“Restless Mind”, “Let It Go”, “I Am The Zero”

August 21, 2014 at 6:15 am (Uncategorized)
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“Restless Mind” by Trevor Witt
Part 1

Resignation, fear, and doubt seep into my well of imagination.
They poison my bastion of creativity and lead to procrastination.

Putting off planting seeds,
Ignoring the ripe fruit on nearby trees,
I suffer needlessly.

Missing the moment,
I grasp at clouds.

Missing the miracle,
I chase after ghosts.

The past wraps me in chains,
As I struggle to define my future.

Obsessing over indecision,
Is the result of my imprecise precision,

And so I give in to self-derision.

Part 2

The collapse of the anarchistic crowd in my mind
Enables me to engage once again,
With aptitude and focus,
My precious present.

I have zero expectations and act without reservation.
My approach is cautious, but not fearful.
My strategy flows forth like a river.
My Zen meditation.

My nostalgia is dulled, though my memory remains,
My reflexes spring into action, and each act is as natural as rain.

“Let It Go” by Trevor Witt

Let it go,
Another eight hours of your life,
Working at a job which you hate.

Let it go,
Sleepless nights worrying about “the one”,
And wondering if you are where you should be.

Let it go,
Attachment to money, addiction to coffee.

Let it go,
The need to know.

“I Am The Zero” by Trevor Witt

Released from inhibition
By inebriation, intoxication,
The mind is free to worship as it pleases,
Or to cry out in angst.
The shackles are shattered,
Broken by the elixir,
Of pain and joy and clarity,
Amplified by wine and caffeine,
And empowered by selfish solitude and selfless emptiness.
I am a vessel for the creative demons of insight, self-judgement, and self-realization.
I am a tool for the emptiness to manifest.
I am the beginning, the bottom rung, the foundation of the building.

I am the zero.

I am the quiet.
I am the night.
I am the ambiguity in the dawn.
I am the possibility of achievement, of failure.
I am the stillness before the storm.
I am the instant before change.
I am naivety and I am shame.
I am creativity and monotony.

I am the zero.

 

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“Plugged In”, ”Coffee – The Intersection of Poetry and Politics”, “As I Look At Your Face”, “Not Quite A Haiku No. 1”

July 31, 2014 at 4:26 am (Uncategorized)
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“Plugged In” by Trevor Witt

Plugged in
To our own little world,
We sit, staring at screens,
Texting and typing and listening to tunes.

Connected with people three thousand miles away,
We cannot hear what people next to us say.
We have reports to write, programs to code,
Time to work and to waste as we grow old.

I have forgotten how to speak to you, Stranger,
Beautiful potential for friendship or danger.
You wonder what or who am I.
And I wonder why am I afraid to try.

Communication from behind a curtain
Has become commonplace.
It seems that it is easier to meet online
Than by reaching out to a human face.

The trend seems to be taking friendships for granted –
At least that is a fault I admit to.
We lose touch for years at a time.
We don’t call or write.
You were on my mind,
But far out of sight.

And we let the years slip by,
Thinking that an online “like” was enough to say “hi”.
It was as much your fault as it was mine,
But I should have unplugged and said what was on my mind.

“Coffee – The Intersection of Poetry and Politics” by Trevor Witt

Coffee is the intersection
of poetry and politics.
of math and the metaphysical.
of love and revolution.
Coffee is the building and the undoing
of societies,
the village mentality and the national consciousness.
of religion,
the sacred texts and holy rituals.
of human interaction,
stuck in our heads and spitting out unfinished thoughts.
Coffee is our calling and our demise,
the intersection of two paths,
an impetus for action,
a stimulant for decision,
the end of stillness.
Coffee is a necessary luxury,
like alcohol,
the freeing of the mind from itself.
the reformation of a spirit
under duress
in order to reach calm,
the intersection of poetry and politics,
pleasure and pain,
the desert heat and a deluge of rain.
Coffee wakes us up,
to our anxiety,
to our hopes and dreams,
and to our insecurities keeping us awake at night.
It is the intersection of stillness and action,
the poetry and politics of the universe.
Coffee is silence, surrounded by sonic booms.
Coffee is the intersection of pen and the blank page,
the fool and the sage,
a piece by Picasso and a doodled sketch by my three year old cousin on a napkin.
Coffee is the intersection of me and you,
waiting to be we,
the intersection of laughter and tears,
separation and union,
poetry and politics.
Coffee is my home.

