Today, I've been thinking a lot about my potential. I imagine I'm not the only person in the world who's ever done this. But me being myself, I hit myself with some harsh realizations. The first one was that my potential may be far smaller than myself or others believe. If true, I may have wasted a lot of time focusing on what may be considered unreachable. But I decided that I could live with that. The second dose of "Marcus ism" came in the form of realizing that even if my potential is phenomenally high, I may never live up to it. Is chasing an amazing goal still as beautiful, if you know you'll never arrive at it? After much thought, I decided yes. There are so many beautiful possibilities from coming ever so close. So finally, I hit myself with the toughest thing of all. My potential doesn't matter. This was truly harsh. It stung, and mainly because, as of right now, my potential seems to be the one thing I actually have going for myself. Don't get me wrong. I realize that I have my life, my health, my family, my friends, my freedom, and my faith...wait a minute, I coming up with f words on purpose? The point is I'm talking about potential. Even if it is limitless, if potential is never applied to anything worthwhile, then it simply saunters into the darkness of obscurity. It seems like our educational systems and society in general is always preaching the power of potential. We tell our kids to try to stretch theirs, but never stress the application. One of my favorite definitions of the word potential is as follows: possible, as opposed to actual.
I guess the whole conclusion I drew from my hours long thought-fest is that it's time to stop focusing so much on being capable of being, and just start being. I'm ready to refocus my mind, body, heart and soul to those things actual instead of merely possible.
Basically, I no longer want to run to the mountaintop and yell "I CAN BE...". I'd rather calmly walk down below, saying to myself that I am. Think about it.
the Rare Poet
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Sorry, I Can't Be Nice...Nothing Personal, It's Just Politics
As Election Day 2010 approaches, I love how amped up people seem to get. I've always been a free thinker and a believer in people's right to speak their mind. I'm a Democrat, and have been since I was of voting age, because my personal beliefs about how this country should be run has always best mirrored that party. Of course, I do look at each individual candidate before making a decision on a race. Most importantly, I respect the opinions and views of others as their's to have, just as I have my own. But sometimes, opinions and views get a little dicey. Here's a good case in point. If you've been paying close attention to political news lately, then you already know who Sharron Angle is. The Republican candidate opposing Sen. Majority Leader Harry Reid in Nevada, I think it's best to say that Angle's advertisements are "biased" and that's the nice way to say it. The mean way would be to begin the ads "I'm Governor Wallace, and I approved this ad"....but that's just my opinion. Joy Behar, of ABC's the View, also gave hers, and let me just say, while I agree with her reasoning for making these statements, I believe there was a much nicer way.
LMAO....while I'm not condoning Joy Behar's comments, I applaud her for speaking her mind, and being funny as hell while she did it. Of course, she could have done it in a nicer way. But....
What in the world is Sharron Angle thinking? I agree 100% with the moron statement. This ad makes it look like illegal immigrants are all coming to the United States to join the Latin Kings and prey on innocent little white kids. While I disagree with illegal immigration, I understand why it's necessary for some. Maybe we need to work on creating better policies so that immigration is attainable for those who truly desire to be American citizens, and this will help lessen the problem. But attacking all illegal immigrants as violent gang members is absurd. Especially when the English seperatists who began settling here on May 14, 1607, initiated one of the most violent surges of illegal immigration this nation has ever known. Which allows me to offer up a masterful work on the subject. Shouts out to Jamaal St. John, an extremely talented poet. Check him out on facebook here, http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=lf#!/profile.php?id=665196205.
This poem should make those who think like Sharron Angle reconsider their views on illegal immigration.
And on that note, enough said!
the Rare Poet
LMAO....while I'm not condoning Joy Behar's comments, I applaud her for speaking her mind, and being funny as hell while she did it. Of course, she could have done it in a nicer way. But....
What in the world is Sharron Angle thinking? I agree 100% with the moron statement. This ad makes it look like illegal immigrants are all coming to the United States to join the Latin Kings and prey on innocent little white kids. While I disagree with illegal immigration, I understand why it's necessary for some. Maybe we need to work on creating better policies so that immigration is attainable for those who truly desire to be American citizens, and this will help lessen the problem. But attacking all illegal immigrants as violent gang members is absurd. Especially when the English seperatists who began settling here on May 14, 1607, initiated one of the most violent surges of illegal immigration this nation has ever known. Which allows me to offer up a masterful work on the subject. Shouts out to Jamaal St. John, an extremely talented poet. Check him out on facebook here, http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=lf#!/profile.php?id=665196205.
This poem should make those who think like Sharron Angle reconsider their views on illegal immigration.
And on that note, enough said!
the Rare Poet
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Out of the Things We Let Die, Peace is Sometimes Born
Spotting
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about fucking somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about needing somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about loving somebody else
so much so that
you never did get a proper goodbye, did you?
