#pittsburgh
These streets
are not just roads;
they hold our stories, and
embedded within them are our
poems
Aug 26, 2024
Aug 26, 2024 at 11:23 PM UTC
Good men
won't be found here.
Chivalry is long dead.
Here, we sit in shadows and hide
our scars.
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 10:33 PM UTC
staring
at Departures,
waiting with futile hope
that my flight's not cancelled; let me
get home
Aug 4, 2023
Aug 4, 2023 at 9:34 PM UTC
sometimes
sidewalks appear
as graveyards
full of open mouths
and closed eyes
beauty goes unnoticed
and love
unfulfilled
–Ron Gavalik
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 7:25 PM UTC
It’s lukewarm on this lazy Sunday,
And I don’t know where I put my glasses.
I don’t even want to tear myself
From the syzygy that makes me, my blanket
And my bed, to find them. Maybe I’ll crawl out
Of my coziness and try to seize the day.
There are fourteen-forty minutes in a day,
And I can waste them all on this lazy Sunday.
I could get breakfast, but I’d have to make it out
The door — and I can’t find my glasses.
I suppose I’ll just stay under the blanket,
Spending those minutes on myself.
I could possibly make breakfast for myself.
I do so just about every other day.
Bacon does sound good, but my blanket
Weighs a hundred pounds. And after all, Sunday
is my day off. Where are my glasses?
Right on the windowsill where I left them. Out-
Side, I see people who got out
Of bed already. People as lazy as myself —
Probably… Oh, fine! I put on my glasses
And trek to entropy. At least it’s warm today.
And for a while it’s a very nice Sunday,
But it isn’t as warm as my blanket,
And doesn’t feel as heavy. As pewter blankets
Stretch across the horizon, I look out
Over the cut and appreciate what Sunday
Has to offer. That’s what I tell myself,
But I know that today is just another day;
Seeing the world with rose tinted glasses
Yet again. I stop to wipe off my glasses
That are smudged with a blanket
Of dust from the Oakland air. The day
Is only part way done and I am looking for an out.
I continue the mission to make myself
Breakfast on a lukewarm, lazy Sunday:
A not so sunny day, in my glasses,
Making Sunday breakfast in a blanket
Of optimism. Out by myself.
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 2:34 AM UTC
Send me nudes, you said
I sent you my naked
truths instead -
An unfiltered and unapologetic
glimpse into my heart
my innermost self
That part of me that so
rarely sees the light
of day much less the
judgement
of another soul
In the end, staring at my
demons, at my fears, and
my weakness you
failed to see
my strengths, my beauty,
or my integrity
You looked into the
abyss of me and
blinked
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
Bravery
I thought I was brave
with the scars to prove it.
My legacy -
broken bones, split knuckles,
black eyes and loose teeth.
Adulation and respect.
I fought both man and isms
Never backed down.
But a black man, driving
an Uber taught me the truth of
true bravery.
Harassed, insulted, threatened by
a low-life passenger,
white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie,
he refused to take the bait.
He denied himself the pleasure of
justified violence.
He told me his story -
and anger for him, righteous indignation,
crashed over me in furious waves.
I admonished him for not
confronting that mans ignorance
with a closed and determined fist.
Never back down, right?
Gently, he spoke the truth of
black men in America.
His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.
You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty.
Protected by a system that
oppresses me.
I am guilty - period - and would be lucky
to be arrested, not killed,
in a confrontation with that bigot.
So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie
off at his destination,
and drove on - leaving that pig to
wallow in his hate.
His bravery earned him nothing.
No adulation. No respect. No recognition.
Nothing except another day of life.
Another day with his family.
In contrast - my lifetime of bravery.
A pale reflection, when set beside his truth.
He was brave, not I.
My self-styled bravery, forever
tainted
by my privilege.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
It was just past 2:00 am
on a lonely new year's eve.
I drove across the Rankin Bridge
and noticed a gold flame dance
atop a stack at the mill.
I stopped the car
in the middle of the bridge
and walked over to the rail.
In the darkness above the river,
the suffering didn't exist.
It would return
with the sun.
