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. 

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”.

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.

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

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.