Music of Life

I rather like the life of a poet. Traveling and writing; telling stories and meeting new people. Dancing. Okay, perhaps that last one is not necessary to be living the life of a poet, but it is necessary for my poetry.

For me, dancing is the missing connection between hearts. Sure, we can speak words which allude to feelings, and we can hold hands as though treating the other as a transfusion, but dancing creates a rhythmic connection as though the body is moving within the beat of a universal heart – add to this that two bodies are moving together connected by hands to make a circle unbroken – dancing is alchemy for transmuting music to movement through hearts powered by feet.

The common metaphor for life in today's culture is one which refers to life as a race. We are all trying to get somewhere the fastest. I'm still not sure towards what we are racing, but it promises to hit us with the casual snap of a broken ribbon. I am not so sure I want to know what is at the end. Races never really end. People are always running. Or training to be able to run that much faster than their opponent in the next race. What are we running from? To what are we running? Where does this all go? Why do we look so beat when we cross the finish line? I can't make sense of a metaphor in which little is left to interpretation. So, instead, I'd like to turn toward a different metaphor altogether. If one doesn't like the concept with which he is faced, one must invent new words or supplant the old ideas with one more fitting. So, I turn back the hands of the clock into a time less focused on time but more so on timing.

In the Middle Ages, the prominent metaphor for life was that of a dance. I feel as though this makes more sense because music is ephemeral. It will not last any longer than the vibration of a string, the stirring of air. Lungs power music as much as hands do. Music has a definitive ending point, but we can replay the song in our minds a million times over without – melodies get stuck in our minds like stories. Music ends, but it can be replayed, and no one wins at the end of the song except for those who danced. If life is a dance, then we only need to tap into timings in order to tap into time. Feet don't have to move, but when they do to a rhythm, a beauty emerges. And it expands in every direction.

Life is not linear.

Music is not linear.

Dances are not linear, and music is interpretation rather than command. A poet speaks in rhythm just as bodies speak in dance.

Races have a right answer and a wrong time.

Dancers need not apologize.

So don't apologize when your feet feel too tired to move, you are not running a race with points to its end; you are engaged in a dance where the universe holds your hand. Listen to the rhythm and fear not the end of the song; we all will be dipped, but this dip is one of beauty and is not to be feared because we will not be dropped. We will not be dropped. We need not compete to get underground faster.

And I will remember to live, breathe, love, and dance.

And Called It Poetry

Where does poetry come from?

Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.

Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.

Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.

I am a poet.

I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.

I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.

These Are Things I've Learned

This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson.

Today, I went hiking.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but hiking is at least 48% more beautiful if the person or people you're hiking with are comfortable letting their minds wander like the clouds.

Hiking is at least 65% grander
if you have the opportunity to hold someone's hand.

Regardless of which way the fingers intertwine, your hands suddenly have as many stories to tell as your legs do. A palm reader should be so jealous.

When you're hiking and holding hands with someone who has an open mind, this person will comment on the scenery that wanders through her mind, will let you know the kind of beauty she conjures up in words, and her hands will tell stories of sweat and personal triumph to each one of your fingertips. Your hands will be happy they have something so gorgeous to travel and connect with. You, in turn, will also be happy because holding hands is the nonverbal way of saying, "You're worth it" or "You've got a story worth telling" or "We've really got a shot to make this whole trip memorable."

Maybe this is why I like dancing – I have three minutes to share with someone the feeling of "You're worth it." I get the feeling "I am worth it."

This weekend I learned that being a poet allows me to hold hands with the audience.
This weekend, I learned that stages extend their palms face up and ask anyone who steps upon them, "Would you like to dance?"

Some stages phrase it as a statement. Something like "Show me your moves!" with all the bravado of a falcon.

This weekend I learned that I
am allowed to ask stages to dance.
This weekend I learned that poetry is my basic.
This weekend I learned that I really missed
holding hands like I do when hiking today and that
no stage was substitute for that, but
this weekend,
I learned that I deserve
to be on stage, to ask to hold
my audience's hand, and this
weekend, I learned that
every person has a story to tell, sometimes
they just need someone
to hold their hand and say,
"I love the way you wander."

