A life worth sharing...

For Graham

     Real story-telling doesn’t need any words at all.

     Two eyes connecting you to a life are enough

     to drive you seventy-five head-first into a divider of the past

     making you break it, break yourself back

     to a girl with some kind of kind in her voice,

     converting the blues into a tendency towards melancholy

     or my past.

I shape-shifted my way through every class

of girls, drugs, songs and hoops

being the only kind of asshole you have to like,

telling myself I didn’t have to care,

as long as I had a court to lay my head on

and a bag of coke to take me away

from the white Halls,

my own home in hell

as an 18-year-old,

I’m the ultimate romantic

beneath a skin of damaged

rebellion and Clint Eastwood,

nose ring and all.

Late nights left me

tripping over everything but my shoes.

I felt a hand on my shoulder binding me down

with the same kind of grace I was told to live by,

from a Presbyterian pulpit,

pushing my 1.75 GPA in my face

telling me that I just didn’t get “it”

and making me become a man

of more than just soft eyes.

When Caroline went silent

they didn’t leave the side of her crib,

crying more tears than she had breaths

to breathe in a world of addiction,

divorce, death and Captain Hook,

with an exhale of hope

the way only a child can.

When you’re sad and when you’re lonely

And you haven’t got a friend

Just remember that death is not the end

And all that you’ve held sacred

Falls down and does not mend

Just remember that death is not the end

Not the end, not the end

Just remember that death is not the end

He fell down south,

the enemy of his family

with the world piled on four wheels,

a hole of substance taking him

farther.

Father.

Three years away kept him alive.

He was a friend to his son

on the rougher side of life,

just another channel on talk radio

with a need for change.

Before I knew it I was lost

in a war I didn’t begin by sneaking out

for the five hundredth time.

It was miserable

but we were miserable together

and there is something really beautiful about that

so I survived the world in camouflage

and made my way to a state of purpose.

I took my Harley to Yuma,

to the River Theme of folk rock.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen,

and they say I’m well-spoken.

She took my heart to Nashville the next summer.

I never heard from her again.

     I still love the city, love her,

     thrive off the way she hypnotizes me

     with a grimy type of comfort

     telling me to Stay All Night,

     to remain undefeated

but I come alive

in the blue and dirty of Memphis,

finding fulfillment in the back of a juke joint,

a hard drink in hand

surrounded by the kind of rough people I prefer,

and a couple of Black Keys

to take me home.

Because I love poetry..

he is salt
to her,
a strange sweet
a peculiar money
precious and valuable
only to her tribe,
and she is salt
to him,
something that rubs raw
that leaves a tearful taste
but what he will
strain the ocean for and
what he needs.

-Lucille Clifton

Breakfast with a beautiful soul

In just a matter of days this beautiful soul is making her way to Vienna to begin her next amazing adventure. Savannah has the fullest heart I have ever witnessed, loving everyone and every thing she encounters. I have so much faith in her and know that she will not waste a single moment in this life. The meaning of her name says it all; no boundary can keep her from exploring every inch of this Earth.

Wherever she travels she will be carrying the same enlightening spirit with her. Savannah is the type of person that will change the world without even knowing it. In an unnoticed and humble kind of way she touches the people around her and leaves an impression that can not be erased.

⋆Savannah: from the open plain  

  

⋆

⋆

⋆"Happiness is only real when shared." - Jon Krakauer

2042

I am from four numbers

and a few walls of warmth

where the sugared butter softens

cushioned against the white bread

I fought for. Holding memory was a task

given that every day was a blur

too full of life and love

to want to leave.

I am from four numbers

hovering over the red brick

running along a Monday morning.

The house sits still as the streets awaken

every blade of grass coming to life

the daybreak pushing past its shadow

into the hazel eyes of a young girl

clutching a small blanket

filled with hugs and play dates

carrying her secrets

into the world.

I am from four numbers

and I miss the solitude of an old woman rocking

back and forth like two blue swings

timing the breath between each moment passing

the old Calla Lily pressed down

by the inevitable.

I am from four numbers

and I’m coming home.

The Embrace

He held me fiercely inside a forgotten June.

The people humming beside us had no say,

along with the spotted butterfly chasing the hem of my dress.

The town spoke for itself, listening long enough

to see my hand against his neck and my eyes

weary from the space

he left (me).

