The Love Poem I Can’t Seem to Write (Songs for My Tribe)

The Love Poem I Can’t Seem to Write (Songs for My Tribe)
06/29/2017, Deon Mumple

It’s still not good enough, I’ve written the same poem four times now.
I keep trying to say it just right, keep trying, but I don’t really know how.
How do you say this thing, this feeling? What are the right words?
I don’t want to say the same sounds I know you’ve already heard.

It didn’t turn out those times before, when your hope needed fulfilled
And those last two times, when you swore, no more, after the dream was killed
I don’t want to be that way,  I want to be different, and never see you hurt
But I know the times I’ve failed before, don’t trust me,  trust me, you’ll get burned

I’ve written this poem five times now, just trying to say it right
I want to make the promises and keep them, so we always win the fight
I want to be superhuman, and be heroic, but at the same time, be real,
But I don’t feel real; I’m up and down without flying, can’t even control how I feel.

I’ve written this poem six times now, and it’s never going to be perfect
The same as I know about you and me, but I’m not, and you’re not, and we’re not.
I’m afraid, you’re afraid, it’s not going to work, but I hope you’ll give it a shot.
Like this poem, I’m trying to write it right, and keep on writing it wrong,
Me versus verses that don’t have choruses, and a form that’s far from correct
Sometimes even the best composers build a bridge to write a decent love song.

I’ve written this poem seven times, this is the last time, then I’m through.
It may never be exactly right, about like trying on the wrong sized shoe,
But if a hope is just deferred but somehow I know it was meant to come true,
Maybe mixed up words will make the longing fulfilled, so I can win and keep you.


Father-Song, 9/7/2016, Deon Mumple

I want to gather you all safely hugged under my wings,
And sing a comforting song like a good father should sing
Something soft and quiet, full of love, encouraging.

I’m there with you when your heart is broken,
It’s bound to happen to us every now and then
We fall, it hurts, we have to dust off and try again.

When you’re scared, I’ll pick you up and hold on tight,
When it’s dark and you’re lonely in the middle of the night,
And let you wake up the next day, knowing you’re all right.

When you’re in trouble I want to run to your rescue,
In your mirror, remind you you’re beautiful, it’s true
And a million times a million million times, tell you I love you

The Best Time to Sing the Blues

The Best Time To Sing The Blues, 8/19/2016, Deon Mumple

The best time to sing the blues
Is after the storm,
Picking up the pieces
Of a life that’s torn.
We all get ’em sometime.
We all feel the flood;
Feel like we’re drowning,
Water and blood.

And ain’t nothin, nothin I can do,
But feel blue

The best time to sing the blues
Is when you’re away,
I miss your heartbeat and your eyes,
The funny things you say.
Ain’t no storm like lonely,
Tears my soul apart.
I___ need you baby,
Please, come heal my heart.

No one, no one, no one I want, but you.
I feel blue.

The storm is raging out there.  The waters rise.
None of it matters, let me look in your eyes.

The best time to sing the blues
Is when I feel blue
I don’t want you to sing them with me
I just want you, to
Stay. right. here__. with me, baby
Till the storm has passed,
You’re all I need to get through.
I need our love to last.

But right now, I know, ain’t nothin, I can do,
But feel blue.

Dear Readers,

I’m watching the flood in Louisiana, saw the flooding in Texas, and it has me thinking about the disparity of politics, the despair of the citizens, and praying.  Sure, it wasn’t as drastic as a hurricane, but people are handling this in an entirely different way than they did and it’s the same issue- flood water and death and hunger.  Last time there were fingers of blame, last time there was a demon who didn’t care about the people, and this time I don’t see it, and it isn’t balanced.

It got me in the mood to sing the blues, and this song is what came out of my head.  I’m hoping my emotional storm has passed, for this season.  And I hope, when your storms are raging, you know I’m here for you.


Idiot, Third Class

Deon Mumple, Idiot, Third Class.  Not even good enough of an idiot to be first class.  Or even second.  I read my hopeful shit when I’m feeling hopeless and it makes me feel even worse.  I read my hopeless shit when I’m feeling hopeless and it resonates but sounds stupid.  And I read my wacky shit when I’m feeling sad and sad when I feel wacky and all of it sounds stupid today.

All my readers (I used to be able to say “all 5 or 6 of you” but WordPress swears (FUCKFUCKFUCK! ha! you know you heard it too) there are over 180 of you) know I write your basic shit and it’s sometimes stress relieving to me.  I try to follow and sometimes comment and then I go back and read sometimes and it confirms my title.