It's Friday.

I like Fridays. I'm in line with the acronym TGIF. Today has lasted longer than a Friday should. Perhaps I'm showing my immaturity. I'd love to have accepted that the length of a day is no different, but I am Einstein's disciple as I share his birthday. Everything, therefore, is relative.

Friday falls in the realm of everything.

Everything falls in the realm of Friday.

Today, I have gone from fire to rain. From rain to shine. From shine to dark. Road trips have a way with words. They can tell you their stories. They will sing you to sleep.

In Japan, certain back country roads are grooved in such a way that music spins itself from the wheel wells when cars travel at just the right speed. The roads record your stories in song.

Kansas sounds like a lullaby with the melody of gentle grain. Nebraska roads unfold like carefully  orchestrated chord progressions. Colorado streets change pitch at awkward moments.

Today, New Mexico drove forward. It sung the song of rain, a heavy metal drum beat drowned out by poetry. Today, New Mexico screamed. This morning, Colorado wrote a ballad underneath our tires. Today, Colorado skies finally cried, and thousands breathed out catharsis in a crescendo of tears. Today, our tires flew forward over borders, under bridges, through wide open land soaked in sun.

Tonight, poets will sing their road songs. They will stretch their arms out like highways and pluck staccatoed melodies from their scars to show how far they've come and how far they've yet to go.

Thousands of songs have been composed in the three-quarter mile stretch of the road on which I grew up.

I can't imagine how many will find themselves written in dusty journals at the end of the 400 mile song we composed today.

The Art of Being Sold

This is not a post about what you  might think it's about. I am about to be sold. Over the next twelve days, I will be taking bids for some time with myself. Technically, it's for a fundraiser. And, also technically, it's a date. The scoop is this: I won a dinner from 3 Margaritas along with two tickets towards a smooth jazz concert at Stargazer's Theatre (the awesome venue where Hear, Here's final slam was held - check them out sometime). So, instead of just going out with a friend or deciding to gorge myself on delicious Mexican food, I decided to donate my winnings and time to charity. That's right. Charity.

To whom am I donating? I'm so glad you asked! I'm donating to Hear, Here. Do I hear some of you naysayers out there, "Now wait just a darn second, Drew. Isn't that just benefiting you? Even if indirectly? Aren't you on the slam team?"

To these people I would smile and say, "Yes, indeed I am on the team. However, it doesn't just benefit me. It's for your benefit too." To those who still doubt, let me explain.

And Be Sure To Listen To This As You Read The Rest of This Post for that Extra-Inspirational Touch =)

Any money that we get indirectly benefits you, the city of Colorado Springs because we are the little city that could. We are the ones who think we can. We think we can so very much that in just one year, we have assembled some seriously top notch poets to compete as underdogs on the national stage. Several of those poets grew up right here in Colorado Springs; I grew up right here in Colorado Springs.

We represent the voice of this small city, and it's about time that the Springs got its say. See, we're not just some midwestern city. We are one of the best midwestern cities. Our culture is unique – a curious person could find any group of people here in the Springs from the very religious to the not-so-much-hippy to the "Well, I'm not so sure, but let me tell you what I think about..." types. Our blood beats red, but our voices voted blue – we are Colorado Springs. We are versatile, interesting, unique, and downright amazing. I mean, as one visiting poet once exclaimed, "There are mountains. RIGHT THERE!" (While pointing directly to the west no less.)

Our city has a natural compass for those who feel lost; we have breathtaking sun rises and sets; we have the iconic purple mountains' majesty mentioned in America the Beautiful; we ARE America The Beautiful; we are this nation's fighting spirit because we have the Air Force Academy, Fort Carson, Peterson and Schriever Air Force Base. And, yes, we may be slightly identified with some religious "craziness" but that's only because people don't know us as well as we know us, so this Slam Team is a chance to change that! Hear, Here IS Colorado Springs; YOU are Colorado Springs; therefore, you ARE the Slam Team!

