regard or understanding,

The condition within,

Conditions,

For this wounded man,

Figurative and literal,

Brutally torn and tattered,

Hidden realities and invisible scars,

I can let no one see,

For when I do the result is inevitable,

An inverse rabbit in the hat,

POOF…

 

GONE!

 

I fault you not,

For choosing the easier road,

For truly there is no easy road in life,

I fault you not,

How could I,

Considering that I know myself,

My three selves,

I and I and I,

And at times even I am uncertain,

As to whether or not,

I am comfortable in my own skin,

I assure you I am,

Not,

And have not been for quite some time;

 

I have to be, though,

And I attempt daily,

To find the strength,

I attempt daily,

To give you reassurances,

A necessary aplomb,

That I can and will beat this thing,

This unbeatable,

Unbearable,

Unbelievable,

Life,

This jewel that remains unpolished,

Uncut stones,

Like tracts of time,

Rivers on Mars,

*(desiring instead Eros)

Those reveal our deepest wounds,

Mine hiding behind compartments of beaming soul shine,

Fighting to overcome my black dog,

Constant cruel companion,

I fight;

 

I can’t apologize for my wounds,

I just can’t,

Hard to believe,

Well you should,

Perhaps if you read my palm,

Perhaps if you read me,

Reached inside and held tenderly,

This abject sorrow,

Endless,

Heaving me through time,

From place to place,

Longing for a home,

A love,

A wife,

A home,

A family,

A life;

Longing for you…

 

You’d get it,

You’d understand,

Why I turn the colour of an aubergine,

At the very thought,

Of a love requited,

A love with you,

A thought I’ve held dear,

Since my life fell apart,

In an instant,

Instances,

Of this chivalrous knighted,

Fool,

And how am I fool,

Looking to put my feet on firm ground,

The terra firma,

Of your heart,

Like in fairy tales,

That delivers me from evil,

And reminds me,

Of all that is before us,

What do we do now?

What do we do now?

All ye that have been reckless,

With this wounded man,

How do I forgive you,

With grace, compassion, empathy, understanding and love,

Can you do the same?

 

Will you?

Please…

 

SDM

 

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Lost Generation (2)


I no longer wish to cradle you in my arms,
For the body electric is gone,
Reminisces of once held soul mate,
That now seeks life on her own,
Knowing that you had to do what you did,
Without knowing why,
Is precisely why I am moving on,
Why I no longer wish the body electric,
With you,
Abandoned at the moment I most needed you,
When you most needed me,
With reckless disregard,
Self loathing and fear,
I now stand as champion of my own soul,
My own advance,
Creating a new body electric,
Fueled by Tesla, Hemingway and more,
Those voices,
They continue to speak to me,
Smack me, jar and jam me,
In ways you never did,
In ways you never could,
They grow louder each day as I grow ever closer,
To the realization of a new love,
A self love,
So that I may again learn to love another,
The one I now believe I see,
My first love and hopefully my last love,
A paradigm shifted,
By all misunderstood,
These words that I caress just as deftly as I had you,
These words that I twist and turn into beautiful elements,
Of a life worth living,
For in now accepting what and who I am,
And what I did and why I had to support you,
I am free to enhance the calling,
I will answer the clarion call of the giants in my mind,
In the pursuit of happiness and love,
In pursuit of Muse,
She, herself,  calls out for me to listen to the Lost Generation,
Though she misunderstands them and perhaps even me,
Transplant myself back to the age I should have been born,
And that I now live daily in my mind,
Paris, 1923
Over in the corner,
Picasso is holding court with a bevy of ladies,
As always,
A few men try to enter the fray and are shunned away,
As always,
By twirling fingers of fantastic delight,
As always…

Gertrude approaches me first,
Entreating me to sit with her for a glass of red wine;
“As you well know Sir, one of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.”
The words fall from her mouth,
As an entrenched philosophy,
An esoteric Ether that empowers me,
But appear like Victoria or Angel falls,
Monumental in that Stein is always right,
Well,
More often than not.
She continues;
“An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work.”
I ask;
“Do you feel I need an audience?”
“Not at all,” she assures me,
“Just remember, that your words are you, you are your words,
and nobody, anywhere, can change that.”
I deeply inhale my Cuban cigar and find myself looking for the familiar,
Calling out for a scotch,
With that, I hear F. Scott off in a corner;
“Have you proven yet that Gatsby is not the greatest character?”
As I approach I can hear him laughing;
“Surely you are a greater character than Jay?”
“Frankly,” I reply,
“I am not from any Egg, east nor west, but I am certain that Jay is still the greatest…”

F. Scott scoffs at me as a mother a child,
Scolding me for something I have done something in err,
As far as I remember is human, no?

