Prayer

I’m here spitting words as they leap from my mouth,

Although some consider me to be unreal,

I really know how to feel. I’m not perfect at it, but I’m trying

Trying To fight back these things that, leave my soul dry

I’m trying to love purely

But my carnal security blanket of comparison

Keeps me safe from the guilt baring wind.

I know that I don't know everything

But I’m trying to understand how your feeling

I’m feeling, how they’re feeling

My mind is sticky, like a child’s sucker, that fell from his mouth in the care seat. I’m picking up everything, and trying to rip the dirt from my brain.

I know that being virtuous today makes people point fingers

I’m not about to complain, because my life is at the top of pyramid,

I’m the first to see the sunrise, and the last to see it fall

This light warming my understanding, as I stand rapt in awe

I keep tripping falling on my face,

And when the thieves sneak into my house and take me

Beat me to the breath of death,

Steal my sincerity and call it formality, break the bones of my self asteem, strip me of my cloths and say that I don't know what It means to live

I lay there broken and scared,

The silence filling my every vein

As I breathe quietly, waiting and wanting and waiting and wanting

The muscles in my back begin to detach and relax

My hunched spine begins to feel warm, then a spark that starts in my heart and is pumped to every extremity, fills me with light.

Then ideas, that sound a lot like my answer begin to flood.

Understanding, and love begins in my limp hands to my quivering wrist into my shattered arms in though my lowly heart, pumped to my shaking legs, ankles and toes, then finally, its taken to my mind.

my soul understands the solution before my brain does.

My soul full of faith my brain full of doubt,

That's why it is always the last one to get an answer from God

Because the rest of my body must comprehend first before the doubt in my brain gets to.

I begin to pluck the weeds from my heart, every root clinging to the valves, so every time I pull, my heart ache, turns into a heart attach.

But then my soul is strengthened with sweet flashlights angels dance their way from heaven .

My hands sink deep into the cleared way soul, the softness of the ground surprises

Apparently, those things that I thought were fine, were ripping out the spine of my soul. And damming the river that nourishes the garden.

As I feel the light soil make its way into my finger nails, and fill the cracks in my knuckles

I notice that a box of flowers, addressed to my heart. Signed God

With a note that said, “I picked these flowers just for you, use them”

As I plant each bright colored apprehension, in the faint veins of the peddles were written words,

I copy each sentence line and verse.

I carry those words written on my heart

Show them to you, and beg

tread lightly.

Although my works may be imperfect, my spelling schewed, my mind young.

I feel the running of water leave my tongue and begin to bleed the perfectly painted painting,

the blues, violets, and oranges begin to hesitantly mix, they swirl dancing around each other without touching. Her eyes the one thing unchanged

Taking the painting that was once perfectly His, and making it perfectly ours

Me I sit and watch, as God paints.

I then set the picture of myself against the shed in my garden, it begins to rain

Each drop lifting the rough spaces on my face, darkness shifting, lines changing,

And I finally see who I’m supposed to be.

I wasn't the one who said, He am I send me.

But God still has a purpose even if I can’t see it clearly.

As I return from my garden, the sun peaks though the billowing rain clouds I see my picture one last time. The flowers begin to sing, the words begin to rhyme,

And I hear the Song of God for the first time.

I feel my transgressions, lift, my sins cleaned, my heart changed, my soul sanctified.

My hands no longer tied, I am born once again like the sand after a tide, the seething foam pulled away, to leave everything smooth and shining.

I feel a comforting hand, as I write my poetry in the sand,

She looks at me, smile shining in the fading light.

We walk the beach. Together.

Modesty

Dorothy,

What carries you?

Why is innocence sewn into the an cores of your actions?

When I talk to you I feel as if I’m the scare crow without a brain

When I’m afraid like cowardly lion and you touch my hand with quiet strength

Or a crying tin man without a heart, and you come and fill up the missing part.

I feel like I have a lot for you Dorothy

Your modest in dress, lovely in look,

if amazing was an attribute, you would be the dictionaries definition of it.