too caught up in the controversy of consequences to
every really see what you were
a seed deceived, she needed you to make me need her
and I just needed an escape clause
you never breathed, 3 weeks conceived
before the stress of our mess deleted you
but I see you, I see you still
your mother’s eyes, your father’s ways
a smile that could have possibly changed circumstance
some days, heart breaks as the pain escapes
I never did get to teach you to slow dance
too busy dancing my way in and out of your mother’s space
or holding her captive in a narrow space
one that I kept tucked neatly away, knowing it would never fill within me
I feel like shit, when I picture what you would have been
5’10 inches of feisty beauty, a woman bent on
pleasing her mother, and making her daddy proud
6 aunties that never got to braid your hair
two grandmothers who never got to instill being a lady
baby girl playing with a baby carriage
ripped away in pain, like the emptiness from my arms
it seems to me that the word miscarriage
is a quick offsetting alarm
ushering in the harm of too many dreams not born into completion
and the deaths of too many things resulting from them dying
like knowing I could never be that example of love that you’d love to seek in the men you loved
snatched away like the weight of a world unknown
the guilt circulates above
the absent tombstone we never laid
and all the birthdays that never came
and wondering some nights, if the beds I made became the grave you were to be buried in
I long for your girlish laughter to be uncovered
I ache some days, cursing the absence, seeing
slender silhouettes in the shadowy backdrops of others
“was it a boy?” your mother screamed that day, achingly desiring a son
and though we were to later be blessed with one
I curse that his sister goes unknown
disrobed into failed chances
reduced to the naked ghost that is blame
she comes to me, jumps rope at my bedside
and I swear she calls out your name
or what it would have been, had I bothered to give you one
but to me you were merely an obstacle
and I crossed over you from the second you were gone
but as heavy as my shortcomings that burdened you to death
are the memories, of you, that hang on
too much of their guilt still speaks to me, maybe
and too much of their pain still seeps through me, maybe
until some nights I find my heart still whispering
sweetheart, honey, princess, baby….
too busy caught up in name-calling
but all I’m hearing are names falling like
sticks and stones, that stick and stone
become heartbreaks in the bones
of a ghost unknown, and the blood
spills in moans
of a little girl gone
until
some things thrown away manage to break
into the madness that was your disaster
crying to me, in a feminine voice that mirrors my own
and only seems to be chasing after
getting her daddy back
but he was too busy, regretting your creation
to ever see you grow intact
instead of picturing tiny hands slowly clutch life
he clung to all the things he lacked
desiring freedom, options, new women to please
instead of being pleased with the woman you might grow to be
I am sorry
still haunted
by legacy unknown, beauty not shown
bold queen to be folded into repressed memories
I am haunted by the thought
that my son’s laughter during infancy
was from the jokes you told in the crib with him
and I apologize to your potential husband
for selfishly stealing a rib from him
I am sorry my inability to cherish your mother’s love
stripped your worth, slowly announcing your doom
I knew you, but found it hard to want you
disconnected, I bled you from your mother’s womb
and I am sorry,
as sorry as the too few tears
that spot cheeks your kisses will never know
you could have been my little angel
but like hell, I chose to let you go
a fall from my arms, a slip through my fingers
a spill from my heart, which couldn’t embrace you
sometimes I stare at your brother and wonder if I could ever face you
the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking
about everything else
instead of
her life
[End Poem]
I feel like writing me this helped me deal with an old emotional burden that I simply tucked away and tried not to notice. I'm not entirely sure if the child that my son's mother lost was a girl, but sometimes, I just feel like she would have been. For a long time, I couldn't even think about the loss, because of the guilt that came with it. God knows the reasons behind all things, and eventually blessed me with a son, named Solace. But the part of me that failed to grieve still could not forget who she might have been. So, I am thankful for these words, and hope they might help any of you who can relate.
the Rare Poet
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about fucking somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about needing somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about loving somebody else
so much so that
you never did get a proper goodbye, did you?
too caught up in the controversy of consequences to
every really see what you were
a seed deceived, she needed you to make me need her
and I just needed an escape clause
you never breathed, 3 weeks conceived
before the stress of our mess deleted you
but I see you, I see you still
your mother’s eyes, your father’s ways
a smile that could have possibly changed circumstance
some days, heart breaks as the pain escapes
I never did get to teach you to slow dance
too busy dancing my way in and out of your mother’s space
or holding her captive in a narrow space
one that I kept tucked neatly away, knowing it would never fill within me
I feel like shit, when I picture what you would have been
5’10 inches of feisty beauty, a woman bent on
pleasing her mother, and making her daddy proud
6 aunties that never got to braid your hair
two grandmothers who never got to instill being a lady
baby girl playing with a baby carriage
ripped away in pain, like the emptiness from my arms
it seems to me that the word miscarriage
is a quick offsetting alarm
ushering in the harm of too many dreams not born into completion
and the deaths of too many things resulting from them dying
like knowing I could never be that example of love that you’d love to seek in the men you loved
snatched away like the weight of a world unknown
the guilt circulates above
the absent tombstone we never laid
and all the birthdays that never came
and wondering some nights, if the beds I made became the grave you were to be buried in
I long for your girlish laughter to be uncovered
I ache some days, cursing the absence, seeing
slender silhouettes in the shadowy backdrops of others
“was it a boy?” your mother screamed that day, achingly desiring a son
and though we were to later be blessed with one
I curse that his sister goes unknown
disrobed into failed chances
reduced to the naked ghost that is blame
she comes to me, jumps rope at my bedside
and I swear she calls out your name
or what it would have been, had I bothered to give you one
but to me you were merely an obstacle
and I crossed over you from the second you were gone
but as heavy as my shortcomings that burdened you to death
are the memories, of you, that hang on
too much of their guilt still speaks to me, maybe
and too much of their pain still seeps through me, maybe
until some nights I find my heart still whispering
sweetheart, honey, princess, baby….
