Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger, Advocate

Leaped

Slate morrow’s fallopian blues,
Quiet queer sending of select sameness,
Veering onto wide angular meek ate.
Venial rowdy caged quarters
Ordered below angels angry.
Sweet swipes sorted warts.
Please drink swiveling melodious
Mirrored music horror pebble.
Walk ward with leaves large leaped.

Nothing

Only air in the fist.

Nothing to grab,
Nothing to save.
Nothing to stand on.

A foundation of sand,
Slipping into oblivion,
Through the shadows.

Hoping beyond hope,
That something comes,
Something changes,
Something reaches out.

Is it a lost cause to hope so?

To dream,
To caste a lot onto the dirt,
Counting on dim luck
To get one through some more.

Is there a chance at all?

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gsb3

Swift as the Wind

stash a sin here and there,
run so fast, you can’t see tomorrow,
or yesterday,
or here,
or there.

when–and where–are you?
do you envision
the consequences?
or just jump in?

a guess, a hunch, a feeling:
it’s all the same in the end,
isn’t it?

but what if it’s not?

what if regret only comes
when you listen to the whisper
in your head,
be it conscience, God, whatever,
and you ignore it?

what if you move so swiftly
you can’t hear the wind
blowing in the trees
as you pass through
the outer rings of the hurricane?

what if you drive your little hot rod,
a corvette on a highway,
or a speed boat in the ocean,
right for the center?

will there be a calm to the storm,
if you arrive in time?

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gsb3

Only A Breath Away

Joy, confounding mystery that it is,
comes at the strangest times:

A breath of fresh air, after a stuffy
Time spent inside all day.

A deep breath, relieving tension
From working under pressure.

Breathing in the scent of a nice perfume,
When a woman passes nearby.

Breathing in the familiar smell
Of my house when I walk through the door.

Breathing in the scent of my wife’s skin,
When she leans close to my face for a kiss.

Breathing, yes, just breathing,
Every day of new life.

Joy is that simple,
Only a breath away.

Be Yourself

Stop. Listen.
What do you hear?

Buzzing, perhaps?
That’s nature.
Enjoy it.

How about a television?
Turn it off, or at least down,
If someone else is watching it,
Or close the door.

How about a stereo?
Hope it is nice music.
Or at least something cool.
Something that moves you.

How about a voice,
On the telephone?
Turn it off, unplug already!
If you’re not on it,
Close the door, if you can.

Distractions, interruptions,
They are everyday.
They consume us.

Sometimes, they are
Our identity.
Sometimes, they are
Our weakness.

Don’t let the distractions
Become you.
Be unique.
Find something about yourself,
Something that nobody else is,
And that will be you.

Then do it.

In, Then Out Again

Jumping into a box,
I closed the lid.
Voices, I could hear,
But none that said

My name, or anything
Related to me.
No, no one was interested
In my identity.

Not my words, nor my actions,
Meant a thing to them.
I was simply a number
To count on one hand.

Just a thing, a machine,
Spitting out babble,
A distraction, a nobody,
Not a goddamned thing.

But do I want to be that?
A thing, a game
For their amusement?
A fun toy, an instrument
To play a tune?

No, not that,
I told myself.
I will just sit here
And be me,
Collect dust on the shelf.

But that wouldn’t do,
It couldn’t last forever.
I needed them, you see,
I needed to be clever.

I needed to woo,
To impress, to call out
“Yes, this is my truth!
This is my song!

I have lived this life,
This constant strife,
This longing,
This fight,
This spring wound tight.

I am something,
I have paid my dues,
I deserve a shot,
Even if to just coo.”

Is it worth it?
I asked, very cautiously
Of myself.
To be ignored?
To be shamed?
To be belittled?
To be sore?

Yes, of course,
I replied.
It’s worth the price.
To be a poet
Is an honor
A virtue, not a vice!

To speak one’s peace
Is a right
Of every man and woman!

No mosquito,
No arrogant,
Pleased with himself,
Will cast a shadow
On my sun,
Shining brightly
For everyone!