-Ron Gavalik
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:22 PM UTC
After the most abhorrent violence,
during times of misery and sorrow,
a wise man will sit in a dark room
and reflect on his truths.
In rage, he will curl his fingers
into the tightest fists.
In sadness, he will weep
for all that has been lost.
In his chair, the wise man will drink
his whiskey, and then he will stand up
and fight back against the hate.
-Ron Gavalik
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Why even one?
Why should even one die?
Why should even one die from hate?
Life is too short.
Life is too short to die unnaturally.
Life is too short to die unnaturally from hate.
Why doesn’t man learn?
Why doesn’t man learn not to ****
Why doesn’t man learn not to **** for hate?
What’s God’s purpose?
What’s God’s purpose for making man die?
What’s God’s purpose for making man die from hate?
Why sacrifice?
Why sacrifice six million?
Why sacrifice six million and eleven more?
God made man.
God made man hate.
God made man hate his distance from Him.
God cries out.
God cries out for our response.
God cries out for our response to hate.
God is looking.
God is looking for man.
God is looking for man to return.
God is looking for man to return to Holiness.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC
I am so sorry
That they've burned down your home
Left you standing upon barren ground
Cast stones through sacred things
They shouldn't have even touched.
I am so sorry
That this ugly world
Uses fear as ammunition
Never paying mind
To how you must feel
When used as the target.
I am so sorry
That people have 'opinions'
About these tragedies
Even turning well-deserved eulogies
Into slippery slopes.
I am so sorry
There were people screaming
Just when you were trying
To rest.
And I am so hopeful
That you will reach such magnificent heights
That they will never understand.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
I came up in Pittsburgh,
the Rust Belt of hard labor
with a deep love of community.
As children, we collected railroad spikes
from the tracks and we cut our shins
on random iron shards in **** hills.
Some of us were union middle-class
and others breathed the gray air of poverty.
That hardly mattered. As we stood atop
foothills that overlooked the city skyline,
soot embedded under our fingernails,
we lived as kings and queens
that oversaw the future.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
The best men and women
in this life are not the
holy
or the righteous. They
are not
found in the
church or temple.
We live in a world
where religious
virtue
is conflated with
bigotry, racism,
and hatred.
Only the godless are truly
good.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
A man and his child were
gunned down In my
neighborhood today.
My community did nothing -
leaving the blood-soaked street
as the only reminder of
mankind’s capacity for violence.
l did nothing except
gnash my teeth at the
****** of a small child and
wonder if l lived in the
wrong neighborhood.
l look at myself-
the silence in the mirror
reflects my face
but not my
hypocrisy nor the
agony of my
screaming heart.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 10:08 AM UTC
The Penguins are playing tonight
I have a belly full of high-quality
whiskey,
a fine cigar between my fingers,
and a pleasant buzz dulling my
constant anxiety.
The announcers play-by-play,
constant and frantic,
blares through my 70-inch television
adding artificial drama, but I like it.
I'm surrounded by my
precarious middle class wealth
while thousands of
slaves suffer and die in Lybia.
But I’m drunk, oblivious, and happy that
my team
just scored
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
his hipster beard -
mandatory accessory for this
gentrified borough of Pittsburgh -
leads him back and forth
from the kitchen to the tables
he serves more tables than he should
I wait too long for my
overpriced salad
as he drops a plate of greasy wings
in front of a table of oblivious
professionals who
judge him
find him wanting
without ever looking up from their phones
a small bead of sweat accompanies him
when he drops off my check
I pay with a twenty and he brings me back
a ragged five and a one-dollar bill.