You don't even mean to but you melt evil with your purity

Your love is simple, you simply love everyone

You are truly a rose among thorns

If girls like you were a dime a dozen, this worlds crime would become clutsy

trip over its shoe layses land on its face, and refuse to ever get up again.

When the world is in fear worring about lions tigers and bears oh my!

You notice the flower growing from the mountain side

You take those large faces of persuasion and cripple them down, until they reveal themselves as small men, with narrow views.

When the ugly bat monkeys take you from your friends,

They search until they find you again, because they cant imagine one day without your smile.

And when the day comes for you to return home, you have only to simply to click your heels together, and concords of angels with take you home to the Spirit in the Sky, who you know so very well.

Mugger

Mugger

A wisp of air taken

Stolen from my throat as I step out the door

Who is the theif who takes my precious air?

What does he need it for?

I woulnt mind so much if he would simply ask

But he doesn't

His cold hands wait outside my front exit so he can steele it, when Im least expecting it.

I walk out saying my goodbyes, and here he is

Usually it takes me by surprise, but sometimes I rememeber the mugger, outside my door

I hesitate…. Not wanting to greet him.

confused

Confused

The cold air blows wind  linebackers blitsing me like a quarterback with a horrible defence,

In a wave pattern leaves, as they lift and blow.

The wet liquid soaks through my leather souled shoes

Leaving my toes blue, the blood failing in the attempt to circulate the little appendages at the end of my feet.

My soul, torn.

Between perfection and reality,

A man at the edge of a cliff clutching with one hand to hope with cracking fingnails trying to keep him from falling, the other hand holding on to his heavy heart, which the weight of it only increasing as the time passes

I’m not sure what to do now?

What would you do?

I tried buring my heart, but the frozen soil was not strong enough to contain it.

I tried ignoring my heart, but it’s cries bring me back to its sick bedside, no matter how hard I try to stay away.

I tried… and failed

And now look at where I find myself,

Stuck between the walls of reality starring at the floor of oblivion with hope shinning brightly just out of my reach as to force me to fight on.

My life like a electrocardiograph, at the bed side of a patient

Up and down up and down up and down

Which I suppose leaves me grateful, because when it flat lines it means I’m dead

People

People

Walking about feeling the air around each other

Energy flowing people going seeds sewing

Smiles frowns, make up girls, sweat wearin ladies with curls

Jocks, nerds, skinny jean hipsters

Each trying to act as if they are busy,

Their eyes escaping to their phone when ever a awkward situation presents itself

All staring at their feet inside, wondering why

With their dreams big as the sky,

Some of them to shy to show their wings and fly

All looking for a piece of the life pie

And then there is me, a part of it all.

Just one wave in the ocean of students

Writing what I see as I sit here in this well weathered chair

Evdence of all the past people sitting here stained all over

Wondering what they might have done if they were in my situtioin

You see, because im just like all of them

I am writng to avoid going and talking to the beautiful girl down the hall studying by herself.

Watching two old people flirting, making it look easy,

With his white hair, and a stack of papers that has just been twisted and transformed into a sword,

Snd she reviels her ability to kick surprisingly high,

As his sword retreats back into its stack of papers, they part, vocal cords exasperating with delight.

It is quite a sight here in the LA building of UVU

Have you ever noticed what people do, when they believe no one is watching

People

Walking

Mission

For those people who asked, how was your mission?

How were the last two years of your life?

Casual, inquisitions that really don't want an answer

Because the answer would take hours to tell

The mission, rocked me, through me on the ground kicked me in the stomach, broke my legs so I had to stay on my knees, shattered my memories, punched my expectations in the face, squeezed my tear ducts until they jumped from the pressure and landed on my pillow.

The mission, took my dried sponge of a heart, drenched it in water until it became so soft that the liquid of God would flow freely through it. It took my pride shattered it, and then gave me confidence. it took my sight, and pulled it  pushed it and stretched it until I finally had an eternal perspective. It cracked open my understanding, and filled it until it overflowed. It took my character, and forced it to run until it could complete and iron man.  It taught me to judge myself by my actions, and others by their intentions, not the other way around.