What’s strange for me is that every flashback I had of what we used to be was full of beautiful memories. I hardly remembered or dwelt on the small fights and bigger battles we had in the last half of our relationship. Instead I went back to the first time he held my hand under water in the jacuzzi, or the time we were saying goodbye on my front porch when he asked me if I was cold and I said yes, so he threw everything he was holding down and held me tight enough to make me forget my chill, or the first time he kissed me right after he sang You Raise Me Up in my passenger seat and leaned over under the intersection at Baseline and Emerald to place a soft and subtle touch on my cheek, to him asking me what he should call me on my birthday, the night we star gazed alone in Azusa Canyon, the moment I was half asleep but awake enough to hear him say that he wanted to spend his life, his whole entire life with me, and the night he told me he loved me under a field of colored Christmas lights, the first days we spent apart during the holidays when I swear I fell more in love with him by each mile I moved, when he surprised me with a bouquet of my favorite flowers and a Circle K hot chocolate at our park, every touch full of life, gentle but passionate life together from surf to sand to snow to us, inseparable, connected at each instant, even when he tore my heart right out of its chest, leaving me in an empty house to wail with remorse, striking me with anger when I didn’t grieve the way he wanted me to, turning stone cold when I tried to let him go.

We stood as statues,

lifeless to the unfocused eye

waiting. Ready to give in.

Ready to come alive and I know that

he felt it too, the power in that hold,

backed against the fear of repetition but

I was his. We were real again. He was real again.

Waking Up

Blinking eyes open as I will the sheets to evaporate, each one heavy, holding me down squinting in the sun on a mid-August ten o five. The breeze sends a chill through my skin leaving me with nothing. Not a sound stirs the room. I have an empty day ahead but I can’t settle into any decision without running through my mind, picking apart every piece of an exhausted friend who used to hum to the beat of a sunny day when there was a high of sixty five keeping me out of the pool and in a senseless state of routine.

The towel hangs still, pressed too tightly to sway above the floorboard that was not forgotten, even rescued, but this room is hollow, wreaking of dry disinfectant spray lounging across the surface of a maze, where every paper seems unnecessary but not a single word out of place. A laugh brings me to the window and spills out when Shadow catches a warbler, continuing the cycle without me. The Baby’s Breath doesn’t mind being trampled by his feet, understanding the nature behind it all. I breathe in, my senses awakening to the life and death that each day holds. One more chill runs through my being before I quickly find my way back to what I know, a bed of sheets and stillness.

Here I hold time just long enough to wake up in a blurry morning. I think what I know and I feel what I want but the truth is the breeze blew away the sound in this habit of taking my time cooking eggs and hanging dress shirts, lining all the collars up just so. I was only kidding myself in thinking that these pale pink walls could protect me forever, not just from the monsters in my closet or the knee scrapes from the slide, but from the car wrecks and the heart break my life includes. Try to carry a collar out now and I will surely melt, just like my mind in a mid-August ten o five.

Where I go to be alone

In my search for balance, I have come across a spot on campus that I am particularly fond of. It is a calm place next to a common building. Most people don’t know that two big tables sit there, but I do and I go there to focus in on what I need to do or be. In this place I can relax and not be distracted by the many friendly faces around school. The area is outside but covered so rain or shine, I can always go there to catch my thoughts. I have only seen one other person sit there before, but I feel like they shared the same desire of solitude as I did.

Silence is a beautiful thing. In my spot I can experience this truth in a very tangible way. Without televisions, radios, or electric instruments to fill my ear I am left alone with the world. The bugs are loud, much louder than back home and the wind moves as if it is only speaking to me. On a sunny day I am in awe at the way the leaves reflect the light differently. Angles and shapes create my own kaleidoscope so only I can see them. But the rain is my favorite. There is something about the way it falls, each drop hitting the ground harder than the one before, each hit defining the earth in a new way. The thick air hangs in front of my face, wrestling with the loose hair I hadn’t noticed fall from my bun. I am warm, whole and wondering here. I feel smaller, like I can see the world as the enormous adventure it is and not be fooled into thinking it follows my lead. This table holds up a fresh perspective and a new way of thinking for me. My chair overwhelms me with comfort as I rest my head, close my eyes and appreciate the simple things like silence and rain.

This place is like a secret, told once but never forgotten. And surprisingly, it is here where I feel the most presence. Here I can take a step outside of time and catch a glimpse of eternity, a piece of the knowing. Through my kaleidoscope of fallen leaves and drops of rain, I see what matters and I know who I am. This is my place where I go to be alone.