Bill: The Death of My Biological Father

I really still don’t know what to do with this. These thoughts and feelings of, and around, the death of my biological father. I wrote this poem as a way to process it all. It’s safe to say I’m still processing. So, perhaps, the poem is just the start. I went back and forth with wanting and not wanting to share this for many reasons. Some of which is that ongoing process of letting go, or learning, or moving forward, or whatever it is that I’m doing with this. In any case, if you’re reading this, thank you. If you know what this all means, know that you’re not alone.

Bill: The Death of My Biological Father

My father just died.

I’m not even sure what to do with that.

How do I mourn the loss of someone who’s been gone for over half of my life? 

That’s just one of many questions he left me with.

That he left my brother with too.

Like a will written in riddles. 

He made many choices over many years.

The ones that had everything to do with my brother and me will never make sense now.

Would they ever?

Any and all answers died with him. 

His choices couldn’t have been clearer though.

He made so many choices.

“I won’t be a part time father.” 

He opted for being no father at all. 

I think at some point people started to see that saying I have my father’s eyes wasn’t the compliment they meant it as.

I didn’t know what that meant when I was younger

I didn’t know what I meant when I was younger

I just knew there wasn’t an immediate model to learn how to be a man by

(But I lost that long before he died)

I made my peace with the idea that the man I got my middle, and then last, name from had voluntarily left my life.

And that all of that defined me in more ways than I could, or ever will, possibly understand.

I was never at peace with that though

I’m still not

I don’t know how he did it

How he turned his back on two boys with such purpose and drive.

A model of being a man showing us that his only desire was to put himself as far away from my brother and me as he could.

That the hardest I can remember him working was for digging the largest gap he could between him and his sons.

So now I write this

Because he’s passed away

Because I really don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that

Am I sad for lost time?

Am I sad for a life lost?

I don’t know if it was wasted.

I don’t know if the energy and time I’m spending on every thought I’ve ever had for the man was, and is, a waste.

That at 3:something AM all I can do is think and write about a man that never showed he, at some point, ever thought about me,

Or my brother,

Is a waste.

This sure as hell isn’t a tribute to some great man.

There won’t ever be a tribute.

Not from me anyway.

I’m betting it won’t ever come from my brother either.

How do sons honor a man that acted without honorable mention? 

So I write. 

With all the thoughts and feelings that circle back to something simple.

But massive.

In showing me all the ways he did things, made choices,

Moved through his life,

Lived, then died, 

I know, concretely, fiercely, angrily, emotionally, and yes, even proudly,

The man I never want to be.  

The man I never want to be for _____.

The man I never want to be for anyone I love. 

The man I never want to be for anyone who loves me. 

Through choosing nothing, you gave me everything Bill. 

So, thank you for that. 

In showing me what not to do, I learned what to do.

It was a formidable and hard school to graduate from.

But, believe me,

This isn’t a backhanded thank you at all. 

In fact, it’s the only thanks you’ll ever get from me. 

Waking Up

This came from a lot of places. The passing of loved ones mainly. And I mean every word of it.

Waking Up

I woke up this morning feeling mortal again,
Knowing that someday my heartbeat will stop,
That my days here will end.
With that quick and lightning flash,
It's not always just that life is too short,
though to many it really is,
It's that life is fast.
As all of this floods my thoughts.
Grabs my heart.
Wets my eyes. 
I woke up this morning feeling mortal again.
Reminders came to make sure I felt it.
That weight of those that came into my life and left marks.
And those that left before me.
All at once I remember the ones that aren't here anymore.
At the same time I wonder about my own departure.
Echoes of "the good die young,"
Coupled with others tagging me as a "good guy."
Am I on borrowed time?
If so, when do I pay that loan back?
But, I always think of who I've met.
Everyone not here.
Definitely everyone still here.
I think of it like I don't have friends,
Instead, I have family.
Believe that if I've called you friend that name is meant for a lifetime. (And more.)
It's up to us to keep it.
To make it.
To keep it strong.
To get it to grow.
Or if paths differ,
Learn.
I woke up this morning feeling mortal again.
Though not in a way that makes me afraid to die.
Instead, in a way that makes me feel this:
When I reach my end, whenever that is, I can look back and firmly and sincerely and lovingly say that I was never afraid to live and to love.

Dedicated toYOU my friends, my family.

Race Day (Hopeless Romantic or Romantic Hopeless)

An all too familiar theme is at work here. Some direct quotes used (with some poetic license of course). The influence hip hop has on me is very visible in this poem as well. Beyond that, I think this poem speaks for itself.


