Variations On Emotional Suicide, the new release from on the book to buy it today!

Saturday, May 16, 2015

beale street blues boy

what was it ‘bout
that sharecroppin’ boy
usin’ a  guitar as a toy?
bendin’ and stretchin’
each emotion drenched note,
singin like demons and angels
tryin’ ta crawl from his throat.
made women swoon
and grown ass men cry.
my oh my,
dem blues is so sly.
left the lonely cabin,
searching for stardom,
when he was a young teen.
had less than 3 dollars in his pocket
but he was determined
to become a king.
named his woman Lucille,
a soul mate he met
during a juke-joint fire.
she was his lifetime reminder
to never lose that desire
to inspire.
lemon and prune faced
while crooning them tunes,
made people do devious things.
some of them
tossing aside wedding rings.
yet he gave us his all,
we were enthralled
by the virtuoso
at every show.
he melded jazz, blues
and pain.
a volatile concoction
that may never
be seen again.
quick witted and wry,
alternately making you
wonder why
you were in the situation
you happened to be in.
so many have gleaned
from those stretched note riffs
set blissfully adrift
on four-four time
and an occasional glass of wine.
if memories are golden,
he has given us
the midas touch
for years to come.
the thrill is gone
but his legend
lives on.

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~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Friday, February 27, 2015

a vulcan state of mind

i am not spock.
the 23rd century…
the place?
the hearts and minds
of every trekkie
who ever dared
raise an eyebrow,
or attempt to paralyze
a buddy
with a neck pinch surprise.
the green-blooded hobgoblin
was calm and collected,
while making bones
and others
feel agitated and dissected
more times than expected…
oftentimes disrespected.
without a smirk
or a grin,
his logic would begin.
sentient strings
of subliminal sentences,
explaining  complicated instances,
yet meeting the consciousness
on an uncluttered plane
of uncompromised confidence.
blank stare…
but it made sense
to the pointy eared
purveyor of proficiency.
i am spock.
as whiffs of smoke
turned  to solemn cries
for understanding,
we were blessed
with a man
who embraced his destiny
and shared a revelation.
being split in two
was a reality and nightmare
causing a constant battle
of the flesh and mind.
the human race
would do well
to mimic an alien
who adapted
to life
in his living hell.
he survived
because his intelligence
dominated both sides
and forced them
to live together…
as one in peace.
he lived long and prospered.
if only the denizens of earth
could do the same.
raise the v
and boldly remember
his name.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Monday, January 26, 2015

ivy clouds

from the cotton field
to wrigley field,
a tremendous hardship
that would ultimately yield
an icon.
stuffing  those bolls
into a sack
gave him the knack
for a sweet swing
that even made
the opposing team sing
his praises.
wiggling those fingers,
on the handle
of his bat,
was imitated
by every baseball
loving kid,
even though
they never knew
why he did.
a reflex,
a memory
that kept him humble
and aware.
the cubs will shine in ’69,
the cubs will come alive in ’65,
forever the optimist
but never crowned
a champion,
yet he played
with the heart
of a lion.
swatting  balls
over those
ivy covered walls,
“bingo-bango-bilko double play!”
that’s what the announcer
would say,
back in the day.
such a smooth stride,
a heavenly glide
to the bag,
ending with a laser beam
throw to first.
but all things end
and so did the sparkle
of his career.
he had to give up
the pastime
and the cheers,
which he held so dear.
from the negro league
to the majors,
he gave his all.
mr. cub proved
the doubters wrong,
with his gracefulness
in a game
played with
a little white ball.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

the man

can I get a witness?!
hyperbole for all to see,
dangling participles
to set staunch minds free,
his legend
into something cooler
than the other side
of the pillow.
like a guy smokin’
at a gas station,
his career blew up
and he politely
took us along for the ride.
he was hated on
and called a freak
because of that eye
yet few knew why
and still mocked him
on the sly.
corporate monsters
said the talk was lame,
they had no idea
he was the epitome
of this game
for four letter dominance
and reigning fame,
separating himself
from talking heads
that all sounded the same.
exuberance, eloquence
ain’t none of ‘em fresh like scott,
that boy was straight
outta the catchphrase shop.
a warrior,
who didn’t want to know
the terms of battle,
he fought with courage and dignity,
to the sounds of a timpani,
urging him onward
past pain and defeat.
the mork from ork
of the sports world
has taken a bow…
first and ten…
ya don’t lose to cancer,
you win.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved