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.