I need someone to tell me when NOT to look at what I’ve written.  I like the “likes” on the blog, that sometimes encourages me, when I’m not in the shades of black that don’t reflect light.  Who knew “spider” was the name of a shade of black?  I didn’t.  Who knew there were shades of black?  I never gave it much thought.  Black is black.  Or is it?

Jet, Ebony, (These sound like the kind of colours that might make a good name for publications, no?) midnight, obsidian, I like raven as a shade but like obsidian, it might actually reflect the light, which means it’s not black enough to be black.  Charcoal isn’t really black, it’s grey.  Or is it gray?  When I’m in the shades of black that don’t reflect light, they don’t release it either, like a truly black black hole.  At the risk of starting something, two shades aren’t on the list of black hues:  black death & shark-black eyes.  They may be the same colour value, but you’ll never know, will you?  Especially when I turn out the lights.

My email is brimming with other people’s brilliant writing, and with other people’s smart, snarky, funny or encouraging comments on other people’s blogs that I follow poorly and try to read and keep up.  I’m about to delete 3,000 emails and I swear I am not making that statistic up.  I could delete 6,000 and they keep coming and today I don’t even care.

For today’s expression in poetry form, a black metal song (I wrote today):

Fade to Black Death, 5/3/2016, Deon Mumple

Black light, obsidian reveal
They aren’t really black the black I feel
Black light is purple and it’s light,
Embrace the blackness, blackness fight,

Cornered and losing, black-eyed pout,
Life fucking kills me, have no doubt.

Black in the clinches, bleed, boxed in,
Feeling my chances wearing thin,
I hear helplessly, my ten count,
I’m the poor in spirit, falling off the mount, (Matthew 5)

Mine is the kingdom of darkness,
When I fight I only make a bigger mess
Fade to black, death, when I’m knocked out,
Life fucking kills me, have no doubt.

How, why, do I live this midnight
Having no reason and no right,
Fucked in the blackness without love,
Blacker than a raven, black white dove,

Fade to black death, black wings, blackout,
Life fucking kills me, have no doubt.

Barbed Wire Strings

Barbed Wire Strings, 4/26/2016, Deon Mumple

I write about grit, life’s hard knocks and things,
An unknown country singer, I’m keepin’ rock rolling,
I’m not high enough to know why all the dumb birds sing,
‘Cause I play a guitar with barbed wire strings.

I have to play with care, my fingers hit the frets,
I learned a hard way to play, but that’s what I get,
I need a talent agent, but they haven’t found me yet,
I can’t pick up bad habits, drinking or cigarettes.

There’s a lot of things in life I can’t afford,
I seem to barely get by, I guess I’ll thank the Lord,
I’m not high enough to fly where all the dumb birds sing,
‘Cause I play a guitar with barbed wire strings.

It might be nice to get a guitar that doesn’t scratch,
If I hit the frets wrong, the chords are hard to catch,
It’s hard to get a gig, or a girl who’s a good match,
There’s no place to play where there’s no strings attached.

I can’t get high enough to fly where all the dumb birds sing,
My life’s like playing a guitar with barbed wire strings.

Canción De Amor

Canción De Amor, Deon Mumple (Nombre De La Pluma), 1/12/2016

Todo lo que quiero,
Todo lo que necesito,
Es su amor , cada día,
Cada segundo ; Eso
Me saque de esta vida .

Dime que siempre se
Preocupa por mí , me
Dicen que usted siempre
Dime que la respuesta
A todos mis sueños y la
Respuesta a todo
Lo que quiero
Es sí,
Sigue siendo
Y siempre será sí…

Dime que estas
Son sus respuestas.
Déjame oírte
Susurrar a partir de
Sus perfectos,
Labios hermosos.



I don’t know.  I’m never sure how these things will be perceived.  Let me know if it came out right.

Aaugh We Have Heard On High

I swear that’s what I read.  But then you never know “what to my wondering eyes should appear.”  My eyes make me laugh sometimes. When they’re not making me cry.  Of course you know exactly where that came from if you’ve been on the planet sometime in the last 55 or so years.

And of course you know that what I was reading was my music thing telling me it was playing someone’s rendition of Angels We Have Heard On High, the old familiar Christmas carol.

I honestly love Christmas music.

No, really.

Except (sorry if it’s your personal favorite,) Yoko Ono’s “Happy Xmas.”  Ughhhhh.
.  .  