Race Day (Hopeless Romantic or Romantic Hopeless)

(It's safer on the inside.)
Heart lives on the outside.
My heartbeat is my compass, making it too easy to lose track,
But Heart brings me back.
Fact.
Heart filters my view of the world,
But, lately Heart's got me writing poems about girls.
Heart's got his own logic,
His own way. Brain can't use it, he'd look sick.
Maybe that's why Mouth always sounds like he's got nothing to say.
Leaving nothing to black and white, only variants of gray.
Thought I drank the sweetest of juices.
Should've known it was all fittings for all of the tightest nooses.
With every sip I should've had at least a sliver of a hunch
That what I had been drinking was spiked punch.
She has a boyfriend who's name isn't mine.
No action attached to when she said I'm "one of a kind."
I suppose her means justify her ends
When the only way we'll ever be described is "just friends."
Which is all good.
Which is all fine.
Which is all fair.
But, man, she didn't stop there.
"You're the nicest guy," she said. "You'll definitely be a hit!"
But, I'm still on some 'nice guys finish last' shit.
I'd like to say I'm so far behind I think I'm in first place.
Though the truth is, I'm probably not even in the race.
Missed the gun. I'm still in the blocks.
Shyness or insecurity or whatever holding me down like a sack of rocks.
Like "swimmin' with the fishes."
Drowning in the depths of wishes.

(Drowning in wishes, I stay a hopeless romantic, or romantic hopeless, in the deepness of wishes.)

Thought Too Much/Draught Too Much

Admittedly, I'm a pretty low-tech guy. My usual way to write is with an "old school" composition book. What can I say, I just love the feel of a pen in my hand and the paper I write on. That said, I have an iPhone. It's a fun little gadget. One of my favorite features is the notebook. It comes in handy for all sorts of things. Most notably, shopping lists. But, the fun part is that with the mic option on the keyboard, I'm able to speak into my phone. With that, I've "freestyled" a handful of poetic rambles. This is especially useful when I've been drinking. What comes below is one of those musings. Minus a few switchings of words so it would make sense, and with the addition of a title, this is one I found while I was cleaning out my phone's notebook.

Thought Too Much/Draught Too Much

I know I might drink too much

Been said I do

Think too much

Been said I do

Drink so I don't have to think too much

But I still think a lot

Even when I drink a lot,

So I keep on with the drink a lot

Because why the fuck not?

I function

I fit

I do what I'm supposed to

I do my shit

So I keep drinking

To slow my thinking

But every drink, I fucking swear,

Makes me do more of the think

And so that cycle rolls on

And on

And on

And

On

Thinking to drinking to more thinking

To

More

Drinking

I see no stopping either 

I see no legitimate reason

I'm feeling what I'm supposed to be feeling 

Dealing how I'm supposed to be dealing

So I come around again 

Nothing to lose

Nothing to win

I'm going to keep thinking too much

Side by side with drinking too much

Wordfare

This one was kind of a slug-fest during the writing process. It worked me over. I'm not entirely sure why. I hope it's clear as to why I named it "Wordfare" though. It's because of all of that I'm going to let this breathe on its own, with this being my only introduction...

Wordfare

Isn't it funny that what is said,
And what is meant,
Could not be further apart from each other?
That sometimes intent changes all meaning?
Even if that's unbeknownst to who it's said to.
Or who said it.
It's almost like we all speak in some code,
A code in which words change meaning depending on who says them,
Or who hears them,
Or some live and hyperactive combination of the two.
Words.
Long and short.
Either easy or difficult to pronounce.
Words.
We all depend on them,
We all have been known to hang on them,
Leaving us prone to hang by them.
That knot can be tight.
Too tight and tighter for differing definitions.
Proof -
Loyalty that can be seen in bullet holes from taking shots for others,
But showing that doesn't mean it's money in the bank,
A savings protecting us from blade shaped scars between the shoulders.
There's word misuse and abuse too...
"Love" is a common victim to this.
People carelessly using that word as if it's synonymous with "enjoy" or "like."
(Though I know those that use it carefully and truthfully)
Or telling someone in a way that can only be heard as true and honest,
But, heartbreakingly, isn't.
Love from the wrong mouth to the right heart.
Or is it right mouth, wrong heart?
Either way, damaging.
Falling in love.
Said that way because even with perfect air currents under the wings,
It hurts like hell to land wrong.
Words.
Beautiful/Ugly
Tepid/Aggressive
Kind/Hurtful
Pleasurable/Painful
Caring/Callow
Singular meaning/Multiple meanings
To "who really knows the meaning?'
Words.
Leaving everyone of us in one of two states:
In the know.
Or in confusion.
All determined by intent,
the tone,
the choices of the users.
Why else would "soon" mean "wait longer still?"
"Sometime" mean "probably never?"
"Someone" mean "no one?"
That when a person speaks of "other fish,"
The "great big sea" still looks so empty?
We've all heard these words before.
We've all said these words before.
We all know these words by heart.
So, you really don't have to take my word for it, do you?

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!

