Meghan

This poem is for a person. Her name happens to be the title of the poem, as well as the post. Other than what I just stated, I don't really know what an adequate introduction to this poem should be. I was as happy to write it as I am when I talk to her. I wrote it a while ago and I wasn't sure how to release it. I hoped she'd hear it before seeing it honestly, but here it is. Coming from my head to pen to page the words are here. With that, I hope the eyes of  the "you" of this poem sees it soon. And I hope it makes her smile. And I hope she loves it hard.

Meghan

Now I'm not trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe,
I wouldn't, even if I could
But I'm telling you,
I can hear it sometimes.
From the little to the grand
It's all there.
Like this one time I used a hashtag,
Just a simple phrase
A simple glance to see who else said what
It was then that this door opened
And there was this light there.
You better believe I did
I know you know I did
Since then, we've seen wavelengths
We've surfed them
And the surf is good.
So good
It's as easy to see as anything,
Some bad news and vibes want control?
Nope
Your messages come to clear the air
Bad moods don't have a chance
But the unravelling of the mysteries of the universe?
I'll leave that to some greater poets,
Maybe even a physicist.
Wavelengths
Like when I see some news about a singer you like,
So I tell you,
And you're already listening to her?
Yeah, wavelengths.
Or that in my days I see lots of money
(most of which isn't mine)
Now, I'm not saying I know how,
But guess what I see?
Not the answers to the mysteries cosmic.
I see a lot of New York quarters.
Or these other times I'm making change into dollars and the only two quarters left were Vermont
And yes...
New York.
I can't say that I know even a fraction of everything.
But, I do know about World Poetry Day,
Hashtags,
Hockey,
The frustrations and triumphs of technology,
The Triumphs of technology,
The teams that win and win,
The blinking ellipsis,
And the smiles made.
As for the universe...
I don't have any answers for that.
Instead, I have this poem.
And now, so do you.

At the Bar

In a sense, this is an "ode" to all of the women I've ever seen across a room and just couldn't muster the nerve to talk to. That number is very high. That's not a poet's exaggeration either. Just plain reality. But, I wrote what comes below, so there's that. What comes below is a meeting of the core of a conversation with a crush (I think that she knows) and an undying need to use the last two lines in a poem.

At the Bar

I've tried hard to
I've tried hard not to
A fact about me, a fact about how I do -
If I saw you across a bar -
I wouldn't talk to you
Not because I'm some snob
Or because a snob is how I'd describe you
Both are nowhere near the truth
But because I don't want you thinking I do what the rest of them do
I'm afraid you'd think that
And honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you did
Missing bravery is why you won't hear from me
Deficiency in courage to prove to you that there's the others,
Then there's me.
Even if if they use the same words,
My version is said with sincerity.
So instead, I sit on my side of the bar
In my head, the perfect conversation plays itself out
We smile at what the other says
Laugh at the jokes cracked
All over a few drinks we get in that zone
That zone where the rest of the bar fades away
No peripheral except an occasional refocus for refills.
The night winds into the earliest of the next day
We close the bar.
I walk you to your car
Our conversation doesn't stay back in the bar
Smiles, and laughs, and connections made
You tell me this is something you almost never do
I tell you that too
And we both know what we just said is true
You search for a pen,
And finding it,
You write your number on a random receipt
I do the same and it's an even trade
And before we say goodnight, we kiss
A short kiss,
But the reaction it causes
All the buzzing and warmth of a beehive
We both take quick breaths that turn into grins,
Grins that glow and radiate
You squeeze my hand.
Then we go our own ways,
But we'll see each other again soon,
So the grins turn into smiles and stay.
Though that's the play in my head
So I finish my beer and pay my tab
And leave a tip for my bartender instead.
That night stays as a waking dream,
As does the chance to say:
"I don't want to hear I'm not like the others.
I want to hear there's no one quite like me."

Thunder Storms and...

I'm not sure if this is a disclaimer, or an excuse, or what. But, I've never been a writer that ever wrote about nature, or even used nature as some sort of metaphorical device. I suppose I left that to the Frosts, Thoreaus, and Emersons of the world. What I do know is that this comes out of a conversation I had about thunder storms. Being a fan of them and such. I also know that the way she spoke her side of the conversation, the muse to be mentioned later issued me a challenge. Well, the challenge was accepted, and I think she knew it when she put it down.

Thunder Storms and Thoughts on Changing Opinions Regarding Said Storms Sparked by a Beautiful Muse

When I was a little I was deathly afraid.
Thunder storms spelled certain doom.
Like an impending dentist appointment,
Dark skies made me tense.
Slightest of rumbles sent me into hiding.
I was a fugitive.
It didn't matter how far away the sound was
That rumble meant that I was on the run to home
Or if I couldn't get there...
If I couldn't get there I lost my mind.
I resorted to locking myself in ma's car too.
So I never stuck around to see the lights.

