Posts tagged ‘Truth’

May 2, 2014

How to: Career Planning

Gold ring found had been nearly drown
Old times from past, histories step to advance
Trees walk among the least, from Sauron they flee
The brave stand their ground as the weak bow down. -OTS

How to Make (Do)

Here I sit at the bar
Not contemplating life
Not outlining my day
Not drinking away my night

Here I sit at the bar
Long faces gather round
Supping dry liquors
Some clear and some brown

Drawing on politics
How the world spins round
Group caste of another knit
Supply far distance around town

Before the sun has long gone
Or merchant door fast locked
They show a gaze forlorn
Of the have and have-nots

The old they say:
Go not to school
But make hay
Education is for indebted and feckless fools, they claim

I’ve polished the boot
I’ve washed piled dishes
I’ve stacked up dirty loot
Backroom illegitimate kitchens

I’ve been told what to do
What to think and how to move
I’ve gone full circle to prove
The importance in abandonment of marionette rule

One surprised at how life takes place
Scholarly alterations of changing ways
They say make haste- time is not to waste
Lest become pastiche of those with taste

People, they talk and they chat
Reacting as they can to this and that
Doing little for much complaint
Devising no real plan of attack

Again, at the bar I sit
Reflection on past
I drink to the good life
To others I say, “Relax, only just act.”

They are merely talking when they say they are making plans
Lips move grand ideas but what movement do they place in their hands?

***

The loudest people with the best ideas
Have nothing to do, and so much to fear.

Excerpt:

Only to enhance our frowns
Taken care of by indebted future lot
It comes with major threats and frets
Stuck in made plans, yet to disband they have not.

March 19, 2014

American Sonnet

We lost the interest before we began

Moving fixed posters on the thick walls

Level-headed distinguished man

Digging hard and working all

 

Sight beheld in the palm of worn hand

Many created problems we’ve called

We never tried to make a plan

Sedentary thoughts prove scrawled

 

From Forefather’s will in our acts we’ve strayed

Many against the conservative man

Labels aren’t of working clay

Written books in stern pale hand

 

Lest knowledge gone, saves the old way

Covered maps in possessive words to understand

Ponderings of the lighted day

Proven by those that they can stand

 

Mixed pot of melting to tell

Ignorant jump so high for frail joy

The inner workings of this great hell

Innocent lost those few trained boys

 

White colors cast the witch’s spell

Conjured up in those open young and coy

That symbolic dust holds to the clouds well

Annoyance of such fickle vetted choice

 

 

Locked into strict box orthodox-stayed course

The American Dream’s been broken and forced.

March 5, 2014

The Death of Ruby Red

I cut her deep, was a small feat

Her pink shown light orange mingled red flesh

 

I peeled her skin exposed her meat

Her, beautiful orb-cracked, torn, limp, was dead

 

Her innards spray juice-sluiced, hot heat

Her life, close to expire, was in threat

 

This grapefruit I eat

Fact–

I express no regret.

February 26, 2014

Amtrak’s Writer’s Residency

Amtrak

Early arrival

Intent on leaving

Small talk survival

 

Minneapolis to La Crosse

We can get lost

Step aboard

Minimal cost

 

On the no-one-will-stop-me policy

Here, showcased for the recital

They’ve caught on to me

Alert words signal my arrival

 

Life on ice,

On Mars,

How Nice,

Trains vs. Cars

 

On to where the tracks lay

Lying all the while

Spoke of being on time

Waiting hours with luggage piled.

January 8, 2014

Polar Vortex Complex

Deep down in my bones I could feel the bitter cold

Unlike the weather I tried to remain positive

I could feel I wasn’t alone on this ill-tempered day.

 

The other commuters were as bold

Walking alone proved treacherous

I noticed this as I made my way.

 

Fixed we stood.

 

None took bare fingers to examine smart phones

So pained by the wind one could hear its distant moan

This had turned into a city full of steam and smoke and coats.

 

KVJ says, “So it goes.”  “So it goes.”  “So it goes…”

 

Warm thoughts what we could

Long minutes existed in time unknown

This as we waited in a bus shelter along the road on this dangerously weathered spinning stone.

 

… Here’s the 3B coming, right?

 

I can’t see, lenses create ice

Early day twilight wearing these damned sights

All eyes and no view, please help me make it through.

 

It must be dark as night on this frigid January morning

It was forecasted with forewarning

They said, ‘Stay inside.’ -like run and hide.

 

We have the Polar Vortex Complex

This is not Global Warming*.

 

This is a place where all inside have lost their minds because of ‘things’ being boring.

 

Thoughts, then I look on

Blurred Metro Transit lights?

 

Praying it’s not gone.

 

I am not even halfway there yet

A walk I fast regret.

 

Lungs feel tight, I start at fright.

 

Walking, my vision fogged and I forgot the art of breathing

Ice crystals formed on my lashes not for the better of seeing.

 

-Seething, I’d not like to die like this, on a near vacant campus

I begged, pleaded, and asked the UMPD for a small ride, I did not gain advantage.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Five minutes later my temperature changed

The outside temperature stayed the same.  (Below Something-nearing -50)

 

I thought, has my nose frozen yet, has carbon-monoxide damaged my brain?

Blackened and blotched flesh-stained.

 

All was but rearranged, all my ideas of sustain

All my big plans were being choked at the throat

I try manage at maintain.

 

Things we think about in a bundle

In this frost-bit jungle, the coldest city I have come to know.