“As I Look At Your Face” by Trevor Witt

My tears dried up long ago;
No longer do my eyes well up with water.
Your face in my mind reminds me
Of photographs of dead relatives,
Delightful and haunting,
A constant reminder of what once was.

“Not Quite A Haiku No. 1” by Trevor Witt

(We)

Broken minds,
Following broken hearts,
Led by faith.

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“The Wild Flower Blooms”, “Whose Blood?”, “Born Without A Label”

July 24, 2014 at 6:40 am (Uncategorized)
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“The Wild Flower Blooms” by Trevor Witt

The wild flowers grow,
Without human hands,
Without my interference,
Without my pesticide protection.

The wild flowers grow in sunlight,
With the help of the rain,
Without any sprinkler,
Without fertilizer to feed them.

The wild flowers bloom,
In my heart and in yours.

As wild as the lion,
As beautiful as the rose,
The wild flower blooms,
No matter what else grows.

“Whose Blood?” by Trevor Witt

“Whose blood cries out to me?”
Shouted G-d at the angels guarding the Earth.
“Whose blood cries out to me?
Does it belong to peasants or men of great worth?”

The angels, perplexed, and scared as they were,
Replied, “We were not watching, but only singing your praise.
Please forgive us, for we were absent on duty,
We never imagined for this to happen, not since ancient days.”

G-d said, “The blood of Abel cried out to me,
And you think I would not hear,
The blood of all my creatures,
The blood of creations I hold dear?

Is it the blood of the woman killed by a jealous lover?
Or the blood of the man robbed and killed in his shop?
Is it the blood of an elephant killed for his ivory tusks?
Or is it the blood of a woman raped and killed after dusk?

Is it the blood of women who died in childbirth?
Or is it the blood of men who died at war?
Is it the blood of the Sunnis or the Shiites?
The blood of monotheists or of those who came before?”

The angels, ashamed of not keeping watch,
Grew sad and guilty and soon began to cry,
“Oh G-d, most magnificent, most gracious on high,
Please forgive us.  Do you not see the tears bleeding from our eyes?”

…

Meanwhile, on Earth a baby was born and later peed in the doctor’s face.
G-d saw and heard this and laughed and rolled around in heaven,
“Dear angels, do not despair, for though there is much pain,
There is also joy and laughter, and I have smiled again.

Though I chastised you for falling asleep at the helm,
I am aware of all the blood spilled in my realm.

All is known to me, all is heard, and all is seen.
My anger is because you do not know this.”

“Born Without A Label” by Trevor Witt

I was born without a label,
No name tattooed upon my heart,
No country stamped upon my foot.

I was born without a label,
No religion tied to me at birth.

I was born without a label,
As is every creature on Earth.

I knew that I was human,
Because other people told me so,
But I knew that I was half-animal,
As I watched the speedy cheetahs go.

I knew that I was special,
Because I thought differently from everyone else,
But I knew that I was the same,
Because my shit stinks as everyone’s excrement smells.

I was born without a label,
Filled with blood and bile.
I was born without a label,
Only a mind filled with guile.
I was born without a tribe,
Without a language of my own,
I was born without a label,
But into one I have grown.

I was born a baby,
And will die a man.
But I am only an amalgamation of matter,
I may be buried or turn into ashes in a can.

My soul you cannot possess,
My heart you cannot chain down,
For a label-less dream,
Flies far above the ground.

And so my spirit wanders,
And hovers around my sorrow,

And so my spirit stills itself,
Still in splendid love of the beauty of tomorrow.

Born without a label,
Dead without a face,
Love lives on,
Without a physical trace.

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“Suck It Up”, “Radical, Revolutionary Love”, “Skipping Stones On A Lake”

July 6, 2014 at 2:58 am (Uncategorized)
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“Suck It Up” by Trevor Witt

Suck it up.
So you are twenty seven years old,
With a college degree,
And a couple years of work experience.
What does that make you?
Special?

