arodnap

There's a crashing
sort of sound
when my feet hit the water
and the cold
embraces me-
like the shroud
of studded plate mail
with my family crest
keeping safe this knight's
jousted heart.
I know I'd not make it
from the top
but my mind wanders there
then to being wrapped up
by one last kiss.

I pretend none else can
hear me
see me
and I talk to you.
What is it
you would
say to me
if the door were shut?
If I painted you?

As the distance grows
and the road lengthens
I hope
to find silence
to be peaceful
to forget
to never forget
to be fair enough
and I shall tell you.

Blackberry

Who knew
The blackberry in NY
Could be so bitter

I know

You lurk
In shadow
Reading
Reading
Reading

Find another
Mouth to sour
Since you're mute
for words

Of your own

Perhaps

I often joke that my son's temper is of Eastern European Decent.  Inside I know that to be a fallacy.   Perhaps it has been said that my rage needs attention.    

And perhaps, PERHAPS, there is an element of truth in that.  But it's not as if it is going unnoticed by me, or fed.  Is it healthy for me?  Certainly not.  Does is live and breathe in me normally?  Absolutely.  Is it at a critical point that could become, well, undesirable?

When I was young my favorite TV show/Superhero was The Hulk.  I would play, quietly, until someone would comment about "What a nice boy" then I would turn, growl, flex, and try to show how bad ass I was for a 6 year old.  You're jealous.

Suppose it is possible that it's no accident how the green fella and I came to find one another.  I have certainly become less reactive in the last 5 years.  Do I still worry that I could turn lizard-like without warning, I wouldn't say I was worried.  

It helps to know my limits.  Nominations are coming this month and I intend to resign as the President of the non profit I sit on.  I had a curious lunch date today, where an employee from that organization came to me and asked that I help with the ED who has, reportedly, got a huge need for either an attitude adjustment, or retirement.  The whole time I sat there listening, I just wanted to throw my plate, yell out "Who gives a fuck?!?" All I could think about was my dad, and how bad I wanted to have lunch with him.  To talk about fun things, or life, or anything other than the shit that seems to be swarming around me.  I told her I can't help her (seems to be a common theme for the past 3 weeks, and informed her of that little memory I have), that it's all I can do right now to keep myself together.  I've done my part.  MORE than my part.  I moved them.  I tried to move the board.  I give up.  I'm done.  Not just with that organization, but with mental health completely.  I've really reached my limit, not of what I'm capable of, no no no.  My cape still has a lot of life left in it.  But not in this current climate, location, for these people.  They've had all of me that they're going to get, baring a life-altering miracle.

After we ate we shared some info about my dad's last few days that I hadn't had a chance to tell her about.  It was good to get it out, but she immediately told me a story about when her mom died.  Not her fault, that's what everyone has done.  Erin wouldn't have done that, but I can't talk to Erin anymore.  There's yet another recurring theme.

Think I'll go finish my drink.  Who knows, perhaps I'll actually sleep through the night.  PERHAPS.

A long distance call

In the midst of my drive home from work Friday I had a lapse of reason.  Wanted to call you.  Actually told myself "think I'll call Dad", and started to fumble to my phone to get to my favorites list.  Mikey called me instead, and I realized only after we hung up what I had done.  That I didn't have a plan with Verizon that would allow me to dial you direct.

Hard to believe.

Life seems to be a solitary prison in the days since my Father's died.  Between being surrounded by too many to list, to just a few, or none; feels alone all the same.  Empty.  Feel angrier than ever.  Sometimes.  Feel crushed others.  People ask "What can we do to help?"  Leave me alone, I suppose.  Can't believe my brother is getting married in less than a week.  While I was able to (nearly) harness my emotions long enough to get through my Father's eulogy, I wonder what it is I'm to say now for my brother, how I'm suppose to do it with my head held high, in a way my brother deserves.  I talk to myself.  Especially during the long rides to work that leave me with nothing but time to think.  And think.  And time.  And I talk to you.  Out loud.  Wondering when I'll get chills because I think you've made the long trip to hug me.  

Scot says I have to be my Dad now, his sidekick for projects, but I am not my Dad, and I feel as if I am reminded of that, almost constantly.  I want to ask for help, but what? from who? how?  And would I trust any of them, I doubt it.  

I realize this is not poetry, nor very poetic.  I have hundreds of lines in my mind, feel like I could write for days on end and not get it all out.  Such is my creativity, I suppose; to feel most inspired when most heartbroken, but I don't really feel like writing.  This part of life is the cruelest.  I hate that my son will experience it, that other's don't appreciate their parents like they should--don't spend the time with them that they have, that there are parents that don't love their kids and the kids of others like my Dad did.

