writing-to-change

[writing-to-change]

He came at twenty two,

No options from which to choose.

“Take four, from the end.

When I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

I smiled my devils grin.

He came again at twenty four,

No one in his life to bring him light.

“Take another three from the times

When I’d just shiver in fear of the night.”

I smiled my devils grin.

Another visit came at thirty,

With a beautiful wife waiting for his return.  

“Give us a child to love, for five.  

From when age makes my bones burn.”

I smiled my devils grin.

Again, thirty five, hair growing gray.

He showed up at my door, his heart in his hands.

“Save my boy, for ten, oh God.

Save me from the end.”

I smiled my devils grin.

The last time he came, he was fourty six.

From illness, he wavered like foam.

“As many as it takes, let me stay.

Don’t rip me from my home.”

I smiled my devils grin.

“You might have seen more,

You might have seen it all.”

He moaned and screamed, the anguish pure.

Always, at my devil’s feet, they fall.

I smiled my devils grin.

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Immortality and Moths

The Moth was once immortal, you know.  When Prometheus gifted humanity with fire,  The gods watched in torment as their most foolish creature,  Plunged itself desperately into the flames.  So they agreed the moth should learn its lesson,  And rise from its own ashes, the myth of the phoenix.  They hoped after a death or two, the moth would learn the truth:  That rushing head first into fire could never bring it joy,  And instead only the anguish of being burnt alive by passion.  Still, the moths would rise, and fall, and live, and burn.  And again, and again, and again, they’d make for the flames,  Until even the most powerful forest fires simmered away and faded.  Leaving the moth, immortal, undead, unfulfilled.  The gods watched in agony, as the moths circled and swarmed,  They cried and shrieked in pain, their tiny hearts kept ripping,  So the gods took mercy once again, and gifted them with death.  They watched the humans light their fires,  And watched those fires consume their moths. 

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I stand in a puddle of rainwater, swan dive, icy hair, I go down.  I stare at the world in the distance, paths veering off of the road.  Signs read an ancient inscription, Galov, Salinger, Warren, Lord.  They stretch till they fade in the distance, my hands push on the load,  I put my face in a puddle of rainwater,  look upon me, ye mighty. I drown. 

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Beer in the Fountain

I saw a man by the fountain today,  Who sat with his feet in the water.  In prime real estate for children to play,  He seemed an unseemly squatter.  He must have been a writer, I reckon,  As he scrawled away with his pen.  His attitude changed for a second, The boar released from it’s pen.  His eyes became his mind,  and his fingers, his vision.  As if before he’d been blind,  and now he’d made a decision.  I watched him for a while,  To see when he’d be content.  But there he was, with that smile,  Still, immovable as cement.  But then his eyes, they froze.  Like ice, his gaze so clear.  Right where the water rose,  He saw a bottle of beer.  Without even a second glance,  He stood, rolled up his jeans.  Cared not for his best pair of pants,  He’d get there by any means.  He came out of the water joking,  Towards the kids he sent one splash.  With the poem in his notebook soaking,  He threw away the trash. 

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Air

I breathe in: and oxygen floods into my chest.  Feeding my heart, laying me off to rest.  It fills me and swirls, my ascensions begun,  A balloon, above my head, rising towards the sun.  I hold it inside, savor every mole,  This oxygen is kindling to my soul.  More precious than water, than food, than sleep,  This air is the grain my starved body reaps.  But now slowly, but surely, in my chest there’s a rot,  From this substance, this feeling, I’ve so desperately sought.  As I fill up with carbon, I feel myself sink.  My heart races, lungs tremble, mind forgets how to think.  I feel it slipping away, this air that I’ve held deep in my lungs,  I chase after, ask questions, but my love speaks in tongues.  Stale air pounds now, it scratches my purpling lips,  I fight but my will, it just chips and it chips.  Till I open my mouth and the doves all fly out,  and they leave me alone whether I cry or I shout,  and I sit there and rave, empty and alone,  and I lay there and shake since I can’t cry or groan Till instinct kicks in, and my lungs start to grumble.  My heart slows its pace, my eyes start to rumble.  I take in a deep breathe like a storm on the seas,  and I feel it in my chest, like a cool summers breeze. 

[writing-to-change]

Roots

I pry the top of my head open, with a rusty crowbar.  It pops like a bottle of champagne, skull creaking.  Some hinges hold the two halves together,  As I reach timid fingers into the flesh of my brain.  I feel for it, there. Feel for my roots.  I probe around with a mothers caution,  I hold my breath with a fathers patience.  Until I grasp one strand, one weak string.  I sense it pulse in my hand, running down my spine.  I follow it carefully, down into my neck and into my throat.  I feel my lungs revving like engines, hounding at the start,  I hear it snarl like a tiger, waiting just to pounce. And I trace these roots deeper and deeper,  Till I reach my heels and my toes.  And the dirt underneath them,  and the dirt in-between them.  And I feel my roots stretch further and further into the ground,  Disappearing into the depths of my world,  Which is larger, and more powerful, and more beautiful Than even I might know. 