Suck it up.
You think that the world was made for you?
Do you think the world owes you anything?
What have you done for the world?
Are you G-d? Are you the Higgs-boson particle?

Suck it up.
So you are intelligent.
Does that mean you should not have to work hard?
So you work hard.
Does that mean that everything should be yours?

So it is not fair.
Who told you life would be fair?

Suck it up.

If you have to,
Scrub toilets,
Mop floors,
Lay bricks.

Suck it up

Says the one sitting
In the driver’s seat
On top of the mountain
On the sidelines
On the couch
Watching television.

If wealth redistribution is the only way
To address inequality today
Because home prices are inflated
And credit card and student debt rises unabated
Then let the record reflect that it was you who stated

Suck it up.

“Radical, Revolutionary Love” by Trevor Witt

Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Has never been tried before,
Not in the context of war.
No one dares to see the enemy’s face,
The only desire is to make them vanish without a trace.

Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Sounds like a dream of the naive,
But only that dream can save us from ourselves.
Pain blinds us all,
It builds a mental wall.
Though I can see walls going up all around me,
I can see over them, through them, from up in my tree.

When you see only the enemy,
I see my friend from Arabic class.
When you see a war for self defense,
I ask, “how long will this defensive operation last?”
When you see an Israeli soldier,
I see my friends Idan and Jason with a heavy burden to shoulder.
When you see a Palestinian militant,
I see my friends whose families have lost their homes and lived in tents.
When you see a label,
I see a face, a family, scars and smiles, hopes and dreams.

Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Tells us prisoners are not so different from you and me,
Criminals because they acted on thoughts we all think.
Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Challenges us to see the humanity in our enemy.

“Skipping Stones On A Lake” by Trevor Witt

Memories,
Like skipping stones on a lake,
Create so much joy
By making ripples,
Ripples in the water of my mind,
Fading over time,
As their effects are not forgotten,
But diminish as they cross the lake.

Sunny days and sunsets
Spent skipping stones
With you by the lake
Forsake me in the present,
As only the ripples remain.

Walking through the farmers’ markets on Wednesdays,
Visiting you at work at the dry cleaners,
Buying you dinner because you hadn’t eaten all day,
Playing baseball at the park with you and my brother,
Confessing my love for you when drunk at the frat party.

All these ripples fade,
As the lake returns to its placid form.

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“Talk Is Cheap”, “Feedback Loop”, “A Footnote In History”, and “With G-d”

June 27, 2014 at 6:01 am (Uncategorized)
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We have several new poets submitting original pieces this week.  Ixel Madrigal and Nick Losorelli are both young poets from Los Angeles.  We are very grateful for allowing us to share their poetry and look forward to sharing more of their pieces in the future.

“Talk Is Cheap” by Ixel Madrigal – Poet from Los Angeles.

Talk is cheap, but people just keep talking
mouth moving, but they’re not walking…
it’s like they are addicted to the feeling of syllables leaving their lips
Concentrated on the beginning the end and on their trips
That they forgot what their point was in the first place
All true meaning and symbolism erased

“Feedback Loop” by Nick Losorelli – Nick Losorelli is an actor, singer, and part-time writer located in LA.  He believes in social justice, and honest dialoging through art.

Feedback loop,
not sure if I’ve fallen in love with the stream,
or if it’s fallen in love with me.
I hear they’re privatizing the water soon,
better cash in, better drink up,
we’re in a drought.
No one has found the fountain yet
though.
_
Sometimes you write a poem,
And you’re in your underwear, in the bathroom
Your beard wreaks of coffee,
And you haven’t shed a tear,
And it’s the best thing you’ve done all day,
Month
Maybe
Year.
_
How would you like that?
Speak up please
No, I’m Mexican, or American,
or Mexican-American,
My beard? Room for cream?
“Just smile, kid, it’s part of your job.”
Have a nice day.
_
Time is valuable,
Well mine is,
I’ve got to make a mountain out of this mole hill,
Can’t trust anyone in this town.
_
Oh you’re an actor?
Hah, what training do you have?
Have a girlfriend? Don’t worry, you’ll find one.
I must not be a very good actor.
_
Breathe it,
You taste that?
Tastes like iron.
I hear they’re making pennies out of iron now,
It’s raining pennies,
I think I caught a few.
_
The greater good,
sounds like a raw deal to me,
shit end of the deal.
Bottom line?
The great good is a
bottom line.
_
Like this!
No like that!
Like this?
How about that?
Semicolon
It’s ok, I don’t know either.