The mission, was not the best two years of my life.

But it was the best two years for my life.

It made me weep bitterly, and shout for joy.

I never felt so guilty, or so liberated!

But those two years are over, I carry the scars proudly that I gained while in service, and love to tell the stories pertaining to them.

But I am home now,

I have returned home from life boot camp

I am ready to take on what lies ahead,

So lean back and watch and you’ll be surprised how comfortable it looks for me to soar through the sky. 

Name

What is a name?

I find starting my poems with a question often helps in people’s ability to focus.

But this questions purpose is not a literary equation that equals your attention.

What is in a name?

A name something untamed, from the firery fingers that might point to blame, put to shame or lift up to fame.

A name is something that can be quiet and humble or something that can be puffed up and proud.

A name can be a silent scare in a innocent mans back, or

The identification card that lets you into every door, and lets people even more adore you.

A name can be signified by a mountain in people’s minds, or an ant in between your fingers that you grind without a second option in mind

But don't take this as a sign, because for some names you need to stand in line, and others are given freely

For some names you find a poet without lines, and other can be written for years,

Each poet penning his purpose on platinum paper, that could never be tampered by the delete button on a keyboard,

What is a name?

A name is something that identifies you, a name for a corporation is someone that they wish to send to or to bill to, or to give their money fill to

A name for others, can be that which brings tears, of joy or of pain.

Of a father who left without leaving a note, the name of someone great that we love to quote

The name of a river that always flows, the name of a dam that will never let anything go.

What is a name?

My name is David Clark Swenson

David because my mother said she never knew a mean David, and she counts on that when she becomes old.

Clark, so I always remember the artistic foundation that I was built on . because my grandpa who carried that name was an artist

Taken from Sven son, Sven being my forefather, Swenson the name of my father, the name of my brother, the name of my mother.

Im proud of the name that was given to me, and I hope to live up to the legacy that was left before me.

I cant wait to see at the end of day when my sunset has set and my clouds are grey, the name shall be known by those who know me. Maybe by some who don't.

What is your name?

Can you stand up and be un-quieted and proclaim, in front of a crown with chin up and eyes proud.

Or when you speak the words you call your name, to say it like the little boy who just broke his mothers favorite china.

Eyes down, in a low whisper.

When you say your name, what emotions does it create in those around you, does it create a sense of love, a sense of fear, someone considered loud or sincere? in those that you believe to be held dear.

Now, go out and tell the world the name that you've been given and live up to the legacy of life and living.

If you don't have one to live up to, then create one for your kids.

A name is never lame, a name is always original, even if it's the same of everyone else on the plain, your not the same,

Even if your name is Aldo or Amber, Bailey or Barry, Caden or Cailyn, Dakota or Daisy, Edmond or Ellen, Federico or Felicia, Gena or Garrett, Haden or Hadley, Iris or Isaac, Jack or Jacquelyn, Kadence or Kevin, Lacey or Lamont, Magnus or Makala, Nathan or Nayely, Oakley or Olive, Pablo or Paris,  Quincy or Qianna, Raheem or Rachael, Sadie or Samuel, Talon or Tami, Ulysses or Uma, Victor or Vivian, Wendy or Wilbur, Xzavior or Xandra, Yale or Yasmina, Zaylee or Zachary. Or any other name you have or can think of between A and Z.

Its yours, Take it, claim it, hold it, save it and show it,

Everything has a name,  that's what makes us human. We have names and we name things. And more critically that those things are important, those uttered letters that create personality.

A name can be found like a diamond hidden on the ground, like a symphony making its beautiful sound. What is your name? can you find it? Can you show it up high and not rewind it.

My name is David Clark Swenson, and I say it with a smile.

Because I don't have to cringe back or revile the name that I have been given.

And I hope for the day when my kids look up and say “how did you get your name?”