The Life I Write May Be My Own

This poem was very much a long time coming, though I really didn't know it.  That is, until I started talking to a friend about my poetry.  The essential thoughts have always been a primary drive for why I write, but thanks to the conversations that friend and I had, I was finally able to put them to poetic use.  That said, I want to extend a very warm thank you to Bianka for sparking the inspiration behind this poem. Thank you Bianka!


The Life You Write May Be Your Own

A long time ago I realized that I should keep writing,
and I should write like my life depends on it.
For the life I write may be my own.
Every syllable, word, comma, period,
apostrophe, pulls it all together,
strings every heartbeat, breath, minute,
day, and beyond, into one continuous life.
A life that lives to learn.
A life that has only just begun to figure out how to just be.

I write like my life depends on it.
Like every word might be my last.
Like each word is more vital than the last.
This life I write just may be my own.
So I scrutinize every word to the letter,
every tense to make sure I live in the present,
a present to unwrap like every day is Christmas,
a gift like every day is my birthday.
I'm that kid wiping the sleep from my eyes. I'm awake.

To everyone I meet, write like your life depends on it.
Treat every word like they are the building blocks to your own Constitution.
Use every word like it's your personal Declaration of Independence,
all of it, because the life you write may be your own.
Know that what you say and how you say it can make you a force that has never before been seen.
Know that even the "unmovable" can be budged, and pushed,
that the word "unbreakable" is just a front. Discover that in your words.
Your words. Fight with them, write with them, write them down,
because the life that you write just may be your own.

For Bianka

(What Could Be) The Biggest Lies

This poem came to me by way of the last line first.  It was a little different than it is here, but the essence is intact.  The poem is inspired by a number of swirling and repeating themes and ideas that seem to work their ways into my conversations and choices.  Alright, no more of this nonsense...

(What Could Be) The Biggest Lies

So hard to try, so easy to say.
Thinking hurts a little.
Sometimes, all it does is hurt.
So I write this poem that borders on whiny,
Bumps that line of emo.

I hate that shit.

Truth of it is, these are the thoughts that I should think.
Thoughts that should see light
That should see action
That should be said
Thoughts that are faster than they ever look
Stronger than they appear
These thoughts look so daunting, so immense.

Here's another truth about these thoughts -
To keep them is wrong, damn near unlawful.
Never to try them is to never see them,
Creating more what ifs than bearable.

Keeping these thoughts becomes more than painful.
Honestly, sincerely, what it really does is this -
Keeping any of them becomes the biggest lies never told.


That's me, right now, in the middle of everything.

The Big Three

The poem in this post came to me in a blur. It started as a quick tweet before bedtime a few nights ago in a form very close to how it appears here. The thing is, I grew up Catholic, did the Communion thing, and for whatever reason I picked a Saint Christopher pendent all those years ago. A pendent I never go anywhere without actually. Fitting seeing that he is the Saint of Travelers. In the course of my life so far, Ive picked up a few ideas about how I see the world and as such, a pair of saints to accompany Christopher. I've discovered Anthony, the Saint of All Things Lost, and Isabelle, the Saint of Peace and Charity. Hence the title of this post and poem:


The Big Three

My own personal saints,
I've got three.
They say everything always comes in comes threes.
First is Saint Christopher,
For my soul's travels,
My "shotgun" saint on the peddle to the metal.
What do you say Chris? Want to see what she can do?
Saint number two: Anthony.
For those times I'm lost,
Without a map,
Up Shit's Creek without a paddle.
Last, but not least: Isabelle.
My model of peace and charity,
To remind me, that no matter what,
Even when life knocks my teeth out,
That the world is much bigger than me,
And that everyone is in the fight of their lives.


Thanks for reading. That's me, right now, in the middle of everything.

Three Poetic

I'm not sure what a proper introduction to this post is, so I'll just say that it's three more of my poems, each its own creature, with its own inspiration.

Poetic #1: This one is my attempt at a sonnet. Minus the iambic pentameter, I kept to the rules of rhyme scheme and number of lines. It should be said that I am NOT a good rhymer, that despite my love of hip hop, it's not my easiest path to a poem. It must also be said that this is a direct response to a challenge from one of my favorite students. I don't back down from a challenge. This poem is for all of my students, but especially Ashley Cate.

My Students

Every morning I come through the B hallway door.
Not sure what or who will challenge me.
Strolling along. saying, "hey." Hoping my belongings don't drop to the floor,
Seeing students seeing me fumbling for my keys.

First period is a trip, truly is.
I am far more awake than any of these kids.
Inevitably, one or two of them will jump head first into a dis,
But basically, it's up to me to help them avoid these kinds of skids.

The game I play is all about turning on the lights,
Turning on tunes, planning plus improv equals learning.
Showing them what they know, but think is beyond their sights,
I'm trying to turn trudges and tribulations into yearning.

I see it, tomorrow is not just a new day,
It is a view into doing this a brand new way.