“A Footnote In History” by Trevor Witt

My biography,
A footnote in history,
Better than most.
Better to be a blip on the radar,
Than nothing at all.

It is better to be a fool who influenced a few,
Rather than one who attempts to appear intelligent by not asking questions.

The inquisitive mind is an active mind,
And so I ponder silly nothings, my ignorant assumptions,
I question my absurdist tendencies and my open attitude.
Is there no absolute truth? Is there no virtue to be defended?
Is there any formula which can explain to the curious eye the Earth and the Sky?

My existence is only a footnote,
The whisper of the wind,
The howl of a coyote.
My musings are only the sound of crows,
The hooting of owls,
And the purring of kittens.

I am no Confucius,
My love compares unfavorably with the devotion of Rumi.
But I am nonetheless a footnote in the greatest story ever told.

“With G-d” by Trevor Witt

With G-d, all is possible,
One and one can be three,
A butterfly can land on, transform into the tree.
A lion can consume the lamb, and the lamb lives on in it.

With G-d, all is.
The stars in the sky shine on us,
Wandering beings, floating on a sea of land,
Crashing into each other as we attempt to understand.

With G-d,
I
Love
You
All.

With G-d
I
am
All.

G-d
Beyond beyond,
Within within,
On the surface of
All.

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“With My Words”, “Zombie Me”, “The Line Between Love And Hate”, “Modernity”, “Bullshitting and Begging”

June 20, 2014 at 4:23 am (Uncategorized)
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“With My Words” by Trevor Witt

With my words, I paint a picture,
Not as a realist or a pessimist,
But as a dreamer of dreams.
For that is what I need,
To fill this hole in my heart,
To reach the Divine.

“Zombie Me” by Trevor Witt

Zombie me,
Permanently hungry,
Yet feeling little discomfort on an empty stomach.
Awake, but adrift,
I float through space,
Searching for brains and kindhearted souls,
To feed on, to make me more like them.
Stumbling forward each day and night,
I am too tired to think about what comes next,
Too tired to think about what comes after the next meal.
That is all there is –
The trek and hunger,
Feeding and another trek.

“The Line Between Love And Hate” by Trevor Witt

The line between hate and love is thin.
Love births dreams,
And broken dreams birth hate.
But sometimes, it is possible to rebuild dreams,
Or to build others in their place,
Letting go of empty space.
Often the situation is unclear,
Our imaginations too small,
And the thin line blurs,
Our hearts are hurt and filled with fear,
Until the day our imaginations breath life into our dreams again.

“Modernity” by Trevor Witt

Modernity,
Solitude together.
Alone, constantly surrounded by strangers.
Entertainment, gluttony, and consumerism
Have left us in a comatose state,
As if we had overdosed on soma,
The choice drug in the dystopian novel Brave New World.

Success is now defined
As leaving your friends behind
In order to make enough
To buy enough
Distractions
To prevent you from losing your mind.

Modernity.
Move away from your parents.
Chase the American dream,
Running away in order to find yourself.
Better choices could have made me rich –
Better only because they would have saved me from poverty.
Make the right choice,
And prestige and wealth can be yours.
The right choice – and skill and luck and…

It’s all a lie.
Searching for satiation,
For enough wealth,
For approval,
To feel fulfilled,
Will leave you empty.
Modern America,
Filling emptiness with emptiness.

“Bullshitting and Begging” by Trevor Witt

Bullshitting,
Today’s currency.
You must sell yourself,
Before you can sell anything else.
Before you can build a tower,
You must sell your vision of the view.
Before you can open a cafe,
You must convince the banker you are committed.
Before you can slave away for someone else’s two story house,
You must first convince them you are eager to be their slave.
Before you can be a creative strategist,
You must be a robotic and mindless servant.

