Wednesday, January 19, 2011

True to the Touch: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

When I saw you; you blinded my eyes with beauty just by the near sight of you.

All this time I wish I could spend with you; but I never have time for our love.

Forgive me for what I’ve become your all I want in life; true to me, true to the touch and never able to see the beauty of our love.

You’re like the sky; you’re like the moon to me always there but to far away to hold.

I still have the taste of your lips on my mind from our last kiss and it’s the only thing that keeps me going.

It just seems like things have all just gone wrong until you sing me to sleep with a beautiful song.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The Blind Flock: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

Back to the hustle; to this man made concrete heaven soon to be its own country of over populated life styles.

Self centered rights the voice for some that think they are lost and get trapped in its grasp of an oasis of feeling like they really belong only to find out that they are been scammed.

They have been led to the slaughter of self indulgence and if there was a hell in this country then this is truly from north to south.

Travel all you want you wont find happiness; be you the victor or the failure it’s all in the same book from back to front take your time it won’t change.

Enjoy it all but hope there is no end and if there is I am sure it will not be pretty.

By John McKinley Pride Jr

Monday, January 17, 2011

Every Ones Clown: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

It’s this dream we all have that every one loves us all.

Yet like the truth seeping through your submerged shelled life it drowns you.

You find out they have been trying to sink you for years.

“Now you’re not going to be pushed around any more”
(You say to your self, with full confidence)

But they can smell your fear like the hounds from hell they prey on you.

If you just sit there what do they have to fear?

Nothing at all, in less you make it clear that you wont be the clown in there private circus anymore.

By John M. Pride Jr.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Critics Love them or Dislike them: a thought By John McKinley Pride Jr

Well love them or dislike them we must some how deal with critics all through life from friends to family, from coworkers to bosses, from classmates to teachers and from neighbors to just the simple passer by. Well if you do anything that is set into the public’s eye or put it up on the “World Wide Web” then you know that people are going to love you or dislike you and friends nothing has changed when it comes to critics. Point been every body is a critic and a plethora of knowledge when it comes to your work. So be it flowers or tomatoes get ready cause the love you have for the work you do will be tested whether you like it or not.

From Shakespeare to Pollock they have all been criticized for there work that they do. Some loved them and some hated them or were just plain jealous for the talents they possessed. One critic went as far as to say that Pollock’s work resembled burnt macaroni on canvas and some critics have gone far enough to say the Shakespeare did not write all of his plays because of his educational back ground and the fact that he had not been to any of the places he made his plays about.

As artists we need critics no matter how much they tare us down. Basically because there is some crazy notion in my head telling me that I need to work harder and improve my style or how I present my work to others. That’s the magic of critics getting under your skin and for some reason it pushes you to do better or maybe change it up and try something different.

So how do you deal with critics? Well friends I know this is the last thing some one wants to hear; well we suck it up and except the challenge they put before us to better our work. Swallow our pride and stubbornness in the act of planning the perfect attack of created the best work you have ever made. I one time went as far as to make a poem about two critics that just shot me down with no mercy.

And well low and behold here it is just for you to see, check it out lady’s and gents.
Jaded Ivy

The words spill out on to the page, but they don’t seem to go anywhere.
No eyes or mouths can figure them out, brains of those who read it burn and fizzle trying to knead it in to there own ideas of what the words should be.

Were does this go?

How does this fit?

No, no, no the words are all wrong, this should be here and that should go there.
Trying to find some mathematical problem deeply imbedded somewhere in the words I bleed.

It is not science nor is it a puzzle to figure out why we are here; it is words put to paper to shout out loud and clear to the whole world I am here.

To see that the soul has nothing to fear, to peek out of your heart at the demons that have built up inside of you and say here I am bearing it all; all for you to see my love, my fears, my happiness and my loathing.

Wait, wait a hush for just a moment; I will shut my mouth or do I shudder when I think silence must become me because of the words that come from you, thinking it to be wisdom past on to some one who had nothing and made something even more grand than life offered.

The paper my body, the pen my spirit and the ink my blood; surly you think these words come from a mad man; well my friend such is my writing, such is my work.

So I slowly remove the jaded ivy around my head and I think to my self a peaceful thought and I walk away knowing that you know nothing about me at all.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

That was my big boy way of handling the sitch. But the one thing I noticed as I said it mad me want to do and try even harder than before.

The Great Sir Peter O’Toole said it best as Anton Ego a cartoon character from Ratatouille. Which in mind I think this was the best speech I have ever heard. It’s crazy to think that such a wonderful speech would come from a children’s movie. Check this out word for word; I truly love it so much and it gives hope to us who love the arts we do.

I think in many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize that only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau's, who is, in this critic's opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau's soon, hungry for more.

So next time some one has something really snotty to say about your work. Use it as ammo to spark that poem, art piece, music what ever your love is even if it is you’re every day job. We want others to respect us I think that is a fact for every one in this crazy world and I think the best way to show some one that there not going to get the best of you is by working harder and in the process others will notice that work that you do and the opinion of the other person will simply dwindle into comparisons to the respect you get from others. Now don’t get me wrong if there is one thing we all know is that you can not make every one happy. But in this case you are staying happy and staying on top of your game.

Thank you every one and have a wonderful rest of the week


This Street Named Doubt: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

I look down the street and all I see is the

I'll run until I get there; I hope I
get there soon and I'll run to the end.

I'll pass up everything that is important; the
end that is were I'm running to until the end swallows me whole.

I know it is coming and I can never see it.

Yes; the end is where I would like to go and the end is
where I belong.

Drawling me near and keeping me panicked at the end.

