Ever looked into a marble

In the direction of a marvel

You can see everything it seems

In that little magic spot

A universe the size of a grain of sand

Things are dynamic

Life has it's own plans

Dreams have their own life

Animals live like angels

Winter is gone

And spring is here.

Philosophy about people

People seem to have all the best of qualities for being human

Unfortunately the world has to have it's winners and losers

People seem to be able to use hate sometimes to their advantage (Sick)

People are in a maze trying to find secret doors in an ever growing complex world

People have enough to worry about these days and there is always a ready supply of new problems it seems.  

Solutions to the human condition and surviving with it can seem pitiful.

At sometimes I felt that I might have some good answers.

Now a days my confidence ebbs more than usual

I can tell that people aren't really stoked about this time in human history

So till next time

Adios 

I'll be back.

A year of rivers

Waters breaking butter

There are interesting things 

There are interesting things

So 

Coming alive 

Falling in love

The leaves in winter shining

And spring arrives

Like looking at the sun

With no reason

Like a dying sun

And the black holes

Revising

Take this 

And take that

Enough drowning to escape the pains

How chairs don't flow easily

I just want to make out with silly

On the roads it goes strait

Where the sun sets 

In spring

Where luck migrates

And justice has no name.

The robin is nearby

Like a rose

Reminds me 

Of sweetness

Of holiness

How there is something

That rises within me

There in the sky

Like an angel

It flies 

As if I were dreaming

While the air touched my heart

My heart.

Another interview question

What do I think about the writing of today?

I tend to think that The Phantom Tollbooth is the ultimate book

So many books don't come close to this one

I have read it many times

Otherwise I write too much in order to read

In fact I often fall asleep while trying to read a book

I think my mind absorbs the words too much

This was not a problem when I was younger when I would devour books

My biggest criticism is that I have noticed that some authors unfairly dominate the reader's attention

I feel like some writers get knighted while the rest just rot on the shelves

To my shock many fantastic even famous writers have been censored

For example there is a book by Sherwood Anderson that is out of print and hard to find

I say:

You have got to be kidding me right?

Also he is not known by English majors as the grand daddy of modern literature.

You have got to be kidding me right?

There is some corruption no doubt in the publishing industry

I have been to book readings where I felt that everything was read with old women in mind

Eh!

I sure hope Americans aren't that scared off that easily by all sorts of writing

I don't want my writing to pander to the extreme comfort needs of some old fashioned people.

Writing should challenge a person a bit or thrill them or something.

Also there is a hidden belief about writers that I sense tells me my work must getter darker and more serious as I age.   Now who whispered that lie around?

Interview question:

What are your religious views?

I try not to have any passionate religious views

That way I can learn more about religion and other things

Closing my mind or narrowing it is far more frightening than being called agnostic

I am not agnostic

In my quest for truth I indeed find some really neat tidbits I hold in my memory

But the real thrill is learning something new each and every day!!!!

Though I have little 

It seems too much at times

I wonder how people juggle

And smile as they do.

Through high ways

And tunnels

Perhaps to lose themselves

When ads pop up

And pills pop in

You can call this the upside-down

Lolly pop culture.

Sugar Daddy

Now that what special

So were the trees which rained flowers unto me

Why is nature so wild as it is

As the baby is born

It is born knowing what it wants

Such a strange thing

I could give you lessons on many things

Who knows the mail man will

If he is willing

Likely he just has mail for you

Hold it across your breasts

Speak every sentence

Wrapped in sugar.

When did I really know I was a writer?

I always wasn't sure until it hit me socially.

I showed up at a wednesday writing group

Something was new and it was me

After I read each time we went around the circle I got these reactions

Like people were stunned

It was never the plays on broadway or anything else I wrote

It was when my peers looked at me with this shocked look

And I think that night I looked up at the stars and said

Why me?

I interview myself

So why do you like poetry so much Mark?

I discovered poetry when I was child as a new way to express myself

I knew though that everything I wrote was crap

I believed that it might have some potential later in my life.

What I learned was that there are rules to writing poetry that make it possible to write good if not great poetry.

This was contrary to my first thoughts on poetry that a person could do anything and write free verse.

Yes I have done that, but to many failed poems and feeling like a bit a failure myself.

I don't consider poetry to be the weakest art form.

Somehow people have believed this nonsense.

I believe there are also many poets who seem to write poetry I consider weak who are famous.

The reality is many of the best poets have never been published.

I know WTF!

Yes I am sure many of the worst poets get the fame and what little money poets get.

History will show you if you go back far enough that poetry was king or queen for many centuries.

Look at Homer and Ovid today and blush because it shows that we have not been progressing as much as we believe.

Today at least Ireland hold poetry in high regard.

So after all that has happened regarding poetry I see that language is lost sometimes when we try to sound intelligent.   Sure, you will also find some of the most profound and interesting thoughts to be found in some form of poetry.

Long live poetry.

Besides the tides 

It is not what the ocean is

The farther you go out

The shore gets smaller

And there is nowhere to go

No map at all

You just lose yourself with your ship

Dancing lonely on the waves

Hoping there is some home 

To return to.


You can't just wait as you sail on

Time might mix you up

So the sun becomes a God

And the waves a billion mermaids

Holding the wheel

You have the feel

In the middle of it all

Washing the horizon

Thoughts of embracing

Lots of seconds in your arms

I can't stop.