Poem 3: Love Poem

Envy is a Red Dress

It was ladies' choice and
The girl in the red dress went with
another guy

I went with Destiny.

I couldn't help but stare
at her
looking at him
looking at her
looking at him

so happy
with him

and here I am
alone.
Dancing with Destiny.
She broke my heart
without even knowing my name.

"Hi Kyle," she said.
I couldn't believe it.
I knew that she knew.
Alone with her for only a moment,
a moment
that will last forever.

I returned to my date with Destiny.
She returned
looking at him
looking at her
dancing.

And I kid you not
"Lady in Red" was the song they played.
I'd never seen anyone so beautiful
charming
from across a crowded room
then the song ended.

Crowds of kids walked to their cars
laughing
I wanted to cry

Why couldn't she
be going home with me?

I had to apologize
to Destiny.
It wasn't her fault.

But listen
see this story has a happy ending.
You know that girl?
The one in the red dress
who looked more beautiful than...

Well, we got married.

We laugh about that night
when she first spoke to me
and I fell in love.
And she swears-- that night--
the dress she was wearing
was black.

Poem 2: Life Story

"Convert"

Before you can be married to poetry
you must first
be engaged

I remember a lot of people loved her
I only had a crush

She had a boyfriend
He could be anybody
Eliot, Dylan, or Billy Effing Collins.
I was jealous of them all.

Long story short
At the risk of making the difficult seem transparent
Teaching the kids that true love grows on trees
at first sight
I'll tell you the truth:
I wanted her but she chose me.

We laugh about how we got together
One line
Let us go then,
the times are a-changin'
you and I
sailing alone around the room

She is love is God is poetry is mine.

I Remember

I remember red

I remember the writing on the wall
the writing on the grout
Graffiti never made me laugh so hard

I remember trees
no leaves
Fall seems to last forever.

I remember jammies
thin carpet
The cinderblock walls
I remember being poor
But we were so rich

I remember bed time
night nights
Twinkle twinkle one more time Daddy
a one, a two, a three

I remember the day we moved
Cy was 4. Bo was 2.
I remember their childhood
I hope they do too

Journal Entry

Why I Write (Prompt #3)

I’m not sure who said this, but I will repeat it anyway: Writing is the only thing that when I’m doing it, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else. It wasn’t always this way, however.

In high school I decided to join the newspaper staff not as a writer, but as a photographer. I completed my first assignment with enthusiasm. I was going to be the next great photographer.

Apparently I wasn’t paying attention the day they taught us how to load the film in the camera, because the pictures didn’t develop. I was fired as the photographer, but I was already enrolled in the class. So I became a writer. Like many writers, I think the vocation of writing chose me.

So why do I write? A big part of it is ego. I want to seem clever. I want to be talked about. I want to be great. However, writing isn’t the only way to feed the ego. For me, any type of creativity satisfies this craving. Besides writing, I’ve tried performing in an improv group, radio, singing, dancing, acting, directing, and stand-up comedy, just to name a few.

For some reason, though, I always come back to writing. Whether it’s playwriting, screenwriting, newspaper, magazine, internet, sports writing, poetry, lyrics, short stories, blogging, corporate newsletters, or whatever. This is how I choose to create.

It’s more than ego, though. I write to entertain. Since my early childhood, I’ve been a clown. A class clown, a work clown, and now a class clown again. I’m a high school English teacher, but I often wonder if I’m truly an educator or just a low-paid stand-up comedian with summers off.

The bigger question right now in my life is why do I write plays? Why not movies? Poetry? Novels? The answer to this question is still evolving, but here’s what I’ve got so far. Plays are fun. Plays are the conversations that take place at the kids’ table, not the adults’ table—and I hate the conversations that take place at the adults’ table. Plays have a certain spur-of-the-moment, impromptu appeal that no other medium offers. “Here, put on this coat, sit on that chair, you two are fighting over that girl. Ready, go!” I love the audience, sitting in the dark, like they’re part of the performance. I love writing dialogue.

I write for more reasons than I can fill on a page. Reasons that continue to elude me. Reasons that continue to evolve as I get older, as I experience more. I hope it always remains somewhat of a mystery. That’s half the fun.