Poem: Bitter Hope By M.A.R (A.k.a MRClueUin)

 

I wrote this around 2015 for one of my projects called; " Working Girls Lament", still in the process of working on that. But the thought of this poem just hanging around in the "My Drive" cloud in Google kinda of depressed me. (Sort of ironic if you think about it for a bit.) Anyways here is...

Bitter Hope

It gets spoiled

when you spend

time thinking 

about all that

can go wrong.

You hold on to hope

thinking as long as you

have it you can be strong.

Can you refresh hope?

Can you bring back joy

into your life?

Bitter Hope.

Tastes like ice

cream left into the

fridge to long.

What was sweet and quite delightful

makes you ask just what went wrong.

Can you say that what you promised

your heart; that you would be strong, 

would last for long?

Bitter Hope.

Must hold out.

No matter how

long.

Can you refresh hope?

Can you bring back joy

into your life?

Yes.

Bitter Hope.

MRClueuin Is Back Online!

I'm sure you all are wondering where I've been and what I've been doing. (Then again there is a slight chance that you all don't give a damn.) So for all of you who are demaning an explaination here's some videos explaining it all.

And I've also returned to vlogging so......that's a thing. Here is a second vlog post showcasing one of my poems from this blog page. Anyone remember; 'Screaming With The Mute Button On'? :)

 

 

Well that's all for now. Please stay tuned to my Youtube Channel and keep reading my blog for more poetry and art.

 

 

Love ya'll!

:D

The Bubbling Melting Pot

Sigh, my love letter to my country. Don’t worry ba-by I still love you and I won’t let anyone hurt you. ANYONE! -M.R

The Bubbling Melting Pot

Poem By M.R

This stew, this melting pot,

This concoction that hath been

Boiling over at stops and starts.

The things that hath been roiling

over from a simmer to a boil from

nye over two hundred years!

Scum hath been allowed to rise to

the surface and burnt bits to stick to

the bottom of the pot. This recipe hath

been stirred and hath salt. It burns with

pepper and hath spice aplenty for all! It

is not a perfect recipe by any means yet

it makes one hath a taste for more.

Now and again something is added to

the recipe and some hath said the stew

twas too sweet and some hath said that

the stew was too bitter. Yet in this recipe

calls forth the memories of all the Mothers

in every kitchen of the earth with all the warmth

that doth follows it.

With love as the ingredient and safety as it’s

subconscious mien one can’t help but despair

of it’s like every running out or going sour.

Becoming this tasteless sop that no one can bear.

a thin meal that gives no sustenance, a cold gruel

that goes down not well at all, a concoction that might

as well be water for all the good it does to the body.

The Bubbling Melting Pot that flawed cooks through the

ages made and mad geniuses created. A gastro metaphor

that once made can only be strengthened with more of the

sterner stuff that hath made it an enduring classic. A meal meant

for all and all are welcomed. This is gourmet fare for the masses!

This big bubbling melting pot is the most affordable meal in the universe.

The Bubbling Melting Pot

Optimism

This poem was inspired by this cool kid who works at my local Mcdonals. Thank A. !


Optimism

I look up in the sky, it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.

 

Living each day one second at a time, one minute at a time……

 

Just livin’ life with a smile.

You see me smiling?

Look at me I’m smiling.

It’s not a strain at all.

Just waking up in the morning

Is a victory; a miracle really.

 

….one hour at a time, one eight hour block at a time…..

 

They ask how I can do that day after day, smile that is.

“What’s so great about being sad all the time?” I ask back.

Just livin’ life with a smile.

You see me smiling?

Look at me I’m smiling!

It’s not a strain at all!

Just waking up in the morning

Is a victory; a miracle really.

 

….One day at a time.

I look up in the sky, it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.

 

Living each day one second at a time, one minute at a time, one hour at a time, one eight hour block at a time…….

Just  livin.

“What’s so great about being sad all the time?” I ask back.

You see me smiling.

Look at me…….

….I’m smiling…..

It’s not a strain at all!

 

 

Just waking up in the morning is a victory; a miracle really.

Miracle.

Optimism.