“What is wrong with you boy, it’s up to you, write.”
Pensively I stare into the void between F. Scott and my face,
“You don’t believe it is that easy?”
“Well we’ll never know until you write it will we?”
I nod my head partially frightened but truly elated,
“The world only exists in your eyes.
You can make it as big or as small as you want.”
He says kindly,
“Create the world you want to create and make it BIG…”
F. Scott clearly enjoying his treatise goes on;
“An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,
the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.”
I fire back without hesitation;
“But I am not in my youth anymore…”
He angrily interrupts;
“Son, you are a writer, you are in your youth evermore.”

Apparently Zelda had had quite enough and as many times before,
As always before,
Takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty space,
Invisible pheromones clashing,
As Muse reenters my mind,
No music is playing except for the soft rush of wind,
Against the storied cobblestones of Paris’ Left Bank;
“He is right you,” she says,
“About?” I inquire.
“His advice to you, is right on.
You are youthful, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Zelda” I say, “Are you hitting on me?”
She replies; “No, well maybe,
yet, have you looked in the mirror?
I have seen twenty year olds that don’t have the baby face you do
and what’s more Jay may, or may not be, the greatest character,
but you have it in you to write that character and the time is now.
What are you waiting for?”

Together we swayed back and forth,
Not as lovers dancing more like a father with his daughter bride,
And Zelda started to hum,
Knowing something was coming I steadied my nerves,
For when she hums,
Zelda hums,
As the Ether beckons,
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise,
erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions,
fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions
and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes. ”
She twirls me gently;
“No sour grapes Sender, live, live, live.”
As I reach the pinnacle of the twirl she releases me…

So I drift over to T.S. who sits pensively;
“You come to us, daily,
or rather it is we who come to you,
we know you are searching,
you know you are searching but I wonder…
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out
how far one can go.
How far are you willing to go my boy?”

The voices in my head determined today to make me think,
As always,
Forcing me into intellectual corners that I’d rather not be in,
Boxed,
“As far as is necessary,” I assure him, “further if possible.”
“You look stunned young man…
the best advice I can ever give you consists in this…
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
Be poignant. Be selective. Be you and write.”

The sun had long since set,
Paris revealing that majestic splendor of its thousands year old history,
With deafening shadows and perfumed stains of life,
This was the Paris we all loved,
The Paris we lived for,
The Paris that always exists in our minds,
As we all stood there in a faith shaking silence,
Our talent, ability and joie de vive,
We knew it could not last,
But we would fight,
To the death,
Refusing to grow up,
While trying not to get old,
Though our words may live forever,
We know,
We shall not.

NON OMNIS MORIAR…

With a telling glance and a tip of my cap I walk away,
Over to my literary father,
Hemingway with a slap on my back and a firm grip of my hand,
Looked on with child like wonder,
At the sight of Paris on this most perfect Summer dusk,
“Sender, you realize we won’t always be here?”
I laughed,
As I wondered how a figment of my overworked mind could express,
That he knew better than I,
As always,
How long they would or would not be there;
As always,
“I assure you Ernest, you will always be with me…”
“Not as now…and that is why you must know…
We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
I was a failure and so too will you be,
if you can’t finally unleash the  fuming literary beast inside you.”

He continued;
“Every man’s life ends the same way.
It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. How are you going to live your life?
How are you going to distinguish yourself?”
He repeated this line over and over,
As always
For what seemed like hours,
And Paris slowly transformed into Laos,
And I am brought back to this place and time,
So that I can finally distinguish,
Myself.

