My family & I have decided to take part in the “Walk for Water” to raise money to provide access to clean, safe drinking water for thousands of families across Africa.
We will be doing a series of 4 mile walks – the average distance women and children in Africa walk for water. Check out the Walk for Water website to find out more.
I have had the good fortune to be invited as one of 15 poets to be interviewed on a radio program that will document World Poetry Month in April. Here are some of the details:
Poets around the world call for a World Poetry Month. Fifteen poets from such places as Saint Paul, Minnesota; Rye, England; and South Africa, Johannesburg will unite and discuss the need for a World Poetry Month. Fifteen talented poets from the Gaia.com E-community – Empowered by Poetry – will be interviewed on April 13th and 20th from 8:00 p.m. – 10:00 p.m. EST (Eastern Standard Time). Ella Curry of EDC Creations, John D. Evans, Dominant Muse of the Gaia.com E-community and founder of The Evans Poetry Collection, and select poets from around the world will unite and call for a World Poetry Month designation for the month of April.
The poets will engage in educational, inspiring, and meaningful discussions on poetry and they will explain how poetry empowers. All visitors can chat live in the chat-room during the show live at: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Black-Author-Network . Let’s make this epic event an exciting and unforgettable one.
I hope you can join us and even participate in the live chat sessions.
I made a special appearance for red nose day:
http://claylowe.smugmug.com/photos/490764674_Bn9zR-S.jpg
I am in a place of being…not talking about being or thinking about being, but being and doing being and being being and living being. I am a human…being.
We are a time-clock civilization. We wear time on our wrist. We hang time on our walls. We have time in the corner of our TV screens. We have time on the dashboard of the cars we drive. We have time on mobile phones, console games, town squares, microwaves, cookers, computers…time is everywhere. Time for this. Tine for that. Time does not exist, yet we use clocks to tell us otherwise. The clock on my mantlepiece is ticking, ticking like a time bomb. Ticking with excitement. Ticking with anxiety. Ticking with reflection. Ticking with anticipation into the void.
An old family friend was visiting us. She looked at Ruth and said to me: “She looks good. She doesn’t look haggard, which means you are being good to her.”
“What about me?’” I asked. “Do I look haggard?” The old lady placed her hands on my cheeks and inspected my face in the light. “No,” She said. “You look good too. You two are good for each other.”
He walked up to the roof of the hotel to get some fresh air and watch the night sky turn to dawn. The time between dusk and dawn is meant to be a time of magic. At the precise moment when it is neither night nor day, the gods can be summoned. He has never seen a god before, maybe today will be his lucky day, but he doubts it. The gods abandoned man a long time ago when we decided we no longer had a use for them apart from killing each other in the name of one god or another.
The cars in the distant stream by like shooting stars. He moves closer to the edge and looks down. Edges make him feel uneasy. He always feels compelled to jump. He struggles for reasons why he shouldn’t. Lately he has found it harder and harder to find a reason that’s worth a damn.
He hasn’t said good bye to his wife.
He steps back from the edge. Maybe tomorrow he won’t be so lucky.
Poor human hearts pounding everywhere, lying in their beds, walking their dogs, worrying about their future, dwelling on how their life took a wrong turn as they ride the bus to work in the morning. I’m lying here in my hotel bed. No other guest are stirring at this hour. The dull roar of distant traffic reminds me that the poor human heart pounds 24 hours a day.
My past is a distant memory. Who I was before no longer matters. I resist thoughts of the future; they only bring anxiety born of uncertainty. My crystal ball is full of thunder clouds, the clouds of unknowing. Not being able to see the distant shores makes me seasick. I ground myself in the present with Jack’s words. On my nightstand is last night’s entertainment, the Portable Playstation, Burnout Dominator crashing into cars to earn points, a fantasy of the human heart pounding of road rage. Dark Resurrection, a hero’s quest to claim an unknown prize. The prize doesn’t matter, what matters is the adventure along the way. I long to feel my human heart pounding with the anticipation of unknown trails, dangerous trails, where the capacity of one’s own wit and resourcefulness determines life over death. Adrenaline becomes my addiction, instead of cheap whores and booze. An addiction that prowls like a hungry wolf on a cold desolate winter day looking for his next kill to keep him from Death’s steel jaws, the circle of life, the pounding of human hearts beating to different tunes on their iPods.
I close my eyes. I’m on an empty beach watching her stand with her feet in the sea. Her peach colored Spanish dress pulled above her ankles, she is dancing with the waves. I feel lonely in this empty bed of fluffy white blankets and pillows listening to my poor human heart pounding.
And what does it matter in the end, the prince and the pauper travel different roads to reach the same end, buried six feet beneath cold earth, food for the worms and a silent eternity.
Got my Lucky Strikes and Jesus doll
Pinup girl in yellow shorts pouts love
Through lips red as the dawn sky on
The fourth of July, I’m ready to roll
Cowboy hat no Texan to stand Jack
Daniels and Coke drank separate like
a man, I hitch a ride south on ninety nine
Door opens and slams
Yellow convertible, white walled tires
Saxophone screaming from the radio
Flamingo dancer hangs from the rear
View mirror dancing in the wind, a
Floating angel desperate to land a pair
Of aces so her luck will turn and she can
Sip champagne on the Geyhound headed
East to see the Jersey Shore her home
The Boss made famous in a song and she
Longs to feel the eyes walk all over her
As she struts across the sand sporting her
West Coast tan
A train about to take the underpass, gives
A warning whistle, the saxophone dies
Slowly drifting into the desert night, I tip my
Head back, light another cigarette and sigh
Another page churned, another love spurned
Bloodstained keys lay to rest, eager to feel
The pounding of fingertips, the caress of flesh
A soul laid bare on white sheets
The touch of a woman’s hand on my shoulder
Beckons, the night awaits, saxophone echoes
From the rooftops, the city moans;
She moans.
I moan.
We moan.
Silence…