Poetry
Grassy Illinois plains and fields of wildflowers call to me.
I miss the jagged rows of corn and the sweet lullaby the combines sing in the summertime.
The whistle of the wind through the trees and land for miles and miles does something for my soul.
Deer frolicking through the timber put a smile on my face like no other.
Beanstalks in the fields and cattails in the ditches with the toads lurking and croaking make me miss home.
The hot summer sun shining down on the gravel roads and glinting off the grass makes me miss who I used to be.
ICARUS
There are soft clucks from the hens,
Occasional murmurs from the goats,
Even faint hymns hummed by the harvester.
Peering over the unending clouds,
The lap of the waves on the shore soothe those near,
Even the breeze coming off the humble sea seems serene.
The smell of a freshly cut pasture,
Guided by the salty sea air, could relax
Even the livestock milling about.
BARETTES & SCRAPED KNEES
The young toddler used to see bright yellow plastic
Covered in deep dark dents
Made by countless trips
Down the colossal neon spiral
By countless other toddlers.
The young toddler used to see glossy blue plastic
Covered in small, secret scratches
Made by numerous play dates
With the big man she called Grandpa –
His Golden hair just long enough for the colorful clasps.
The young toddler used to see small scrapes,
Streaming red with
Gritty grains of sand,
Mixing with the salt of her tears,
Filling the stinging red cuts on her knees.
The young toddler used to see strong calloused hands lifting her up
And bandaging her,
The man with the Golden locks would always say,
“No more slides today, just barrettes.
Grandpa’s gotcha now.”
NICHOLAS, A SAINT
This is who you were.
You had crazy, unruly red hair,
An uncontrollable and contagious laugh,
And the brightest blue eyes.
Your crazy red hair
Always coated with the dingy smell of stale cigarette smoke,
Your bright blue eyes filled with joy.
The too-big camouflage t-shirts you wore
Had the dingy smell of stale cigarette smoke,
But you constantly had goofy grin,
Even though I hated your too-big camouflage t-shirts.
You were invariably optimistic,
With your goofy grin and
An uncontrollable, contagious laugh.
Invariably optimistic,
This is who you were.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
The orange hound barks as His human walks through the door, Circling back and forth, Twitching his tail eagerly, In hopes of his human finally staying home. The plump pooch sniffs at his human While she grips a round white object. Hoping the bowl is filled with something for him for once, She holds it up away from him. Realizing it is not for him, The pup sinks to the floor like a puddle of neglected fur. The human, at last, reaches down to stroke the dog with one hand, The other occupied with a bulky rectangular object. Just as the big dog began to howl and wiggle with anticipation, His human, once again, got up, leaving him hungry and heartbroken. It was then that he realized the truth – He and his human were opposites; There was more to his human’s life than just him.
Everyone else gets quarters or dollar bills.
Not me; I got a penny.
Without waking me, a shimmering penny was slipped under my pillow.
I awoke so full of merriment.
Excited, I rushed to show them.
They had painted looks of astonishment on their faces already.
She kissed my forehead,
Lipstick lingering,
And told me to show my friends.
I did, I showed my friends.
They laughed and said I was weird.
Just because we weren’t as well-off.
It hurt when they made fun of me.
They said we weren’t normal,
All because of a penny.
But, I didn’t think so.
I loved it.
Being different from the rest?
I was thankful.
But I still wonder how they did it,
Slipped that penny under my pillow and made those perfect footprints.
Being a pet is pretty challenging.
Take it from me, the family goldfish.
Cats purr, dogs bark, and birds chirp.
But, what the hell do I do?
Swim around in a tiny-ass glass bowl 24/7.
In order to be considered a good pet, as well as survive, you must be able to get your human’s attention.
Goldfish. Can’t. Do. That.
To be a good pet, you must also be able to spend some good ‘ol quality time with your human.
Go on walks, snuggle, play fetch.
Goldfish can’t do that either.
Good pets are typically well mannered.
Sweet, cuddly, and warm.
Goldfish have none of those characteristics.
A good pet will stay at your side when you fall suddenly ill; take care of you in a way.
Goldfish are stuck in bowls and can never escape.
But, a truly good bet will never leave your side.
Goldfish die.
A lot.
All in all, being a goldfish, we’re pretty shitty pets.
A funnel cloud, bewitching yet foreboding,
Took its form in the center of a faultless town,
Almost as if it were waiting to show the townspeople its true force.
Every line is down; the power is out.
Childhood memories of adolescent slumber parties, sweet sixteen’s and first cars, clumsy kisses,
All destroyed.
A small girl treks through the streets of rubble, aimlessly searching for what she’s lost
Due to the detrimental cyclone that lasted a mere 14 minutes.
We lost everything – superfluous objects.
We gained everything – fellowship.
You stood, arms crossed and back to the maple tree in the front yard.
You look the same now as you did in black and white;
Strong, handsome, and young.
You’ve changed since then.
Even though you may not be so young, you’re still strong.
But you’ll always be strong – you’re the strongest man I’ve ever known.
And you’re just as handsome now as you were in black and white.
I suppose you’re not so different after all.
In the black and white your mouth forms a crooked grin,
And your head is tilted slightly as you suppress a chuckle.
You were remarkably cheerful and so full of life.
You seem blissful there.
If I could go back to the black and white, I’d ask you
What it was that made you smile that way.
I’d warn you to never let it escape your grasp, to hold it close forever.
To drink
Said the young woman
Is drowning my sorrows and fear
With liquor and hope
It mixes will with my previously ingested sins
To drink
Said the vibrant corn
Is to startle my insides and stretch upwards
Still hoping to shrink deeper into the soil
Away from the ample green and yellow spears
To drink
Said the dingy coal
Is to transform myself
To create something powerful
To form a necessity
To promise is to anticipate
Said the youthful woman
It is to be dreadful of forgetfulness
Not of oneself but of others
To promise is to say farewell
Said the melancholy corn
It is to be accepting of the future
Not to be disheartened when the time comes
To promise is to affirm
Said the affable coal
It is to be relied on
Not to harm but to help
Songs are ominous
Said the pained young woman
They come from a place of torment
They lyrics can cause pain
But the music can inflict severe harm
Songs are prejudice
Said the vexed corn
They are written for love or heartbreak
The lyrics do not reflect reality
But the music soothes
Songs are for those who yearn for more
Said the arrogant coal
They are for those who desire scrutiny
The concepts in no way emulate their true identity
But only how they are seen through the world’s eye
THE AFTERMATH
bright lights, strobes, bass banging through the floorboards and into your bones
hands in the air, smoke clinging to everyone and everything
throats red and raw from screaming all the words in unison
hips thrusting, legs shaking until –
fists flying, bodies pushing and shoving
blood everywhere
then back to –
heads banging, bass throbbing
screaming together, vibing together
band’s jumping
all of a sudden –
circles forming, yelling escalating, elbows in chests
shoulders
faces
legs
then back to –
rocking, swaying, dancing, screaming
it isn’t until the next day that the aftermath hits
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