 

Minneapolis,

Little cold apple, come as they go

Most, (at least), some will stay home.

 

Temperature of this place we live in

All things we’ve been given.

 

I must have blindly run off somewhere

Panic gulp puffs of smoke catching air as I passed

Mad dash hypothermic maniac, today I am back intact.

 

 

*Hyperbole

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January 6, 2014

Spare the Rod

My father used to say, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

 

I think it was some church thing.

 

He used to say that,

But he doesn’t say that anymore…

 

Now I am bigger than him,

And people talk a lot.

December 9, 2013

From Books to Blogs; A Story of Evolution

 

From books to blogs like cats and dogs;

We’re surrounded by a million writers with a million words,

Wanting to get read and be heard- absurd.

 

Zombies scare me less.

 

How to Be a Famous Writer:

Start today, don’t delay, and get on your way.

Print press doesn’t pay like they say.

It only takes a few seconds to change your ways.

 

Like Flies on Shit.

 

What’s an artist’s wage?

Cost per page?

Adverts?

 

MPR broadcasts their crying.

You’d think people were dying.

 

Do they even fucking read?

 

I could hardly hold back my laughter.

 

Then we look at progress, and the prospects.

Not finding a silver-lining.

 

No room for wining and dining.

 

You find that surprising?

 

No one’s getting fatter.

 

This hobby wasn’t to fill any part of any wallet.

Act like Author Gods but they haven’t yet penned their ‘Hobbit’.

Just minds and thoughts figuring how those unique (everyone) call it.

They were so close, but they lost it.

 

I want to vomit.

 

I don’t see.

They follow what they want to be.

Flee to the next scheme…

 

But sadly others have been there before; up, down, and in between; twice, three times, maybe four.

Do we need anymore?

 

Can we chart forward progress by going backward?

 

Recline, sit in a chair.

Analyze, document, look, read, compare,

Tense up and think about how life is unfair.

 

Are you prepared?

 

Open Market, Open Mic, there’s an Open Season on the Weekend Artist tonight.

-Awake and aware of the unawares.

-Happily, a positive outlier without a care.

Counter parts rest comfortably under stairs.

 

Understand the standard deviation and mean,

But not meaning to be mean-

 

All part of the artistry in the Minneapolis Scene,

Wipe ass with freshly torn pages.

 

Print press has changed throughout the ages,

And they present new material as if it’s not dated…

 

Faded yellow on a dusty shelf. 

He called it sleeping knowledge.

I think his popularity needs help. 

 

And all of those resources have been wasted.

They don’t factor external cost,

They can’t calculate their displacement*.

 

At least hope and ambition aren’t lost.

 

 

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Displacement_(psychology)

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December 2, 2013

The Sum of Small Parts

I am the makeup of freshly dead heritage,

This only proves my merit-age.

 

Bikes for carriages; we ride through lonely skyscrapers.

 

Sitting amongst crumpled papers and beer chasers,

Getting wasted is the only word-spoken disclaimer.

 

I’ll take your money; I’m a card-player, shark, dangerous-major, and one of the remainders.

Ask about my hand at 39’ sometime.

 

Language proclaimed loud and proud, with or without, making joyous sound resound between eyes of doubt.

 

Wanting to go home, 26 year-old- little kid, on my own in the big unknown:

-Advantage of Id.

-Afraid so I hid.

-We did what we did, called the bids and pulled the lids.

 

But, that was years ago,

Found time to watch blood and flesh grow.

 

Adult now, it’s my fault now.

 

I control me, watch and see.

What I am is all I can be.

I know I can pick friends but not family…

 

I am proud of who I am,

But I can’t speak for some of (and) them.

 

Then I think, like my Ma says, “you can’t win em’ all,”

And, “it’s thirty-six on Tuesday.”

 

What did I say anyway?

November 22, 2013

In So Many Words…

The shorter the writing project the harder it becomes.  I have this problem where I write a million or so words and still say nothing at all.  I can’t speak of a single entity within a plethora of black and white lines and dots.  Copious language utilized to convey squat.

The sentences are great, the structure is fine, but the content is shit.

I guess it’s the best written material ever.  I truly enjoy the act of writing, so it has to be, right?

Typing, fingers on the keys, creating something visually appealing on the desktop screen in front of me.  Almost no errors, and it flows, but it says nothing about anything; who I am, or where I live, nothing of relevance or significance-really.  I guess it says I have issues.

This might not be a problem but a successful catalyst for confusion and boredom. An escapist’s venting of real world fixations, deadlines, and the harsh realities one is not quite ready to confront, let alone accept, maybe…

And then I think…

Why change that which is so innately us?  I guess why change the government?  Why change the status quo?  Why change the us we know?

The title of this piece is “Art”.

Why change that too?

October 8, 2013

Play Actors

Play Actors,

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Scattered passage,

Recurrent transaction of passion-I love you, and action.

All added, all adjuncts, disheveled and defunct, but we manage.

 

Smile so much my face hurts.

Smile so much we lose shirts.

Smile so much we forgot the play is tragic.

Smile so much at the Antics.

 

A real tragedy, are we?

These are just words.

They live; they are heard.

 

Disappearing plight like magic,

And off with their heads.

 

 

Acting like the center of the discussion is the center of my mind, eyes wondering outside.

(Trust me, your laptop won’t make that thing beep, that’s a myth.  Care to try?)

Oh! And all that’s been said and read.

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