too busy caught up in name-calling
but all I’m hearing are names falling like
sticks and stones, that stick and stone
become heartbreaks in the bones
of a ghost unknown, and the blood
spills in moans
of a little girl gone
until
some things thrown away manage to break
into the madness that was your disaster
crying to me, in a feminine voice that mirrors my own
and only seems to be chasing after
getting her daddy back
but he was too busy, regretting your creation
to ever see you grow intact
instead of picturing tiny hands slowly clutch life
he clung to all the things he lacked
desiring freedom, options, new women to please
instead of being pleased with the woman you might grow to be
I am sorry
still haunted
by legacy unknown, beauty not shown
bold queen to be folded into repressed memories
I am haunted by the thought
that my son’s laughter during infancy
was from the jokes you told in the crib with him
and I apologize to your potential husband
for selfishly stealing a rib from him
I am sorry my inability to cherish your mother’s love
stripped your worth, slowly announcing your doom
I knew you, but found it hard to want you
disconnected, I bled you from your mother’s womb
and I am sorry,
as sorry as the too few tears
that spot cheeks your kisses will never know
you could have been my little angel
but like hell, I chose to let you go
a fall from my arms, a slip through my fingers
a spill from my heart, which couldn’t embrace you
sometimes I stare at your brother and wonder if I could ever face you
the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking
about everything else
instead of
her life
[End Poem]
I feel like writing me this helped me deal with an old emotional burden that I simply tucked away and tried not to notice. I'm not entirely sure if the child that my son's mother lost was a girl, but sometimes, I just feel like she would have been. For a long time, I couldn't even think about the loss, because of the guilt that came with it. God knows the reasons behind all things, and eventually blessed me with a son, named Solace. But the part of me that failed to grieve still could not forget who she might have been. So, I am thankful for these words, and hope they might help any of you who can relate.
the Rare Poet
Maybe the Barbie's Should Take a Listen
(It's been so long since I've posted...my apologies...)
This right here is so spectacular, that I don't really feel like I need to say much. Her name is Jasmine Mans and in my opinion she is phenomenal. Check her out on facebook here ----> http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1259404299
The following poem, Miseducation of a Barbie Doll, is an amazingly sculpted message that I wish I could hand deliver to Nicki Minaj myself. (For those of you out of the loop, who have no idea who Nicki Minaj is...first, come out of the cave. Then, Google her.)
But seriously, enjoy this magnificent poem.
the Rare Poet
This right here is so spectacular, that I don't really feel like I need to say much. Her name is Jasmine Mans and in my opinion she is phenomenal. Check her out on facebook here ----> http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1259404299
The following poem, Miseducation of a Barbie Doll, is an amazingly sculpted message that I wish I could hand deliver to Nicki Minaj myself. (For those of you out of the loop, who have no idea who Nicki Minaj is...first, come out of the cave. Then, Google her.)
But seriously, enjoy this magnificent poem.
the Rare Poet
Thursday, October 21, 2010
My Soul Looks Back, and I Wonder
A year ago today, moments began forming that, by day's end, would shake my very foundation. You see, on Oct. 21, 2009, my father, Jacob Jamison, passed. I cannot begin to describe the emotions that rushed through me when I discovered that he was gone, but today, I can say that I am coping, and while some days it gets harder, and there are times when I'm an emotional wreck, I feel like I'm moving towards absolving myself of the grief. Eventually I will be able to remember my father as the strong and loving man he was, in spite of him no longer being with me. It's amazing what can transpire in a year. People come and go from our lives, ideas change, and within our spirits there are multiple birthings and dyings. Treasure each moment for the uniqueness of it, because once gone, it can never be duplicated again.
To my father, I miss you greatly. I feel like my words can never come close to explaining everything you meant to me, both spoken and unspoken. I feel you with me still. Love you, always.
the Rare Poet
To my father, I miss you greatly. I feel like my words can never come close to explaining everything you meant to me, both spoken and unspoken. I feel you with me still. Love you, always.
the Rare Poet
Enjoy the Rare Experience
This is just a quick side note, inviting all of the readers of this blog to enjoy all aspects of the blog
http://therareviewmirror.blogspot.com/p/rare-view-exercise-in-imagery.html
For some interesting pics (updated regularly)
http://therareviewmirror.blogspot.com/p/rare-music.html
For some interesting music (updated regularly)
And I'll certainly have some more rare content to add.
Enjoy!!
the Rare Poet
http://therareviewmirror.blogspot.com/p/rare-view-exercise-in-imagery.html
For some interesting pics (updated regularly)
http://therareviewmirror.blogspot.com/p/rare-music.html
For some interesting music (updated regularly)
And I'll certainly have some more rare content to add.
Enjoy!!
the Rare Poet
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
On The Road Again
I hope the title of this post invoked scenes of a dusty highway, the eager traveler's feet kicking up debris as he makes his away across unfamiliar terrain. I hope that you can picture either a bright beaming sun or a low hanging moon guiding random footsteps towards new horizons. Perhaps in the background, you hear the twang of banjos perfectly accompanying Willie's voice as he croons....'on the road again...like a band of gypsies we go down the highway...we're the best of friends...insisting that the world keep turning our way and our way...'
These are the thoughts that fill my mind as I prepare for a family trip to Maryland. I'm hopeful that I'll enjoy myself among the people that I love. And perhaps collect a few stories to share upon my return. Remember everyone, life is a journey. Sometimes the best way to get the most out of it is to simply enjoy the trip.
the Rare Poet
"On the Road Again" --- Willie Nelson
These are the thoughts that fill my mind as I prepare for a family trip to Maryland. I'm hopeful that I'll enjoy myself among the people that I love. And perhaps collect a few stories to share upon my return. Remember everyone, life is a journey. Sometimes the best way to get the most out of it is to simply enjoy the trip.
