Open Letter to Brandon Graham

Time slips by or maybe

I’m slipping as time goes by me?

Not every day is a drag

But it seems the ones

That involve passing by the TV

When the news is on

Can really bring me down

I’d much rather walk outside

Stroll down the path with my friends of the woods

Like a raccoon named Sugar

She’s so large

So big

I believe from

Eating out of the ice cream store’s dumpster

Down the street from my home

She waddles from the weeds and peers at me with

Dark curious eyes

Then slowly makes her way back into the brush

There’s also a deer I’ve named Brownie

Her husband Buck Owens and their child Jane Fawn-Da

Also come to say hello

A turkey named Loner

For

He is always alone

And a rabbit named Tag

For

It runs to me then back away

Then back to me then away it runs

They all seem to be so much more entertaining

Than anything on the tube…

And Brandon

I still wonder how your writing is going from time to time?

I wonder about all of my friends

Who practice the craft of words

Along with my own thoughts of what next to write?

Lizzy Worth is still doing her thing above us

In that far away land called Canada

I’m sure she still scribbles words

Her cat Plumb

Most likely meowing in circles around her

As she pulls words from the air like magic

And arranges them on paper

Illian Rain is up there too

Her cat’s named Leroy

I’m sure he meows

I’m just not sure how much it affects her writing

Whatever the case

Illian and Lizzy are such strong voices

From the land of Canada

And Brandon

I still talk to Lizzie Woodham from across the sea

Emailing words through wires way over there

She’s patient with me and my questions

About her writing

About the places and things that make up Europe

From Scottish Snow Flakes

To

The Irish Sea

To

The smells and sounds of the streets of Soho

But most of all she listens to me and my wandering mind

What a friend I have in her!!!

And Brandon

Mallory Smart is still out there somewhere

The windy city I believe

Or maybe the city of wind?

She loves coffee, you know?

She writes and publishes

Publishes and writes

Words swirl around her mind

Like a cyclone

At least that’s what I believe they do!

When I met Mallory

Another person that loves “The Beats”

It gave me hope for the future

And Brandon

I still think of your encounter with Burroughs

It still makes me smile

And Brandon

I still wonder if we, us, and our friends in writing

Will ever have a name associated with our work?

With our lives?

Like “The Beats” or “The Lost Generation”

I’ve pondered this question for years?

So, I will now take it upon myself to name us

“The Holding Generation”

There! I’ve coined it!!!

For

I feel we are holding onto hope

Holding onto anything

That tomorrow will be better than today

That moms and dads will be able to hold

Their children after a day at school

That the kids will carry books

Instead of bulletproof jackets

Holding onto the thought

That maybe just maybe

People will stop killing each other

Holding onto the idea that society

Will somehow someway get their act together…

But most of all

Holding on

While we continue to write and create art

That’s all I can do anymore

The Truth Is Told Better This Way

Liz Worth : The Truth Is Told Better This Way. It’s no secret I’m a huge fan of Liz Worth and have been since the first time I ran across her work. She is one of my all-time favorite writers and I am lucky enough to call her my friend. Her work and friendship have helped me through some very difficult times. She is original, fearless, and true to herself. All of these qualities shine brightly in the text of her new book. It’s apparent to me her words will be around for generations to come.

The first book I read by her was, Eleven Eleven. It’s still one of my favorite works of poetry she’s done. I was more than thrilled to be reminded of that masterpiece while reading through the pages of “The Truth Is Told Better This Way.” Like the dots of George Seurat producing a timeless work of art, Liz punched letter by letter, word by word, into a book of poetry perfection. Her view of the world is transcended so beautifully within these pages I think anyone who loves poetry would love this book. Pick up a copy today and enjoy the words of Worth. A true artist of our time.

Daniel Jones, Toronto’s Son

For some

The words of a poem

The words that are scratched out

In-between

The light blue lined pages of a notebook

Sitting in the booth of some all-night diner

Have to be written

Have to be told

For the poet

For the writer

It’s a drive that comes from the center of their soul

To explain the world that surrounds them

Some say, it’s a gift

I say

It’s a necessity as much as breathing

To reflect what’s before them

Like a mirror

Like a photo

Like the dark rippled water you gaze over

As it laps softly at your feet

Yes, this is the job of a poet

To say what is before them

Not good, not bad, just truth

Jones did this well

Without hesitation

His thoughts conveyed so honestly

Words so alive

They drip from his books and melt into your self-conscious

Bringing you into the pool halls

The smoke filled diners

The rehabs and the struggles to stay sober

The wards and the unwanted

The hangovers

The detox centers and withdrawals 

The getting by, to just get by

You taste all the awfulness in his words

Yet

See the real beauty in being, who you really are 

Your mind’s eye opens from his descriptions

You see the humming streetlights

Surrender to the first rays of morning

Creating sun stretched shadows sliding over Toronto

While the wind whispers Daniel’s words over her streets

Adelaide

College

Queen

Yonge

Bathurst and Bloor

His words are still alive in this city

Alive on her bookshelves

Her coffee shops

Her libraries

In book bags carried across campuses

Being read at a bus stop on Brunswick Avenue

For the poet who speaks the truth

As painful, as sometimes it can be

Will not be forgotten 

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling