I was recently told
that nobody likes
a sad clown--
that they're too frightening.
My thought is,
they're afraid of the truth,
as I think about
the two faces of drama--
a symbol on how life
is a tragicomedy
of epic proportions.
I am reminded
of the phrase,
"laughing to keep
from crying",
and how that doesn't
always stop you
from crying.
That the tears
of a clown
are just as real
and valuable
as the laughter
he can sometimes
evoke.
And that,
if you are frightened
by him,
you are frightened
by yourself,
for we are all
sad clowns,
in a way,
on this elaborate stage,
in this massive circus,
the greatest show
on Earth.
© 2013 Joseph Powell
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Friday, February 22, 2013
The Poet
We find our hero,
at it again,
seated,
hunched over,
bleeding profusely
upon blank pages,
writing his life away;
at this moment,
nothing else matters;
he's not even aware
of the music
playing in the background,
Beethoven,
or is it Mozart?
And there's a woman
in the other room,
calling out his name
for the umpteenth time,
but her screaming
falls on deaf ears,
because the only words
that matter
are flowing
on the pages,
in a torrential rush,
to which he feels obligated,
to which he feels compelled,
to which he is utterly consumed;
he will not be moved,
he will not be deterred,
not by love,
not by music,
not by time;
it is his gift,
both his blessing
and his curse,
until the very last stroke,
the very last word,
the very last breath,
he writes,
he writes,
he writes...
I write,
I write,
I write.
© 2013 Joseph Powell
at it again,
seated,
hunched over,
bleeding profusely
upon blank pages,
writing his life away;
at this moment,
nothing else matters;
he's not even aware
of the music
playing in the background,
Beethoven,
or is it Mozart?
And there's a woman
in the other room,
calling out his name
for the umpteenth time,
but her screaming
falls on deaf ears,
because the only words
that matter
are flowing
on the pages,
in a torrential rush,
to which he feels obligated,
to which he feels compelled,
to which he is utterly consumed;
he will not be moved,
he will not be deterred,
not by love,
not by music,
not by time;
it is his gift,
both his blessing
and his curse,
until the very last stroke,
the very last word,
the very last breath,
he writes,
he writes,
he writes...
I write,
I write,
I write.
© 2013 Joseph Powell
Monday, February 18, 2013
Linda, in Spanish, means beautiful
To say the name
is to reflect
on something beautiful,
in a language
that evokes beauty,
that embodies strength;
to say the name,
is to inhale
a breath of fresh air,
to exhale
a cleansing sigh of relief
like a long held,
deeply felt prayer--
actually,
more like a song...
that's it,
like a song
that can't be sung
in any other language;
to say,
her name,
Linda,
is to rest
in the comfort
of having made
the acquaintance
of someone
who is
and means
beautiful
in the only language,
other than love,
possible.
© 2013 Joseph Powell
is to reflect
on something beautiful,
in a language
that evokes beauty,
that embodies strength;
to say the name,
is to inhale
a breath of fresh air,
to exhale
a cleansing sigh of relief
like a long held,
deeply felt prayer--
actually,
more like a song...
that's it,
like a song
that can't be sung
in any other language;
to say,
her name,
Linda,
is to rest
in the comfort
of having made
the acquaintance
of someone
who is
and means
beautiful
in the only language,
other than love,
possible.
© 2013 Joseph Powell
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