The weight of the world -
Sweet relief, where are you?
It's hard to keep faith.
A Possible Future
3 weeks ago
1.06.2010
12.21.2009
Winter Solstice
December 21st,
The first day of winter,
The darkest day
Of the year.
We need the
Darkness
To appreciate
The beauty
Of light in our lives.
I think I can see
It - the beacon
Of light
Emanating
At the end
Of this dark tunnel.
The first day of winter,
The darkest day
Of the year.
We need the
Darkness
To appreciate
The beauty
Of light in our lives.
I think I can see
It - the beacon
Of light
Emanating
At the end
Of this dark tunnel.
12.20.2009
Winter's Peace
A soft light — bright— streams in through the window,
Diffused by the snow falling outside.
The oil burner purrs beneath the floor.
Arise from patchwork quilts and comforters,
Groggy as the cold air prickles my skin.
The bed beckons me—a warm and soft bosom
To fall into and slowly drift away,
But no, I cannot stay. I dress myself with
Tube sox, cotton long-johns, a worn out tee,
Old blue jeans and a college sweatshirt,
Rubber-soled boots and black-wool gloves, a hat—
Or more fittingly: a little beanie—
A long black wool coat (like ones worn by Suits),
And a red scarf that’s wrapped around my neck.
The funk of morning, and my hair a-strewn
Under a fabric cocoon. I look out
With a plastic shovel in woolen hand.
A wall of cold beyond the threshold of
My door greets me as I begin to scrape.
As the plastic drags, an igloo takes form,
Reminding me of childhood revelry.
The ancient great evergreen in my yard,
Taunts me as I clear a path, dropping snow
Exactly where I’ll go. I take a break
And watch my breath condense and the snow
Around me in the shadow-less daylight.
Houses on my block, uniform in white,
And the only soul around: only me.
Yes the snow is falling, but I am not—
I stand still, all alone, and I listen,
But I cannot hear a thing—Absolute
Silence. I will take refuge in the peace
In the falling snow,
In its solitude.
Diffused by the snow falling outside.
The oil burner purrs beneath the floor.
Arise from patchwork quilts and comforters,
Groggy as the cold air prickles my skin.
The bed beckons me—a warm and soft bosom
To fall into and slowly drift away,
But no, I cannot stay. I dress myself with
Tube sox, cotton long-johns, a worn out tee,
Old blue jeans and a college sweatshirt,
Rubber-soled boots and black-wool gloves, a hat—
Or more fittingly: a little beanie—
A long black wool coat (like ones worn by Suits),
And a red scarf that’s wrapped around my neck.
The funk of morning, and my hair a-strewn
Under a fabric cocoon. I look out
With a plastic shovel in woolen hand.
A wall of cold beyond the threshold of
My door greets me as I begin to scrape.
As the plastic drags, an igloo takes form,
Reminding me of childhood revelry.
The ancient great evergreen in my yard,
Taunts me as I clear a path, dropping snow
Exactly where I’ll go. I take a break
And watch my breath condense and the snow
Around me in the shadow-less daylight.
Houses on my block, uniform in white,
And the only soul around: only me.
Yes the snow is falling, but I am not—
I stand still, all alone, and I listen,
But I cannot hear a thing—Absolute
Silence. I will take refuge in the peace
In the falling snow,
In its solitude.
12.17.2009
12.16.2009
12.09.2009
12.07.2009
12.05.2009
12.03.2009
12.01.2009
11.22.2009
11.17.2009
Dig!
Dig, man, dig!
Break the soft earth!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss the soil aside.
Its roar is thunderous
Shaking the foundations.
Desolation in its shadow,
Consuming the core – that ravenous beast.
Dig, man, dig!
Keep on grinding!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss the future aside.
It looms over us with
Eyes of fire burning.
Ambition seems impossible,
Consuming hope – that vengeful beast.
Dig, man, dig!
Keep your head down!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss your will aside.
Freedom is fleeting as
Commands are barked.
Hands are bound,
Consuming liberty – that onerous beast.
Dig, man, dig!
This trench, this grave!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss reason aside.
Standing side-by-side,
Watch siblings fall,
Fathers die and mothers cry.
Consuming families – that terrible beast.
Break the soft earth!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss the soil aside.
Its roar is thunderous
Shaking the foundations.