Serendipity--My excursion To The Williamsbus Art & Historical Center Part II

Part II

Part II

I came down stairs with no other intention of but to exit the building and go find a place to eat. Ticking off a box in my head marked, experience at a gallery and then keep it movin’. Silly me. Then what happen was this short Asian lady, middle age, slightly older than me, (shut up I’m being complimentary), well anyway she asked me if I’d like to have some food that was laid out for guest for a book signing. The two gentleman that I had saw earlier had contributed to a book. Emanations Third Eye Edited By Carter Kaplan. One of the gentlemen helped organize the illustrations for the book. Mr. Terrence Lindell. (Or so I remembered him telling me something about that. I could be wrong as I am writing from memory.) Mr. Lindell I found out later is the co-director and chief Administrator of the Williamsburg Art and Historical Center in Brooklyn.

Well I was hungry wasn’t I? Yes, I was but I certainly didn’t expect to be asked to snack with real live artists now was I. Of course me being a person who could not turn down food; even if my life depended on it, did not say no. Of course not; So I did. The next thing I know my picture was being taken with the editorial illustrator of the cover of the book Emanations Third Eye and one of the contributing writers. The picture was taken by the Curator of the Musuem Yuko Nii. (The short Asian lady whom I mentioned previously in Part I.) At the time I was quite nervous as I am around strangers but with cake in hand and smiling like a bemused idiot the photo was taken.

Then I sat down and began the introductions. Ms. Nii asked me to tell me about myself and I told her that I was a blog writer, poet, and was currently working on a book. A short story about a young man who is trying to survive in a changing world. A new world order. I went on about that for a bit carried away on a shield of artistic fevor. Then it began; That moment when conversation about one thing led to another. The writer began talking about his experiences in a South American Country where a certain image of a demon was on display. He displayed it and it had cause a stir because this gang in the area used a demon as there gang display. You know it was there symbol or something. This is where memory slackens a bit as I try to remember every thing that was being said. The convo segued into politics a bit and as Mr. Lindell did not like going into that sort of discussion we moved into a discussion of spiritual beliefs and I was relieved to find that my sharing of my theories did not shock nor annoy them.

If anything my theories seemed to match up with what that artist and writer was saying about God and spirituality. We synced up and matched just with about everything on that topic. I’ll try not to bore the reader or at least stem the tide of proselytizing so that I can go on with this essay. At any rate we talked and talked till I noticed that the sun was going down. I was having such an unbeliveable time talking with those three amazing people that I barely noticed the time.

Sadly all good things must end and it was a long way home. I gave Ms. Nii my email and blog address and bid them goodbye. I must say that I would have stayed longer but I had the feeling that the museum should be closing and that as much as an enjoyable time as we were having I didn’t want to hold Ms. Nii up.

As I was walking to the bus stop I had a epiphany of sorts. What if I hadn’t decided on a day of culture what if I had instead decided to go to the movies or something? (Not that going to the movies is not culture in of it’s self. However what I had in mind that day was a day of high end culture.) Instead I searched my internet and found something I had not planned on doing.

Having a meaningful day filled with Serendipity.

Well that was my experience for what it’s worth. I hope that someday soon my readers will have an experience with Serendipity soon.

Thank you for reading

Note: I may have forgotten more than I remember however it must be said that I think the reason for that is that I took so long in writing this and lost my notes. Bievenido Bones Banez Jr. may have been the ‘writer’ I was talking to but now that I think on it and did some research of a sort I think he is an artist and if you wish to research him yourself go ahead. I mean I’m not Google you know. ;)

Serendipity--My excursion To The Williamsbus Art & Historical Center Part I

Here lies one of those experiences that happen once in a life time. Or does it? Well you tell me dear readers. A weekend ago I went out looking for some culture. Instead I found serendipity...

Serendipity

noun

noun: serendipity plural noun:; serendipities

1.  The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

"a fortunate stroke of serendipity"

Synonyms:

(happy) chance, (happy) accident, fluke; luck, good luck, good fortune, fortuity, providence; happy coincidence "the consequence of serendipity is sometimes a brilliant discovery"

How do people meet? They find each other everyday. Once you step outside the door the possibilities are endless. Going out for coffee, going to class, going to work, walking the dog, or going to a museum to see an exhibit.

That’s how I met some extraordinary people on an ordinary Sunday afternoon. (Heck I almost got lost. That’s how ordinary and banal my day was going.) I was looking for some experience with culture and fell into a gold mine. After looking at some fantastic pictures, videos, sketch drawings, and statues I was offered an opportunity that turned my day from ordinary to down right wonderful.