The voices,
These voices,
Those sing the praises of a life worth living,
Are my daily reminder,
My daily escape,
And my daily reminder,
That we are all put on this earth to do something,
Not just anything,
Something,
Whether to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever it may be,
And should we refuse to answer that calling,
Our lives,
Will be less than they should be,
Love, Family and the words,
The voices of the Lost Generation,
Are my clarion calls to a brilliant masterpiece,
And I don’t know what I would do without them,
Save,
That I am sure I would go mad.

SDM

Lost Generation (1)

https://senderupwords.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/lost-generation-found-love/

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Lost Generation (Found Love?)

  

If I could cradle you again in my arms,

Like these past weekend,

A lifetime shared in beautiful moments,

Collected,

Feel the body electric between us,

Soul mates now advance,

Or is it depart,

Apart yet together,

Knowing that you feel you have to to do what you’re doing,

Without knowing why,

And refusing to see the truth

I too must now move on,

Progress to the conviction,

That it is no contradiction,

That this can be,

Sing my own body electric,

For you,

For the rest of the world to see,

Let the voices in my head,

And the Ether,

The giants of my craft,

Use me as their conduit that I may produce,

My epic,

These stories,

Unearth for the world,

The universe,

The truths of these demons,

Those come dressed to me in tuxedos and ball gowns,

Entreating me to dance the love hypnotic,

Can you be hypnotized,

Captivated,

Enraptured in these emotions rare,

A virtual green fairy, produced,

Inside my own mind,

Expose that my calling once ignored,

Save for the women of my Muse delight,

Is now the central feature of a life lived?

Am I now complete?
Not without you!

In the pursuit of happiness and love,

For others,

Without acknowledging what I need,

Thinking of the Lost Generation,
Living with them,

Drinking, eating and partying,

My delusions,

I can feel Zelda’s breath on my neck,

As she whispers sweet everything’s in my ear,

As I wish you would, and have,

I can hear Pablo as he twirls his fingers,

Explaining the abstract,

To those that will never get it,

But he will get them,

He persists,

Determined little bastard,

Note to self;

Become a determined little bastard,

Gertrude takes me by the hand,

Walks me to the Seine,

Waves her arms dramatically and says;

“This is the river of your discontent;

Let it ebb and flow,

As true as the words you write,

And you will find,

Find you will,

The answers that you seek,”

 

In the corner F. Scott and Ernest are laughing,

Drawing me near,

With their alcohol blemished wisdom,

Just as my own,

The sage like discord you’d expect from giants,

Of personality, spirit, mind and life itself,

Ernest in earnest,

Says to me;

“Go on Son, the world is your oyster;

It is time for you to find a pearl,

A pearl you must,

Travel far and wide,

Inside your mind and in the world,

Find your voice,

Your voice,”

F. Scott scoffs;

“My boy,

It is time for you,

Time for only you,

Live gloriously,

Fabulously,

Relentlessly,

Find your inner playboy,

And reveal to me that Jay is not the greatest character,

Reveal to me that you are the chosen light,

Reveal it to the world,

They are waiting.”

In unison they declare;

“She is waiting for you… you just need to find her.”

So I smirk,

As I realize that my joy,

Is in these words,

My love is in these words,

Abundant and without end,

Just as my love has always been for you,

Proverbial and literal.

As F. Scott finishes Pound rounds the corner,

Slaps me on the back and says;

“Wisdom they impart,

Is only that, which you may find,

Your fingers dance,

Your mind is a beautiful tangled and intertwined tango,

Easy for you,

Now you must find your flamenco,

Do with these words,

What you will,

Go wise young man;

For you are one of us,

Truly.”

With that,

I am brought back to this world,

To this time,

The present,

Where I must find my way,

Find my way,

To excellence,

Personal greatness,

Where I can find you,

Literal,

That we may both shine,

Basking in the glory of love,

Of life,

Of uncertainty,

And find that I may triumph,

In spite of my black dog,

The curse of depression,

Repressed,

By you, for you, with you,

If you’d let me,

What if man never dreamed of the stars?

Never dreamed of flight?
Of going under the sea?

Of being a family man,

With love and a true life,

What more matters?

To wit,

We all raise and glass and say;

“LIVE…”

SDM

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