Desolation in its shadow,
Consuming the core – that ravenous beast.
Dig, man, dig!
Keep on grinding!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss the future aside.
It looms over us with
Eyes of fire burning.
Ambition seems impossible,
Consuming hope – that vengeful beast.
Dig, man, dig!
Keep your head down!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss your will aside.
Freedom is fleeting as
Commands are barked.
Hands are bound,
Consuming liberty – that onerous beast.
Dig, man, dig!
This trench, this grave!
Shovel after shovel,
Toss reason aside.
Standing side-by-side,
Watch siblings fall,
Fathers die and mothers cry.
Consuming families – that terrible beast.
11.12.2009
Seasons
In the seasons- as they pass my window-
Everywhere I look, all I see is you.
The floating weeds of summer- your fine hair,
The breezy autumn air- your fair spirit,
The pristine winter snow- your complexion,
The blooms of spring- your efflorescent look.
Your dulcet beauty, undeniable,
But my love is always surreptitious.
In my solitude, I am a voyeur.
The oppressive summer- my avid thirst,
The fol’age of autumn- my impotence,
The barren winter- my ephemeral hope,
The torrents of spring- my sodden spirit.
Half empty glasses are before my eyes.
Everywhere I look, all I see is you.
The floating weeds of summer- your fine hair,
The breezy autumn air- your fair spirit,
The pristine winter snow- your complexion,
The blooms of spring- your efflorescent look.
Your dulcet beauty, undeniable,
But my love is always surreptitious.
In my solitude, I am a voyeur.
The oppressive summer- my avid thirst,
The fol’age of autumn- my impotence,
The barren winter- my ephemeral hope,
The torrents of spring- my sodden spirit.
Half empty glasses are before my eyes.
Birdie
A birdie got trapped in my house the other day-
In a cage (but not an actual cage).
She landed on a couch, comfortably sweet.
I asked the birdie what she had to say.
“Poo tee tweet?” she asked, quoting Vonnegut.
She flew in circles and into windows.
The percussive thuds of her feathered body
Made me cringe and squirm for the frightened bird.
I thought: “I have to direct where she goes-
“I will be a shepherd.” I ran around,
Trying to fly her towards an open door.
I waved my arms and made yelping noises,
Feeling silly chasing this little ball of feathers.
Little plumes and droppings all on my floor
Because the fear was hers. She flew away,
Through the open door and into the blue.
I was successful but kind of down.
It took two hours, the entire affair
And after I realized there was more I could do
To show I care. I understand now,
How my parents must have felt- eighteen years
In a cage (but not an actual cage),
Waving their arms about, directing me
Towards a way out and soothing fears
Yet unknown to me. But at the end,
Instead of exhausted relief,
You both worry and care.
I take that for granted at times,
So allow me the time now to say:
“Thanks mom and dad.”
In a cage (but not an actual cage).
She landed on a couch, comfortably sweet.
I asked the birdie what she had to say.
“Poo tee tweet?” she asked, quoting Vonnegut.
She flew in circles and into windows.
The percussive thuds of her feathered body
Made me cringe and squirm for the frightened bird.
I thought: “I have to direct where she goes-
“I will be a shepherd.” I ran around,
Trying to fly her towards an open door.
I waved my arms and made yelping noises,
Feeling silly chasing this little ball of feathers.
Little plumes and droppings all on my floor
Because the fear was hers. She flew away,
Through the open door and into the blue.
I was successful but kind of down.
It took two hours, the entire affair
And after I realized there was more I could do
To show I care. I understand now,
How my parents must have felt- eighteen years
In a cage (but not an actual cage),
Waving their arms about, directing me
Towards a way out and soothing fears
Yet unknown to me. But at the end,
Instead of exhausted relief,
You both worry and care.
I take that for granted at times,
So allow me the time now to say:
“Thanks mom and dad.”
9.14.2009
A Tuesday (a poem)
A Tuesday, cool and breezy
Red, orange, yellow and brown
Splattered beneath the blue sky.
Past the gym and up the stairs,
Up on the third floor,
Can see the Steel gleaming.
I turn the knob twice past zero
Twenty-six, pass it again
Thirteen, straight to forty-four—
Slam it shut.
Books under arm,
Beat the bell, get to class.
A Tuesday, cool and breezy—
Until I’m interrupted during fourth-period study hall.
buzz
It’s the intercom:
Students, faculty and staff—
There has been an incident
At the World Trade Center.
Please remain calm.
Everything will be alright.
That is all.
buzz
The students are confused.
That was strange,
What was that about?
bell
English is next.
Sit down in a seat.
Teacher is crying,
And we whisper, wonder.
Teacher stands up,
Students fall silent.
Teacher’s voice quivers.
A knock on the door—
My friends are leaving
Parents are frightened.
bell
History is on the third floor.
The blinds are drawn,
The room is dark.
The television is on:
The blooms of fire,
The cascading Steel,
The ash snowing down,
The exodus of the Island,
The teary-eyed pleads for
The lost that cannot be found,
All flash by in the ghastly glow
And brand our memories.
A knock on the door—
More friends are leaving
Parents are frightened.
bell
Can’t go out for lunch—
School’s on lockdown.
Go up to the third floor,
Look out a window:
An abyss stares back.
A dark plume mars the blue.
A furnace burns over the river,
But Tuesday is cool—almost cold.
What’s going on?
What happened?
Is this the end?
No—a beginning.
A Tuesday, cool and breezy
Revealed a world, cold and surreal,
And all I can see are shades of gray.
Red, orange, yellow and brown
Splattered beneath the blue sky.
Past the gym and up the stairs,
Up on the third floor,
Can see the Steel gleaming.
I turn the knob twice past zero
Twenty-six, pass it again
Thirteen, straight to forty-four—
Slam it shut.
Books under arm,
Beat the bell, get to class.
A Tuesday, cool and breezy—
Until I’m interrupted during fourth-period study hall.
buzz
It’s the intercom:
Students, faculty and staff—
There has been an incident
At the World Trade Center.
Please remain calm.
Everything will be alright.
That is all.
buzz
The students are confused.
That was strange,
What was that about?
bell
English is next.
Sit down in a seat.
Teacher is crying,
And we whisper, wonder.
Teacher stands up,
Students fall silent.
Teacher’s voice quivers.
A knock on the door—
My friends are leaving
Parents are frightened.
bell
History is on the third floor.
The blinds are drawn,
The room is dark.
The television is on:
The blooms of fire,
The cascading Steel,
The ash snowing down,
The exodus of the Island,
The teary-eyed pleads for
The lost that cannot be found,
All flash by in the ghastly glow
And brand our memories.
A knock on the door—
More friends are leaving
Parents are frightened.
bell
Can’t go out for lunch—
School’s on lockdown.
Go up to the third floor,
Look out a window:
An abyss stares back.
A dark plume mars the blue.
A furnace burns over the river,
But Tuesday is cool—almost cold.
What’s going on?
What happened?
Is this the end?
No—a beginning.
A Tuesday, cool and breezy
Revealed a world, cold and surreal,
And all I can see are shades of gray.
9.11.2009
8.30.2009
Strange Dreams
I've recently started dreaming again.
I stopped in my junior year of high school. It was just another fall night, with another dream, but it'd be the last one I would have for a little while.
I am walking with my two brothers in an open strip mall. The air is crisp- the sky, clear save a couple of cotton-ball clouds. We are heading towards a Starbucks. As we approached, a blinding flash fills the sky ahead of us. I can feel a breeze pick up and rustle my shirt. I fight the polka-dots to try and see. The breeze becomes a wind. I look up and I watch a dark pillar rise up and encroaching the blue sky. Those cotton-ball clouds quickly fled away. The wind is physically blowing me over. I see the ripples of a shock wave emanating out from the dark pillar of fire. I turn and grab my brothers' heads, tuck them them into my chest, and huddle against the concrete foundation of the Starbucks. I feel the ground beginning to shake. The windows break, raining little beads of glass upon us. A deafening roar fill my ears. The wind is becoming hot. I can't open my eyes. I can't breathe, my throat is dry. It burns. I feel blisters rising, my skin is boiling. I feel dizzy. The pillar of fire overtakes me. I see nothing.
I wake up. The pulse in my temple is pounding, my breathing is short and quick, I'm covered in beads of cold sweat. I died in my dream.
In retrospect the dream was strange because in my waking life, I rarely went to Starbucks in the first place. I also thought it was strange that I died in my dream- knowing the urban legend I thought I should be dead. Clearly I wasn't, so that was good. What wasn't good was that I wouldn't dream again until the summer of my junior year in college- a full 4 years and not one single remembered dream.
