Jim Morrison on Poetry

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.

. . . and that’s why poetry appeals to me so much – because it’s so eternal. As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel. – Jim Morrison

Writing Prompts to Get Your Creative Juices Flowing

Writing Prompts to Get Your Creative Juices Flowing

I enjoy looking around the web for writing prompts to keep my creative juices going. I have a few favorite places to go that always provide something obscure, fun, dark, or just plain ridiculous.

To me, the prompt isn’t as important as the writing that follows. Don’t do what I used to do – spend entirely too much time choosing a good prompt. The idea is to be taken by surprise and to let your creative mind do the talking. Think of it as improve – don’t plan the piece; write off the cuff. Let your mind take the lead when you choose a prompt and develop it into a story, a poem, a song, a piece of prose, or whatever your soul desires.

Some of my favorite spots on the web to find writing prompts:

Here are some writing prompts I have found online or made up on my own. Get started by writing for 15-30 minutes non-stop using the prompt of your choosing.

To escape a zombie attack, you have to go live in the woods by yourself. Make a packing list. (Source)
You receive a mysterious email and the subject line reads “Everything you know is a lie.” (Source)
“This discovery will change the world, if it doesn’t destroy it first.” (Source)

 

Stay tuned – this will become a regular feature on my blog. If you’d like to feature some of your own writing prompts, just email them to me or drop them in the comments. Happy writing!

Dream Descent

Sweet slumber is now
upon me; the moonbeams cast
shadows on my bed.
Clouds of lavender
lure me into the abyss
and I fall ever
so swift into a deep dream.

The stars lead me through
darkness to a world that seems
to only exist
within hidden thoughts.
Memories that once seemed vague
flood my subconscious,
only to be lost at dawn.

Remembering an American Poet

Forty-two years ago today the world lost an American poet who, without a doubt, would have given the world much more had he lived longer. Tragically, he gave up his ghost in Paris, France on the third of July in 1971. To pay homage, here is my favorite poem by none other than James Douglas Morrison, the American poet (better known as Jim Morrison of the legendary rock group, The Doors).

POWER

I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
& in the minds of others.

I can

I am

 

Rest in peace, Lizard King.

 

Poem: Alternate Universe

A Hot Mess

You see, she used to be popular.
We used to envy Barbie, but now
they call her ‘B’ on the streets,
and she chases that dirty dragon
through grunge of the City of Angels.

Her hair, once wispy platinum
and soft is now dry and broken,
smelling of stale cigarettes… her skin
once had a certain sun-kissed glow,
but now it’s cracked
and peppered with blemishes,
bruises, tracks, and scars.
Her scaly hands clutch
the pack of Marlboros
as if it was all she had left.

We heard her custom convertible
ended up in a mangled pink mess
after a 48-hour binge… she destroyed
that exquisite dream house
in Malibu, and her designer threads
now rest on the bodies
of drug lords and their whores.

I guess she sold them
to pay her debts, to set
her veins on fire, to cloud
her mind – all in an attempt
to escape the pain
of the plastic life she
so carefully crafted.

A Long Poem: Ekphrastic Poetry

For this week’s Writer Wednesday, I want to share with you an ekphrastic poem I composed a few months ago that I have recently refined.

First, let’s define ekphrastic poetry.

Definition of ekphrasis: a literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art.

ekphrasis  [Gk ‘description’]: a literary work of art that seeks to describe or recreate in language a visual work of art (painting, photograph, architecture, sculpture, blown glass, etc.)

The visual arts serve as great inspiration for poets. For the following poem, I derived my inspiration from the famous Norman Rockwell piece, The Love Song, which is on display at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

rockwell_love_song26
The Love Song, by Norman Rockwell.
Oil on Canvas, 1926.

The Love Song (after Norman Rockwell)

Mr. Jameson and his friend
were about to rehearse –
my favorite part
of the morning.

Tick… tick…

The metronome counts.
Nineteen minutes
past nine –

right on time.

I had eleven
minutes to fantasize,
and I intended
to use each one
before the coo of the clock
brought me back to my broom
and the sink full of dishes.

Even though the house
was never clean
enough for the missus,
and I was behind schedule,
I welcomed the break.

The charming notes
fashioned by the flute
and clarinet
carried me across
the room, sashaying my body
to the window, where I could
I rest my head against
the cool, plaster-covered
stone wall.

The men and their music, they
drenched me in a melody
strangely familiar, but I don’t mind.
I adore their eager, genuine effort
to compose their notes like
they worked parallel to the Gershwins.

Every Thursday morning,
at nineteen minutes past nine,
the jazz takes me
back to that moment…

I clutched my broom
tight to my heart,
and slipped
into my usual reverie.

We were sitting on the edge
of the granite fountain
in the middle
of the park, when he first
asked me to dance.

He held me tight
against his chest,
cheek to cheek, and
invited me to trace
his steps, so delicately,
as we swayed…

he whispered
the love song he wrote for me
into my ear. For that brief moment,
I was his…

until the decrescendo
of the flute and
the clarinet’s swelling rest
allowed the little wooden bird’s
final coo to rush
me back to my broom.

Page 2 of 4123...Last »