Writer’s Manifesto/Battlecry, Geoff Lawson

Writer’s Manifesto/Battlecry

What are we?  We are writers.  We are the historians of past yesterdays and future tomorrows.  We are the scribes of our generation, a generation today, maybe the last generation, maybe the next generation.  We may die but our words will live on.  We have/keep/maintain our connections to each other and to the past and in that vein we are the bridge to the future.  I live today.  Geoffrey Chaucer lived 500 years ago.  He s my best friend.  He is who I was named after.  Same as Willie.  You know, Shakespeare.  Mark Twain and Mary Shelly have been my inspiration and writing mates that spanned years.  Who are yours?  Are they the same as mine?  Are they different from mine?  But however you feel about them, you know one thing: they still live through us.  We aren’t warriors, we aren’t soldiers, archers, or artillery men.  Not in the vein that you know them as.  We don’t destroy, not intentionally anyway.  We create.  We give life, we give love, we give drama and on the written page we make it come alive.  Our words may/can/do more harm than good if used correctly or even incorrectly and they will last long after the gunshot or sword wound has taken the life of the innocent. 

     Epic is a word that describes what we put our minds to.  Immortal is a word that comes to mind when we are talked about. Think about it.  Geoffrey Chaucer, Homer, William Shakespeare.  How long have you known them?  You write their words and its as if they were sitting right next to you, guiding your hand. 

     I know, I realize as you may have, we aren’t warriors, we are only scribes, writers.  But we are epic.  We are heros and we will live on.  In the hearts, the souls, the minds, the bodies of those who knew us, did what we did and set off on their own written paths to glory while we looked on and choose our own. 

     It is satisfying putting pen to paper because we know we are writers.  We are not alone and will live forever.  Raise not your sword, your shield, your flag, or your cross.  Raise your pen and sally forth and be one with the ink. 

- Geoff Lawson, 11/10/12

Shopping Like Fevered Dogs, by Travis Clarke (Campbell Poetry Circle)

Shopping Like Fevered Dogs

The rain was blanketing Pasadena like a somber Rose Parade, and I needed to put my life in boxes. Black crates, compartments, purge the memory of disorder with a box of albums. Purge the photo albums with a 12 x 16 cage.

There's a Crate & Barrel at the end of a long, imposing one way street.

Gray buildings, erected three stories.

Fortresses blocking out the clock tower on Colorado Avenue.

I knew it was time to open my wallet, and with an eyedropper tease out the sting.

On my way I stopped at The Gold Bug. Like Poe the haunting bells sounded my arrival.

I stared breathless at the window display of festooned antiques, all oak and deep precious metal.

I felt like an archaeologist forced to stare at mirrors, and my reflection was a $20 bill.

A consumer's opiate for an itch that wouldn't go away. Then I bought a box.

Records are old, by definition.

Black circles, concentric.

Or clear red, as if red is ever clear. Or porcelain white.

Why did I love to put on retro airs? Is this the itch again? Never a day without it.

I reclined in a leather chair that cradled my sore back like an expensive coffin and poured a glass of whiskey, stuck the needle on the groove and let John Coltrane serenade my supremely wanting ears.

A love supreme, carry me home.

I awoke to squawking an hour later.

Was it a tenor saxophone, or a crow outside my bedroom window?

Wishing for a swim but it's raining, and the silk tree in the yard is leafless.

I swim inside my thoughts instead. Caressing a ghost from not long ago, but long ago.

I lift up the glass and there's a ring.

The table is older than the music.

I curse at the absence of cleaning supplies.

Maybe I should go shopping. That would make everything new again.

Space is the place.

Somewhere, she's tripping over her sitar like a hailstorm wrecking glass.

She sits crosslegged and rocks back and forth.

She's alone, but she always was, more than most.

Or it just seemed that way. She keeps herself to herself.

Luck, loss, love, leave it running. The car, the turntable, the city you came from.

Plant a garden behind a tower that carves the landscape into distinction, that pins it to your landmark soul.

New placemats, new friends and new ideas. Old vices, old houses, middle-aged neighbors.

If I was Kilgore Trout it would all feel normal.

I think it does anyway. We invent our own version of Norman Rockwell.

A dog, a cat, a microphone. Shiny toys and clean air.

I take a breath so deep it catches in my chest, and I walk.

I walk until I can't feel a thing. This time I don't feel like shopping.

Fell, Fall, Falling, by Rachell Summers

Fell, Fall, Falling

-- Rachell Summers

Fell

Well, once I was running after a bus.