the Rare Poet
| Willie Nelson - On The Road Again .mp3 | ||
 | ||
 | Found at bee mp3 search engine |  |
Osmosis
Osmosis
little by little, it seeps through me
my sanity, a reservoir and they have just blown the dam
everything I give a damn about
feels so uncontrollable to me
I can feel it leaking through the cracks of my fingers
I can feel it sliding down the backs of weary hands
I can feel it slipping arm’s length, towards disaster
I don’t have the strength
to hold this together
all of my hopes and my dreams spill out of control
at these moments
I pour myself freely
see
I can feel it running out all over again
my sanity leaks from the tip of my pen like
warm water wrung from a rag
I cannot contain this
emotions poured heavy into
old paper bags
it’s a miracle my soul is not flooded
I cannot explain this, I’ve had
good days flow steady like
streams connected back to sunbeams
but these things couldn’t help wash away
my bad, always sitting like
rain clouds in the distance, forecasting sorrows
ill intentions shading my dreams with the downpours of
tomorrow, and I am sad
that most times I feel like a miracle, unprepared
uninformed to be witness
so it’s almost like I’m not really there
and I get this
strange feeling every time I spit this
spilling little pieces of self
that I am losing a part of me
but I keep this
sharing libations in the form of lyrics, it is for my sake
that they feel it
so when the time comes that I am empty
they’ll still drip me from the recesses
maybe I can’t make a way out of no way
but maybe my words can permeate depressions’ defenses
put some chinks in the armor of doubt
and make them want to keep tearing down adversity’s fences
because
whether spilling out passion or flooding out pain
my soul has known too many partitions
barriers content with restriction, and though I try my best to
break through them freely
a part of me gets lost in the process
the concentration of me isn’t what it used to be
as I concentrate my words on pouring out a message
I splash heavy, I boil over, I simmer
remembering all the days
this life was a stream of the unimpressive
but I remind myself of sympathetic hearts
that brimmed like lakes
adopting me into their waters
and if I can squeeze out a drizzle of that
love in the process
perhaps we can all reclaim order
all be washed clean
all be reflooded with hope
and this is what keeps me going
swimming these sometimes insane seas
fighting to keep kicking as I try to stay afloat
kinetic strokes through a stagnant ocean
because
I am a movement, that must keep moving
as one moving part of a forever moving wave
and I hope they soak me up
I hope my words infuse, that they may use me for good
hope I can remain
forever, poetic osmosis
[END POEM]
I hope this one is enjoyed.
the Rare Poet
Monday, October 18, 2010
At Night, When I Cup Him in My Arms
This poem was inspired by my son, Solace....the sweetest son this world has ever known.
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At Night, When I Cup Him in My Arms
he is still so fragile, so little, so small
the world is still fountains of space for his eyes to recall
a rabbit running past is still a lightning of wonder
and he chases happily after
screaming….”dog!!”
see, my son is still shrouded in innocence
even in those moments when he kicks and screams
too young to understand
bigotry and resistance
too inexperienced
to know hope can flicker brightly for a moment, then suddenly
dull in one instance, and I shudder
at the burden of protecting him from these things
because
I wish I could always keep the world off his shoulders
mount the weight of his sorrows on my back like Atlas
and bear them for him, hoping he avoids that practice, but I know
he won’t always be a little boy tomorrow
one day he will walk in his father’s shoes
scurrying and scraping, struggling to try and make
his mark in a world that’s never going to give him proper dues
and my one wish, that I possess the proper tools to
teach him
reach down inside myself
and give him one ounce of the courage
needed to find ways out of no way, to locate the cracks in the
wall around happiness and breach them
one thread of the fiber necessary to practice decency and truth
and one backbone sturdy enough to go out and preach them
one iota of the willingness I never had
to face fears that sometimes feel relentless
I long to brace him from the often quickened pace of this
attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat
fighting for inches to reach a goal
in a world full of things trying to prevent this
and I pray often to God that he doesn’t
get this, from me,
this bad habit of
trying to save everything
because while it’s a truly noble cause, which makes it a beautiful thing
there are going to be far too many times when
his heart’s torn from his sleeve
free flowing, emotional, trying to face the moment when
he tries his best to get there, but just can’t be
failing to save the relationship with the one woman he’s ever loved….or
failing to save the job that didn’t appreciate him enough anyway….and
failing to save the education that his parents always stressed about him getting….
failing to save himself from the fear of himself failing…
but then I remember
he inherits my bloodline, but he does not have to be gifted these failures of mine
he will find himself, at the inherent time
it is only up to me to help get him there
and as I touch his face with the palm of my hand
realizing that I am helping to raise a man
and yet still sometimes find myself tripping over
the responsibility that label entails
I am scared shitless
wondering if I have enough wits about me
fearing he will not have enough strength without me
constantly looking for support around me
it is there
and it exists in the guidance that my father left me
my son is not yet two years old
he is still fragile, still little, still so small
at night, when I cup him in my arms
I hold him close, hoping he will never fall
wishing that
I could forever taper his tears
shred his worries paper thin, until they disappear
and then syphon out each and every one of his fears, brandishing him
an inner peace
he smiles a lot in his sleep
and sometimes breaks into laughter
which makes me decide to just worry about making
his best day this day
and then the next one, and the next
and the next one after
all the rest
will take care of itself
[END POEM]
Hope that everyone enjoyed this one. Parents, treasure every second of every moment. One day, you'll have to step aside, but until then guide your children well.
the Rare Poet
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Maybe Tiger Isn't the Only One Who Should Put the Cell Phone Down
I have been a faithful Minnesota Vikings fan since I was a young boy. The disappointment from their current 1-3 record resonates loudly in my football soul. But more interesting is the side story that is currently developing from their season. Allegations over inapproriate conduct have been circling the head of starting quaterback Brett Favre like defensive ends going in for a kill.
Granted this is not the first time we've heard a story about a larger than life sports start being mentioned in the same vein as illicit behavior. It's been nearly one year since news of Tiger Woods and "the fire hydrant incident" began, esculating into "Cheap Whorapalooza" and resulting in a very public disintegration of his character, legacy, marriage, and golfing season. Only time will tell if and when Tiger will recover. But we all remember the text messages, especially since they were plastered on the pages of every viable news outlet for several months.
