The Story of Fathers

In this poem I tried to mimic the story-telling aspect of the poetry of Rebecca Grey (who writes very good poetry, by the way). I don't want to explain the poem away before you read it, but one day my mom told me that my dad's dad used to beat him with his belt. Not like bloody, manslaughter beatings, but 'leaving marks' beatings nonetheless. I was kind of shocked, and humbled, because my father has never beat me or left a mark on my body. This i saw as a miracle, for usually a child will mimic the actions of his or her parents. My father broke this cyclical wave. I am very thankful. I say all of this because I am not sure if it has come out enough in the poem; the re-mention of the "the story" in this poem is what I am referring to. I tried an editing method by Hemingway, where one cuts as much as possible down to the raw of the poem. He called it the "iceberg effect." If you have feedback feel free to criticize…



The Story of Fathers




my dad was upset
stomping through his house
angry at the Legos in his way


his eyes were hanging like sleeping bats



my mother told me the story
one day around the kitchen island
grandma told her the story
about how my father's father
left marks



I screamed
I hate you
in the garage
the whole neighborhood
could hear

my voice tearing


they could hear
the generations of fathers
struggling
to tell the story
of their fathers
who beat them
who left marks
mountains





W. K. Medlen

mountain road ride, sundown

I went on a bike ride at about sundown today with some friends. One of them pointed out the setting sun, which was a radiant pink that faded into peach and then into the ever-slowly darkening sky. I have paid attention to at least 20 sunsets in my life, and yet, it is breathtaking every time. Why? C. S. Lewis would argue, I think, that the longing one feels is actually part of a deeper longing for something else, that is, heaven. This is why even though a sunset happens every day, it still feels like a holiday, or an anniversary, or a surprise. If an everyday sunset can affect us like it does, and is only a taste… well then…





The sun, with rosy cheeks,
said goodnight,
and peeked one last time
over the horizon.

His countenance was soft,
yet fiery, and I could feel
his affectionate heat
disintegrating.

But I was not sad.

It made me long
for his sudden warmth that appears
in the morning, or unexpectedly,
like leaving shadows,

like weaving him into a window,
for behind the curtain, he is blind
to your interiors.

on writing

I see things
Like the way a train sees America
these empty, well worn tracks,
going new places on familiarity.


Hopefully we will know ourselves by these connections.


Like the apple,


except this time,
    the apple is green.
    Or, suddenly, it tastes like a strawberry.


Or, metaphorically and philosophically, it is the needed fruit for eventual forgiveness
and literal understanding.


       Or, it isn't even an apple at all.
            Maybe it's a swimming pool.


Floating on your back,
you see yourself in the stars
                               the moon

                   the beautiful blue-black night

that envelopes you.


That unknown night,
    waiting to be explored,
the strong-arm of love.

Some things have changed

Well, this is my blog. Due to my recent crazy adventures with UAHuntsville, and a little mental push from a good friend (thanks becca),I have decided to slightly alter my career path. I am going to try and pursue a career in the field of creative writing. The whole idea of a "career" in creative writing is a little funny to me, for, how does one gauge creativity? Can one base a pay scale on the quality of literature? Donald Miller says that writers without contracts make no money. No matter.

I have started this blog to show you guys what goes on in my daydreamy, and, at times, dysfunctional brain. Feedback is always and graciously welcomed; criticism as inspiration.
This brings me to the question of why we write. Why do we write? I tried to answer....