To-Do List
January 25, 2014 § 2 Comments
Our decade is floating upward
toward a precipitous cloud
encouraging the worship of wisdom
spilling from the fingers of intangible spectators,
who, again and again,
proclaim that the expanse of time
before death, before thirty
even, should be filled with experiences
from a shiny checklist, floating
on a flashing screen
guaranteed to render you more fulfilled
and sculpt your life journey to match
expectations of apathetic crowds,
those digital souls with hands ready to lend
affirmative praise to each picture posted
that fulfills the pre-defined checklist
of necessary accomplishments
and stringent guidelines of precisely
what it takes
to live a perfect life.
Seven stamps in your passport, at least,
before you become real, and old, and settled.
Skydiving naked, is a must
in order to truly live
you must break all the rules, as well
and simultaneously become
successful, noteworthy, wealthy.
New York on New Years, gambling in Vegas
skiing in the Rockies, sailing on the Gulf Coast
must all be done within the next five years,
at least, to ensure no regrets.
Don’t you want to be happy?
Expectations from an anonymous author
behind the guise of a piece of glass
becomes the Bible for the 20-something
dreamer, wishing to see, and hope, and do,
but what happened
to that dog-eared piece of lined paper
scrawled when you were seventeen
in a blue notebook, amongst science notes
and doodles of clouds, the cumulus kind,
a list that was carefully composed
before the world became enamored
with digital scripts of how best to live
when you were able to dream, entirely
in your own mind
of all the wonderful things you would do
someday, that would give you
your own version,
of a perfect life.
History
January 24, 2014 § Leave a comment
With weathered hands and downcast eyes
he carefully collects the days, weeks,
years and decades, balancing
this unbearable expanse of time
atop his hunched shoulders, his task unrelenting
it grows with each passing day
a burden taken with vigilance and care
for if small pieces should slip from his grasp
he is chided by those who remember
and punished by those who forget
but he is only one and we are many, and as his accounts
of the facts and stories and lifetimes and fictions and lies of millions
become blurred and inky with time
he must let the insignificant, sodden bits
float to the ground, for his muscles tire
and his mind becomes cluttered
and he worries for his sanity, because what he has seen
is far too much for any one man to bear himself
and those small pieces, released from his steadfast hold
become dusty and yellowed and torn
as the weight of days and weeks and eras
trample them underfoot, until they are forgotten
and erased from pages of timeworn tomes
indistinguishable to even the spirits
who still wander the earth
unrecognized and foreign to all
except to the man with the weathered hands and downcast eyes
for History never forgets.
Song
January 24, 2014 § 2 Comments
A melody singing
again and again
a sweet, faint tune
that rings between ears
but sounds different
each time it plays, perhaps
the very same notes
but melancholy
at times
or gloriously ecstatic
perhaps
red with anger
at moments
and painful sadness
in others
and then blind passion
flooding emotion
or just
perfect peace,
all fantastically interesting,
though.
A melody that speaks
everything
you cannot say,
a tune that plays
between your ears
day-in, day-out
a hymn that sings a prayer
when words don’t suffice,
the melody of a spirit
that wonders
how life is any different
than a song.
The Bridge
January 23, 2014 § Leave a comment
I was walking across a bridge
today, and thought of you,
because eight years ago,
perhaps on this very day,
our footsteps aimlessly traced
the same path to this lonely bridge
in the woods.
Although the arch underfoot
carrying me over the creek below
is the same as it was
on that day eight years ago,
everything else is different.
It’s strange how eight years
can double a tree in size
or overgrow a foot-worn path
be the lifetime of a blue bird
and completely dull emotions
that seemed so all-consuming
eight short years ago.
I wonder if you walked the same path
would our conversation on that day
replay in your mind?
Or would you simply hear a whispered song
of a bluebird landing on the bridge’s edge.
Futures
January 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
where will you be five years from today?
cooking in a food truck on the streets of LA?
or singing a song at the foot of Big Ben?
or writing a letter to a far-away friend?
on a road trip south to avoid the cold?
or on a couch with your cat in a crown of gold?
will you be in a park in France enjoying a Baguette?
or in Vegas betting it all on Russian Roulette?
will you be doing a dance in the streets of Rome?
or sitting on a subway writing a poem?
will you have three kids and a corporate career?
or will you be in a bar playing pool and drinking a beer?
can you see yourself sailing across the Mediterranian Sea?
but most importantly, do you see yourself sailing with me?
The Walker
January 20, 2014 § Leave a comment
Her eyes are always fixed ahead
on some unseen ghost
after which she is chasing.
She travels the earth, it seems,
circling and circling,
walking past my window
three times a day
maybe more.
She moves with purpose
pushing her way into the open space
just beyond the tip of her worm out
tennis shoe, but she never seems
to be able to fill the space,
it’s always just out of her reach.
Her hand is always stuck
perhaps by glue, or force, or need
to her cell phone
which is stuck on the other side
to her ear.
She talks loudly
but its strange,
we never know what she is saying.
Her face is serious and downcast
as if she has life-changing conversations
on every walk she takes
with whoever sits patiently
on the other side of the phone.
Sometime I imagine it’s her son
who hears his phone ring every day at ten
diligently answers
places it on speaker
sets it on his desk
and prepares himself for his mother’s
five hour walk.
Soccer Ball Piggy Bank
January 20, 2014 § Leave a comment
The ceramic container is dependable,
if nothing else. But it is something else.
It’s the shape of a soccer ball,
actually, it is a soccer ball.
But it’s ceramic,
and has never been kicked or stained with grass.
It stands there, or sits there, I’m not sure which one,
but like I said, it’s dependable, as most ceramic objects are.
It has held my coins since I was eight. Sturdy and decorative.
Being pumped with change, instead of air.
But every year, being completely deflated
of the treasures it holds so still and careful,
emptied aggressively with loud banging and clanging
and shaking upside down.
Its contents spilling out onto the floor
for the world to see. A meager compensation
for a years worth of dependability.
The sturdy container, now emptied of its worth,
its pride, is set back onto its perch
next to a flowered picture frame
and a rock shaped like a turtle,
where it will sit for another year
being dependable, but forgotten,
its contents losing value
and then spilling out onto the floor.
Cold
January 19, 2014 § 2 Comments
It’s going to get cold tonight
according to the birds,
and the bits of frozen rain
beginning to fall.
And it often does this time of year.
But the cold tonight is somehow different
because my house is especially quiet
and my walls are especially thin,
but just for tonight.
The wind brings the cold and
I can hear it, the wind that is.
Better than usual because
I’m actually listening
and Saint Sebald is searching
for stillness, to no avail.
It’s not angry, or spiteful.
Nor jealous or guilt-ridden.
Simply powerful. A howling
that is much more triumphant
than tyranical.
A cold that speaks not of barren
tundras, shivering bodies,
but of an awakening. An urging.
Seize it. For the cold too, will pass.
morning glory
January 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
some say glorious things
are buried deep within the earth
they say they are hidden
and must be discovered
they say they are rare
and come only to those
who work or wait or wish
for glorious things.
but what if,
what if, there is glory
for everyone who looks
and magic for all who see
and wonder for all who feel
if glorious things are hidden
are rare,
what is the magnificent light
forcing my eyes open
each and every day
making my room glow,
making the world glow,
allowing me to see the simple joy
of deep brown eyes
filled with unconditional love
a wagging tail
that is not discretionary, does not judge
a sniffing nose
that always recognizes and knows
a furry head
that rests on the edge of my bed
ecstatically happy to see me.
Sonata
January 16, 2014 § Leave a comment
The air in the room was old
like it had been resting there
unmoving and patient
for the past 75 years, waiting for someone
to breath it.
And I didn’t want to breathe it,
but that really was not an option.
And I sat at the piano and smiled
at the lady in the glasses
who was as old as the air
and probably just as stiff.
And she nodded, and nodded.
And I smiled and smiled.
And then remembered I was supposed to play
a Sonata,
but the air was so old
and the keys were so sticky and yellowed.
The air parted its lips, urging me to play
Or maybe it was the lady.
And the keys I had played for 5 years, or so
on my piano at home
looked foreign
And the Sonata I had learned 6 months ago
and practiced and practiced daily
lingered in front of me on the white pages.
And as I pressed the first chord
firmly into the keys
I heard a sound pierce the old air
sending it scurrying away
and then I heard the same foreign sound
coming from my fingertips
And I realized I had forgotten
my entire Sonata.
rosepoems 