Thursday, October 25, 2012

Numb

numb

look at the ocean above us—
wild, the clouds clench together,
holding its poise to give us
the comfort that’s been missing.

to free us of the belief that every
jackal is a curse; that the right verse
and the right prescriptions allow us to breathe.

and though the west is slowly closing,
the damned have never received
such relief as it holds their cries,
cradling them—building a wall
around the history they carry.

the clouds release, letting out a sigh;
out of the solemnity its breath
reaches the ground. we don’t dream often enough.

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Pick up your copy of Vagabonds today! E-books are available through Lulu or by email

http://www.lulu.com/shop/the-creative-hitchhikers-and-anyone-with-a-story/vagabonds/ebook/product-20314684.html


hitchingpoets@hotmail.com


Want a physical copy? Shoot me an email and I will mail you a copy, free of charge!

www.creativevagabonds.com



Vagabonds is essentially a Creative Arts anthology. We accept photography, poetry, short fiction, creative non-fiction, and digital artwork. At this time, we only twice a year.

Our first anthology released on August 6th, 2012 and has been pushed around the writing scene. We do offer physical copies of the anthology, and they are free. if interested in a physical copy just shoot an email over to hitchingpoets@hotmail.com and we will do our best to ship you a copy.

Vagabonds is completely a non-profit organization. Though the Anthologies are free we do accept donations through paypal. All donations go towards keeping the anthology running, printing costs, project designs, promoting expenses, etc. Anything donated to Vagabonds is greatly appreciated, and we thank you for your gift!

Our Paypal: hitchingpoets@hotmail.com

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I have to say that Vagabonds has gotten off to an awesome start. As copies of the anthology are pushed out there I’m noticing more and more people becoming interested in the project. I can officially say that slowly we are growing! Today, I’d like to welcome two people to the Vagabonds staff: Sendokidu Adomi and Valdon Ross. They were published in the first anthology and after much talking with them they wanted to tag along on this thing. Their short biographies can be found below:


Sendokidu Adomi — Well… What is there to say about this fox? I’m a poet, to say the least. Wouldn’t say my nectar is as potent as most, though, as I’m still learning the craft. I love to write about nature and higher concepts, as it is where I find the most inspiration. In such, I find a balance within my writing in the form of music, wherein I’ve been featured twice.


Valdon Ross – Valdon Ross is the name by which some 10,000,000,000+ individual human cells are collectively known. Knowing that his organism is in a constant state of death and rebirth, he finds the idea of believing himself to be a singular, static entity laughable. Nonetheless, together the consciousness of Valdon Ross and the cells of his organism arrange words and symbols with the aim of purging the shadow of our collective consciousness by destroying the fragile delusions humans cling to for security. Beyond focusing his creative energies into word-smithery, Valdon dabbles in the crafts of black magick guitar voodoo, mystic soul-glimpsing (psychology), and spray painted exi-stencil-ist street art. Breathing and gazing at the stars on the back of his eyelids while seated in front of a wall is his favored way of distracting himself from the fact he will someday die. For no reason at all, he laughs like a Mad Hatter and smiles like a Cheshire Cat.


As the anthology grows, it has come to my attention that people are beginning to wonder when the next anthology will be released. Well it has been decided that Vagabonds needs to be at least a twice a year venture and we will officially open for submissions on November 5th, 2012. We will stop taking submissions December 21st, 2012. Our next anthology is set to release March 15th, 2013. Our submission guidelines can be found above, and they have been changed so please review those before you submit.

http://creativevagabonds.com/submission-guidelines/

~Weasel



Tuesday, July 3, 2012


he draws a heart in the palm of his hand every day;
pushes it out, shows it to the world and says,
“see, we’re not so different, you and I”

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Take the Sunrise out of My Sunset


Take the Sunrise out of My sunset

tattoo fingers on my chest to cover
the gashes from the day i stopped 
believing in miracles--€”my bones were
too different, and for every year of color
brought another burn to my skin because
i never wanted to change. sometimes the
heart is too shy to meet the earth waiting
to greet it underneath this body.

take my ashes and toss them into the lawn
seats of the next big rock concert because
they'€™ve had too much coffee to be drowsy. 
let the people twist and stumble over my
spine, helping me to lose sight of the world.

we are all jumping for an answer, only
we don'€™t speak the same language as the sky;
thunder can only grace our ears before a few more
souls are mourned because they lost their vibrance.
someone forgot to tell them that some days you have
to plunge into the ecstasy to see where the
love had escaped to. some of the body bags we carry
have too much weight in their hearts. 

guilt is only a verb if you let it be,
and there are days where we all wish that it could
be, for being good is only a part of life;
being whole, is the ability to experience it.

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Want to get published? Vagabonds Yearly Anthology Calling for Submissions now!

Deadline June 24th!





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Have a Blog? Looking for more activities and challenges? Check out the Traveling Writers Blog!

http://hitchingforwords.wordpress.com/

Every Monday there's a Prompt, Tuesday a Poetry Form Challenge, and Friday a Short Story Challenge!