And the best way you could possibly be a part of Colorado Springs AND this Slam Team is to place a bid to go on a date with me before May 29th at 7:00PM.

A date with me IS a date with America*!

*But that's only because you have to pay for it first

Kind and Barefoot

This is KB here. I consider myself extremely lucky to be a member of the Hear, Here team. This blog is late. Hear is my story.

I grew up in Littleton, Colorado. I have a big, loving family. I am a poet, jazz musician, marathon runner, political science student, debater, used car salesman, and hitchhiker. It is my belief that life is a long run and there are many trails that lead in a myriad of ways.
This trail is the Hear, Here trail. It led from monthly slams trying to accumulate points starting in October to the dramatic final finish amid a blizzard at stargazers. I didn't know if I'd make it and I daily feel humbled to be on the team with such a talented group of poets and artists.
And here I am, with a soul bound for wandering, grounded with my team, sharpening our wings so when we take flight we can really soar. These days, the writing process is like my first car. My first car was an 89 Honda Civic Hatch, standard, that I stalled all the time when I initially learned to drive. When I got it into gear though, that car was a dream, it was loud, fast, and beautiful. Write now, I'm still learning to drive. I've got a short curve before I can get it into gear and open up on the straight away. As I blog, every Wednesday, you'll hear about my life behind the scenes, my growth as a writer and performer, and our growth as a team. For now, take it easy. We'll see you tomorrow. Here's a poem about my first car:

Didn't mean to give up on you like that gus
I'm a part of the gratification generation
The impatient millenials who were born with fluff in our ears
Please forgive me
You have covered in locomotion
more miles than I ever may and you have learned the language
hidden in the grooves in the pavement
that the day labors of fathers and grandfathers graded
grinning at the good work they did.
With Pooh like patience,
You and I followed every blustery day to a breezy end
but even Christopher Robbin needed a new way to get to school.
Didn't mean to replace you
but broken engines are like broken hearts
you can only make so many repairs before the years of wear and tear
show in chipping paint and scar tissue
engines seize
hearts attack, until there is just no going back.
Baggage is only luggage when you identify that you have it
Filling the trunk with the memories of pushing you up the hill
Waiting for you to come to life again
a prayer with every turn of the key
Hoping for some sort of miracle
You know, like if Transformers were directed by Sam Raimi instead of Michael Bay
but at the end of the day
Theres so much more to you than meets the eye
And so long as the belt doesn't break, you've got impeccable timing
a built in rhythm, even your gears were rhyming
sliming the driveway with leaking oil, the life blood that kept your revolutions spinning
But you knew you were falling apart. You planned it
With every new tank of gas. You had a mind of your own
Hidden somewhere in the transmission
and not a bit of your intelligence was artificial
It was as real as the dent in your side and your rusty front wheel
As they say of athletes, you were always clutch
And it didn't matter much to you where we were going
Budha of beaten up automobiles I've learned lessons in leaks you sprung
Taught me that motion takes work
that every drive up the highways is a pilgramage
that every cough and sneeze of you inaccurate acura engine was a fire starting inside of you
that maybe the dead dinosaur milkshakes derricks suck through earth
shouldn't be used as frivolously.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have met whiskey joe, who gave us a tow from ignorance into discourse
If it weren't for you, I never would have learned that even feet communicate and some cars prefer not to be yelled at.
And when you looked too ill for me, we made sure you could teach someone else
Take them to work each day and feed a family.
Maybe I'm glad I gave up.

Tuesday Drew's Day

Hello, everyone! Tuesday is Drew's Day! This, of course, means that you will have the lovely opportunity to hear my musings... or poetry... or grocery lists each and every wonderful tuesday that you happen to visit this wonderful blog. So, as an old videogame character would say, "Stay awhile and listen."

