Tag Archives: Jim Morrison

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My Poem “Homecoming” Republished by the Jim Morrison Project

My poem, “Homecoming” was republished by the Jim Morrison Project today. The website is a tribute to the late Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors and published articles, artwork, and (now) poetry.

“Homecoming” was written last year during NaPoWriMo 2011. It was an attempt to get into Morrison’s head and understand what was behind the events of the Miami incident of 1969. Whether Morrison exposed himself or not (I’m inclined to think not — and even then, there were First Amendment implications had he done so), one thing is clear: he was attempting to wake up and reach the audience on that spring night at the Dinner Key Auditorium. He had been inspired by (and had participated in) some performances of the Living Theatre — that night he tried their methodology to get through to his audience. Unfortunately, it ended in disaster and a court case in which public opinion and political aspirations were stacked against him.

Please check out the Morrison Project website. And while you’re at it, check out the fan artwork and prose pieces there. The site is a labor of love. Whatever you think or believe about Jim Morrison, the site is a must-see.

-Nicole

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Vision

I am taking notes
at a fantastic rock-n-roll concert
going on in my head

I always take notes
when the visions come
projectors singing in my head
throw up the screen
and let the film play itself onto it
in endless maddening loops –

freeze frame, focus in on an image
and magnify until the colors rain
into my hands
until voltage notes rain
into my hands
blue and black
royal and midnight

and now, the ceremony has begun
the hills embrace the throng like arms
they gather amidst the green

while the moon assents to the sounds below her
with her own pale light
the night and the people
gather together in thickness
beat like a pulse
hands reach up, trying to
grab the passing purple magic

bodies become pinwheels
warp space and time around them
as they dance an old dervish pattern
while the music spins them on invisible axes
all together now give up the ghost
release wine into air around them and
get drunk on the ecstasy dripping down
in the drenched air

rapt and nearly carried beyond
in my own delirium
I grab the words
I grab the colors
and attempt to translate
this music is a pure expression of joy
another night has ended
with a vision in my hands

Written 7/7 and 7/12/11
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Greetings! I haven’t written any poems in a while but I was intrigued by the latest We Write Poems Prompt. Viv suggested this week that we try to write a poem in someone else’s voice…in someone else’s shoes. It could be a person, an animal, an inanimate object…anything you like, as long as you leave your own voice at the door.

I’ve done persona poems a number of times, but in many cases I’ve always felt as if each one was still my own words. This time I tried my damnedest to leave my own voice at the door. It was tricky, especially considering my chosen subject — I revisited Jim Morrison this week, using two of his quotes and jumping off of them to write a poem (“I was taking notes at a fantastic rock-n-roll concert in my head” and “music is the pure expression of joy”). Comments are more than welcome — please tell me how you think I did. And I hope you enjoyed the poem.

-Nicole
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Stumble It!
Stumble It!

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NaPoWriMo Poem #22: Homecoming

Come home.
Wonder if this is really home.
Feel the air cling to and buzz on your skin
as you exit the plane.
Watch neon write poems
with the glare and hiss of brilliant letters like slit veins
on the darkened windshield of the taxi cab
that pulls up to the curb.
Feel your throbbing head scintillate
as the night slowly pours into your eyes and ears. Watch it
compete with the footage of the last three days
as it loops around your brain, pulling you forward
to the inevitability of an angry stage
about to break under your collective weight.
Rehearse what you are going to say
as you assume the stage.
Wonder if you really do
have anything to say at all.
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The Egyptian

I wrote this for Read Write Poem Prompt # 78: Kiss Me, Amelia Earhart. I decided to approach this a little differently, as there are so many historical figures I would like to write about — so this is kind of a longer narrative of how one woman graces the lives of several. Also, I decided not to limit myself to the idea of love in the romantic sense — but it is here, as you can see in the poem. I hope you like it.

And BTW, I highly encourage you to click on the links for further understanding. They will open in another tab or as a pop-up window, depending on your browser. One can understand the poem without them, but after my first experiment with hyperlinked poetry, it seemed that this one begged for it.

-Nicole

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i.

green jaws
seize a brown body
clamp down
the crocodile is hungry
this young woman will do

white triangles
stained, dripping with red
color the Nile carmine
in this spot
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When Godzilla Flattens Your Car on Monday Morning

This week’s Read Write Poem Prompt was “It’s All About the First Line.” We participants all donated a first line for other poets to use as a first line to write their poem with. I chose the line, “when Godzilla flattens your car on Monday morning,” donated by John of Transylvanian Dutch. I haven’t been writing much humorous poetry lately, but I hope you get a laugh out of this. Enjoy.

-Nicole

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When Godzilla flattens your car on Monday morning,
don’t call me. I am an exterminator of
strange creatures, both large and small –
but I do not handle

giant lizards.

I can’t even say who you’d call. That
half-stepping Chihuahua with his wack-ass
box-on-a-stick-tied-to-a-string booby-trap
would not be my first choice, and Superman’s
on vacation. Dream claims he ain’t responsible,
and Death – she only handles cases of the
human variety. I hear the X-Men are tied up
fighting their own battles. And don’t even

think

of asking Jim Morrison. He sang about
lizards, but he won’t come back from
the dead to exterminate them for you.

So when Godzilla flattens your car on Monday morning,
I don’t know what to tell you –
but don’t be calling me. I got my hands full, lady.
I’ve got

overgrown radioactive beavers
building toxic waste drum dams
and damming up the river.
(Damn rodents.)
I’ve got

mosquitoes the size of small dogs
chasing toddlers two neighborhoods over.
And I got

a house infested with green slime
and strange spectral disturbances
over on 14th Street. I tell ‘em to call
the Ghostbusters – but who gets the call?
Me. Who has to go over to the house
dressed in full HAZMAT gear and
dragging a Catholic priest along for
protection? Me. Who got some
sliming-looking motherfucker
jumping out of the walls and
threatening to turn his
nut sack into a wallet? Me.
So when Godzilla flattens your car on Monday morning,

lady,
don’t call me.
I can’t do a thing for you.
All I can tell you to do
is just sit back, relax,
and watch the destruction.

Written 3/24/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson except for the line “when Godzilla flattens your car on Monday morning,” donated by John of Transylvanian Dutch. All Rights Reserved on all original material by N. Nicholson.

Stumble It!
Stumble It!

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Resurrection

Whose Eyes Are These?
Whose Eyes Are These? by Nicole Nicholson

This was written for two purposes: 1) for Read Write Prompt #70: In Your Face (poetry, that is), and 2) a personal project.

The personal project is to write one poem per day for Lent (excepting Sundays). To help myself out, I have been pulling lines from other people’s poetry to jump-start my own inspiration. The lines I used to jump-start this one come from Jim Morrison’s “Paris Journal”. You can check out more poems I’ve written like this by clicking here. And be sure that I’ll be posting more of these kinds of poems throughout the Lenten season.

Now, enjoy the poem.

-Nicole

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Tell them you came & saw
& look’d into my eyes
& saw the shadow
of the guard receding
            - Jim Morrison

Darkness and storms in my eyes – but
I can see your windows clearly. So clearly, they

speak to me,

telling me of dreams pulverized – slapped
across the face, shoved face first into
dust, kicked until their bones cracked
and angels bled and cried for mercy on their
tortured behalf. And fantasies – drowned
until they died in twilight, exhaling gasps and then
nothing but a slow dying whimper. I know that
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