These fears, they're sort of like tastes though
As you go, they might change
At some point in time, it's worth trying again
I don't know when it happened, but it did.
What stayed is that child like look out.
Finding that fear and awe run with each other.
Right?
Then there was this one summer,
Literally the most electric summer I can remember.
If I said every day was accented with lightning,
I wouldn't be exaggerating.
Not much anyway.
But, that summer...
Seeing lightning strike more times than countable.
Hearing that sound it makes.
Explosions.
Exploding.
The current's sonic signature.
Seeing something so fast the mere glimpse of it is on its way home,
The crash and boom like a thief that announces his presence to say,
"I'm here, now I'm gone, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."
Just awesome,
To the roots of that word
It's all there, lightning and thunder make awe.
In that awe I feel small.
I feel small in all great ways.
Small for every right reason I can muster.
Beyond the science of ozone gasses and electricity,
I've come to see thunder storms as a path to be humble.
As a way to find humility.

The surgical precision of a single bolt.
The reaching grip of finger like chains.
As some look like veins carrying blood.
All beautiful.
All coming with massive strength.
Culminating in what beauty really is:
A marriage of grace and raw power.
With time,  my view of thunder storms has changed.
From fear, admiration is born.
And I'm starstruck every time I see one.
The view goes...
Fear makes admiration,
Admiration makes respect,
Respect makes fear.
All taking the form of lightning itself.
Strokes and return strokes.
Electric currents to remind me to be human.

for Meghan

To All The Hipsters

It's no secret that I am an enthusiastic fan of many things. Poetry, music, movies, books, art, people... In that spirit, I love to share that enthusiasm. If I find something that awakens my interests at all, I tell everyone I can about it. I mean, look at the short list above. See what comes in best for last status? People. As reclusive as I can be, I simply love the energy of a good group of people. Now, my reclusive tendencies have allowed me to understand that not everyone shares my views on group settings. So, I get that. What I don't get, however, is the exclusivity some folks seem to use as an operating system. That, is the root of what comes below...


To All The Hipsters

How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
"Some obscure number you've probably never heard of."
How many hipsters?
"I can tell you, but just know that I knew the answer first."
How many hipsters?
Hold up.
You know what? There's a problem here.
A problem with this idea,
This mentality,
This way it has become in to discover something and keep it locked away.
Wrapped up like it's better left a secret.
Touting it like it's some kind of pop culture elitism.
Or worse.
Giving someone a supposed reason to put down.
To look down at others.
Just because person A might not have heard of something person B has.
No.
When did it become cool to do this?
What happened to those moments when a person finds something so great it just has to be talked about and shared without question?
Shared in the company of others with unbridled enthusiasm?
What happened?
Instead, you hipsters try to keep it all to yourselves.
As if it's some sort of badge of honor?
Another feather in your cap?
But, hey hipster, do you know what it really is?
It's another mark of asshole-ism.
Another exhibit of how much of a snob you really are.
So, I've got a simple challenge for you. For me. For all of us,
If you find something that charges you up
Moves you
Gives you goosebumps
Shakes you
Makes an impact on you
Affects you
Share it!
For fuck's sake, share it.
Make it a reason to bring people together.
Rather than fueling the the fires of isolation let's celebrate that album
that movie
that painting
Maybe even this poem.
Celebrate these things with others.
So fuck the "bah humbugs" and Scrooging,
If it's charging you up
Moving you
Goosebumping you
Shaking you
Or who knows? Inspiring you.
Tell another soul about it.
And let's get together for it!

First World Savagery

This one is born out of many conversations, a lot of reading, and some fierce disagreements. That's all I'll say...

First World Savagery

There are a bunch of savages in this world.
Living on the blood of others.
Savagery.
They say
That is, it's in the text books,
Historians state that not a single shot was fired during the Cold War.
The millions burned in Hiroshima and Nagasaki may have a different opinion on that.
Not a single shot, but two very big bombs.
Brutality against humanity doesn't get a pass on the so called laurels of technological advance.
First world savagery.
Back in the day, or a few days ago maybe
The southern trees had the most morbid of decorations.
Billie sang a song about some strange fruit
People given life sentences for the crime of not being white.
Slavery ended, a poison purged, but there was more.
First world savagery.
A boy with a life in front of him gets pulled from a night out so motherfuckers with some insecurities can show him that they don't like that he likes boys.
Leave him for dead in a place that can only be considered nowhere.
First world savagery.
There are children, right now, trying to sleep on stomachs so empty that "hungry" doesn't even begin say what's what.
They will probably die before I finish this poem.
We let them starve because we say their parents are lazy.
First world savagery.
This is just the smallest of nutshells. We live in this world.
This sheltered little glass house.
We're Americans god dammit!
You can't touch this!
Oh wait!
Looks like you can...
April 19, 1995
Wait!
September 11, 2001
Wait!
April 15, 2013
Wait!
The list is long...
But hold up!
This is America motherfuckers, that's not allowed!
Stop this train now...
This is first world savagery.
And you've condoned it.
No more of this blame game on the minority for the insecurities and ignorance of the shit you spill in the name of patriotism, and fuck, really!? In the name of God?
Fuck you with that!
If you are the patriot and the Christian you claim you are, you'll realize that you've been commanded to never let Matthew die.
To never let a southern tree bare strange fruit.
To never let Diallo get shot even once... Let alone 41 times.
To never let millions die in an unforgettable fire.
Drones don't make this shit any better.
Otherwise, go get more tea, have a party for all I care.
But, admit this;
You are a first world savage.

Committing and condoning first world savagery.