Writing Prompt

You probably know me for my poetry, or for my translations of the Mabinogion. But for once I’m going to talk about myself; rather, about the definitive event in my life.

First, some background history of my family.

The earliest records I can find of my López ancestors date back around 1022 in Lugo, in Galicia, Spain. The first name “Ambrosio” López suggests a Celtic heritage, specifically Bryt...

It’s what he’s known for

Being too loud and poor

Like literally dead broke

Butt of everyone’s joke

Certainly not taken seriously

Full of so much toxic envy

Symptoms of an imposter

Never on any sort of roster

Habitually overthinking

Confidence ever shrinking

Seldom on the winning side

Invariably desperate to hide

These feelings that we all feel

Therefore we must remember

These feeling...

Music had unofficially raised me. From the moment I was born until now. An escape from the yelling, the stress of school, and life itself. I could strum my guitar for hours. Sing until my voice couldn’t take it.

I wasn’t good at either by any means. But I practiced and practiced until I finally reached that point. That time when I walked onto that stage with my closest friends beside me and play...

…because momma didn’t raise me right. I know that, now, but only after years of therapy: Physical and mental. It takes a lot of work to disentangle one’s self from such an inauspicious beginning. For that, though, I really do have to—again—thank my brother Lawrence for sticking with me. There were many nights when I felt like giving up and Mr and Mrs Cohen, my new parents, would remind me that I w...

Life was unfolding beautifully like patiently crafted origami art rigidly holding its own, stretching itself, recounting details of the journey.

This was the moment I wrote about on the neon green poster board I transformed into a visual vision. I still remember glueing clip art of big crowds and microphones while sitting on the round tarted rug in the middle of the spare room of my parents hou...

No one knows my real name

But rather legacy of my work

Raking a lock and covering tracks are a way to hazy fame

Every time I borrowed

I left them scratching heads

But always left a needle and a thread to follow

Like a woven parachute

Or perhaps a quilt

A cloak made of patchwork was but my trademark suit

A casual crime with a taste of wine

Is no big leap for me

Unless you count the turn of rope

...

I’ll do this prompt tmr...

Not writing…...

Good Golly is what some of my friends call me down in the quarter. Quarter of Louisiana where we speak that New Orleans swing. I like to go to clubs and spout out my happy jams about life.

In steps a fine forevermore looking so nice in a standard issue men’s fall green golf shirt and dress pants of navy. He looked to the microphone and events took place where his eyes met mine and I was shoo...

Born in the last isle seat, at the old theatre Strand

Tall, red, and heavy, the magical, stage curtain stand

Acting and the make up, was part of my daily plan

To dance, spin, and sing and the wave of my fan

Soon time crept next to me, here in my ole’ seat

The others were soon tapping, to my song and beat

As I watch from the safety of my chair, I smile and see

That my life has been on stage, sin...