**Special thanks to Freya for scribing the first draft of this, I originally had this written on the board.**

Poetic #2: This one is also a response to a challenge of a student, in this case, it was to shut a smartass up. In fact, this student didn't even complete his poem in the end. That irony didn't go without notice or comment from his classmates, so I guess he lost twice. This poem directly takes its form and inspiration from the hip hop duo Blackalicious and their song "Alphabet Aerobics." This one was very fun to write.


Alphabet Enlightenment

Activate my attention, my aural plane.
Be the beat in my brain, banging that bass drum.
Catch the cascade, cool my canopy.
Deal the downbeat on a dime, don't dare stop.
Everything is everything, everlasting when I emotionally connect. Electric.
Fantastical, further than free, footing not the final figure.
Greatness only given when the good gets going, going keeps growing.
Heavens, hells, heroes, heals. Hello to it all, hoping for a clear difference between halos and horns.
Intelligence for strength internal, independence, Iconic identification.
Jumping on the wings of joy. Joining the joy, jockeying for forever. Jubilation.
Kindness is my religion, killing that hate that Klans live in. Kinetic flow.
Letting loss live again as lessons for living, for loving.
Mountains can be moved, maneuvered, made massive, made miniature, my mood makes and breaks them.
Never give up; never give in, not for negative. No one. Never. Not once.
Operate on other planes, optimism can obliterate oppression.
Power is found in peace, punctuation, paragraphs, poems.
Quandaries, questions, quizzes, quests, never stop questioning.
Rest when revelry is reached. Rocky roads won't rope me down.
Still, never stop the surge that strikes, sustenance for my soul.
Timid, trepidation, torrential, traffic. Terms that tempt the topple of my temple.
Understanding, uncompromising, unwavering, unstoppable.
Vital signs vivaciously making new vectors. Venting vexations.
Wandering to start wondering, wondering to welcome words.
X-ray visions creating extraordinary spirit that can't be found at Xavier.
Yours is your world. You, for you. Yourself alone. You.
Zenith, one day, the zenith.

Poetic #3: This last one stemmed from a prompt for my classes as well. This time I wanted them to write about a favorite childhood toy. For the longest time, I've wanted to write about mine. Finally, the muse sang to me. Above my Star Wars toys, beyond my Transformers, my G.I. Joes, my you name it, the subject of this poem is what mattered most to me. This is what I came up with.

Easier To Be Green
As a kid, I had more ear infections than I could count.
To the point I drank more antibiotics than water.
At the least, I was at Boston Eye and Ear monthly.
New tubes, another earplug fitting, yet another procedure.
From the house, to the T, to the specialists.
Not how I wanted to miss school,
I never played sick, my ears made sure of that.
It was such a routine.
Until one day -

I lived with The Muppets, I lived on the street,
Sesame Street.
Do you know how to get there?
You should.

There was this one day,
Routine as all the other visits to eye and ear were,
I'm put under for new tubes, I still hate the smell and taste of that gas.
I awake and the first face I see is green.
Kermit is waiting for me.
Ping pong ball eyes and green felt body and all.
From that day on there would be no hurdle too tall,
Kermit was there.
All other ear procedures, right there with me.
Kermit lived for the road too.
He was my road trip buddy.
From Dorchester to the Green Mountains, and back to Dorchester,
Always right there, ready for the ride.

As a kid I faced more tests than I could count.
Kermit was my shield.
My partner in crime,
My space ship co-pilot.
The galaxies we'd reach so far, far away.
A long way from Samoset Street.
A long way from Sesame Street.
But, always a shortcut to the heart of my childhood,
To the heart of me.
Thank you Kermit, for making it easier to be green.


Thanks for reading, that's me, right now, in the middle of everything.

Work in Progress (A Poem by Me)

I love poetry. I love to read it, write it, hear it. I just love it! I wrote this poem about a year ago. For some reason the first two lines kept ringing in my ears. In large part autobiographic, in small part tongue in cheek sarcastic bastardry. Or is it the other way around? In truth, the poem is me at that moment it came together. And beyond. I hope you enjoy.


Work in Progress

He is a good guy,
Somewhere between Jesus Christ and John Lennon.
Living righteously, as much as he can anyway,
Though there is always Saturday night.
But it's Saturday that makes the work for Sunday.
A good guy, really, I mean, really he is.
A heart like the Grinch's,
After he heard the Who's singing without the presents and fixings,
After he carved the roast beast.
Reaching out to pull people closer,
To protect,
To share the sanctity of love.
Oh the backslide!
Backsliding is the fun of it!
Like I said, got to have something to do come Sunday.
In the end, He will judge him,
He will say, "Come on up, kick back,
Beer is in the fridge."
See, I'm telling you,
He's a good guy, really, somewhere between Jesus Christ and John Lennon.