May 30, 2017

Posts from "Poetry"

  • Poetry | Apr.18, 2013

    The Proverbial AHA Moment

      People like to talk about that moment in their life when they realized that they needed to step things up. That shining moment when they decided to turn their life around, kick that gambling addiction, write the next great American novel, or balance the state budget. For a lot of people, it happened after a near-death moment. I had the near-death moment, but not so much the revelation. Not at first. It should have hit me in the seconds after the car sideswiped my bike and sent me flying. But it didn’t. There was no moment of my life flashing before my eyes, no revelation that I’d led the most bread-and-butter existence in the history of mankind. In fact, my only thought was “what” and the only thing that hit me was the ground. It didn’t hit me when I was propped up against a wall and trying to figure out why my head was bleeding. That was another textbook time for me to have The Moment, but I was in shock at the time. It’s a bit difficult to come to an existential conclusion when all you can do is stare at the mangled wreck of your bike and wonder how big of a dent it left in that car. It didn’t come in the ambulance, either. Again, it was probably the shock. It was hard enough focusing on the paramedics, all of whom were wondering how I’d bashed my forehead open even though I was wearing a helmet. I had been wondering the same thing. I could only hope I wasn’t bleeding to death. Since they didn’t immediately drag me off to surgery when I reached the emergency room, I figured I wasn’t.

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  • Poetry | Apr.18, 2013

    River Tide Run

      People like to talk about that moment in their life when they realized that they needed to step things up. That shining moment when they decided to turn their life around, kick that gambling addiction, write the next great American novel, or balance the state budget. For a lot of people, it happened after a near-death moment. I had the near-death moment, but not so much the revelation. Not at first. It should have hit me in the seconds after the car sideswiped my bike and sent me flying. But it didn’t. There was no moment of my life flashing before my eyes, no revelation that I’d led the most bread-and-butter existence in the history of mankind. In fact, my only thought was “what” and the only thing that hit me was the ground. It didn’t hit me when I was propped up against a wall and trying to figure out why my head was bleeding. That was another textbook time for me to have The Moment, but I was in shock at the time. It’s a bit difficult to come to an existential conclusion when all you can do is stare at the mangled wreck of your bike and wonder how big of a dent it left in that car. It didn’t come in the ambulance, either. Again, it was probably the shock. It was hard enough focusing on the paramedics, all of whom were wondering how I’d bashed my forehead open even though I was wearing a helmet. I had been wondering the same thing. I could only hope I wasn’t bleeding to death. Since they didn’t immediately drag me off to surgery when I reached the emergency room, I figured I wasn’t.

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  • Portfolio | Oct.04, 2012

    A Twitch Upon the Thread

      We were born without vision. Our eyes never saw the New York Skyline Shining with bright hope from across the river. We never saw the great rise and fall

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  • Portfolio | Oct.04, 2012

    Under The Stars

      We met by pure chance on a warm summer midnight. I, once again, couldn’t sleep and had gone to the park as I often did when insomnia hit. He was sitting on one of the swings. I’d never seen him there before. The first thing he said to me wasn’t “hello” or “what are you doing out here so late?”

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  • Portfolio | Sep.06, 2012

    Silly Putty

     

    Far from the shore we’d glide over the ocean tides
    And kiss the salted lips of Grace,
    As her golden face lights up the sky.
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  • Portfolio | Sep.06, 2012

    A Moment of Teaching

    I am not the man my father wanted me to be, but this is not a desperate attempt to elicit your sympathy or pity; it is simply the truth. I first realized this at age six when I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My father had hoped for the best and the brightest, but instead got a son who had to work at what came naturally to everyone else. I’m 18 now, so I’ve adjusted to my role as the perpetually disappointing son.

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  • Portfolio | Apr.20, 2012

    Pilate’s License

    “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?”

    -Macbeth, Act II Scene 2

      “And he said, ‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'” -Revelation 7:14   The shadow of the tree cuts across me Dividing, decrying, vivifying. “Are you the King of the Jews?” The question rings in my ears. But the cries from far off Cavalry interrupt my concentration as Legion pound nails into His feet, into His hands The spear-pierced side leaks water, and blood and I wash my hands of it. It stains the Gol’gothan sands below; my hands remain sullied. I believe that I had power to free or to crucify. I cannot blame the people for Barrabas. My appeals were not enough for this. I can blame no one but Pilate. I am no one. So recently I decried those fearful Sanhedrin yet their pharasaical concern for cleanliness seems all the more real now: How can I eat what my wife prepares? Days later, with blood-soaked hands, I throw the dinner to the floor, and leave my dream-suffering wife, and wander the still-hot streets of Judea. I hear cries about a torn curtain as it begins to rain. The quakes had not yet come… These memories, after that day long ago. The shadow of a temple now cuts across me a temple to the Goddess of Love; I turn away. Your followers eat your body, drink your blood. I hear such rituals whispered in the darkness and I wish I to join them. To wash your blood from my hands with your blood, to wash the invisible with the visible, to have your blood wash my robes clean. I tell no one, and yet I fear: Is this my own idea, or did others talk to me about you? Why do I come

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  • Portfolio | Apr.13, 2012

    Wedding Bells

    Let us not mince words. Howie was emotional napalm.

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  • Portfolio | Mar.22, 2012

    For Marcus, Long Overdue

    The moment of emergence from the clouds is what finally broke him. It had been almost 30 years, and he figured that at that point, his numbness would be perennial. The flashes of white still overcame him every once in a while; the screams, however, had died away. He had never returned to that place. In fact, when he left, he vowed he never would. But life has an odd way of taking every preconceived notion and dogmatic belief that you’ve ever held and throwing them out the window like inconsequential discharge.

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  • Portfolio | Mar.22, 2012

    I Call Him Billy – Short for William

    My friend Billy is a bit rough around the edges. I would never call him handsome, and though he doesn’t exactly smell, he definitely has his own peculiar scent. He may not be the strongest, the most appealing, or even the most dependable. But what can I say? He is a comrade of mine-a darling, if you will-and nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever change that. Oh, quick author’s note: Billy’s a car.

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