I know what he did. Fuck.
god ****** hipster server trying to fleece me
playing on social pressure
betting on pocketing that faded fiver
that he did not earn from me
I force him to break that Lincoln
I tip three bucks
because I ****** well won’t let him get the best of me
my indignation is an all-American righteousness
so much so that I forget -
forget I paid four times what the salad was worth
forget he doesn’t see a penny of that profit
forget that he makes less than three bucks an hour
forget that without tips he won’t make rent
I forget all of this in my pride at catching a huckster
who just wants to keep the lights on
one more day
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
I walked out of my office today at noon
and slid into the stream of pedestrians -
the hipsters stroking their beards,
the pale professionals blinking in the sun,
mothers pushing strollers through the crowd
with more skill than a racecar driver
before I knew it, I walked past my lunch destination
I kept walking - and watching
the people of my town share a sidewalk
without attacking one another
for a moment I was tempted to take a picture
post it on online,
make a socio-political statement;
if people from all walks of life
can share the sidewalk
can we not find common ground?
I left my phone in my pocket - decided against
adding my unnecessary opinion to the
manufactured outrage
that is the sad truth of social media
I smiled at a pretty lady pushing her baby
she smiled back
and we shared a brief human moment
I kept walking
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
In the late 1990s on the South Side of Pittsburgh
there was a cafe I'd frequent
with large cozy chairs next to picture windows
that looked out onto East Carson Street,
the main drag in that part of town.
From those chairs, I'd read and write and watch
tattooed bikers, artists, skaters,
young ***** with their **** out,
and poor thugs in ***** clothes
posed as weathered statues against brick walls.
They all craved attention, respect,
a solid footing for their place in the world.
Today, I imagine most of those people are
dead or in prisons or barely making it
with several children and dead-end jobs.
That cafe, like so many storefronts,
fell victim to the polite ravages
of suburban malls and the Internet.
Those days are gone to never return.
Still, those people had my attention.
For what it's worth,
they will always have my respect.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 11:37 AM UTC
"you are
so beautiful,"
I said, and then wept when
the uncertainty flickered in
her eyes
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
lost in his phone
that businessman
misses the sunset
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC
Build me like the city streets
Strap my bones to solemn steel
And give me an expression without inability
Prop me up like the towering buildings
And bend my back to the labors of industry
So that I might just understand
What it means to hear the steel heart beat
Let these words go out from here and heal
Let these voices reach and touch the meek
Let the rhythm within my soul preserve
And the minds amongst us finally meet
So that we could savor a moments peace
So that we could pad the snow laden ground
And meet where the steel heart slowly beats
For we are the blood within which seeps
As we rise to the surface quietly
Teeming with life and full of desire
To actively ponder and passionately seek
To understand the truth within
For we are a vessel most unique
To reach the travelers of time
And to mold such minds as they do sleep
For anytime such blood cells meet
The steel heart surely can be heard
In unison with every beat
Be it underneath these city streets
Let such an expression be heard by more than me
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
You've been here before. You woke up today and realized that the stress, the angst, and the foreboding that you've allowed to rule your life is there by choice. You've gotten lost in the spiral of anxiety, again.
If it's not your health, it's your money. If it's not the money, it's your kids. If it's not your kids, you're worried about past life choices and how they will affect you tomorrow. Your fears line up at the door, wrap around the block, and await their turn. Your door is open to them all and you don't deny them. You let them in.
Once they are inside, you wrap your fears around you. They’re a welcome smothering; a wearying security blanket of trembling phobia. They are as familiar to you as they are distressing. These constant, restless, companions are more comfortable than the unknown.
Today, though, you stare at the line of fears and realize that something is missing. Happiness. Contentment. Acceptance. These are conspicuous in their absence. And you remember an old Cherokee tale. You have two wolves engaged in eternal battle inside you; one is fear and anxiety and the other is peace and serenity. The strongest is the one you feed and you've been feeding the wrong wolf.
You've done this your entire life in a self-centered, selfish, guilt-ridden, indulgent, fashion. You wallow in the darkness because you're afraid you don't deserve the light.
You know you’ll feed the right wolf today. But can you do it tomorrow?
mighty river;
the fish navigates
as it will
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
full flower moon
in its halo
a space station
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
on this cloudless night
pushing through the Pittsburgh haze,
daring to present themselves,
entwined in cosmic tango, are
Jupiter and the Moon.
the bands play across a
diluted Jovian face. while the storm
rages on
the lunar rocks and craters,
perfectly visible imperfections,
cast petulant shadows -
reminding me that
from destruction one can
still find beauty.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC