MikeLortz.com/JordiScrubbings.com » Poetry

American Pain

Jordi Scrubbings — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 04:03:06 +0000

The other night at karaoke I heard someone sing American Pie by Don McLean. Although I don’t own the song, it is one of my favorites in regards to heavy lyrical meaning. Legend has it my father once wrote an essay describing the meaning behind each line and according to him, his teacher didn’t like the essay despite his logical presentation. Here is a website that breaks down the song as I would assume his essay did years earlier.

Ten years ago, I wrote a poem inspired by American Pie in response to the terrorist attacks of 9/11/2001. Like my dad’s essay, my poem was not well-received. When I submitted during a poetry class I was taking that semester, it was widely panned by my professor and my fellow classmates. Upset, I met with the professor after the class at his office to discuss the issue and nearly dropped the class because of my views on my poem. I kept the class but refused to edit the poem and submitted another in the poetry portfolio I had to submit at the end of the semester.

Anyway, here it is. Let me know what you think.

Many days have past since we last met
And I’ve tried to pay off all my debts
To a world I’m not sure has much left
Is that why we sit and drink our lives away?

It all started when that old wall fell
And the great bear took a walk through hell
Its satellites drank from freedom’s well
How much higher did the eagle fly that day?

Not guilty were those who beat the King
A new overcome did they sing
Angels flew from their city with burnt wings
When will we not let color cloud our eyes?

Over the sea to fight on foreign soil
A war they claimed was for more than oil
Mother of all wars easily foiled
In an arcade war, can you lose real lives?

A veteran against his government
Many children playing died innocent
Scar on the Murrow more than Ryder sent
What patriot tries to hurt his country?

Hatred caused terror with its little knives
And the son rose when death came from the skies
As we saw it live through TV eyes
Does it always cost so much to be free?

Wordman

Jordi Scrubbings — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 07:44:12 +0000

Keeping with the poem theme of the week, here is something I wrote in early 2003.

Twisting words like cotton candy

on a stick

They digest them both

sometimes at the same time

One day my day will come

the bling-bling

Power, sex, respect

Don’t you know who I am?

“The Wordman

better than a birdman?”

Listen here

There is something in my stomach

It’s going to eat me

Consume me

Control me

I vomit regurgitated thoughts

Puke pink all over your shirt

“If she bails, then it was never meant to be.”

If she stays, another victory

For the Wordman

Little Bradley

Jordi Scrubbings — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 07:24:21 +0000

Here is another poem I wrote for poetry class back in 2001.

Little Bradley’s Birthday

6 years old

He sits alone.

Deserted.

Not a friend around.

Today’s his birthday

yet no one told him.

6 years old today.

No one seems to care.

The look on his face

speaks of loneliness.

Abuse.

Neglect.

Little Bradley is 6 today.

Can’t you tell?

No party, no cake, no toys,

Not even a hello.

He thinks to leave,

run away.

Where would he go?

Would life be different

with people he did not know?

Unpainted walls,

a mattress lies in a corner.

That is all Little Bradley has,

that is all he knows.

His father left.

His mother doesn’t care.

His wounds from her beatings

all he wears.

Little Bradley is 6 years old today.

How long will he cry?

How long will he stay?

How long will he be denied

the opportunity to laugh or play?

Little Bradley is 6 years old today.

Bad News

Jordi Scrubbings — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 06:47:42 +0000

Here is a poem I wrote ten years ago for a poetry class. Hard to believe it’s been ten years since I took courses on poetry. I’ve always enjoyed it as an art form. Maybe I’ll start writing more of it.

I approached her slowly, methodically.

I needed to wake her, news to tell her.

This much I remember, the rest a blur.

Just now collecting the emotional debris.

He was driving down highway 23.

Drunken laughter from the car around the curve.

The party stopped when they hit, his pain burned.

From the car behind I called emergency.

They were late, he was gone, another victim

of the demon of irresponsibility.

Of course she took it hard, I knew she would.

Her tears started down her face. She loved him

very much and they were to be wed one day.

I held her, comforting the best I could.