Worst.  Song.  Ever

Double uggghhhhhh.  Triple a million times uuuggggggghhhhhhh.  With apologies to Ms. Ono, of course, I just never liked that song.  And, “Last Christmas,” by Wham!  Play them back to back, Christmas Joe Radio guy, and you get Sixteen million times uuuggggghhhhhhhhh. Same with any covers of either song.  And (sorry) Cher, and (sorry again) Cheesy sweary Michael Bublé.  Bubb-lay?  Bubble? (*POP!*)  I can hear you saying among yourselves, “I think Mr. Bub-Bublé-Bub is pretty darn good, I’d like to see you do better, Mr. Mumble.  I mean Mumple.”  Yeah, I know, he’s not bad, when he’s singing, and the comedy and swearing at the concerts, I guess, is amusing.

Well, I’d love to have that chance, because I sing better than “Old Blue Eyes” Sinatra and Bing Crosby rolled together.  And my eyes, for the record, are blue.  That’s right, I cook and clean and sing and all that.  Not bad for a guy who, minus the pony-tail, and with only a little of the fine marbling of muscle-tissue, is beginning to resemble “Comic Book Guy” Jeff Albertson.  Minus, I’d say, 16 or 17 stone.  I’m almost as smart, too.  And I swept and mopped and washed dishes and vacuumed and did laundry and baked cookies this weekend (because when you’re up, you’re up.).

Sorry, ladies (and guys), I’m quite taken.  Unless you’re hiring.  I looked up the annual salary for a butler, and I’m game at the mid-range of that.  But expect occasional seasons of “I don’t want to get out of bed today, fuck off, sir or madam.”

There I sat in church Sunday and although it wasn’t central to the message… or was it?   Matthew 5:16 came up.  I can’t think of a person least likely to.  I’m sitting in darkness.  My eyes see so much darkness I can barely see.  Well OK then.  Maybe I’ve been put here, made to feel the darkness like it was a literal thing, to share  the light I used to be able to see a lot more clearly.  I’m no Jesus, but God seems to allow, or do, things on purpose, in spite of our reaction to these things.  Nobody asks to feel these lows, and I know many of you have it worse than me, I can’t imagine if mine sucks this bad, but I know it’s true.  So maybe I’ve just been given a taste of someone’s thorn in the flesh which I haven’t really learned to embrace or celebrate.  I don’t think that’s going to happen.  But, if you can see the faint glow down here in the deep darkness that I call my soul, then I’ve succeeded.

Maybe that’s why I love Christmas songs so much- I know I’m supposed to shine, a reflection of the Jesus I say I follow, however poorly, but at Christmas the neighborhood lights do the shining for me when I just can’t.  Please, no “Here’s Johnny!” jokes.  And at Christmas, minus the aforementioned crappy songs that evidently either have a ton of money pumped into playing them or someone actually likes them, the music shines the light.  Except the fluff tunes.  I’m talking about serious tunes like Handel’s Messiah, or “O Holy Night,” (one of my favourites) or “I heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” (favourite #2) or any other carol that has some solid meat to it, telling the true story of how Jesus was born and what he came to earth to do.

I’m reminded of the story about hungry, cold birds in the snow as told by Paul Harvey, give THAT a read if you dare.

John 8

12 When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

I’m not sure but I think my train of thought’s been hijacked; I was going to talk about God saying “aaugh” from on high when He looks at the world.  I think still sometimes that must be His reaction seeing me.  But at least, if the earlier part of John 8 is accurate, he came to advise us to leave our sin behind and follow Him, not to condemn us for being sinners, after all, that’s what everyone is.  Everyone needs His kind of grace.  Especially me.

Christmas reminds me of this grace.  I’m supposed to remember, but I’m pretty human.

I hope you find a stout measure of grace this Christmas.  And honestly, I pray I do too.

Broken (Fiction)

Broken (Fiction), 5/6/2015, Deon Mumple

She wrote a letter to the world, and didn’t sign her name.
I found the letter, yellowed, curled. She shared her secret dreams.
I saw her hopes, her fragile heart, shattered. I feel the same.
She only wanted a new start, safe, kept from peoples’ schemes.
She wished, as I did, for a life where happy endings came.

I cried as I read her sad tale, my heart resonated,
A story where she’d try, and fail; she’d give, hope to receive,
The takers only took and took, and left while she waited,
Her story read like my life’s book, where others just deceived,
I loved her, her pain like a knife, when she hurt, I hated.

“When you left me, I was broken, then, all I felt was shame.
Was it my fault? I wondered, when had I done something wrong?
I tried to understand the rules, as if love was a game.
I lived for you!  I still love you! My soul is your love song.”
She wrote her love, then took her life, and didn’t sign her name.