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A Brief Respite ©2022 by (((Trevor Patrick)))
One of those
Midlife Crisis Moments®
subject to unexpected,
recurrent interruptions/
pre-emptions, or even
change-or-cancellation
without-notice//
without-refund.
whether spoiled,
needy Canine temper tantrums
or someone else's
--{several-doors-down}--
background music
played as loud
as they like it
(it's their property,
after all --
don't give so much
as a tinker's-toot
butt-trumpet
about the opinions
of anyone outside the
boundaries)
-- trying to hold on
to artistic inspiration
becoming increasingly soggy
and more likely to fall apart
with each recurrent
interruption/distraction.
Many ideas
are effectively
strangled-in-the-crib
just like that Midlife Moment
you are trying to capture
even as the insistent,
nudging canine nose
--{keeps on keepin' on}--
distracting you even
from the realities
(or else starkly underlining them)
that all-too-often these days
everything just seems
to be turning to shit,
and you don't completely
understand just why
where you lost
your direction
you're pretty sure
everyone else has noticed, too
but they're too 'polite' and 'kind'
to lay that sort of harsh truth on you,
except in
whispers-and-mutters
behind your back.
and the
'who do you think yer foolin'
back-pedal of:
"Your whole problem is
you've got a negative attitude!"
"Maybe you're just being too
hard on yourself..."
Yet the dangling-unsaid
is still hiding somewhere
'...or maybe you're
not hard ENOUGH."
And if I pick up my guitar
(who do you think you're
foolin' now that you're
a half-century?)
Maybe it's self-indulgence
Maybe it's delusion
Maybe it's just the failed-adult
equivalent of a security blanket
suitable for an overgrown,
terminally-irresponsible
immature man-child
and all-around loser
such as I?
Yeah,
maybe today I'll
go with the security blanket,
as, somehow that seems
the least unacceptable
of a list, which includes
not so much
as a single, truly
justifiable/acceptable
option.
Security blanket,
'cuz somehow those strings
responding to the loving
caress of my hands
picking//strumming//slapping//tapping
is the only thing left
that makes any logical
sense
(at least that I am capable
of understanding)
or in the
world-spun-out-of-control
on every conceivable level
from self
to outside-of-self
to family-friends-strangers
to the entire world
that simple relationship
between fingers-on-strings
and coaxing out sound
is the only thing
that seems to
make sense any more
on this late May day
of the unusually
cool spring
and I try and spin
those artistic wheels
increasingly
rusty and crusty
as they are,
underneath a powder-blue sky
with cotton-puff clouds
drifting overhead
and the high, dead branches
of a nearby birch jutting defiantly
above the hopeful spring-green
of the brasher and younger
leaves pushing up
from branches below.
Like the failed dreams
of so many of my own
now-irrelevant
without-having-ever
been-relevant
in-the-first-place
generation.
Just like all the cut-ins
and all the missed dances//
missed chances
(or 'shankses'
as someone I used to work for
would pronounce it)
and even as the stark
juxtaposition of the
moribund still occupying
(stealing)
space now claimed (and needed)
by the up-and-coming,
cocksure,
"getouttamyway you dinosaur!"
leaves below...
...and almost as if to underscore
that particular point,
a turkey vulture
describes a lazy circle
towards me
on updrafts
from the forest
across the river.
"Yes, you're being appraised...
But it looks like today
isn't quite your day
to get on the cart."
-- even as the insistent
nudging,
jealous-of-your
divided-attention
canine nose
returns yet again.
*whiiiiiine*
-----------------------------------------
A Brief Respite ©2022 by (((Trevor Patrick)))
One of those
Midlife Crisis Moments®
subject to unexpected,
recurrent interruptions/
pre-emptions, or even
change-or-cancellation
without-notice//
without-refund.
whether spoiled,
needy Canine temper tantrums
or someone else's
--{several-doors-down}--
background music
played as loud
as they like it
(it's their property,
after all --
don't give so much
as a tinker's-toot
butt-trumpet
about the opinions
of anyone outside the
boundaries)
-- trying to hold on
to artistic inspiration
becoming increasingly soggy
and more likely to fall apart
with each recurrent
interruption/distraction.
Many ideas
are effectively
strangled-in-the-crib
just like that Midlife Moment
you are trying to capture
even as the insistent,
nudging canine nose
--{keeps on keepin' on}--
distracting you even
from the realities
(or else starkly underlining them)
that all-too-often these days
everything just seems
to be turning to shit,
and you don't completely
understand just why
where you lost
your direction
you're pretty sure
everyone else has noticed, too
but they're too 'polite' and 'kind'
to lay that sort of harsh truth on you,
except in
whispers-and-mutters
behind your back.
and the
'who do you think yer foolin'
back-pedal of:
"Your whole problem is
you've got a negative attitude!"
