mg
American
I like climbing trees and mowing the lawn. My plan is to figure it out when I get there. You don't need to stomp to leave a footprint. / / I am largely a spoken word poet, thus some of the longer pieces. I hope they convert to the page/screen. / / "All that is gold does not glitter, / Not all those who wander are lost; / The old is strong does not wither, / Deep roots are not reached by the frost" / / J.R.R. Tolkein
Some days, you are Pegasus against the wind
Most days, you are Pegasus
Keep flying.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Dear Kristina,
Your name is still tattooed on my left *** cheek.
I remember how it curled your lips
like the cursive script it's written it.
You called me an idiot
every time I made you look at it
My mother said the same thing,
except without the smile.
I guess somebody should have explained to me
the permanace of drunken whims
or ****** friends who giggle too much,
but **** it.
And **** you.
I burned your birthday cards and ticket stubs
to bands that haven't sounded good since October 25.
I loved you.
I threw away your black high school track team sweatshirt
and those little ducky magnets with Italian words coming out of their beaks.
I pretended they were funny
just because I knew you felt lame buying them for yourself.
But I'm still
looking for pieces,
thinking in circles,
wasting hours
trying to
dream of
anything
but
you.
See you never,
Michael
Dear Kristina,
You spent a lot of time on your knees for me.
I liked that.
But we started falling apart
when you started standing up.
God gave us with voices that yell in permanant ink.
I forget what straightened your knees
and made you pick up a pen,
but I do remember
how tall you became.
I admire you now.
You learned far earlier than I
that the hardest thing in the world
is to stand up to those we love
and I couldnt deal with change.
You were a handful of quarters
when I had holes in my pockets.
Maybe I let you slip away
but maybe
I never should have put you there in the first place.
It's safe to say I'm over you,
so I feel safe saying
I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
Michael
Dear Kristina,
I lost your address a long time ago.
This letter will never leave the spiral of this diary.
I couldn't remember what you looked like today,
and have forgotten most of the things you ever said
but I still hold on to the things you taught me.
I've worn a ring for many years now,
and though my aging arms
have long embraced another woman,
and waved goodbye this year
to a son standing on the steps of a college dormitory,
your name is still tattooed on my left *** cheek:
living, ******** proof
that no matter how hard we scrub,
the fingerprints of those that touch our souls
can never be erased.
Love,
Michael
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Two star-crossed lovers,
their eyes bridged by a glance
both busy and hurried
with little faith in daily chance
destined for fallen love,
their hopes arisen by circumstance.
*He sees
an intrinsic beauty
inside her resides
the epitome of purity
where an ephemeral stare
lulls him into abyss, eternity
and he longs beyond longing
to live life in unity
with her.*
*She sees
the embodiment of perfection
a soul bright gold
seeking a lover's impression
a confidant to quarter
her every thought, every recollection
so she pleas God, please
let there be a connection
with him.*
And so they pass
mulling in mutual isolation
over fortunes unfulfilled
for a moment's hesitation
over lives of love lost
for lack of fate's cooperation.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
You could bring me to my knees,
still can,
when you danced, flitter feet,
across my ****** mind
(Have you done this before?)
When we touched, my mind blushed
at what might happen
(still might?)
"This isn't a good idea." "No."
Still isn't.
Then, I hated the way you lingered,
still do,
when you hid behind every synapse
chasing way venturous new thoughts,
but different now.
The world calls my attention,
you sit, laughing, mocking,
still lingering.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
A hope, lost
minutes before the sunrise
when heavy words land on deaf ears
and prayers go unanswered,
a single tear falls into the sea.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 7:36 PM UTC
Spring
A young boy runs through the forest, giggling with excitement. He had been trapped in the house all winter: kept inside by his parents to defend him from the cold. The boy runs and runs, driven by the boundless energy that children have. There is so much to explore in this self-reviving wonderland, so much fun to be had. Slowly, the boy comes to a stop. He looks up, mystified by the expanse surrounding him. It’s so large, so incomprehensibly large. Buds of new life emerge everywhere around him and melted snow drips from the treetops. He looks down and sees the small sapling of a tree. The boy studies it, examines every inch of the tree: the small leaves, the tiny, delicate stems. Fascinated by the simple treasure he has found, the boys sits in silence to admire his find for a short while, then runs home to share his discovery with Mom and Dad.
