I never was a fan
Of buckling in a van
And sitting
To mostly go
Where I never wanted.

I never found it a thrill
Scrunching my body
In every vehicle my grandparents leased
Every time my family and I would visit.
And, isn’t it ironic
How I’m the middle child of my family
And the middle seat in the back would always be available
Especially for me?

Traveling on a road
For more than an hour
Feels like a breeze after a time.
But somehow the shorter car rides
Seem to take forever,
The basic mile perceptually elongated.
Just my luck.

Everything I have done,
Every activity my parents rode me too
Required my AIS
And patience toward whichever parent
Navigated.

I almost begin to believe
That traffic roads have a treadmill mechanism
To illusion travel and make one believe
That the wheels spin forward,
But I think they lag atop the same gravel
Much too long for my patience and time.

As I crave for a hurry in life
When time slowly fumbles,
I wonder if I would get to where I want to be faster
If I took the wheel.

When I'm out-and-about, I think of returning home.
Depending on the current season, I think of a holiday or occasion
That still hides in the future,
Such as thinking of Easter during Lent,
Or what Halloween will be like
While indulging in Irish culture.
Even more so, I think of resting while working
And of working while resting.
Just another phenomenon I don't understand,
A fact indeed.

Her mom was one call away;
Even though Christy didn't have her own phone,
She had the number ready to dial.
In the long run, she couldn't make the call
In borrowing access to another's phone.

I lent her my phone...more than one time.

I noticed Christy asking for rides,
A frequent sight
Around Walmart's outdoor campus.
I couldn't take back what I saw,
So I offered to ride her.
Christy rose from neutral emotions
To cheery.
After all, at least she could be inside somewhere
Even in fleeting time.

I drove her...more than one time

After a while, it wasn't "I don't know you"
And "You don't know me."
Not even "Since it's Christmas..."
Could sum this interaction.
Instead, Christy and I eating
McDonald's breakfast burritos
Is the best way I can describe
Our encounter:
A hunger to help,
A hunger to be helped.

I ate those burritos...more than one time
For her sake.
I firmly believe those burritos will not be
Her last supper.

I drove Christy during the day
And under the drapery of night,
One instance with her friend Lisa,
Another moment that ended
With my yelling voice unleashed
Toward Christy's mother.
Then a detour to the Emergency Room,
Good Christy vomiting outside
The passenger door along the road.

Yet, Christy navigated my driving...more than one time.

Christy wasn't a fan of needles,
But grudgingly accepted the IV
That she foresaw in her medical visit.
She succumbed to X-Ray scans,
The blood pressure strap,
And the nocturnal waiting.

"Maybe we should go...you look tired," Christy glared at me.
"I'm fine...I want to see you well first," I urged.
Christy didn't budge at my response...
She signed a release, and we left.

Her lips spun her two lip piercings...more than one time.

"Do I look funny?" Christy asked me at one point.
The best I could say, in order to not just say what she wanted to hear,
Was: "You look how you look."

We looked for hotels for Christy...more than one time.

She was at the Heritage,
But a police incident removed
The lodgers the night of the scene.
Christy was at the Relax,
But the manager was missing a kind heart
And the room had roaches.
We tried the Days Inn.
Beyond our affordability.
Christy settled with the Knights Inn
After mid-knight.

My arguing created another situation:
I thought I saw Christy getting food from someone else.
[My, what assumptions can ruin]
She cried because of my sudden accusation.
Even my immediate turn-around apology
Couldn't mend my errors right then.  

Christy started losing hope that I,
Or we (my mom included),
Couldn't help her; limitation started to take
The upper hand.
Christy, who had suicidal intentions before,
Restored them from the way she carelessly
And degradingly spoke of herself.

"I'm NOT going to the Bethany House!" Christy insisted.
Christy repelled the Bethany House...more than one time.

I drove Christy to my mom's church,
Christy carelessly approving.
A friend of my mom's tried to talk Christy
Into staying on the course of help,
But Christy wanted to just go back to Walmart,
To panhandle.
I understood her desire to do so,
But we could have helped her.

She ran off at Sheetz
With her garbage bag of belongings.
Saying "Christy" multiple times
Made Christy ignore me even more.

We all deserve a chance...more than one time,
But some will want more than one more time.

Get out!
Stop ruining my life!
Your words, they destroy my future,
Like a bullet, bomb, knife.
In other words
Shut up

When attached to a place,
A certain company, for a long time,
It’s no easy step to meet a new face.

Your quarter, nickel, and dime
Know well how change works;
It can be as sweet as sugar, or sour as lime.

A score of time somewhere one lurks
Withholds the power and experience
To accept seeing new folks, whether angels or jerks.

That’s the code of assimilating in an audience,
Where faces turn seat-to-seat
As if to survey an area of new and one-time presence.

There are small feet, but this is no small feat
To get to know and open ourselves.
Never doubt, though, you may find someone neat!

Stories about us, stories about themselves
In a community that has something to say;
We are books that need to be dusted and read from our shelves.

Leaving the home, mystified with each day,
Us travelers hunger for blood not yet acquainted,
There’s always a new somebody not too far away.

Community: has this a picture painted?

Burning for truth
Running his mouth
Isaiah 41:10
Again, I try
Never to lose.

UCF XGF ACX AKGW
EHAEBW WKGW
JMU KL BXM LEKH
BXU'HH FOFZ QZFOEKH

If we are not proud of something,
Then we would never have said aloud
What it was we did not, do not,
Or will not take pride in,
Refusing recognition
For the humility of a given circumstance.

They wear big-*** antlers
That make you say "Oh deer!"
They got an attitude
That jolts them to fully charge...
But they don't get LODGED in your throat.