"Maybe you're just being too
hard on yourself..."
Yet the dangling-unsaid
is still hiding somewhere
'...or maybe you're
not hard ENOUGH."
And if I pick up my guitar
(who do you think you're
foolin' now that you're
a half-century?)
Maybe it's self-indulgence
Maybe it's delusion
Maybe it's just the failed-adult
equivalent of a security blanket
suitable for an overgrown,
terminally-irresponsible
immature man-child
and all-around loser
such as I?
Yeah,
maybe today I'll
go with the security blanket,
as, somehow that seems
the least unacceptable
of a list, which includes
not so much
as a single, truly
justifiable/acceptable
option.
Security blanket,
'cuz somehow those strings
responding to the loving
caress of my hands
picking//strumming//slapping//tapping
is the only thing left
that makes any logical
sense
(at least that I am capable
of understanding)
or in the
world-spun-out-of-control
on every conceivable level
from self
to outside-of-self
to family-friends-strangers
to the entire world
that simple relationship
between fingers-on-strings
and coaxing out sound
is the only thing
that seems to
make sense any more
on this late May day
of the unusually
cool spring
and I try and spin
those artistic wheels
increasingly
rusty and crusty
as they are,
underneath a powder-blue sky
with cotton-puff clouds
drifting overhead
and the high, dead branches
of a nearby birch jutting defiantly
above the hopeful spring-green
of the brasher and younger
leaves pushing up
from branches below.
Like the failed dreams
of so many of my own
now-irrelevant
without-having-ever
been-relevant
in-the-first-place
generation.
Just like all the cut-ins
and all the missed dances//
missed chances
(or 'shankses'
as someone I used to work for
would pronounce it)
and even as the stark
juxtaposition of the
moribund still occupying
(stealing)
space now claimed (and needed)
by the up-and-coming,
cocksure,
"getouttamyway you dinosaur!"
leaves below...
...and almost as if to underscore
that particular point,
a turkey vulture
describes a lazy circle
towards me
on updrafts
from the forest
across the river.
"Yes, you're being appraised...
But it looks like today
isn't quite your day
to get on the cart."
-- even as the insistent
nudging,
jealous-of-your
divided-attention
canine nose
returns yet again.
*whiiiiiine*
The last week or so, I've once again found myself in one of those not-so-fun artistic places, where I have found myself starved for inspiration... For a nice visual/auditory metaphor, just think of the little ball clacking around inside a nearly-empty can of spray paint, as you're shaking it to try and get those last few little spritzes out of it.
This particular piece developed out of simply writing down a few words here and there, which came to me during an outdoor guitar practice one morning a couple of weeks back (late May of 2022), and I eventually found myself satisfied enough with the result, (even with recurrent distractions/interruptions from a bratty-and-entitled dog) that I decided to try it on a larger scale over a period of non-consecutive days, where I consumed a medical cannabis edible before practice (non-consecutive, because I don't use them on a daily basis -- only on those days, where my knees and/or lower back are bothering me a bit more than usual, with the added bonus that I can play for longer without aches and pains likewise settling into my hands).
On the worst of the artistically-starved days, sometimes guitar practice is an escape hatch... Some days, guitar is an all-too-brief respite, because even if the poetry of words isn't coming to me, there is a far more visceral and elemental poetry that comes from my fingers on the strings.
It is my intention that the much larger piece, titled: Poetry of the Strings will appear fairly soon after this one, which I feel works best as a prelude to it.
There is a fair amount of Midlife Crisis angst in the piece, but I would also like to think that there are also places, where I have managed to get across the point of it being a brief, artistic respite...
This particular piece developed out of simply writing down a few words here and there, which came to me during an outdoor guitar practice one morning a couple of weeks back (late May of 2022), and I eventually found myself satisfied enough with the result, (even with recurrent distractions/interruptions from a bratty-and-entitled dog) that I decided to try it on a larger scale over a period of non-consecutive days, where I consumed a medical cannabis edible before practice (non-consecutive, because I don't use them on a daily basis -- only on those days, where my knees and/or lower back are bothering me a bit more than usual, with the added bonus that I can play for longer without aches and pains likewise settling into my hands).
On the worst of the artistically-starved days, sometimes guitar practice is an escape hatch... Some days, guitar is an all-too-brief respite, because even if the poetry of words isn't coming to me, there is a far more visceral and elemental poetry that comes from my fingers on the strings.
It is my intention that the much larger piece, titled: Poetry of the Strings will appear fairly soon after this one, which I feel works best as a prelude to it.
There is a fair amount of Midlife Crisis angst in the piece, but I would also like to think that there are also places, where I have managed to get across the point of it being a brief, artistic respite...
Category Poetry / Animal related (non-anthro)
Species Dog (Other)
Gender Male
Size 50 x 50px
Comments