Summer
A couple, teenagers, stroll through the forest, laughing as they go. The forest is completely green now, alive, thriving. Thin rays of sunlight trickle through the cover that the thick canopy above has created and warm the cool air. It’s mid-morning and the constant, peaceful hum of the forest fills the air. The couple comes to the tree, larger now, and sits down to rest in it’s small patch of shade. They continue talking, teasing each other until they run out of things to say, and then silence. They sit together, hand in hand. He looks at her and senses something turn deep inside of him. She shifts and a ray of sunlight illuminates her face. She closes her brown eyes. The boy leans in close to her and feels the warmth of her breath on his face. He leans in closer and feels the smooth, subtle touch of her lips on his own. They stay that way for a moment, taking in the sensation, and then he leans back: his first kiss.
Fall
A man walks through the forest, his arm stretched out below his waist so he can hold his daughter’s tiny hand in his own. They walk side by side, her little legs taking long paces to keep up with his larger ones. They come to the tree and sit at its base, facing each other. He tells her a funny story from his past that she gleefully giggles at. The man feels an overwhelming sense of joy when he looks at her happy face; her twinkling eyes and a smile so large it shows every one of her teeth. He has never been more thankful for anything in his life. He feels a tear come to his eye but he wipes it away; she is still too young to understand tears of happiness. He opens his arms wide in a familiar gesture to her. She jumps into them, embracing him. They stayed that way for a while, silent, until he tells her “I love you, I love you…”, once for every orange leaf he sees loftily float to the ground.
Winter
An old man walks through the forest, snow crunching beneath his feet. He takes small, slow steps, grasping the beauty of the forest he has come to know so well. The air is thin and harsh on his aged lungs. It bites at his nose and uncovered ears, reddening them. The naked branches of the familiar trees around him seem to reach up to the heavens, begging for an end to the cruel winter. The man comes to his tree and studies it, just as he did the day that he found it so many years ago. “Oh, how we’ve grown,” he says. He thinks back on his life: his accomplishments, his failures, the ones he’s loved. He’s had a good life. The old man sits down, his back resting against the strong truck of the tree: his favorite spot in the world. He closes his eyes. In the silence of the forest and with a smile on his face, he falls into an eternal sleep.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
She sits in the parlor of her small-town home,
widowed and alone
knitting a sweater for herself
she has nobody else, no pictures of grandkids on her
bedroom shelf
Flash forward to a Sunday night
she sleeps in the peace, everything seems alright
A storm outside rages and
lightening, it strikes
the wood front door and
sparks a fire so bright
Across the house the flames crawl,
leaving a trail of
blackened walls and
smoke filled halls.
Into her bedroom they crept
As she watched them come, not a single tear she wept
In fact, a smile on her face
she takes one last breath,
closes her eyes and…
accepts her death
Sunrise in the mornin'
sheds light on nothing more than
a pile of ashes forlorn
But from the remains, a new angel is born
for God's own hand had parted the skies,
ran the ashes through his fingers so,
like a phoenix she could rise
and divinely cross the land, on plumed wings she flies
from place to place and
keeps a guardian eye
on the friends and family that her life was denied.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 12:49 AM UTC
To sit in silence,
to ponder, to muse
the fate of the unbroken,
the valid, reckless few,
who fear not
a journey long
or a path unbeaten,
who embrace a life untold.
To squander life
lost in the comfort of home
is to forego a gift
on the horizon unknown.
Though the world is not perfect,
and the paths of many
are far from true
they journey forward,
the reckless few.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC