A Sweetheart of an Award

Depending on how deeply you drill into the definition in your German:English dictionary, the word liebster, means dearest  or sweetheart. Recently, my dear/dearer/dearest friend, the sweet-heart British poet Louise Hastings, presented me with a Liebster Blog Award.  Louise best fits that German translation among all the folks I’ve met in my one year out here in the digital wilderness. I unabashedly love this darling girl to bits!

In accepting this award, along with the new skill of gracious acceptance Louise is trying to teach me--rather than my native incredulity--I must agree to:

1. Show my thanks to the blogger who gave me the award by linking back to them. (Every day, and exponentially here.) Louise’s blog, Wings Over Waters, is must-read stuff each and every day if you wish to go places you’ve never been or places you forgot you had.

2. Reveal my top 5 picks for the award and let them know I have selected them as I have been selected. (Love these folks and their blogs. Sorted and complete.)

3. Post the award on my blog. (Obviously--you're reading this.)

4. According to Louise, bask in the love from the most supportive people in the Blogosphere. (Without you, there is no Poet Guy me!)

5. And, finally – have fun and spread the karma! (Cool, I'm a giver at heart. Hey! I am!)

Since I can’t pick Louise and Wings Over Waters, here are my five picks:

Beth Winter (Twitter handle: @beth_winter) has become a good friend and supporter of the Joe Hesch that pops up around the Web. Her blog, Eclipsing Winter, is where she posts her poetry, prose, and “anything else my itchy pen decides to scratch.” Beth also treats us to some cool photographs from not only her native fruited plains of Kansas but around the world at her blog, Eclipsing Winter. 

Ginny Brannan (@GinnyBrannan) is a lot like yours truly, a writer and poet who, as she says, “Came this dance a bit later than some.” But, as she also notes, on her her blog, Inside Out Poetry, the most important thing is that she came here. She is justifiably proud her inner poet and writer has finally emerged… the dreamer was always there! Plus, Ginny’s a homegirl from the chill of the Northeast. A prolific blogger, you can read Ginny’s verse and opinion at Inside Out Poetry. 

Anthony Desmond (@iamEPanthony) is a twenty year old Detroit born writer. Raised and homeschooled by his single mother, he first discovered his God-given gift for writing at the age of sixteen. His work is eccentric, abstract, and badass. He is intrigued by pain & sadness, and explores these emotions across a wide array of subject areas: politics, death, religion, and the struggles of everyday life. His poetry is honest, unadulterated and often breathtaking. You can be absorbed by the pen of this gifted young man at The Glass Staircase. 

Joanna Lee (@la_poetessa) is one of those Renaissance people who can do it all, but you like them anyway because they’re so damn sweet and cool. An M.D. in Richmond, Virginia, Joanna’s acaemic and professional journey was not creatively barren, however; an entire section of her first book, the somersaults I did as I fell, was inspired by the intimate experiences she had with life and death while on clinical rotations. A hardworking promoter of poetry events in the Richmond area, Joanna’s own beautiful writing and photography can be found on her blog The Tenth Muse.

My other Renaissance woman named Lee selection, Diana Lee (@Diana605) is a terrific supporter of this old poet guy, but is, most importantly, a brilliant poet and photographer. Her poetry can be found at Diana’s Words and her verse-illuminated photgraphy (21st Century haiga, anyone?) is hung at Life Through Blue Eyes. Diana is one of the greatest supporters of art and poetry in the Twitterverse.

There are many other people I wish I could have chosen to give this award, but according to its rules, I could only pick five. I hope they will pick up some I couldn’t. I appreciate you all as friends and straight up commentators and all readers should take a look at your blogs/sites. They’ll enrich your life. I guarantee it. I love all of them! 

Hiding in Plain Sight II

By Joseph Hesch

I have reached a point at the final crest
of this autobiographic thrill ride,
before the long slow descent to its end,
where I can look back and see
how much of it I’ve missed
by being the close-eyed loner in this seat,
the dust-shrouded outsider,
the look-no-hands clown,
the genderless confidant. 
I realize my pioneering work in camouflaged,
hide-in-plain-sight isolationism
is today’s normal.
And all the other seats appear empty.

These new virtual hermits  
live in their in their cars and cubicles,
behind desks and counters,
and under the covers in thrall of TVs,
computers and smartphones. 
They hide behind avatars, masks and
sullen defenses so the real them
is kept undiscovered –-
a secret for their eyes only. 
If they even open them.

Now on my downhill glide, I’ve started to knock
some of those defenses down – my own and others.
Even if I never make that ultimate connection,
warm form to warm form,
I think the ride will be pretty splendid
in its own right, the bandwidth wind in my hair.
Of course, my greatest fear in this quest
is that I really am alone in this world
of click-to-connect friendships. 
Or worse, I’m just naïve enough
to think I'm not.

Escapees from the Heart

By Joseph Hesch

Why I locked down my emotions
for most of my life, I didn’t know.
Was it because they’re messy beasts
with poor hygiene, splattering
their flammable, caustic juices all over me
and those in my proximity?
These scars and this stiff, charred heart
are forever reminders
of their misadventures.

Or maybe I was just afraid of them

because they look so much
like the guy I once was,
for so short a time.
A time when they ran free,
and I was an abetting joy-rider.
Life got dark when I put them away.
My recent fitting for a grave convinced me
to spring them before it was too late.

It was you saw me trying to dig them out
with a teaspoon and recognized that desperate
mission. You pressed your key into my hand.
Funny, these emotions have gotten older, too.
Their eyes watered in this bright new light.

Nodding Dream

By Joseph Hesch.

I used to march these rooms half the night, 
their blackness the only thing holding me 
on an eyeless path I traced, hand outstretched, 
sweeping for walls that I knew were there 
and for barriers that really weren't.
Even counting my steps, I never quite learned 
where to stop before the crash, 
before the sparks would light up my mind 
but never my vision.

Maybe I was searching for you there, 
your brilliance still over the horizon, 
not measured in lumens, but in heartbeats, 
plunked like strings on a violin, 
marking time until you found me, 
stumbling, mumbling through my jagged nights. 

In this darkness you were surer in your steps, 
sure my outstretched hand all that time
was there for you to hold.
And now so connected, where might we go? 
Are the maps already drawn?
Or will we explore the world
carried by the words we let drift 
in streams like ink, running black 
to the oceans of other hearts?