I can't remember exactly what my first dream back was about. I know I've been dreaming because as I awoke, I fell out of my bed confused and startled to actually be waking up. The dream escaped me in disorientation.
Familiar faces, fuzzy words, fragments of a porcelain jar, a flight through midtown, amorphous settings that change unnoticed, a sense of urgency, a sense of calm. It's great to dream again.
I stopped in my junior year of high school. It was just another fall night, with another dream, but it'd be the last one I would have for a little while.
I am walking with my two brothers in an open strip mall. The air is crisp- the sky, clear save a couple of cotton-ball clouds. We are heading towards a Starbucks. As we approached, a blinding flash fills the sky ahead of us. I can feel a breeze pick up and rustle my shirt. I fight the polka-dots to try and see. The breeze becomes a wind. I look up and I watch a dark pillar rise up and encroaching the blue sky. Those cotton-ball clouds quickly fled away. The wind is physically blowing me over. I see the ripples of a shock wave emanating out from the dark pillar of fire. I turn and grab my brothers' heads, tuck them them into my chest, and huddle against the concrete foundation of the Starbucks. I feel the ground beginning to shake. The windows break, raining little beads of glass upon us. A deafening roar fill my ears. The wind is becoming hot. I can't open my eyes. I can't breathe, my throat is dry. It burns. I feel blisters rising, my skin is boiling. I feel dizzy. The pillar of fire overtakes me. I see nothing.
I wake up. The pulse in my temple is pounding, my breathing is short and quick, I'm covered in beads of cold sweat. I died in my dream.
In retrospect the dream was strange because in my waking life, I rarely went to Starbucks in the first place. I also thought it was strange that I died in my dream- knowing the urban legend I thought I should be dead. Clearly I wasn't, so that was good. What wasn't good was that I wouldn't dream again until the summer of my junior year in college- a full 4 years and not one single remembered dream.
I can't remember exactly what my first dream back was about. I know I've been dreaming because as I awoke, I fell out of my bed confused and startled to actually be waking up. The dream escaped me in disorientation.
Familiar faces, fuzzy words, fragments of a porcelain jar, a flight through midtown, amorphous settings that change unnoticed, a sense of urgency, a sense of calm. It's great to dream again.
8.26.2009
It's been a long time
I've decided to peek my head out of my little hole and here I am.
It's been an awful while since I've posted anything. It's not like I haven't been doing any writing or thinking- honestly I don't know why I was on that hiatus. Anyhow much has happened since, but I guess nothing is really worth noting. Still back at GO, just without the extra $200 is all.
I've been writing again recently and have been keeping a physical paper journal for the first time since middle school. Physically writing is a trip- it's a different experience. It's a different connection to the medium. Typing, you're just almost mechanically plunking away on the keyboard. It feels detached. Pen-and-paper writing is more intimate. There's a tangible writing utensil you must use in order to make your mark on the clean sheet of paper. After a little while, the joints in your writing hand go numb, then sore. You have to take a break to shake that out, only to realize that your own handwriting curiously resembles cuneiform. No matter though, you're only writing for the sake of writing, you probably weren't going to read it again anyhow. Yep, that's what it is.
But anyhow, I'm back now and I'll try to keep it up (I've said that in 7 of my last 10 entries).
Writing again,
Greg
It's been an awful while since I've posted anything. It's not like I haven't been doing any writing or thinking- honestly I don't know why I was on that hiatus. Anyhow much has happened since, but I guess nothing is really worth noting. Still back at GO, just without the extra $200 is all.
I've been writing again recently and have been keeping a physical paper journal for the first time since middle school. Physically writing is a trip- it's a different experience. It's a different connection to the medium. Typing, you're just almost mechanically plunking away on the keyboard. It feels detached. Pen-and-paper writing is more intimate. There's a tangible writing utensil you must use in order to make your mark on the clean sheet of paper. After a little while, the joints in your writing hand go numb, then sore. You have to take a break to shake that out, only to realize that your own handwriting curiously resembles cuneiform. No matter though, you're only writing for the sake of writing, you probably weren't going to read it again anyhow. Yep, that's what it is.
But anyhow, I'm back now and I'll try to keep it up (I've said that in 7 of my last 10 entries).
Writing again,
Greg
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)