Boring weekend with too much downtime and the end result is me posting a poem I meant to keep private. Yeah, Kate, you can get on my ass for being a morose m’fer (as you did last time ) but I thought this was good even if it was muy triste.

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It’s been a long time since I wrote anything rhyme-based. In fact, despite all the hurt and emptiness — I haven’t been inspired to write shit. Usually the hurt, the pain, the anguish, the longing… It all drives me to write. It (or usually the source of everything inside) becomes a muse. I’ve had some great muses in my time (I’m talking people here, not instances of anguish) where the longing was what drove me to scrawl out lines of internal conflict and what not. Three above the others. And one trumps all.

It’s odd, though, that Current Source has inspired almost nothing for me. Here and there? Yeah. But nothing profound… The only poem that I had written was months old.

While I like the rhyme and the declaration — which goes beyond the obvious call for someone to drop their emotional wall and let someone “in” — it was foreshadowing of sorts. A warning sign I kept ignoring.

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The wine has no flavor anymore
The spark from her lips has died
Her words have faded and now mean nothing
Was my love just a precious lie??

The gifts have long since been used
My smiles have turned to frowns
She makes no effort in hopes to arouse me
With sweet kisses or elegant gowns

The title “best friend” has now gone to sorrow
And dreams of her never enter my brain
I fear that our loving does now escape us
And I will end up living the blame

My loving for her used to be like a candle
That dances and savors the air
But the wick has grown short
And the air has grown fogged
And I’m dying, but she does not care

Was it a lie, the feelings I felt?
Should I have taken another trail?
Should I have avoided her caress –
And her sweet, somber sorrow
And not felt whole when she touched my flame?

I know not the answers to these idle problems
I do not know who’s guilt is to blame
I only sit back writing poems and anthems
Of regret and my feelings of shame

© 1999 John P. Fontana

For a couple of years I had my writing online on various extensions of this domain name. Basically it was one short story and about a hundred poems that I had decided to put online.

Being the busy bee that I am and having other things to do online, I decided instead of keeping the site up and running, I took it down. All while saving the files.

Well, in a limited case I’m putting a definitive writing section back online. You can access it directly and you can also access it from the above menu by clicking WRITING.

Oh, and for the moment you can jump to the poems directly on the sidebar here on der Stonegauge’s main site. Some were never part of my collection on the old writings site and some were.

Since my sophomore year in High School back in 1994 I’ve done my share of writing rhyming verse and what one may or may not call poetry. Some of the following prose was written between 1994 and the present and will be marked accordingly after. Some are romance, some are broken hearts, some are stories, some observations, some anger and some despair. It’s subjective if any of them are good or not…

Right now the sub pages (which are the poems themselves) are unorganized. I’d like to alphabetize them in the future but right now it’s just what I post, when I post them that the order will be shown in. That doesn’t give any semblance to when or where these poems were written, how I feel about them or personal priority… They are just words.

So where was I?

Oh, yeah… Dwelling on inevitability. Surgery. All that joyous stuff that makes life grand for me. August 7th, 2007 was an extremely surreal experience in that my focus had to be elsewhere instead of impending doom and gloom (thank you Oren Koules, Jim Sherrin and Doug Maclean). Surreal may be a strong word for it. A grand, welcome distraction might be a better phrasing. Having a friend come over to spend some time with me and further distract me only aided to things.

The next day was no better – wanting to deal with that story and yet lying in a hospital gurney most of the day while waiting an angiogram: the pre-operative procedure as bad as I dreaded (but with a great staff of physicians trying to deal with my issues and some medical breakthroughs since my last angiogram that kept me from being bed ridden).

You know, I feel like I’m being shallow in the details but at the same time — there weren’t many meaty details before I was trucked off to the ninth floor at Tampa General Hospital where I stayed overnight before surgery. Besides pain issues with thanks to the angiogram, everything went swimmingly.

And how can I properly term my stay at TGH besides saying I was surrounded by good omens and positive energy? Days previous to surgery, I’d gotten a religious card sent to me with the only Patron Saint I identify with. It’s sorta grim but after I learned about him (and wrote about a poem where I invoked him) I didn’t see it as an ill omen as-so-much familiarity. I can deal with familiarity.

When I got to the ninth floor, who greets me warmly but an old friend from High School who works as an Registered Nurse on the floor? It was good mojo to see her, realize who she was and have come right up to me and say hi.

Another thing that was positive and yet drenched with negativity was a nurse I had overnight who I couldn’t understand due to her accent. She was warm, pleasant and tried her best to overcome things and I foudn myself mad that I had gotten frustrated with her.

