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Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Ode to a teenager

Ode to the teenager,
who grew up too fast.
Whose eyes know too much,
whose face is a mask.

Whose life is a rock face,
beaten by waves.
Who stumbled, and crumbled
but stood still the same.

Who once remembered that one good thing,
when they didn't know;
to guard against the three bad
that surely would follow.

The one who once believed 
in a higher creation,
before the servants of him
proved a hypocrite nation.

To the hardened, yet soft;
the loving, yet scared;
who wonders if something happened
would anyone care?

Who wonders now,
 even more still,
do they care even now?
even though I'm not ill?

Who see through their mask?
Who notices their pain?
They look past the "Healthy"
only notice the slain

So they give what they didn't receive 
because they know the feeling.
Ode to a teenager,
a child without healing. 

Friday, May 13, 2011

A Good War


My Grandpa says he’s gonna have a war with God tonight.
“A good war” he says,
“A good war”

He knows his time is coming
But he doesn’t want to leave until the time is right

He loved my Nanny,
My Poppy did.
He loved her more than he did life,
Than the world,
What a good girl his Marie was
“What a good girl”.

She had cancer,
And though she was strong:
“I’m ready, I’ll fight it”,
She used to say with a smile,
I wish she wasn’t wrong.

“I was supposed to go first” my grandpa cried when she he knew she wouldn’t make it.
The pain was too much for her to stay awake,
Medication,
And sedation,
This was the first time
I saw my Nanny with no strength,
Even for a smile.

Just a week for her to be taken from him
Just a week for her to be taken from me

Hurt was the only word she managed,
Or so we thought,
Because she was strong (and, oh-so full of love)
That when the time was right,
Her time was near,
And as he cried,
Cried, right by her bedside,
She kissed him
And said:
I love you and goodbye

My Grandma, so strong,
Taken from me in days.
I wish I had more time, fourteen years of life
Is not long enough;
Fifty years of marriage,
Was still not long enough.

“It was supposed to be me” he said
“I was supposed to go first”

Two years later and you’re just getting worse
The strength you found in Grandma left you
She was taken from you
This curse,
This solitude,
I knew you couldn’t live without her.

So is that why you’ve decided to go?
For her?
Because you think the time seems right?
She loved you, you know,
And you loved her too.
And now you let your love show,
You let go of your body
For her, so you can see,
So that your mind,
With her,
Will finally be free.

I’ll miss you Poppy, when you go,
But if you time is right
I’ll let you sleep,
I’ll let you go
To be with my Nanny tonight

You will finally be with your Marie tonight

“What a good girl” he whispers
“What a good girl”

You’ll finally be with your Marie tonight

My Grandpa says he’s gonna have a war with God tonight
“A good war” he nodded, slowly thinking,
“A good war”.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Dreamer in a Dead Language


 A man, who is alone,
In world, and in possessions,
Spends hours contemplating
the world outside his walls; but his most relentless
thought of all, is thoughts about the dust upon the floor.

He knows not of his age, just that he feels like
that loathsome dust, he kicks and watches it swirl, as it
Come to rest at his feet,
until the sunsets. Then, and only then,
he dare raise his tired eyes to the window.
the last rays of sun boring holes into his face,
and as he watches the empty road
a salty sweet emotion,
climbs ridge over wrinkle,
as he turns his face away from the window.

They didn’t come again, today.

A brilliant man in his time,
ignored in his present.
A philosopher who could see the depths of a person’s very soul,
if there were only people there for him to do so.
So he rises for the first and last time
from his lonely chair.
And climbs into bed, throwing the dust into chaos,
as they are thrown up into the air.

He settles down to sleep, and dreams
of a crushing figure
pulling him away.
He struggles to run, but his resistance is in vain,
and as he pulls, his body decays,
and the more he screams the more he cannot
Be heard.

And so the man is dragged into a fitful retreat,
of his body and his mind,
no more soul to see,
no one to see him go,
no one to hear as he is like the dust,
who is kicked and thrashed about, without a thought.
Until like the dust, he lays unheard,
and rests, eternal upon the floor.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Drowning

Go ahead and ignore;
my silent cries for help.
You see the signs,
am I not clear?
I need you
but you do not hear,
you're too concerned about yourself;
every step in my direction 
is treason.
And every bit of attention I get
needs a fucking reason. 

Please see me,
 my heart is crowning,
Please save me,
I'm drowning

Monday, May 2, 2011

Now Accepted and Growing

Break and Ache, Forsake and Take
Renew, Undo, Blink and Sink
Lighting Propane, my god you're Insane
Cry and Sigh and Lie and Die
and Sit and Wonder and Judge one Another
Comprehend and Send and Lend and Pens
Some and All and Skin and Falls
Deaths and Hoorays and Films and Pay days

It's Knowing and Showing now Accepted and Growing

And Then She’d Laugh


A picture of Nanny,
a grandma too soon lost,
but a picture so like her,
it captures a lifetime.