Wordly Lament

Jordi Scrubbings — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 04:20:33 +0000

Eagerly I write words
Thousands, millions
Each word means nothing
to a newborn child
Who knows nothing
but love and hunger
Content and despair
The only essential emotions
Yet I write more words
As if they mean something

- Written on 2-20-2007

Richard Reid Blues

Jordi Scrubbings — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 04:30:04 +0000

(Here is another piece I found in the masses of stuff piled in my apartment. I think it was written shortly after one of the government mandates on air travel. Perhaps 2006 or 2007? For those who don’t remember Richard Reid, he was the infamous “shoe bomber” in 2002.)

Richard Reid Blues

Shoeless Joes march complacently
Assembly line government guarded
Step right up
Now your flying

Greatest show above Earth
Makes as much sense as smoking AstroTurf
Leave your water in the car
So you can pay 12 dollars at their coffee bar
Corporate permeation
Bed, breakfast, booze, and aviation

A Poem for the Letter Q

Jordi Scrubbings — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 06:14:43 +0000

(This was written nearly 10 years ago. But I just found it, and I think it’s good. I hope you like it too.)

A letter for those who visit after we leave
When shall we write it?
Our invite is open
Do you mock us?
Scared?
I would be

Well here is your letter:
Q
One line infinite
One line finite
Like us
Like you
Our energy – infinite
Life – finite

It is dependent
Like us
Are you?
Can you exist without us?
Our shadows can’t

Take a shadow and take a soul
Just don’t take my rock ‘n’ roll

Move on
As we must
At least I’m told
Take our letter
It’s yours
No refunds

The Universe

Jordi Scrubbings — Fri, 13 May 2011 07:47:26 +0000

Here is a poem from many years ago. I think I wrote this for a poetry class.

Sometimes I wander the neighborhood
tickled
(or is it pickled?)

Drifting between actual and self reality
Oblivious

The world makes no attempt to reclaim me
Thoughts travel through my head
like driftwood

There
Goes
One
Now

GOT IT!

Examine this thought nugget
Fool’s gold

A fortune from a stale fortune cookie
This insight

What else besides our final frontier
contains dark emptiness,
gases,
solids?

THE UNIVERSE IS A GIANT ASSHOLE.

The Somali Songman

Jordi Scrubbings — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 07:17:47 +0000

So I recently met another local writer. Despite her talent, she has been relatively shy about putting herself out there and sharing her work (even though she has a people job). After our first of many conversations about writing, she threw down a gauntlet: she challenged me to write a sestina.

When I said I’d never wrote one, she posted one she wrote on her blog (yes, I think I’m the writer person she is referring to).

Of course, not one to back down from a writing challenge, I took a few days and created my own. The subject matter came both from a blog I recently got into called Rebel Frequencies and a morning listen to Nas and Damian Marley’s Distant Relatives album.

Songman of Somalia

He would sit patiently and listen to life
Early peace before the sunshine
He knew the winds of change would move
And Somalia would again fight
The morning hustle played an easy beat
And closed eyes could lead to death

It wasn’t hard to see death
In a Somalia where no one values life
The reaper played games no one could beat
In the city rain or his village sunshine
But his home had been spared the fight
Allowing his mornings without a move

From the west the Rebels made their move
Men with guns dealing death
Bullets flew for those who tried to fight
Trading valor and pride for life
Women and children screamed in the sunshine
While ignorant armed thugs could not be beat

The man survived but was badly beat
Hurt, broken, and afraid to move
The 100 degree heat burned in the sunshine
Nothing left, he wished for death
There was no village, no family, and no life
No desire, no courage, and no fight

Eventually he found a way to fight
Writing words in the rhythm to a beat
He sung songs about joy, peace, and life
Songs that made people dance and move
They would forget Africa, guns, and death
And bask briefly in his musical sunshine

His words illuminated like sunshine
Willing people to stand up and stop the fight
And sing songs that never spoke of death
But celebrated Somalia and the African beat
From village to village, he would move
Avoiding Rebels and singing life

They caused his death and spilt his blood like sunshine
As it always has done with life, Somalia won the fight
Death ended the beat and hope ceased to move

Cow Tyrant

Jordi Scrubbings — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 23:00:53 +0000

Here is a poem I wrote about cows. I hope PETA doesn’t make me take it down.

I’ve never liked cows.

Roman trumpets sound well

when played off-key.

Blast a note,

cows moo.

A symphony of tears.

painful to their ears.

Not mine.

I smile

and eat another hamburger.

(Pic from this site.)