Friday, June 8, 2012

Grace


Grace

tattoo fingers on my chest—all too
shy from the earth underneath this
body. hands are too rough but the
flowers are still here; the bruises stopped
trampling them the day I drowned in a
pool of morphine. Ashes were never so alive.

traveler. we all wander against the sun
but my footsteps stomp in every direction
imaginable---they never return. their eyes
are not flexible enough to look backwards.

i lay in the waters, my ribcage pulled open; i
was always so transparent but my mistakes
were in the right place. one day. slow down. my
steps were only heaven without the pie.

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Want to get published? Vagabonds Yearly Anthology Calling for Submissions now!

Deadline June 24th!





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Looking for other ways to connect with Hitching for Words?





Check us out on Twitter, Facebook and Google + 

-----

Have a Blog? Looking for more activities and challenges? Check out the Traveling Writers Blog!

http://hitchingforwords.wordpress.com/

Every Monday there's a Prompt, Tuesday a Poetry Form Challenge, and Friday a Short Story Challenge!

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Revival

Revival

it was nostalgia the day you picked
up this vagabond, and allowed me to hitch a 
ride like a photograph in your back pocket.

we were a revival not yet heard.
had our own dance against our own
gospel hymns, and we knew all the 
good moves. made it so righteous
not a damn soul could say no. 

you placed a bullet in my chest.
i turned it into a seed and gave you
the flowers after they grew. the colors
never fade when the days are so right.

somewhere there's a revolution happenin'
and they're playing our romance because
it's the only one that's not cheesy yet.

i tossed a molotov into the sun 
because i couldn't see you under
the moon last night; kissed you
on your cheek as the light touched
your face. the morning was never so alive.

Monday, March 26, 2012

the sound inside oneself


the sound inside oneself

there never were enough poems written
to make the dead feel loved; to make her
arms stop bleeding, praying for her bones to be different.

but revolutions are too quiet; too
mellow from the bullets, not hard
enough to stop him from jumping.

crawl through their ashes and spray paint
what the dead so desperately needed
before they were pushed so far out
that the cliff never existed; before all the love had left their faces.

sometimes the revolt starts with the sound inside oneself. 

Friday, March 23, 2012

Fire




Fire

soak me in kerosene,
light me on fire and
watch me drown before I burn.

our bodies shake and
squirm together—violent
energy as the fire grows in rhythm.

we must have danced all
night; hands touching,
grabbing, caressing each
other. but we never said a word.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Simple




Simple

there were days I could not breathe.
like the dreams, they left me frozen—
waiting for a home that is not sealed inside a goodbye kiss.

I put a flower inside a soda bottle,
filled it with water and placed it inside the window.
it still burns like the day I bought it.

water can make anything grow.
make anything breathe, even for a moment
as it warms my hands; the ice cleansed away.

such are the simple things. 

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Solace


Solace

i placed stems in a cup filled with water,
set it underneath the moon, and hoped
for a leaf to grow. they have never needed
love more than a heart living on grease and
morphine before, but they are lost. they
have lost their roots from the earth and their
bones have become brittle from the fall.

the stars are flashlights for the lost spirits of the
sky.  lives only wanting to return back to
the solace but are afraid of what is there to welcome
them; and though my stems are lost they have
already jumped into the caverns of that scarred stone.

i tried to drown myself once. the water caressed my heart
as i stopped breathing, but i could still hear the waves
rowing against the tabs of my spine until sand clotted
against my skin—love was etched along my body when i awoke.

the stems, the spirits, all wrote love on their bellies,
followed the stars like i followed the waves.
aimlessly. we had all heard the same thing that took
us too far. the same words that turned our bones
to ash—sometimes love is the one who’s wrong.

my bones, my roots in this earth, they tell me otherwise!

Friday, January 20, 2012

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn


Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

Some days, I dream too much. And
though sleep is good for the soul,
the heart collects dust as it
pulsates on the ground against
the earth of your skin. Let your
fingers touch it lightly as if God were
creating Adam all over again—make it
feel holy! Content is not enough, it
wants to be alive, but the heart has
burned one too many cigarettes to
dream about the regret.

There are days where it
moans and bitches about the cold
but our feet only feel the sizzling
of the asphalt, knowing that it was no
hotter than it was yesterday. There
is so much dirt around it, growing
fierce with the grass and staring at
the sky’s belly, how it stretches for miles.

I wrote about the scars one day—they
were always like snow, disappearing
after the warm winters had set in. Those
cigarettes keep coming back, and it just takes
one more hit for the holiness to leave again. Sorrow
was never its anthem, but neither was Amazing Grace,
though when grace did come to comfort she left more
than a burning dove at the door step. The heart
has never earned the right to regret anything in its
life, nor even the right to sorrow. And Grace, the
heart only has a few visitation rights.

Grace came to visit, soothed it the
best she could before she left again. She
mixed words with songs, brought life back
again. Andas she vanished back into the soil, she left
on the doorstep another cigarette to burn out.