The background is almost black,
maybe night outside,
barely noticed blue curtains almost blend with the dark;
the white of the window
and a little white orb,
possibly a candle,
is the only color there,
besides my grandma
surprised at the camera.

A little off center
showing from her shoulders up
she stands,
as if suddenly turned to answer the call of
‘Marie’
or ‘Mom’
or the cry of a grandchild.
Turned abruptly she met with a flash
a candid moment capture but surely her best.

If you knew my grandma
then surely you’d know
that after this picture was take she would laugh,
a laugh so contagious
because that’s who she was.
And if you really knew my grandma
then surely you’d know
(that if she wasn’t cooking)
she was probably holding one of her grandchildren
in this picture
because she lived for them,
and she would knit
and cook
and sing for them:

‘I love you, a bushel and a peck”

Or maybe in this picture
she might’ve been cooking for her family
like she did daily.
A traditional Italian woman,
and one of the best,
she lived to serve
her family
her children
and her grandchildren:

‘A bushel and a peck and you make my heart a wreck’

Her off pink shirt was cleanly pressed,
her salt and pepper hair,
natural, and curly like mine.
Her enormous glasses rimmed in a dash of brown color
they reflect her eyes
and her surprise
and the flash of light:

‘I love you, a bushel and a peck’

Her mouth half open with surprise
show her two front teeth with a little space in between,
eyebrows high,
and eyes open wide,
body half turned,
unseen hands busy with food or with child,
always handled with care
and I can still hear her singing as if she is right here:

‘Yes I do,’

She probably laughed her full laugh after the moment was captured
and patted her hair,
and stirred her fresh pot of sauce,
and kissed a grandchild
because that’s who she was:

‘I love you,’

This picture captures who she is:
surprised
and open,
and always busy with love,
and then she’d finish her song with:
                                                                                                                                                                                       
‘Scooby Doo’

And then she’d laugh.

The Elegy of Mr. Pincus


Mr. Pincus, the embodiment of a teacher.
A teacher who taught science, but
Specialized in people. In my time: Preteens.

You took us outside and blew cigarette
Smoke onto paper, the hole grew slowly
burning brown and black.
A warning you gave us: trying to
Protect us.

You were a man who took caring and teaching
Beyond the classroom. Educating us in subjects like music,
And life, and even taking the time to make mix tapes
For my sister, teaching her what “real music was”.
What you did for us was beyond what it states in
Resume.

Whether as DJ or as teacher you commanded our attention,
And your presence was well known whether on dance floor
Or in classroom.

Your style of living was contagious,
Your memory a lesson taught.

A friend to all, with the ability to make us laugh while
Teaching us too. You liked to humor us,
Satisfying our curious and easily
Excited minds: You poured clear
Liquid onto your black, marble desk and turned out the lights.

You ignited the fire,
One pull of a match on your teeth,
Which jumped in new life.
We all gathered around, cooing at the light,
Orange and red,
Dancing in front of us.
And your eyes swam with the light
as we laughed and awed.

I could see your eyes were filled with something,
You were filled with the eyes of a father,
Watching us with
Amusement, and
Pride.
Still awed at us, awed at you:

Mr. Pincus, if you set out to impact one student’s life,
You have done so in me, and in others
Exponentially.

Mr. Pincus: the man whose breath burned a whole in paper,
A man who made fire dance for us,
A man and a father who specialized in people,
And a teacher who specialized in Me.

May you Rest in the Sweetest Peace. 

Amanda

Memories hurt and die
Does she remember like I do?
I sit in my room after all these years.
How improbable
To think that I would be imagining
our friendship at this moment.
Has she ever thought of me too?
Once?
Twice?
Never?
After all these years?
How stupid to be sad of a friendship dead
She doesn’t care, and neither do I
But why do I feel like crying?
It was not my fault, but, then again
It wasn’t hers.
It was all the shit our parents fed us
On religion and difference
And tolerance and persecution
All the hypocrisy and propaganda
Caused our distance
And causes my mind to drift on seas I haven’t
Sailed on in a long time.
And slowly lose myself on the black tides,
Choppy and foreign
And familiar.
A friendship lost for what?
Stupidity.
I’ve seen you, but we cannot speak like we used to.
I’ve see your face reflected in the churning
Currents next to me,
Distorted.
And when it clears for that split second
Between waves, I see us, Amanda,
Young and free again.
We could be…
No we can’t.
I can only hold on to that second
For so long.
Close my eyes and close my heart
Like our parents did for us so long ago
And told us to.
I’m so sorry, Amanda.
I see you, Amanda...
But we can never be the same,
I hold on to the past so sweet
and brave against the present so bleak
and keep walking.

Fights


Ripples of emotion,
Tangible in liquid,
Spear my soul

Ooze and creak
My aching heart
If I protect,
I harden,
And so be criticized,
If I bleed and
slowly heal, I am once
again vulnerable
and the next hit pushes
Deeper.