A storyteller’s ramble.

I’ve nearly finished with my poetry chapbook.  Sent it to a few friends to give feed back and a lil’ editing.  It goes out thursday to my writing mentor.  What a lot of work.  After awhile it’s hard to even look at it.  And I’m very glad to have pulled it together.

I will keep you all updated on the progress. I am determined to make it look like a real book and put it out in the world.   I’m already planing book number two.  I’m sooooo ambitious.

 

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Ok… so I just did this ramble below.  I didn’t try to stop it.  I gave myself into it. eegads.

 

Stories are made up In truths, in exaggerations

In missed placed perceptions. A movie like scene

scanning the panorama of the eyes,

sending, sending, sending

endless data, the endless

report of moments of living.

 

Grab it. Grab it. Make up what it is we don’t see

or think we see, or want it be, or believe it must be.

Make up what we believe is some truth of it

in the outcome or back story, of your story

in the story of make it so  in the vague

interpretation of limited information.

 

We all do it.  And we do it again cause it panoramas

around us endlessly in near ending reels

and reams of life rolling by,  in and out

Seeps into our own perceptions,

Grabs  at our guts, our heart, our imaginings

Grabs out our history, our wants and desires.

Steals away any truth of it in its flash by.

 

Holding whatever perception made up of

pieces of truth that may have not an ounce

of truth to it.  Till that story passing by

gives the details.  It’s way gone now.

Out of the passing scene, in the

‘See ya later baby. Bye bye.”

Fill your eyes up with the next and

the next… Good lord it never stops.

No truth report coming from that .

And damn we were all wrong

 

Speak up to your own truth

If you happen to know it

Cause it’s the only truth

you got.  All the rest is

passing us by for some over

stimulation and illusive

reminders that we’re

good and bad stories tellers

and stories …. well they

just keep on coming.