The same way that you got yours, with a loving heart and tender hand, of those men and women who are now a part of the sand.

What is your name? 

is this you?

Is this you or me

Ive spent a long time, trying to find the best parts of me

And before I met you… I thought I had found them

I thought I, as a blue spruce had grown as tall as I could

But you make me realize that I am a redwood.

I worked and grew, and sprouted and sprang,

Before I met you I thought running a mile was an amazing thing

And then you made me realize I was built for marathons

I cant decide, if these parts were in me before,

So deep in my core, Then I met you and the rain began to poor

On the painting that I called me,

This painting was a twelve years olds kids late assignment, painted 15 min before it was due so he could pass the class,

As the finger paint, and chalk drip, drop away,

You reveal me as a Rembrandt.

I was a small stream, flowing, almost unnoticed down a rocky trail,

And you're the flash flood that caught everyone’s attention including mine.

As you flooded my every thought, drenching me in your waters

I found that, leaving you was like leaving you was like leaving a hot tub in the winter time.

Even when I’m late, busy, flustered, worried, worked, spent, tired, hungry, thirsty, sad, moved, rocked, socked, mocked, pushed for time, or late for a dead line. Ill wait until the last possible moment to leave. Because a part of me stays when I do.

A warmth leaves, and cold returns that can be difficult to subdue.

I try towel off, but my body seems an endlessly shiver

Am I in you, like you are in me?

Do you have trouble finding your way into sleep, because im on your mind?

Does your heart sink when you see a picture of me, and realize that im hundreds of miles away?

Do you feel the same cold when I leave, as I do?

is this you, is it me? 

Anis Mojgani performs "Fisherman"

What is

Life, poetry, motion, work, church, hail, rain, snow, wind, pain, pleasure, cultured, insane, lame, walk, run, stunned, shunned, accepted, rejected, keep, fun, learn, lose, groove, smooth, jew, black, white, asain, indifference, love, union, ply, shy, cry, try, laugh, smile, rock, lock, sock, fight, sight, write, kite, fight, sight, write….. fight…. Sight…. Write…. Poetry….

Poetry…. What is poetry?

“Language packed with meaning to its upmost possible degree”?

in a sea of words, picking the ones with the most meaning?

Is poetry a prayer on paper? An open safe of unlocked emotions?

Is poetry created or discovered? Made or delivered?

Is it floating, right above the daily tasks which distract? Or is it in the way we respond and react?

Poetry with out feeling is like music without instruments.

So is poetry a feeling? Or are feelings the gate keepers that let us in?

Why is it, that when poetry is spoken, people seem to stop in silence?

Why is it, that for something that we cant really explain, seem to connect lines to something quiet and sustained, something we all feel, no matter where your at in the game. Short, tall, small, big, fat, skinny, smart, dumb.

It seems to distill the stagnant waters, in everyone.

People, often after hearing a good poem, like to say “that was deep”

But what does that phrase even mean?

Does it mean, that we all have something in us, maybe small, discrete and fragile? Like a present we don't remember we had until we find it again. Like a lost dog, or long lost friend.

Makes us want to stop walking, and stand right over our feet, when we hear shear noises, created words, that begin to stir, often our feelings will concur.

But maybe we’re not sure. Because its so quiet, we often do not speak, of this language called poetry.

A whisper to loud could break its back,

We could spend a whole lifetime trying to get back that which we lack.

Poetry is a chance taker, a mind maker, a line braker,

Makes us grow, expand, and draw our very own lines in the sand.

Leave a mark on moon, that will never be takin away.

Footprints treaded on mountains, which have never been seen.

Except by those travelers who’s voices break into scene,

Who open up the paintings and climb in without the fear of the unknown, knowing they will win.

Poetry, poetry is you, poetry is me, it's the old lady living alone down the street, its cops and the criminals, it's the optimists and the cynicals, it's the ones stuck in line, it's the ones running free, its dogs it's the cats, it's the birds in the trees, it's the low valleys, and the high peaks, its everywhere, its in everything

Poetry… what is poetry?