A school bus actually.

You know, to go to school.

It was in the 5^th grade and I was new.

I didn’t know the bus would wait.

The air was moist with early morning fog,

And in the woodland violet aura up ahead

I saw the bus at the corner, starting to pull away.

Like a Baroness shot out of a cannon,

I ran so fast

I could have won a gold medal.

But I hadn’t given a thought to

Stopping.

Feet don’t have brakes, you know.

So I slammed straight into the tire wheel

Of that potentially yellow school bus, and

Bounced back, arms and legs stretched out in front of me.

And, landed on my butt.

“Oops, pardon me.” I said.

To the bus, I guess,

Because no one else was around.

The kids were all leaning out the windows, everyone on one side, so the bus could have easily tipped over,

I later thought.

Gathering as much dignity as a

Shot-out-of-a-cannon Baroness could muster,

I climbed the bus stairs, sat in a seat and

Proceeded to untie and then tie back up my black tennis shoes.

“Look at her, she’s tying her shoes,” laughed one 4^th grade boy, pointing at me.

“No wonder she fell down.”  He was so disdainful, just like a 4^th grade boy.

The bus driver nodded, pulled the lever to shut the bus doors,

Which made that unique bus whooshing sound, and we were off.

“I would have waited.” said the driver.

Fall

Some people fall down all the time.

Like wide receivers who get tackled,

They fall down and immediately get piled upon by the

whole defensive line – when really…..

He’s already down, so it just seems oh so dramatic.

Every one slowly gets up

And they do it all over again.

Surfers fall upon the glassy, hard ocean,

Which looks deceptively smooth and forgiving

But it is not.

They swim to the surface, climb back on their boards

And they do it all over again.

Hockey players don’t fall down much,

which surprises me, since they are on skates.

But they do slam into the plexiglass wall a lot,

The one that surrounds the rink.

Which seem really painful,

but they bounce back, skate away and resume play.

And they do it all over again.

But whenever I have fallen,

I stay down for a while.

My ego spread all around me,

Which takes time to gather.

And I say, every time,

I won’t do it again.

But the next time it happens,

IF it happens.

I swear,

I shall bounce right back up

And declare

“And that’s how it’s done!”

               

Falling

OK, it happened again today.

I fell down.

But it wasn’t my fault or

Because I’m getting old.

It was the stupid stairs.

Oh, and my stupid sandals.

And, I suppose,

My stupidly long skirt.

But I redeemed myself

I knew I couldn’t possibly be hurt

So…

I bounced up, like a gymnast making a perfect 10 landing.

Brushed off my skirt, looked around at the offending stairs

As if to say,

You think you’re so tough?

It will take more than that

To get the best of me.

Heart's Toll

Heart’s Toll

                                 

So high, so precariously high

Slung between rock walls

 like the delicate thread

 of a spider’s web

I step on my brakes before Bixby Bridge 

then peer out to see the waves ebb and flow

260 feet below

Awestruck by it’s magnitude

self-importance no longer apt

even my courage gets tapped

So unsure, so surprisingly unsure

Sunset sweeps all color from the sky

coastal fog drips down the slender spikes

of a lone Yucca Whippley Eye  

So complete, so intimidatingly complete

Windswept Cypress, Statuesque Sequoia

thriving without a need

yet without them man cannot succeed

So dependent, so naturally dependent

My hair whips above my head in fits.

as maverick winds nip at my neck

like a whiskered kiss.

So wild, so insatiably wild

California rubs her rugged shoulders raw

against a deluge of tides and seismic rides

Hammering sculptures that fill me with awe.

So transforming, so constantly transforming

A biker pulls off  Highway 1 

unlike me, he’s bold 

aiming his camera like a gun

framing Big Sur, as if it’s his to hold

So cavalier, so casually cavalier

I stand before the daunting divide of land and sea.

Resigned to forgo visiting Esalen and Nepenthe’s

My tension sinks roots like a tree.

So irrational, so ridiculously irrational

Suspended spans, celestial overpasses

the song of the road’s no longer Earth bound

I crave the sound of solid ground

So secure, so satisfyingly secure

It's not whether I forge ahead or waiver

it’s connecting with my heart’s toll

that ultimately makes me braver

So uniting, so courageously uniting

Patience steers me like a sage

straight into the fear and pain

that leads my pen across the page

accepting the mystery of who I am.

-Emily Bording
Capitola Book Cafe