Thursday’s poem

A Thursday morning post.

On Saturday, I was in an auto accident.  Hit from behind.  It’s strange when you don’t see it coming.  Can’t prepare.  Can’t brace yourself.  After the impact, it was like an out of body experience, seeing me flail forward and then jerk back as the loud shattering bang rang in my ears.  Now the job is self-care.  Rest and healing.  Seeking the doctors and insurance adjusters, mechanics and parade of automobiles.  How long will it take to put the pieces back together?

The attempt to get back to the practice of writing.  Finding words, finding my voice.  I will put on the headset and continue to transpose.  My time shortened as I am gentle with myself.

Took my first poetry workshop in many years.  It was scary and fun and a chance to connect.

I leave you with one of the poems I created.  See you next week.


fading mambo


I am weary of this world

but you will be my girl

who will say that I’m not quite obsolete


even in the end

you will be my facebook friend

schooling foodies on the hippest place to eat


wearing purple blue and green

you dance the serpentine

and flail erotic while I’m on my knees


with a long-surrendered shout

my tattered soul comes out

I iron it so it becomes pristine


you will bite it with your teeth

I will bleed to get relief

we are vagabonds who travel without dreams


I help you with your words

you say “aging’s for the birds”

I kiss you before you start to lie


fearless to undress

with your head upon my chest

morning makes you glisten in my eye



Zack Hoffman  2017

Late for the Blog

Late for the blog this week…like being late for the party.  Here is my week…

The definition of overwhelm:  to overpower in mind or feeling.

There is a great disarray of writing in my life.  Poems unfinished.  Two different long writes in different states of incompleteness.  Late for the blog post.  No relief in sight.  But I push on.  It’s what we do.  I am continually grateful for Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”.  She constantly reminds me that I am not here to be perfect.  I am here to write.  That it’s okay to write the biggest pile of crap the world has ever seen and call it good (not that I want to).  All I need to do is put pen to paper.  So once again, thanks Natalie.

Yesterday I sat with a small group of brave people at the Vios Café in Ravenna and wrote for 45 minutes…then we read, our voices were heard.  It was beautiful, it was clumsy, it was poignant, it was disjointed, it was elegant but most of all it was our truth for that moment in time.  I heard a friend say this morning, “I am going to try and be where my feet are today.”  Me too!

Read this book.

Zack Hoffman 2017

My Voice

My Voice

My voice has been lost and found and lost again.  I keep looking for my voice.  Form and rhyme, substance and style.   My voice has been through many changes.   As I walk the earth I learn to speak, gather words and ideas.  Make mistakes.  Find a victory.

I’m a poet and a singer and an actor and a writer.  I have been a human doing and now I thrive to be a human being.  All parts of me have a voice.  The man, the child, the seeker and the runner.   All these parts of me have voices.

I know my voice with music.   I’m a bass baritone.   I sing other people’s words.   The voice of rock and jazz and Broadway contemporary songbooks. The voice of standards and parity. The voice of Tommy James and the Shondells to Lerner and Lowe.  I love to sing.  I don’t do it enough.  My friend Gary looked up the definition of “amateur”.  It was a person who does something for love instead of financial gain.  Then Gary said, “I never want to lose my amateur status!”   Me too.  The search is on for my amateur status, it is something I have lost and will have to find it again.  I know it’s there, all I have to do is pick it up.

I’ve lost my voice to emotional laryngitis.  If I could only love her enough she wouldn’t leave me.  If I only gave up my voice then perhaps she wouldn’t leave me.   But she had planned to leave me all along.  It was like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.  Double to over with no place to go and no place to live, I wanted to die.  There will always be some external factor that will try and silence me.  I persevere.  Fear tried to silence my voice.  The house of narcissism tried to silence my voice.   The house of sexual abuse tried to take away my voice.   They were waiting for me to stop talking but I found something else.  The voice of recovery.  The voice of reprieve.  The voice of one day at a time.  We come and we encourage. To tell our stories with our voice what it was like what happened and what we are doing now.

I remembered that feeling that feeling of no voice and I knew where to go. I had friends. I had people who were just like me.  They understood what it meant to give their voices to someone else.  Together we said our names over and over again until we heard them.  Until we owned them.  Until we celebrated them.  I remember the celebration.   I remember dancing in Glendale with a beautiful redheaded woman.   We saw our bodies through the garments wet with sweat as the B-52 screamed about the Love Shack.   We went home and whispered secrets in each other ears.  The secrets in our voice.  I can keep a secret.

Ruthie taught me to sing.  Told me, “Yes I could.”  I will always be grateful.  Thanks Ruthie.

Zack Hoffman 2017