And now the Favre story emerges, and once again in the background are some text messages and suggestive photos. It makes me wonder: "What the hell are these guys thinking?" But the truth is, it's the same thing that so many of us 'regular' people think when we attempt to make our own personal connections. Perhaps we've never gotten as filthy as Mr. Woods, but the reality is that we live in a technologically advanced society, and one of the popular uses of that technology has become expressing intimacy, attraction, and sexuality in a much different manner.
There is an anonymity about sending a text message, especially to someone you really don't know. Admit it. If you've been single since cell phones existed (and there's a chance that most of us have), you've received a number in some manner, and way before calling, you've been tempted to send a text. It's an icebreaker moment like walking into a crowded club and ordering a drink for the stranger across the bar. It initializes intent, and usually gets the ball rolling towards other avenues of interaction. But, there is a dark side.
Anonymity sometimes creates a false sense of security and confidence. It shreds the linings of rationality, making you wonder why you should be reasonable when you're most likely never going to be held accountable for it. Unless of course you're worth X millions of dollars and are represented highly in a public arena. Then, you should suddenly know better.
Whether or not Favre is guilty of anything are questions better answered by the NFL and his wife, Deanna, but yet another story about a celebrity of this magnitude brings a lot of questions to mind:
1) If Favre indeed committed the acts that he's being accused of, exactly what was going through his mind as he did these things?
2) Will this lead to another high profile story of sordid affairs and a tragic, pricey divorce?
3) Is this the real reason Favre is throwing some passes that look like he forgot how to play football?
4)Will anybody ever tell these celebrities to put their damn cell phones down?
My mind is also working on a deeper level. Often times, these high profile sports stories filled with salacious content are presented and publicized along with the backing story (often swept under the carpet) of wealth and race. It has often been debated that African American athletes, who sometimes come from impoverished and broken families, lack the basic moral values to handle the responsibility that suddenly comes with their newly gained status and wealth. Proponents of such a belief might quickly mention the names Pacman Jones and Lawrence Taylor. Even the Tiger Woods story seemed to have several racial undertones (although I personally am curious to have seen how the story would have been handled if a certain lefty named Phil had been its guilty star).
But now, suddenly the rise of events involving athletes such as Ben Roethlisberger and this Favre ordeal make me wonder if the media simply shys away from character flaw stories, unless there is some spin on race. Case in point: most folks have all but forgotten about Letterman's long stand policy of having trysts with his employees.
Which makes me wonder if it's the spotlight. Is struggling to deal with issues of accountability a problem for all those with money, fame, and influence? Can you have all of this 'power' and not feel entitled by it? I've made some questionable decisions with a cell phone in my hand, and my power is meager in comparison.
I know one thing, if Brett Favre does go down in similar Woods fashion, it'll make for an interesting topic of discussion. The Viking fan in me simply hopes the truth can wait until after February.
the Rare Poet
Granted this is not the first time we've heard a story about a larger than life sports start being mentioned in the same vein as illicit behavior. It's been nearly one year since news of Tiger Woods and "the fire hydrant incident" began, esculating into "Cheap Whorapalooza" and resulting in a very public disintegration of his character, legacy, marriage, and golfing season. Only time will tell if and when Tiger will recover. But we all remember the text messages, especially since they were plastered on the pages of every viable news outlet for several months.
And now the Favre story emerges, and once again in the background are some text messages and suggestive photos. It makes me wonder: "What the hell are these guys thinking?" But the truth is, it's the same thing that so many of us 'regular' people think when we attempt to make our own personal connections. Perhaps we've never gotten as filthy as Mr. Woods, but the reality is that we live in a technologically advanced society, and one of the popular uses of that technology has become expressing intimacy, attraction, and sexuality in a much different manner.
There is an anonymity about sending a text message, especially to someone you really don't know. Admit it. If you've been single since cell phones existed (and there's a chance that most of us have), you've received a number in some manner, and way before calling, you've been tempted to send a text. It's an icebreaker moment like walking into a crowded club and ordering a drink for the stranger across the bar. It initializes intent, and usually gets the ball rolling towards other avenues of interaction. But, there is a dark side.
Anonymity sometimes creates a false sense of security and confidence. It shreds the linings of rationality, making you wonder why you should be reasonable when you're most likely never going to be held accountable for it. Unless of course you're worth X millions of dollars and are represented highly in a public arena. Then, you should suddenly know better.
Whether or not Favre is guilty of anything are questions better answered by the NFL and his wife, Deanna, but yet another story about a celebrity of this magnitude brings a lot of questions to mind:
1) If Favre indeed committed the acts that he's being accused of, exactly what was going through his mind as he did these things?
2) Will this lead to another high profile story of sordid affairs and a tragic, pricey divorce?
3) Is this the real reason Favre is throwing some passes that look like he forgot how to play football?
4)Will anybody ever tell these celebrities to put their damn cell phones down?
My mind is also working on a deeper level. Often times, these high profile sports stories filled with salacious content are presented and publicized along with the backing story (often swept under the carpet) of wealth and race. It has often been debated that African American athletes, who sometimes come from impoverished and broken families, lack the basic moral values to handle the responsibility that suddenly comes with their newly gained status and wealth. Proponents of such a belief might quickly mention the names Pacman Jones and Lawrence Taylor. Even the Tiger Woods story seemed to have several racial undertones (although I personally am curious to have seen how the story would have been handled if a certain lefty named Phil had been its guilty star).
