Inside The Hearts' Walls

         Next time.......


          Next time I would take the path less traveled
And march.... No....
          I'd saunter to the beat of my drum.
Next time I would dismiss that irrational fear as own hang up.
          Next time defeat would not come at me
As a swift horse on the open plains.
Next time I would be there for the birth of my daughter, and next time I would persevere in a struggling relationship. Next time I would tell my friends and family how much I really love them.
Next time I would be there for those who needed me and next time I would care.
Next time I would make that uncomfortable phone call cause next time there would be no need to dial your number. Next time I will confront my issues and next time i will be more introspective.... Next time.... Next time I'd start now... Next time I wouldn't change a thing. Next time i would be a man straight outta the gate, be a real father, next time i wont lie cheat steal and rob. Next time ill pass on addiction.... Nah... Next time I'd do it all again cause next time i might not come out on top and next time I might not get to be the me I am becoming. Next time I might miss out on travails and adversity thus making me a stronger person. Next time I'd wait... Next time I would exercise discernment. Next time I wouldn't hurt my self my friends my family. Next time I'd love myself more, next time I would have a feeling of self worth.. Next time i will be proud of myself and my abilities... Next time i won't sell myself short, next time I will believe in
me like every one else did.. Next time I won't regret next time thee can be mo regret. Ther really is no next time for me. Next time I will act upon the fourth fifth and six chances afforded me by the graces extended towards me by the ones who love me.
          Next time i would live forever..
Next time i wouldn't hurt and I'd stop time
          and time would be tomorrow I'll try again.
Next time I would be more me and less you.
          Next time I'll have opinion and
Next time I will have a foundation on which I stand
          And next time I shall be resolute in my convictions
Next rhyme the I AM I....
          Next time imma gonna stand up
And next time I will make sure I am accounted for
          Beacuse next time i will be a person of substance and not of abuse.
Next time look out, cause next time I dream bigger and change the world and next time there shall be no If's maybes and mights cause next time imma gonna make it happen. Next time i live.. Next time it will be for always...forever and for always.. Next time I will be about eternity.

By Turtle Shell


This is one of the October 19 meeting's Next Time poems.

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Next Time


Next time, what I'll do
is try to join a club or two.

I won't slip in and out of school again
like a sewing needle with no thread.
Next time I'll do more than spend my days
just attending classes, and getting A's.

I'll unlearn how not to be seen,
unlearn how to not talk to strangers.

Unlearn skills hard won to protect the fragile heart
of a weird child who couldn't bear criticism,
from the childish peers
who couldn't let weirdness go unmocked.

Those skills were hard won and are harder lost.
So I'll join some clubs. Maybe a study group.
I'll smile at people, just to see who smiles back.
I'll learn to engage conversation, and not just deflect it.

I can relearn how to make friends.
It's an ability I had once, long ago,
so I'm certain I can reclaim it.

What is going back to school for,
if not to learn such useful things?
That's what I'll do, next time.

October 16, 2010


Next Time

At night the geese move
high and wild
through Autumn skies

When I hear their distant calls
I imagine they’re
slipping
back
through
thin layers
of veiled time:
those cirrus clouds
backlit by the harvest moon
into
summertime.

Just suppose they know
the way back!

Next time what I’d do
from the start
is learn to trust
those routes back.

And with what dizzying motion
navigate any direction
-- summer to spring and back again
any direction
but forward

and trust those
indelible patterns
stars aligned to guide
intimacy of having been before
an old friend’s hand in mine
always
heading home.

Poetry Club's prompt for October 19 (issued a week before) was to write a "Next Time" poem.  As in: what would you do differently (or the same) next time?  The line we were given to work off of was "Next time what I'd do" from the following poem.

------------------------------

Mary Oliver - Next Time


Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
   or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
   like a light.

London Calling said...
   As I sit waiting in the back reading section of the library for the
poetry club to start, there is a fatigued but quiet anticipation in the
air. Next to me sits a staff member taking count of the back of her eye
lids. Another patron sits quietly pondering the magazine in her lap
while unconsciously nibbling at the tip of her thumb nail. Furiously
pounding away at his keyboard like it has caused a personal
unforgivable offense, a man works on a paper. There are a few others.
Some are working on homework; others flaunt the movie they watch on a
tiny phone in obliviousness. Meanwhile the girl sitting next to him is
yearning to see what’s more interesting than her as she is draped over
his arm. They quickly leave as they learn what is about to transpire.
Personally, I don’t know what to expect. When I think of poetry clubs,
I think of movies like “The Dead Poets Society” or “So I Married an
Axe Murderer”. There is a small dread in the pit of my stomach.
   As Chreece, the man who invited me, enters with two unknown guests,
they quickly expunge the other occupants with questions of, “Would you
like to join our poetry club meeting today?” Moving aside the tables
and arranging the chairs into a circle, Chreece injures a participant
that dreads the stay. As the nine people gather, filling in the spots of
the newly minted but well remembered circle, Candace shares a poem to
start. “Limelight”. It expresses how being in the open and
unadulterated sunlight is better than that of the reflected or unnatural
light. A small discussion goes on about the beauty of being in the
natural light.
   L’gordonwe takes the stage. Somber in attitude he gently and
quietly starts off reading with his head down. His body language shows
that he is closed off, but the words he expresses are his soul laid
bare. The choices that he wishes could be made over again. His piece
that I titled “Next time” stills all mouths as he increases his
cadence and volume.
   Expressing slight timidity, Margaret follows up with the thought of
listening. As we listen to her, I hear a curtain that lightly flutters
between her deeper understanding of the words that flow forth, and the
images that grow in my own remembrances of when I have failed to
listen.
   Chreece now shares. There is a minor quiver in his voice as he
reads the words which recall the memories that make his emotions swell.
Though he keeps on with a smooth staccato that brings forth the very
winter; we feel the crisp air and the bitter chill. The very elements he
experienced out in wild mountains. Surviving by the very wood he hand
chopped and carried to keep his family warm. We all remember to breathe
when spring comes.
   Getting up to leave early so I can keep my next deadline, I feel a
sense of regret. What is the next person going to share? What vivid
landscape of emotions and thoughts am I now going to miss? This was
nothing like what I had in mind. As I sit here typing this, I can’t
help but think that these few are true wordsmiths. They don’t just
scribble down ink. They put immense thought and effort into each
sentence, each word, and each mark on the paper. It is felt. I don’t
know if I’ll be attending their next meeting, but I know that I
won’t think of poetry clubs the same way anymore. And if I’m ever
invited to another meeting, it won’t be with thoughts of dread.