My thoughts for now are too frail.  Angry over a slice of pizza with wings, but knowing that I'm not really angry over that, and not giving into the projection my fierce heart is pushing for.  A target.  I've had visions of my coffee cup flying through my television, or of my fist sending my mirror into a thousand glittering shards that would resemble my dreams.  Shattered.  Broken.  Fighting the urge to run away.  Not for good.  But I think I finally understand why Billy ran.  He escaped all the sorrow because he couldn't handle it.  My ego tells me I'm better than that, and I can remain.  Must remain.  "If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs..."  My heart tells me I'm a damn fool, and it screams for me to do as he did, then come back an even stronger version of myself than the one who sits before a laptop avoiding sleep.  

For now I stay.  I drink my coffee.  I wait for the fire inside to burn on the right side, and for my roar to be healthy.  You begged that I not lose my sense of humor.  I'm trying.  Really.  But my chest is heavy.  Really.  And my coffee is getting colder by the second.  A painful reminder of time I can't have back.

Captain, My Captain

Crush the lime
Between my fingers
Every last drop.
It's sour-
All of it-
Leaves me
Rather unpleasant
Like the storm that
First blew in And took my lips
Without permission
Only to leave the same.

Ah, Captain,
My King Of Leon,
Of Nada,
Of wondering If I want you to,
Thanks for making
The bitterness taste
Not so bitter,
For not being a coward,
For your spice.

My Captain.

Survivor*

*This is, to my knowledge, the only poem that my father ever wrote.  I found it, by chance, on the day of his memorial service, and read pieces of it there.  I've posted it here in entirety so that his words will survive with his legacy.

Survivor

I am a survivor.

No, I don’t mean that god-awful reality show,

That insipid blight upon an already empty intellectual wasteland.

I am a survivor.

I survived gym class in elementary school,

A fat, non-athletic kid who couldn’t climb that stupid fucking rope if

A dozen Dobermans had been chasing me. 

I survived my parents’ fights,

The relentless screaming, accusations, and recriminations,

Can’t you see we’re standing here,

Looking, crying, waiting for this to stop,

It’s kind of ironic…that little boy in the rocking chair watching the Three Stooges,

And outside the window his mother is walking away, suitcase in hand, the father pleading her to come back.  You did, but I can’t forget.

I survived junior high.

My body became “athletic” without surrendering to the mentality.

An adolescent hippie that understood the world and desperately

Needed the world to understand me

I survived high school.

I had an epiphany.  There was a middle class,

But it wasn’t us.  There wasn’t going to be any college,

I had an epiphany.  I understood the grayness that enveloped my father

And waited for it to envelope me.

I survived my marriage…barely.

In a life devoid too often of joy,

It gave me three little salvations…and hope.

Because children are that.  You see, you can’t really die

If part of you is left to remember.

And my childhood was not going to be my children’s,

But you can die if it’s ripped away from you.

You heartless fucking bitch…where is the person I knew?

I survived 25 years in that awful factory,

I saw the faces of men, gray and grimy as the machines

They became part of, and I realized that was my face too,

That it was hard to tell where the machine ended and I began.

A monotony of sound, sights, smells, and actions. 

A cold world with a faceless master in a counting house

Awaiting his own Christmas ghosts. 

I survived that doctor visit and all the ensuing ones,

I survived hearing the words…cancer, stage 2….

I survived the uncertainty, because, well…it’s cancer.

I survived the fear, my own and that of my loved ones.

I survived the needles, the pain, the chemicals that would “heal” me,

the way my skin felt ravaged, stretched and  abused.

And the betrayal of my body

until I became a fat non-athletic old man.

But I’m a survivor.

capture

a moment
a photo
an early morning
breath laced with coffee
or an order of toast
only
read a blog
twice
be sleep deprived
sleep in
be the thing you most fear
and then conquer yourself

moments
photos
kisses
swing from blue trees
or green
or yellow
on a string
make a playlist
then give it away
write a blog
or five
be the thing you most admire
and admire yourself

the essence of life
and the grace in death
that we all possess
from the ultimate teachers
who first taught us
to run head first
into the world
and capture the air we breathe
we passionate determination
for we are FREE

the fear
the unknown
the loneliness
in your mind
in mine
beat it with a stick
let it be your punching bag
and your kindness
be the dichotomy
so that you may harness the lightening
bolt from the sky
and be the sole author.

Without tragedy. 

And with it.