But now, suddenly the rise of events involving athletes such as Ben Roethlisberger and this Favre ordeal make me wonder if the media simply shys away from character flaw stories, unless there is some spin on race. Case in point: most folks have all but forgotten about Letterman's long stand policy of having trysts with his employees.
Which makes me wonder if it's the spotlight. Is struggling to deal with issues of accountability a problem for all those with money, fame, and influence? Can you have all of this 'power' and not feel entitled by it? I've made some questionable decisions with a cell phone in my hand, and my power is meager in comparison.
I know one thing, if Brett Favre does go down in similar Woods fashion, it'll make for an interesting topic of discussion. The Viking fan in me simply hopes the truth can wait until after February.
the Rare Poet
Excerpts from a Story in My Head
Writing is what I feel like I was born to do. I've been putting together words on a page since I was around 8 years old. Thankfully, since then the stories have become better. Ideas come to me from everything, and usually when they come I just write them down. Here is the beginnings of a novel that hopefully one day, I will complete.
the Rare Poet
[WARNING: The enclosed content may be considered graphic. Reader discretion is advised!!]
Chapter One
Outside, a steady rain fell in quick heavy droplets, each one hitting the ground like loose change. A rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, yet there was no lightnight, yet.
He sat at the foot of the bed, eyes lit with deep excitement. A smile curled along his face, forming a seductive C that was lying on its back. She could tell exactly what he was thinking. Stormy nights like these were always the best.
His dark brown eyes scanned back and forth, delighted by the view in front of them. Passion was sitting on top of the dresser. One leg crossed, hiding her sweetest treasure, she wore nothing but a sheer pink negligee, cut off revealingly near the navel. Her skin looked smooth and soft beneath it. Her breasts, naturally large and firm, seemed ready to explode from their fabric cage. She inhaled deeply.
“Come here.”
His command was gentle, two longing fingers motioning for her to join him on the bed.
“Hell no!” she replied, full of fiesty attitude.
She laughed playfully. Standing slowly, ample ass dropping from its concealment, she faked the need to stretch, bending over to give him an awesome display. His visible arousal nearly drove her wild.
“I said come here!”
This time he was much more forceful. She loved a man who demanded what he wanted. Part of her considered running to the bed. But she purposely walked away. Passion moved erotically, swaying her hips as if pleasure was connected directly to points nearby. She came to a rest in front of the wall and did a slow half spin, until once again she was facing him.
If looks could talk, the one now planted on his face screamed of intense desire. It yelled about doing things that no two people should do and ever mention again. Their recollection might melt through steel.
“You want to fuck me don’t you?”
The naughty grin that jumped onto Passion’s face, was met by his simple nod. He looked dumbfounded. They had been together before, but he had never seen her like this. She stood, her 5’11” frame plastered against the wall as if she were its skin, looking out at him with hungry eyes. Her legs were pressed firmly together. She let the negligee fall from her warm body. He sat up straight, making Passion smile.
With measurements of 40-28-38 and the complexion of light brown sugar, she could confidently say that she possessed the goods that made most men go crazy. Watching his lustful eyes ogle over her body, as if she were some gift from heaven, provoked her, causing warm juices to rush down towards her thighs. Passion moaned. She could take no more of this. It was clearly time.
Her legs spread open.
“If you want me,” she said sexily, her voice just above a whisper, “then come and get me. But make it special.”
She barely got the last word out.
The laws of physics state that momentum is equal to the product of an object’s mass and its velocity. Most scientist probably never thought to calculate eagerness into this equation. Passion would have sworn when he pressed into her that they had crashed through the wall.
All of a sudden, he was on her. He met her body with hungry kisses. They hit her neck, her lips, the arcs of her shoulders. His lips moved like a child’s fingers through wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Fast. Needy. Wanting to touch more and more. A kiss grazed the skin near the meeting of her breasts and electricity tore through her. Passion moaned, feeling her already alert nipples begin to harden. He moved down expertly, tasting her body from stomach to navel. Soon he was at the inside of her thigh and waterworks ensued.
There is something about eating pussy that, when done correctly, should cause mountains to move. That’s if the feeling could be channeled and properly refocused. Instead it made Passion tremble. She was always amazed at his skill. As he masterfully started to suck and lick and taste, she could feel herself gushing. The room became warm and her breathing quickened. Her heart was beating as if she were falling several feet. Instinctively, a hand clutched a spot just above her throbbing breasts.
“Oh my God!!” was all Passion could throatily yell out.
Suddenly, she was exploding, a trail of wetness pouring from within. The way his head moved in anticipation, he had planned this and continued to taste her, pleased. His body rose slowly, and her eyes opened, needing to meet his. The look was legendary. ‘Yes, I do own this!’, she imagined them saying. And then he moved quickly, thrusting inside of her before she could prepare.
Passion’s ass rose up the wall as he lifted and all she could think of was Heaven and Stairmasters. She closed her eyes as he dug in, feeling the muscles in her most excited recesses squeeze hold of him for dear life. A rollercoaster of a dick ride, she might describe it as later. He worked it as if he were curling and dipping, twisting and looping, rising and falling, and as she moaned out, a thought made her grin. It was scary how good that dick felt inside of her. The pussy might never be the same.
An hour later, she lay on her back on the bed, her long legs spread back to her shoulders. No matter what position they moved to, it just kept feeling better. She licked her fingers as he composed erotic music inside of her, each stroke a note that made her want to sing. Passion came two more times before he was finished, the most since she was a freshman in college. Every limb exhausted, shoulder length hair a mess, his body quivering on top of hers, she couldn’t help but grin deeply. He had put it down.
“That was…that was…”
She couldn’t find the words. She continued to smile as he got dressed, happy to see that he was just as satisfied.
“My pleasure.” he said, in his soft spoken voice, sexy beyond belief.