Before you move up that corporate ladder,
Know that it leads to the Tower of Babel.

Before you can lead, you must serve.
This is the logic of the universe.
But it is a strange time indeed,
When you must beg to serve those in need.

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“What Tales May Lie Ahead”, “My Piano-Forte”, “What Makes You Happy?”

June 19, 2014 at 6:14 am (Uncategorized)
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“What Tales May Lie Ahead” by Trevor Witt

What tales may lie ahead
Waiting to be written,
Waiting to be read?
I know not what adventure
Follows this thought
But I know I ought not
Think too far ahead
For, though daydreams are fun,
The best dreams are left in bed,
And nothing can compare,
To the thrill of this cool evening air.

“My Piano-Forte” by Trevor Witt

You are my piano-forte,
Soft, yet strong.
Like a fermata,
I want to hold you for so long.
I want to know your white keys and your black keys.
I want to make you sing the blue notes.
I want to play you adagio and allegro.
I want to play arpeggios on you staccato and legato,
As we strike chords and keep time,
With my left hand on your bass,
And my right getting into treble.
Sing for me darling,
Sweet melody, sweet harmony.
I can’t stop,
Mesmerized by your tone,
Your timbre,
Your candor.
My piano-forte, you are honest without brutality,
Realistically imaginative,
Classically innovative,
Gentle and overpowering,
The end and the beginning,
Night and day.
My piano-forte, I hope you are here to stay.

“What Makes You Happy?” by Trevor Witt

What makes you happy?
Is it the sun or the moon?
Is it the smell of dew in the morning?
Or is it a cool breeze at noon?

Is it baseball during when it’s bright?
Or a leisurely stroll in the park?
Is it bird watching during the day?
Or star gazing after dark?

Is it catching up with friends?
Or chatting up strangers?
Is it eating familiar foods?
Or trying delectable dangers?

Do you enjoy the quiet of nature
And the sounds of squirrels and birds?
Or do you prefer yelling in the legislature
And city politics with fancy phrases and sophisticated words?

Are you a fan of coffee or tea?
Or would you like beer or wine?
Is there a reason you do not drink?
Or do you simply find juice is divine?

Are you the type of person who stays out until three in the morning?
Or are you the type of person who can be found in bed at eight, snoring?

What is your favorite escape?
Is it television, music, or poetry?
Is it an unhealthy addiction?
Or a habit less costly?

What do you do when you have nothing to do?
Do you read?  Do you write?
Do you talk about religion with strangers?
Or do you go outside and fly a kite?

What do you think of for joy?
When you are most annoyed?
What do you look forward to after work?
What are your hopes and your dreams and where do they lurk?

What makes you happy?
Is it a wish? Or a dream?
Or something as simple as ice cream?
Is it your children? Your spouse?
Your beautiful pets in your modest house?

What makes you happy?
Tell me.  I’d like to know.

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“I Write Lies”

June 12, 2014 at 4:23 am (Uncategorized)
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“I Write Lies” by Trevor Witt

I write lies,
As all poets do,
In order to tell the truth,
Of what I perceive and what I dream
and what I hope for
and what I fear.
I tell them for myself,
And for you,
So that we might learn something about ourselves.
I tell stories,
Lies hiding kernels of truth,
Illusions created by beautiful words,
So that you might see through my eyes.
And I don’t know what is more troubling –
That I tell lies
Or that I cherish them?
That I know I cannot know truth
Or that I am obsessed with approximating it?

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“Caught In The Web”, “Don’t Wait”, “A Thread In The Quilt Of The Universe”

June 12, 2014 at 4:13 am (Uncategorized)
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“Caught In The Web” by Trevor Witt

Caught in my web of insecurities,
I am reluctant to talk to her.
My doubts form sticky strings,
Tying my mouth shut.

Caught in my flypaper of shyness,
I am afraid to share tales of fear.
Memories, long faded, creep out of their coffins.
Labels and judgments fill my head with shame.

Caught in the pit of despair,
I cannot reach the fulfillment of freedom from shame,
If I am afraid to climb,
Afraid to face the possibility of failure.

