The Glass Hand
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Tag Archives: Arts
Constricted Constrained and Confused
Constricted constrained and confused
The moment lies in being used
Or to entertain
I am now bemused
To join these two thought
To create a soothing fluid
Of constant reminders
Of what happened in the past
In the moments viewed
Through the glass
Making my eyes see the world
Around me
That is the confining thought
I cannot see without them
In the summers brought
New ideas and constraints
The glasses around me
My new mind contains
Call Out
Practice hard
Churn them out
That is what the songwriting life is all about
It is no matter where you are
You have to do
And sing from your heart
That makes songs worth writing
Fingers sliding and bending
Notes ringing and clinging
To every syllable and vowel
That sings from this mouth
Out into the world
To scream and shout
That new songs will be birthed
From hand and shovel
Pulled from the earth
And given a life to live
In peoples ears
This is the gift to give
The Sweet Smell of Rejection
Nothing like the sweet smell of rejection in the morning
To receive the call an early warning
Its not the right fit but I wish you the best
But if you had to receive a grade you failed the test
Refreshed I see it in a morning sigh
No more than a simple rejuvenating sign
That more must be done to push forward
No looking back or retracting your hand
Giving my best out there I cannot look back
The evening lines have been drawn in the sand
Take a breath and begin again
This will seem to happen every now and again
I take it as a compliment
That the successful plans have been laid
I will not give into some cheap demands
To jump at their will fall upon their command
People look for something to fill their own void
All the while they hold stiff while creativity is destroyed
Looking for something to replace the old
Will make the fillers seem out of place and cold
Wet and waiting on the driveway of replacement
Taking what just comes along seems way to complacent
They want someone who will fit the mold
Casting away the unique and the wanderers
The fearless and the bold
For someone who does not mind to grow mold
Upon their creative gears and will simply listen to their peers
Me that I am not and surely never will be
What will ever become of me I guess I will wait and see
As for now I am content on my bed of worthlessness
It does not fear me to be alone out here calling
Much better than rich and my creative mind mauling me
I recluse back to come back stronger
Eager to fight again
Rejection is nothing more
Than a reason to start again
The Daily Routine
Ah the challenge of keeping creativity alive in my life. As I am pulled to try and sell the art and the creations that have already occurred. It is hard sometimes to step back and try and let the creative juices be heard. So I sat down to try and document my daily routine of keeping creativity alive in my life. So here it is – enjoy!
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The daily routine
Wake up in the morning
Make sure to exercise
Work out the arms and the thighs
Get back and get cleaned up
Got to write and practice
Keep the routine up
3 or four hours later
I now sit at the compu-tater
Life’s lines complex yet defined
I make this no place to wine
Letting go on paper what must be done
Seemed like a good idea
Challenging and fun
Poems must be constructed daily
This challenges what I have to say
About beauty, art, and the progress of today
The challenge is not to conform
But to set a new aggressive norm
Creativity must be engaged often
Or else the course muscles will soften
Decay and leave your soul
Looking for someone else to enroll
The creative spirit can be fleeting and gone
So I must capture these spirits in songs
Poems, writings, and other means
Or else I will be left with nothing
Creativity gone and no job to boot
I look pretty bad now in a business suit
Full of aspirations are these writings
Even though my mind is rattled with distractions
I must be real and stay ahead
Better off here trying
Than creativity dead
What Happened to the Songs
What happened to those tunes man
Now all I hear anymore is sand
Sand in my ears
Under the nails on my fingers
On my skin and under
I can’t stand it anymore
Why doesn’t anyone say anything anymore
When did music become so regulatory
All for finances and Hollywood glory?
That a fucking shame
Why do we want what is so lame
To fill our ears
With nothing of value and worth
No protest song or connection
The radio guides us in one direction
Upon inspection
It is less that satisfaction
That they blare this worthlessness
To world and miss
What happened to the songs of old
When a man could hold a guitar
So a story could be told
I don’t think that is old fashion
It is just a higher calling
Than that green cash’in
Let the melodies ring out
Let the voices sing
I will leave you with one thought
When you hear that radio
And the artist with the timeslot bought
Should your mind and thoughts be controlled?
So in some Bentley some executive can roll?
Music is much more than that
Than just some guys money rat
A Wooden Story
This is not a story about John Wooden. I mean wooden as in consisting of wood. I took a minute in another hotel room to reflect and think about what my guitar would say – if it could speak. I think it might say some of the things herein – probably a lot more than what I could think of. But I will never know. I just hope it is good – I try my best. I hope you enjoy the story and rock on!
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What story would this guitar tell
Would it be true
Or would it lie
Would it tell you everything
Or just enough to stop the questions
Would it be loud
Or soft
And kind
Gentle or harsh
Loud and unforgiving
Angry
What would it say
Brag and boast
Or simply tell a small tale
Would it go on and on
Or just talk for a quick minute
I would like to think I have taken care of her
She has worked hard and played hard
I try to let her see the world
Through song and lyric
I expose her to new challenges and obstacles
Experiences and countries
Al the while she continues to stay true
To work hard and stay in tune
She needs a little love and care
And a bit of repair
But on Saturday nights you can hear her
Sing bright in the stage light
Bringing a smile to my face
Resonating at her own pace
I hope she has a great life
When she reflects she can say
Being here with me was much better
Than ok
Video Shoot
Image
Cool pic from our recent video shoot. More poems to come!
Clocks and Lamps
This is a poem reflecting on life through the collection and the ultimate giving of possessions. I was inspired by a conversation I had with my uncle, who is a very devout priest, about how the things that he had collected simply become garbage if the family does not want it. Maybe he came to this by seeing all the people come and go in his life – and the disposal of their belongings. It really reminded me of how life is truly simple at the core to give back and not be controlled by what you own. A simple idea and a poem to go with it. Cheers.
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A holy man has spent his years praying
Years
Walking through narrow wooden halls
Lit with dim lamps
When night would fall
Sitting silent on a quiet lake
He would speak so softly
As to not make a mistake
Years passed
His health began to wane
One could never tell
He never spoke much of pain
His years of prayer and solitude
Subtle vintage soul
Quiet demeanor and gentle attitude
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“Is there any worth to this”
He asked me
Once we pass
Is there any meaning left
The colored lamp, wooden clock
Passed from hands to hands
Through generations tenderly walk
Falling down the mountain
Back to life
Formed from reincarnation
The giving fountain
Eyes passing
Looking
Watching
Take what is left
When the date has passed
When the soul departs
Small trinkets left
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I learned much from his quiet soul
His tepid walk
Gentle flow
Upon others shoulders
Leave what you collect
From the field
There is no reason to save
Gands these items we collect down
It becomes a pile of forgotten
The trash man will collect it and move on
Drive away in the early dawn
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Clocks and lamps
Collect new meanings
When new eyes see
A new branch is born
Upon the tree
Everyday Poems
Poetry can be a mythical creation that comes at times unexpected. Sometimes it is just a plane old everyday experience. I am currently exercising my writing every day as a way to grow and understand my own writing and inspirations – as a poet and a songwriter. Somedays are just like this poem – just a simple reflection about the things around me with no real deep inspiration, other than the commitment of writing. I hope you enjoy this “Everyday Poem”. Cheers.
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A Cup of Songwriting 