An elderly gentleman that I had saw as I was walking into the Williamsburg Art & Historical Center was playing chess with an middle aged man. (I’m horrible at racial descriptions most likely because I hate describing people by their race. Plus I suck at it outside of the regular black, white, asian, categories. So forgive me guys, o.k.?) Anyway, they were playing chess and I was confused. Where the fuck am I? I asked myself. Is this the museum I was looking for? This place was filled with mad old stuff but was not like what I was used to seeing in a museum. Gone was the artifacts and art under glass boxes or behind frames. Just mad stuff left and right. Looking closer I noticed that the stuff was furniture and décor from different times. Things for the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, etc strewn all over almost haphazardly. Maybe from older times I don’t know! My knowledge base on antiques was at novice level. The only place I felt like I was on any common ground with was the living room setting in the room next door.

18 century, possibly Victorian furnishings, a table, a sofa, a fireplace, etc. All on a hardwood floor. All of a sudden I felt a little at home. It was decorated in the style of my dreams, just a little more comfortable pillows and cushions missing to make it more home like. All very old and stylish but so not an exhibit on various type of animals that let you in to a bit of their lives at all. The guys looked as if they were really into their game so I didn’t want to be the dopey idiot that ruined their chess vibe. Besides I a mature gal of some years me self; it I couldn’t find the exhibit room myself without bugging some strangers well I might as well had brought some helpful friend along with me. (It would have helped but who was I goin’ to call? My friend might want to experience a trip to the museum but they weren’t the museum going types. Sorry my peeps! Probably wrong knowing me.)

Anywho, I tried causally walking toward another entrance which lead me to a fire exit door and some stairs. Could I have walked into the wrong building? I walked out back toward the living room setting and pass the stewed artifacts room out the door. Nothing to see here! Just a big ole doofy women dressed up for a museum outing. Doti, doti, doo! La, la! Walking pass as casual as possible then I beat my feet toward the sign in front. Yep, that’s the sign alright; it said that this was the place. Well I was confused I tell ya. Then I saw mentioned on the sign that the entrance was at the back. I walk down the stairs and around the corner. A black door with a bell to push but with the door looking partly open. I let myself in and see that I have walked into the hallway of the fire exit I had saw previously. Doh! What? Did I walk into some kind of mobius strip here? Nope, dummy there are stairs that go up. Perhaps they go up to the exhibit hall? Duh?

Well as you dear reader probably read in my article on my visit to the exhibit I did find the room I was looking for. Letting myself go into full art appreciation mode, I took a look and admired all the art pieces in the two rooms. Well organized, not strewed, and for the exception of glass cases; full museum/gallery classic, complete with labels so I could know what the heck I was looking at. Sweet! Gazing my fill and watching the two videos. One of them caught my fancy. Gift/Gift, a video art piece by Nina Katchadourian. Hey did you know that Gift in Swedish means poison? Now we both know. Either I was caught by bemused or charmed by the various art pieces that gave one the feeling as if the animals were looking right at you or going about their business without a thought to who might be observing them. Only one had the look of animals being posed and that was the one with the mice who had been medically or scientifically experimented on. Those photos did not bemuse nor charm me. I felt sorry for the little fellas, which is what I think the photographer/artist Catherine Chalmers. (Imagine the very idea of infecting someone on purpose with the virus that causes Down Syndrome then see a picture of a mouse infected with same. The poor darlin’! But I guess that will be for another essays dear reader.)

Looking back I think I went to that exhibit for the most naive of reasons. You see I haven’t been out to anything at all. Nope! Not a movie, a bookstore, a concert, or art exhibit in well two years or so. I had been so starved for some kind of contact with the outside world beyond my neighborhood. (Yeah, me with all my talk for going outside you comfort zone and all. But no fear I wasn’t in any comfort.) I had finally got a job, one which I was ill suited for although I had done it previously eight years ago. No choice, long story, let’s just say that when dealing with the welfare system choice are kind of thin on the ground and let’s just keep it moving. O.k.? Asides, aside, I really wanted to go out and do something cultural. Desperately. But you just can’t go out to some cultural event and start feeling cultural. Ya dig?

No, you have to have come in contact with people within that environment and get in touch with your inner intelligencia. How do I describe this? It’s like you can’t go to a Missy Elliot concert by yourself and expect to walk away untouched by other viewers of the concert; Trade views, talk about your favorite song, comment on Ms. Elliot’s wardrobe, etc. Without all that you’re just an isolated person experiencing the experience solo. Sigh. Well I tried my best and ended up thanking the museum employee for the experience. Done and done, right? Nope. Next what happen was a experience you just had to be there to experience. Ironically enough. So I’ll try my best but I’m not that good a writer you know so please be patient. ;)

Excuses

Normally I'd write here what the essasy is about and what has been going on with my life but now I think I'd better explain myself in parts. This essasy is about why....well, eh......