Sunday was Mothers' day. Not only that, it was also the day on which I was ambushed (okay, that's not the right word, but that's the first one that comes to mind) by my wonderful coach, Itsrealight (if you want to learn more about this wonderful person, check out her blog post here). While out to a dinner and a "Workshop", I was told to get up and recite a poem. And, so I did. Need proof?

I still haven't brought myself to watch the video. I feel that... ugh... about it. However, I did learn a few things from that night. And I'd like to share a few of the better ones with you all. Check it:

1. Don't let other people control your words. At one point in the video, you'll notice a guy cough loudly and obviously. I felt bad for interrupting this guy's space, but he did begin to act the part of an ass. There will always be someone trying to silence you; speak the truth regardless.
2. Be confident with what you say. Whether it's a statement or opinion, believe and be confident in what you say.
3. No one, at the end of the day, really cares. This is not to sound depressing, but it's true. If you hinge the worth of your words on other peoples opinions, then your words will be a roller coaster. At some moments they'll be exhilarating. At others they'll leave you queasy. Also, people are willing to forgive a distraction if it ends up giving them a good story to tell.
4. If you don't believe your message, no one else will have a reason to. This goes for poetry and everyday life: if you don't believe what you say, no one else will. So...
5. Speak with authority. Because what worked for Jesus can work for you. You may not be bringing salvation to someone, but you may be bringing something that they need to hear. Your words could be that advance on hope they've been holding out for; especially when every other place has turned down their loans.
6. Ignore the shaking in your limbs like branches; it's just proof you have an invisible force moving them. Your words are the wind; your limbs will ask you to leave and will shake; this experience will make you grow so say no when your limbs whisper defeat. Take root and stay planted. You will, like a tree, change someone's breath out into a gasp and give them energy to go on.
7. Dry mouth is akin to the signs of a tsunami. When the tide goes out, this only indicates that there is a force ready to breach far into the dry land. Be ready. Your words will come like a wave, so don't use excuses like sandbags because eventually everything will get washed away; at least you now get to choose how.
8. Your words are a gift, so give them without letting other know the price you're paying to make them. Life is a gift. Speech is a gift. Your name is a gift. Every time you give someone the time of your life, make sure they know you're giving it freely with nothing expected in return. Remember your life is your own, but you can never own time. This is okay – make the best with what you've got.

Finally, the fortune cookie that I got right before I stood up to speak said "Fear drives you and makes you better." There's poetry somewhere in that, I think.

Coach...Punch your Light's out!

Coaching is serious business! I'll run these little poets into the ground until they sprout up as gods of slam! When I'm done with them their dreams will be 3 minutes or less! No grace, No mercy! But enough about them...As you can see from my profile pic I am a Delicious Black Warrior Queen and this is my introduction...It's FRIDAY!

I am a fun-loving bitch of an asshole, which basically means I'm the shit. If you say otherwise I will only recognize you as a hater (this makes you significant to the process). As a group we chose days to add to this blog...I'm calling mine "Thuggin' Thursdays w/ Light" I don't know why, yet and it may change depending on how I feel. Eye'm the craziest person you never met. Eye live for my art. Eye have this crazy notion that we are all built for greatness; where we fail is either not taking the time to figure out who we are or allowing others to decide what our great is. If you know you're great at something...go ALL in...with no apologies. I have been a full-time Artist for over 11 years and the times I was least productive is when I second guess myself or try to 'water down' my capabilities. Now, the mystery unfolds...I am not arrogant...I am brilliant! I implore you to get to the point in your lives where you can say the same.

Notice I didn't say I was better than you, but I am better for it. I want my attitude to be highly contagious, to the point of starting a plague. Imagine it! Everyone being great and there being less hate, because everyone will be doing their own thing and somehow it'll fit into the necessary balance of life and societal progress.

Stay tuned to everyday of the week...Each team member has chosen a day...Fridays are free for alls

Don't be afraid to Punch Your Light's Out! (Let 'em Shine)

Light