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Not one of my better poems, was written in a bit of a rush the other night when I had this thought on my mind… Inspired in part by The Lake House

Letter

I want to write you this letter
And
I want to spend time in thought and
Trying to figure out what I’d say to you
It’s great when you get a letter in the mail

And I’m thinking about writing a letter
And
It’s been a few weeks since we talked and
Right now you’re on my mind
Whether you like that idea or not

So it’s been a few weeks since we talked
And
The last time we did, we fought and
I let you walk all over me,
While you had good reason to be pissed

Yet I was all apologies
And
All in all is all we are
You never offered me the same
For you getting all angry and acting lame
I’d better not write you this letter after all

Why I better not write this letter
Is
Because you just don’t respect me and
You got me tied around your little finger
And just twist and twist me tighter than a knot

Knots can be so cruel
And
They can be like feeling locked inside
Yeah, feelings can be knots too
Cinching tighter and restraining things

So I’m writing you this letter
And
I’m just a piece of twine twisted around
Your pinkie is red from this yarn
That we’ve both been spinning for ages

And it’s great getting letters in the mail
And
Last one I sent you was years ago
And I tap-tapity-tapped it up on my keyboard
My handwriting is a horror unto itself

The horror of my day
Is
Realizing I still have feelings for you
And you’ve pretty clearly moved stage left
The lights are bright on Broadway
“The Producers” is better watched with an audience

And I don’t know if you care
About
Getting a letter in the mail from me
Letters in the mail are great but even better
When you don’t expect them
I’m the king of “don’t-expect’em”

And my wrist is getting
Cramped
Writing out this yarned ramble
Ramble – what we know so well
What we loved, what we lived, what we did for hours

And I watched this movie
Tonight
And it got me thinking that i ought to
Write you a letter
You could care less about the addressee
Your residence wasn’t hard to find

So I’m closing this letter off
And
Hoping to put things to rest even though it’s
Special to get a letter in the mail
And I want to share special with you again

All in all is all we are
And
Kurt Cobain is formally dead and
You can’t respect someone who kisses your ass
It just doesn’t work

So I watched this movie tonight
And
I wanted to write you a letter
I wanted to write you this letter
It’s great getting something in the mail
————

© John Fontana

I started writing this one months ago while someone was kvetching to me in the usual disrespectful “you’re there while I need you” manner and gave me a little vision during it.

So one good thing came from my sap act:

Dance of the Ages

Dancing barefoot in the grass
Gypsy woman reflects the ages
Curly hair tied back with rags
The melody makes love to her

Fabric waving through the air
Her dress flaps loose, without a care
Playing on the tamborine
And watchers heeding her every move

Gypsy woman lives on the road
No roots or ties, she knows no home
Her band of gypsies come and go
Strangers eyes are her closest friend

Night falls and the music ends
She washes, naked, at the rivers edge
Pale moonlight bathes her in a glow
She longs for the throes of passion

Day comes and the troop pushes forth
On their course, their road heads north
Gypsy woman heeds that cry
Somewhere new, there’s a strangers eye —

To captivate and to alure
A lovers gaze, a young man’s urge
To tease and taunt through her dance of ages
She lures them to her like cats to string

© 2007 John Fontana

On a creative tear.

Moral Suicide

What is a standard worth
When you are
Unhappy in life under it?

What is a principle worth
If it keeps you alone
Day-dreaming of a bliss that
Isn’t real?

The rules and laws
You set for yourself
Are made to be broken –
–unless you dread where
Life will lead
Without them

Unhappiness is a constant,
When longing an unattained goal
Which amounts to the
Standard practice
Of my life

© 2007 John Fontana

Untitled

All I can do is watch you from
Afar
Your blonde hair
Shifting with the breeze -
Willow branches taunted by the
Throes of air as it bows and
Sways where and when
The hidden forces will it

All I do is admire you from
Afar
Smile darting and mischievous
Gleeful
Youth and happiness
Escaping into a
Cynical world
Anarchy and confusions
Life as we both know it

All I can do is endeavor into your
World
Mysteries of your being –
Auroras in the heavens
Blazing and dancing
Wonderment, allure,
Compelling me to try,
Try,
Try again

All I can do know you through my
Reverie
Out of reach, out of knowing
Out of a solution to the confusions
That find me enamored by you
Knowing nothing is a bliss
Having nothing — torture
Yet having this dream spoiled
Having the answers
May just extinguish the
Artistic maelstrom
Your palette paints into my
Soul