Ghosts of rejection,
Scars from insults,
And memories of an impoverished spirit,
Fed by financial strains and parents yelling,
Have spun their web of insecurities,
And the spider of self-doubt threatens
To paralyze and consume my creativity.

Seeing through my web of insecurities,
I can finally reach through the mirage.

I am free.

“Don’t Wait” by Trevor Witt

Don’t wait.
Do not wait for the right moment.
Do not wait until you have concocted the most clever phrase to say.
Do not wait until you believe you have solved the riddle.
Do not wait until you have read all the books.
Do not wait until you have pondered every possible outcome.
Do not wait until you have reached the end of your …
Do not wait.
Good things come to those who wait.
Better things come to those who do.
Act.
Be inspired by all that is around you.
You are surrounded by miracles and your life is miraculous.
Do not wait.
A person may wake up from this wonderful dream at any moment.
Begin.

“A Thread In The Quilt Of The Universe” by Trevor Witt

My soul is dedicated to learning to love.
In the beginning, we are unaware of our separation from the rest of the world.
In the beginning, we are literally connected to our mother, and through our mother to hers.
We only learn to be separate beings after birth.
As we develop in the womb and progress into the world, we learn that we are not always connected.
We must cry and whine to get attention or food.
As we grow older, we learn that we must seek to get food on our own.
We must provide for our own shelter and our own happiness.
We must seek for ourselves.
But we forget that we are connected.
We forget how to understand that connection.
We forget how to express that connection.
We forget how to feel that connection.
Though we all seek it, the connection is not readily available, until a person opens his or her eyes and heart.
Some of what I say may seem like the thoughts of a wandering philosopher, only containing ideas which have meaning in an abstract sense, but I insist to you that these ideas are practical.
For a full life, we must see the connections.
For we are nothing but a thread in the quilt of the universe.

 

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“Still, Awake”, “Dabrowski and Skoyles in New York”, “I am.”

June 4, 2014 at 10:33 pm (Uncategorized)
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“Still, Awake” by Trevor Witt

Still,
Awake,
I write,
Because she haunts me.
Unfinished business,
Unwritten revelations,
Neither good, nor bad,
But perhaps insightful,
Cannot, should not be given up
To that demon Sleep,
The one who says “Rest,
All is well, all is complete,
What is left can wait til morning.”
Wait til mourning?
Can it? Can I?
Can I can it until morning?
Or will I be mourning,
Some forgotten dream,
Given up because I decided to sleep,
Rather than stay awake and follow it
To its unknown end?

“Dabrowski and Skoyles in New York” by Trevor Witt.  Inspired by Tadeusz Dabrowski’s “People Exchange Words” and John Skoyles’s “Autobiography” published in The New Yorker Magazine.

Dabrowski restless, ideas
Running through his head,
Schizophrenic dialogue,
Dialogue with self,
Words bumping into ideas
Bumping into words,
To prevent stagnation,
To prevent being rendered mute,
Stuck, static in a dictionary.
Schizophrenic self dialogue
Exploring dialogue beyond self.
At least that is my diagnosis
Self diagnosis, of him myself,
My own interpretation of Dabrowski in New York,
As people exchange New Yorkers,
And I exchange his words.

Skoyles following,
Flowing with the Great River,
of Life, drinking from its waters,
Though not responsible for the rain.
He did not anticipate, or go before, or lead
A life,
But lived and was part of the parade,
Which he did not lead.
As he was not the head,
The parade would follow,
After his passing.
And a life would follow the one he did not lead,
Or so this is how I follow the flow of John Skoyles
As his life follows New Yorkers.

“I am.” by Trevor Witt

I am a Jew.
I am a Muslim.
I am a Christian.
I am a Buddhist.
I am a Jain.
I am a Hindu.
I am a Shinto believer.
I am an atheist.
I am an animist.
I am a devotee of Zeus.
I am a devotee of Saturn.
I am an agnostic.
I am a Druze.
I am an Alawite.
I am a Sunni.
I am a Catholic.
I am a Baptist.
I am a Methodist.
I am Haredi.
I am Masorti.
I am.
God.

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