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This morning it was raining,  And last night, how it did pour.  But now the sun is shining,  I’ve weathered out the storm.

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I have a box of oranges by my desk.  But no appetite, and no one to give them to.  I hope tomorrow I can stomach that acid,  but for now they sit there and rot.  I look at them sometimes, one by one.  I find the ones with white fuzz on them,  Give them a deep smell, head buzzing.  Then throw them into the trash.  You really overdid it, this time.  I tell myself, but by no fault of my own.  They aren’t really my oranges, are they?  They are just there. Rotting away.  Maybe tomorrow they will all be gone,  And I’ll remember how much I love oranges.  And I’ll have to settle for apples. 

[writing-to-change]

The Tomb

Our Expedition stumbled upon a wizened door craft deep inside a cave.  It may have opened once, but alas, no more,  sealed forever as a grave.  Upon its face faded letters read- “Disturb not the Kings great sleep.  If ye wish not be found tomorrow dead Sully this tomb no more with your creep.”  But the future felt just  so our workers toiled and sweat,  As ancient will fought modern lust,  We too the world would forget.  For in this resting place of Kings,  For whom only pride was left unhurt.  We found no treasures, murals, rings...  Nay, all we found was dirt. 

[writing-to-change]

My Father

When I was a little boy,  My father was a giant.  I rode him as a muscled steed,  And saw a different world.  

Now, I am taller than my father,  but he still sees more than me. 

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Three Kinds of Rain

Three kinds of rain

     Fall in New York City

In a regular morning shower,

     Send the homeless your pity.

The first is quite normal,

     An unspectacular rain,

Coats the trees and the buildings,

     Fills up crosswalks and drains.

The second kind is stronger,

     Funneled by tree leaves and ceilings

Thick, heavy raindrops fall,

     As the city expresses its feelings.

Finally the third kind, obnoxious as it is, ,

     Is endearing in that you find only here,

In the aggressive spray of busses, bicycles and cars,

     Splashing you long after the sky is clear.

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Makers and Takers

There are people who take calls,  and people who make calls;  And apart from that name,  They are both quite the same.  The makers punch numbers in with precision,  The first word in a chat is always their decision.  They set the tone, the tempo, any themes...  The truly dominant type, it seems.  The takers just sit there, waiting for your call.  Reliable, trustworthy, the best friends of all.  Hesitant but passionate, their words profound,  The wisest of all, at least pound for pound.  But trust me, neither is better than the other,  For both are in dire need of one another.  Because with two makers no one ever picks up the phone,  And two nervous call takers both just agonize and moan. 

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Children of Fire

The Stone and the wind are great rivals,  They bicker and banter all day.  For though the stones can’t catch the breeze,  Wind can’t push a mountain away.  Through eons they’ve waged this war,  Howling night and day at each other.  One sculpted of ego, one pushed by pride,  When did they forget they were brothers? 

When did they lose sight of their roots?  Phoenixes of the same pyre.  Born of volcanoes, or heat from thhe sun,  Both are children of fire.  So my rival, my brother,  Goliath of stone.  I secede in this battle,  This lust for your throne.  I’ll ride over plains, over cities,  Through the sky,  I’ll press on through storms, through pain,  I will fly.  But still come back to tell you what I’ve seen of this earth,  And rest my head by your warm, fiery hearth. 

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Life of a Log

I’ve lain here since I fell that day, November 23rd.

1989.

 A logs life is one of dismay,

I wish I were a bird.  I wish that I could fly. 

. A boy came here and sat on me,

He muttered and he sighed, 

Looking like he felt alone. 

 I felt a sort of company,

We both fight hard against our pride, 

But always on our own.

Maybe that’s why I’m here today, 

why I’ve never been disturbed, 

I’m always alone when crying. 

[writing-to-change]

An Ancient Beer Can, Wedged between rocks in a dam,  Becoming Nature. 

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A Lark

A Lark lays with me on the ground A Lark flaps its tiny wings.  A Lark flies quickly overhead,  A Lark every so softly sings.  A Lark told me it loved me the other day A Lark held my hand in its own.  A Lark danced with me under the moon,  A Love poem for A Lark I’ve sewn.  For I remember seeing it at first,  That fateful moment clear as day.  I write this now to ask you god,  Please don’t take my Lark Away. 

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Modest Greatness

I’m out for modest greatness,  I’m out for bits of love.  I’m out for stargazing adventures,  I’m out for missing winter gloves.  I’m out to blow candles on chocolate cakes,  I’m out to feel the wind in my face.  I’m out to smell the dandelions,  I’m out to dance without a shred of grace.  I’m here to laugh passively, I’m here to stick out my tongue,  I’m here to explore empty buildings,  I’m here for every song yet to be sung.  I’m here to make babies smile.  And I’m gonna be here for a while.