Passion lit a cigarette and dug her naked body into the softness of the queen size bed. She felt good. The mattress felt good. What more could a woman need? She looked up at him.
“How come you never performed like that before?”
“You never asked.”
The words felt good, but Passion was quiet, deciding to play it cool.
“Oh, before I forget…” he said, voice trailing off. He reached for an envelope on the table next to them and awkwardly handed it to her.
This felt like a slap in the face, but once again she played it cool.
“Thanks a lot,” Passion said, fanning through the envelope, “you make a girl forget that she’s working.”
Neatly tucked inside were fifteen $100 bills, the cost for two hours of her time.
He moved slowly when he finally stood, as if he really didn’t want to leave. He checked his suit once more in the mirror, and then finally walked over to Passion.
“Malik, that was wonderful. I…”
He placed his finger against her beautiful lips and smiled. He kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Like I said….my pleasure.”
Malik had left the room before she could find the words to interject. He almost made her want to call out to him; to run after him, beg him to stay, and even promise to change her ways. But as Passion took a pull from the cigarette and stared at the envelope filled with cash, the truth hit her like a shot of Hennessy. Almost doesn’t count.
"If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It" Sounds Really Nice....But Means It Only Stays The Same
Greetings all. It's early in the a.m., but not surprisingly, I am still awake. Luckily, I am also being productive.
This is another new poem I just finished, and I am absolutely loving the message behind it. Basically it is all about positive change. The concept of change frightens many people, because most people don't know how or where to begin. Yet the concept of progress is nearly universally embraced, because most people desire to do better. The trouble with this is that all progress is change, because if you're better, then you are different from what you were before. In order to make progress, one must change, even if only in a minimal way. Fearing change means fearing progress. Hopefully these words will inspire a call to action.
the Rare Poet
Thinking of a Master Plan
I am cooking up a recipe for disaster
to my blues, unfilling meals that just
stick to my ribs
I am dishing out moments that here on after
will only serve as
music to my ears
I am working on a symphony, unfinished
but from the moment that I hear it, it'll
replenish my soul, like
here I am baby, signed, sealed,
and delivered, I sent it
I am
issuing out a promise, and I meant it
this is my master plan
my vow to display me as a
brushstroke from the Master's hand
I will never go to sleep
feeling like I gave less than best
because I once resided prime in a palace of all things divine
and until I get myself back home, my soul can't rest
this life is not a test
it is mind, body, and soul voyaging each
momentary process
that's why
I am organizing a hostile takeover
of every second that incorporates something important to me
I am moving at the pace of healed
the break's over
stagnant no more, whole is what I'm determined to be
in the hopes that
little black boys and little black girls
can see me, and be hopeful in
their black skin, and that
folks of all races can shed separation
learning the power of the word 'blend'
I am mending my fences
stretching this poem out as an extension
that I can bridge this world
through my pen
or better yet through the idea
that proper planning leads to the command
of anything, possibilities endless
I am authoring the perfect ending
to all previous chapters
and happy is a predrawn conclusion
I am scripting out intros to the
next generation's sequels
hoping my voice finds its inclusion
somewhere in the opening credits, speaking loudly,
saying
that the top is not a place to rise to, it's a
determined march in a forward progression...
and the way to get there
is to plan to be there, and keep moving towards it
never changing your direction
because the future starts
now
This is another new poem I just finished, and I am absolutely loving the message behind it. Basically it is all about positive change. The concept of change frightens many people, because most people don't know how or where to begin. Yet the concept of progress is nearly universally embraced, because most people desire to do better. The trouble with this is that all progress is change, because if you're better, then you are different from what you were before. In order to make progress, one must change, even if only in a minimal way. Fearing change means fearing progress. Hopefully these words will inspire a call to action.
the Rare Poet
Thinking of a Master Plan
I am cooking up a recipe for disaster
to my blues, unfilling meals that just
stick to my ribs
I am dishing out moments that here on after
will only serve as
music to my ears
I am working on a symphony, unfinished
but from the moment that I hear it, it'll
replenish my soul, like
here I am baby, signed, sealed,
and delivered, I sent it
I am
issuing out a promise, and I meant it
this is my master plan
my vow to display me as a
brushstroke from the Master's hand
I will never go to sleep
feeling like I gave less than best
because I once resided prime in a palace of all things divine
and until I get myself back home, my soul can't rest
this life is not a test
it is mind, body, and soul voyaging each
momentary process
that's why
I am organizing a hostile takeover
of every second that incorporates something important to me
I am moving at the pace of healed
the break's over
stagnant no more, whole is what I'm determined to be
in the hopes that
little black boys and little black girls
can see me, and be hopeful in
their black skin, and that
folks of all races can shed separation
learning the power of the word 'blend'
I am mending my fences
stretching this poem out as an extension
that I can bridge this world
through my pen
or better yet through the idea
that proper planning leads to the command
of anything, possibilities endless
I am authoring the perfect ending
to all previous chapters
and happy is a predrawn conclusion
I am scripting out intros to the
next generation's sequels
hoping my voice finds its inclusion
somewhere in the opening credits, speaking loudly,
saying
that the top is not a place to rise to, it's a
determined march in a forward progression...
and the way to get there
is to plan to be there, and keep moving towards it
never changing your direction
because the future starts
now
Audio Poem: I Am Rare
Here's a piece I just finished, called I Am Rare. The link below is to one of my blog pages, which includes the same audio, as well as the poem. (Please check out all of the new material under the Pages menu, as it will be frequently edited)
Enjoy!!
the Rare Poet
http://therareviewmirror.blogspot.com/p/i-am-rare-introduction-poem.html
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Door Opens (Deja Vu Moment)
The last week and a half has certainly been a journey in itself, but the good news is that the blog is back up and running, and I've rededicated myself to making it the best it can possibly be. I've learned a lot about myself as I've attempted to recreate, perfect, update, redesign, and improve what I'm attempting to present here. But the most important thing I've learned is that the exterior or packaging of something plays second fiddle to the content within. This blog is merely a look into me, displaying my thoughts, fears, dreams, regrets, hopes, opinions and ambitions. From now on, I will simply work on doing that.