At the end is where we all will go.

So, you say to me that I must face my fears and embrace
theme if I am to fear theme no longer.

To become my fears and know that I am stronger; to win this race and no longer walk amongst the fences of doubt that others have put
before me.

Yes, you ask me if I still have
my senses.

I tell you yes, because I know
where I am going in the end.

Way past this street named doubt that you have paved in front of me.

Way past the limits that you have branded me with.

Way past all those who have doubted who I could become.

Well I say let the doubters doubt and let me be who I am; because the road to happiness will be all mine in the end.

John McKinley Pride Jr.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Turn Away: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

The loneliness behind you, the sadness in front of you and your face hangs low till you win again.

How many win and how many lose, if I was there and you were here, would it make a difference if conscience were here.

Behind your eyes you dream of sunrise and broad skies, but was it you that was missing, or was it I, that could not say a thing, or was I the one that was missing too.

I don’t really know, you slowly look down at me as you lay your cards down, you win again.

Its one out of a thousand ways to see your on top again and I’ll just lay down my cards of fate, slowly turn away from the table knowing, I lost again.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Friday, January 7, 2011

What happens when you become a block head?

Posted on as well on 1/6/11

Well first off I would like to say thank you to who ever reads my blog or even shows any interest in it. It is truly humbling and an honor to have any one looking at my work or even my blog; Thank you so much.

I’m in a bit of a slump right now with my poetry and need to have a piece done by Saturday for a friend of mine. So; I thought this would be a good thing to blog about since I’m sure we all go through these from time to time and maybe this might help me in the process so lets do this.

Ok you have this idea, well you kind of have this idea and well there went that idea and yep now that idea is completely gone forever some where in that forbidden zone called “The Writers Block” DUN-DUN-DDAAAAAA!! Staring, you guised it; YOU!

How many times have you been in a funk to where you just can not seem to kick the block head syndrome?

You try every thing and for some odd reason you cant get the creative juices flowing. We as writers tend to get in this zone for days, weeks, months, and God-forbid years. Some times there is just too much going on in our world to the extent of almost breaking us to give up what we love.

Sorry but this is a reality we must all endure together in all art forms. Searching, searching and searching for that one true way to break the bondage of this two ton monkey that ways on our backs slapping us on our heads making curled lip faces at us every time we look in the mirror.

Ok so how do you break this viscous curse?

Do you?

1. Read a favorite author
2. Listen to a type of music or a favorite CD, band or composer
3. Go to a random convenient store and dance around to songs by “The Knack" =0)
4. Go to a park, lake maybe camping and hiking using nature as your muse
5. Watching an old movie or maybe a new one “In to the Wild” not new but good
6. Or just sitting on your front or back porch listening to what is around you
7. Maybe spending time with family or friends
8. One of my favorites and its weird; sit in the dark out of site out of mind
9. Maybe pick up another type of art that is opposite of what you do; the more flexible we are in the arts, the less road blocks we come across I think.

Number 2 you won’t get innless if you have seen “Reality Bites”. So, these are just a couple of the ways I try to shape my block head back in to a poetic word force it needs to be in. Well I have shared with you some of my tricks to shake “The Writers Block” I would love to hear from you what is a couple of your favorite routines to getting back on track and gaining confidence back in what you love to do.

Thanks so much for reading and have a great weekend.

John “Charmlessman”

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Let It Go: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

More space in my open place
See this face it’s not mine; behind this all is where I hide.

Got to take it slow, run with the flow
Feel the clutch in my head and a hand of fear until I let it go.

Some rage in my eyes, but love in my heart this time is blind; just take it slow and let it go.

But what if I feel it?

Where do I go with this monkey on my back?

I can’t find it; the space or the place that my emotions want to hold so tight.

More space in my open place; this face is not mine. Got to take it slow and just let it all go.

By John M. Pride Jr

Monday, January 3, 2011

The Drowning Tide: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

The tide will take me away, far out into the sea of all my problems.

Leaving me stranded like a man with one arm swimming in circles, I can’t find my way.

Lost in a labyrinth of liquid ready to submerge me in a deep darkness, only one last breath to breathe, the weight of the sea is crushing my soul.

It has finally taking its toll, swimming in sadness, lost in the unknown, powerless and defenseless against what I have known.

Sinking slowly; but surly; as time sneaks up and takes my will; it’s my life it will steal.

My heart is silent, my skin is pastel, my lips an arctic blue, and my eyes shut never to open again.

My body floating in perpetuity; my spirit free to soar to the sky, to live, not to die.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The Soul of a Butterfly: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

We lead a life of a caterpillar, not knowing that it is not our real life to be forever.

To shed this shell that holds the soul so dear not wanting to let go of the life it holds; it will always be clear this body is not forever.

Though I learn to crawl then walk and run with mirth upon my face as a child; though I learn to love and think as a youth it’s clear that this is not my true existence to be.

Soon this shell that is fleshly tempted will grow old and fade away; my heart will burn like a radiance never seen.

To be free at last and to rest forever in the love that will never lose color in whom I am to be in the end.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

If You're Head Should Explode a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"If You're Head Should Explode"

For these are the days we see,

in blue white lights of tattered silver steeds and dead men

Upon the sea,

across this desert night this fire burns for you;

yet you can not hear the flames of my lust rising.

Take forth your own youth and your own broken
heart and let it lie still

for what you know of love will never reach you.

Still the clouds may stay in your eyes,

like a painting in Mozart’s dreams of old times,

they have shattered as I dream of new blood
like youth lost in the pictures of our past.

Gray has become a friend of mine and a two
wheeled steed glides me to my place of rest.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.