Not even being able to explain why I must explain is a fine example of my bad habit. What's my bad habit? Well I would try to explain but it will all sound very lame.

Let's just say that my bad habit is a habit that we all share whenever we decide the reasons why we don't do what we're suppose to do. Or for that matter do our very own goals that we set for ourselves.

I am a writer and with all that entails. The creative bouts of creativity, the writer's block, the writer's angst, the moments when you've become the one thing you fear--a starving artist.

Let's take a look at that picture. So romantic! The starving artist in his or her garret, smoking cheap cigarettes, drinking cheap booze, digesting cheap food, and wearing threadbare clothes.

Strip that all away and bring it down to the realities of the twenty-first century and you have a clearer picture. Survival. Something everybody does or tries to do and yet we romantize the starving aritist as if his or her poverty is somewhat more special. But honestly it's not.

People do try very hard to survive and work even harder to thrive. There is no reason in this day and age for a person living in America to be living some kind of overly romantic dickensian existance! And yet some do. But before I go off on one of my infamous tangents I must tell you that I do work hard at survival and I am trying to thrive. I   Just   Suck   At    It!

There I said it.

Now before the self-righteous start pumping their fist in the air; hear me out. Times are hard and they are getting harder. When I first started out on my own I wasn't on my own. I first try living in a college dorm, then I moved in with my now ex-boyfriend's sister at her apartment in the Bronx, and then I moved in with my Dad. So I went from co-dependant to co-dependant hoping upon hope that I would some how get a well paying job, save up enough money, and get a place of my own. Since this aian't my full bio I am going to skip a few details and tell you about my life since my young, naive, twenties.

First one year of homelessness, then five years of living on my own with the help of Section-Eight housing help, there were short-term jobs, long term goals, and I thought I had plenty of time to achieve all my goals before I was forty.

Talk about naive, talk about romantic! Oh please don't roll your eyes like that! I really thought like that and I bet you did too in your twenties so stop fronting! ;p

I got myself together enough to start this blog, fight to keep my apartment, and I no longer see the world in stark black and white. So many shades of grey I desperately need some rose colored glasses! Sigh.

So what's my excuse? Why am I not a well-published author with many books under my belt and a Pulitzer prize for literature? Why must I give one? Any amount of excuses I put out will either gather enough pity that I could drown in embarrassment or I will only earn disdain. People reading this will either shake there heads in bemusement or sneer at my assumed laziness.

I'm not about to give anyone that kind of power over me nor do I have one single excuse of all my issues and problems. I am either a product of my upbringing or I am responding to my environment. What do you do dear reader when faced with potential homelessness at every turn? How do you feel when your light, gas, or wi-fi bill is due but are short on cash? Make excuses.

"I'm not getting paid enough." You say. "It's hard to make ends meet!" You cry. "Somebody help me out here, I'm not looking for a handout but a hand up!" And people who have been blessed with luck, skill, or God's special protection just scoff and look at you as if you're some leech on society. Self-righteous assholes!  Erm, cough! So at this point you are getting the picture right? O.K.

So this essay is about having reasons why the post below this one happen. After last posting I got a job, lost a job, and I'm back on government suffrage. While I had a job I got to experience a once in a lifetime event of serendipity and reveled in it.

That's what life is really life for a suffering artist in the twenty-first century. I am just like anyone else who has to survive and sometimes I suck at it. But I share, I'm not selfish. I give to others who have less than myself when I can and hope through my writing to share my thoughts in order to teach others that they are not alone. There are techniques.

Now some people like a lecture like they like a whole in the head and think; "Who the hell does this person think they are to tell me how to live my life?". Well that's when fiction writing and poetry writing come in. I tell a story about a girl who wanted to grow up to be...your dream career here... and she goes though trails and tribulations. Does she survival? Does she win? What would you do if you were her?

I want people to think, dream, and feel things when they read what I have written. Sometimes I have time to write out a poem and print it here. Sometimes I am so busy surviving that I don't even have time to complete several books I have working on. But whatever my excuse, I will make my dreams come true. There is no expiration date on making that happen and I hope you join me on this journey. Or at least give me a hand up.

Thank you.


MRClueuin