So to my faithful followers, and newcomers as well, here are a few peeks into the rare view mirror. Hopefully you all will enjoy what you see.
And of course, it's good to be back.
the Rare Poet
So to my faithful followers, and newcomers as well, here are a few peeks into the rare view mirror. Hopefully you all will enjoy what you see.
And of course, it's good to be back.
the Rare Poet
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Poetry Spotlight
Which is what I'm going to start calling this little section....but it's where I spread the love and showcase the talent of others. This time around comes Jennifer Claude, and she is a master with a pen. Hope she's smiling as she reads this.
Misdiagnosis 15/30
I embraced the butterflies that set up residence in my stomach on the eve of our first kiss
That is, until I became an activist
Now the whole world thinks I'm sick
Recklessly bingeing on the idea of you & purging our memories
But that ain’t it
I ain’t sick
I just stuck my finger down my throat to set them free
Let them shake from their wings the residue of putrid spoiled love
Long processed but never digested
Just settling in the pit of my gut
Rising around the butterflies’ feet
Sloshing around the edges of their wings
And as they pushed their feathery extensions toward Heaven praying for release
I assumed that the feelings I felt were of joy & contentment
But the butterflies were no longer content and that meant no relief for me
And with their lives in the balance they warranted their right, their need to be free
And so now you see how it had nothing to do with him
But it had everything to do with the activist in me
So, as not to seem a hypocrite, I did the only decent thing
And though to the outside world it may have looked like I was
Recklessly binging on the idea of you and purging our memories
That was never the case
I simply stuck my finger down my throat
Cause that was the only way to set them free
Plus, the way I figure
The butterflies shouldn’t have to pay for my bad choices in consumption…
Now the whole world thinks I'm sick
Recklessly bingeing on the idea of you & purging our memories
But that ain’t it
I ain’t sick
I just stuck my finger down my throat to set them free
Let them shake from their wings the residue of putrid spoiled love
Long processed but never digested
Just settling in the pit of my gut
Rising around the butterflies’ feet
Sloshing around the edges of their wings
And as they pushed their feathery extensions toward Heaven praying for release
I assumed that the feelings I felt were of joy & contentment
But the butterflies were no longer content and that meant no relief for me
And with their lives in the balance they warranted their right, their need to be free
And so now you see how it had nothing to do with him
But it had everything to do with the activist in me
So, as not to seem a hypocrite, I did the only decent thing
And though to the outside world it may have looked like I was
Recklessly binging on the idea of you and purging our memories
That was never the case
I simply stuck my finger down my throat
Cause that was the only way to set them free
Plus, the way I figure
The butterflies shouldn’t have to pay for my bad choices in consumption…
[End Poem]
be sure to check out Jennifer's page, where you'll find more excellent work
Much love,
Marcus
I Get Tired Of Tossing Complaints In The Air, So I'll Throw A Record On Instead
Just some good music, in various genres, too help you all pass the days:
With one of the most hauntingly soulful voices to ever open and sing, Nina Simone has always been able to make me smile, laugh, scream, cry, moan, beg, and shout, all at once.
I remember in 1994, when I first discovered the album 'Four' and was swept off into the magic of John Popper...over a decade later, the magic still won't fade
From the feeling you get when the beat comes in, hip-hop and r&b fans simply fell in love with the miseducation of one of both genres most talented female artists to date.
Just as its title implies, listening to this song just feels good!! Love how this group combines so many styles and sounds in their music.
"Best I Ever Had" --- Drake
Unless you've been living under a rock for a while now, you at least have seen this guy somewhere. The Canadian rapper/singer has taken the hip-hop world by storm, and this is the mixtape hit that started it all.
"Lisztomania" --- Phoenix
Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix is most likely the best CD that you've never heard. Look for it!!
Hope you all enjoy'd this peek into my ecclectic music tastes...certainly more to come.
Much love,
Marcus
| Nina Simone - I Put a Spell on You .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
"I Put A Spell On You" --- Nina Simone
With one of the most hauntingly soulful voices to ever open and sing, Nina Simone has always been able to make me smile, laugh, scream, cry, moan, beg, and shout, all at once.
| Blues Traveler - Hook .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
"Hook" --- Blues Traveler
I remember in 1994, when I first discovered the album 'Four' and was swept off into the magic of John Popper...over a decade later, the magic still won't fade
| Lauren Hill - Lost Ones .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
"Lost Ones" --- Lauryn Hill
From the feeling you get when the beat comes in, hip-hop and r&b fans simply fell in love with the miseducation of one of both genres most talented female artists to date.
| gorillaz - feel good inc .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
"Feel Good Inc." --- Gorillaz
Just as its title implies, listening to this song just feels good!! Love how this group combines so many styles and sounds in their music.
| Drake - 10 Best I Ever Had .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Unless you've been living under a rock for a while now, you at least have seen this guy somewhere. The Canadian rapper/singer has taken the hip-hop world by storm, and this is the mixtape hit that started it all.
| Phoenix - Lisztomania .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix is most likely the best CD that you've never heard. Look for it!!
Hope you all enjoy'd this peek into my ecclectic music tastes...certainly more to come.
Much love,
Marcus
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