The international fraternity
Of the Moose Lodge,
Unfolding a new chapter each day!
A fraternity that works together,
A family that comes together.

A night of karaoke
At the Moose Lodge
Will make you forget
Your rough week ever happened

Charity of Moose, Moose Haven,
Conventions,
Many ways to be involved,
But only one moose to choose!

Fans from both sides
Yelling at the referees,
Telling them how to do their job.
I wanted to defend the referees right
There.
But then I thought, "How could I plead my case
Regarding a sport that most of the audience knows
Better than I do?"
I rested my case in my head.
Even the coaches were mocking
How they could make better calls
And how many the referees missed.
I guess that's why my dad and brother
Didn't give a **** about the tension.
They've seen tension not only from me
In the family,
But they have an awareness of sports
That my experience cannot contest.

I have thin skin, I can't let these situations slide.
I couldn't be in an arena
Where every fan was booing the officials.
I had to leave; my hands are still marked with
The filth of unsportsmanlike conduct
On every animate being.
Sure no sport can come clean,
And everyone in my family and most outside my house
Had to remind me in basketball, piano, football,
That it's "just a game."

I left this so-called game early.
I wasn't really rooting for any team;
I don't even think I was watching a real game.

We are an opposite, contrary people:
We want our summers cool
And our winters warm.
Who's not to say
There already has been a global warming
Taking effect
In the forecast of fantasy?

Suppose there is a reason,
After all,
For why I grumble at dawn
Yet fall short to day-ify
The night

My mom never forgot
The time I was born:
12:48 pm.
I was born into daylight...
On the outside walls, of course.

I don't usually think about
My birthtime too often;
If I happen to catch this minute by sight,
I know then I am well alive!

Tip-off.
The stands are filled with fans
As rowdy as Romans
Awaiting the demolition
Of flesh.
On the court, however,
The dirtiest demolition
Is having another losing score of points
Reign victorious.

You know you love me,
You know I'm right,
You know it's true.
You know he did it,
You know she said it,
You know how I act,
But as I silently turn my glance
Away from you,
I know this because
Your eyes snitch your lies.

Inspiration, devotion,
All linked to the same faith
That tunnels through obstacles.

Live in the present
Because you cannot get stuck there.
Tense is fleeting
And presents are on their way!

Hey it's just Brian.  Again, know I should be posting just poetry, but I just want to let you who are following me and those outside who have seen my poetry know that I sincerely appreciate it!!!!! :)  This is a blessing to be able to relate to writers/viewers like you all as distant as virtuality may make it seem.  Just wanted to extend a bigger appreciation; I know I should thank each one of you individually instead of being lazy and sending out one message for all like most bogus automation does, but be assured I am grateful to be connected to others who have some affinity for writing and particularly poetry.  And shout out to the maker of this site Emily; Emily, this site means more to a person like me than you'll ever know.  This is a great site and I hope it stands as long as possible.  Anyway, just me; poetry on, peoples! :D  Also, I really apologize for not remaining true to my word in saying that I would read more poetry outside of mine than post more of mine; it's just that when I have ideas in mind I have an anxious tendency to want to make the idea come to life in text before I  lose it, but know that I am not inconsiderate about the mass collection of poetry that extends far beyond what I have contributed (if it's a contribution at all) to this site.  Maybe I shouldn't promise, but I will try my best to remember and see more of the poetry from the greater poetry community.  For it's better and should be better for me to give than to give for greedy gain. Peace Carolingian-script bards! ;)

I have no memory of it,
Yet I know of the history that befell the United States,
Seventeen years ago this year.
Smoke...
Planes...
Panic...
Death...
Rescue...
These are what leave us speechless
Yet have made America more aware.
May we remain vigilant not for attacks,
But vigilant when we see those lost again.

Among a group of children, there is an adult;
Among a group of adults, there is a child.

I ***** down my drive way
My two shoes clomping along the gravel;
Shouldering myself to the right I walk
As though time were not a factor.

I stroll straight ahead momentarily
Sandwiched along the street with houses, cars,
And the sky above my head, like a hat
That doesn’t itch.

When I am not bothered by the muscle it takes to walk
And as I gaze at the natural scenery above me
And the homes beside me
As if I were peering out the window inside a moving car
I am faster than time.

Remaining on the road’s left
My feet angle left, and I enter a circular path of gravel.

I take my time, I think throughout
Bowing down, and looking up
Wrinkling my face towards the clouds
Sighing breaths not of boredom, but of struggle
For confidence on my path.

I could circle around the scrunched circular path forever,
But dogs bark,
And since I have no one to tell me to stop,
I felt that’s my cue to leave.
As evergreens line my procession out,
I pass from life before
To life ahead.

The Easter story,
Known by many,
Is the inverse of the fall of biblical Adam and Eve:
What fruit was eaten
Of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
Was reattached
On that same tree,
When Jesus was crucified,
When Jesus crucified himself,
When the tree crucified Jesus.
Jesus became the new fruit
That uneven bark could not hold for long,
Though, biblically, a tree be the Christian God’s creation,
How can the created
Hold its author?
Yet it was fulfilled
That Jesus, equally human in his Passion,
Bear the creation
That would keep his body,
But free his spirit.
For earth goes back to earth,
But, considering this story,
And that each soul is different,
Might all souls default
To their common origin hereafter?

It’s never easy for me
To live in the moment
When I foolishly push forward
To say I endured and lived certain moments.
That’s not what history is about,
That’s not what life’s about.
Yes, the more focus poured into the present
Can make the present feel longer,
Like waiting-in-line longer,
But waiting surrounds every breath
Of life. There’s no escaping that,
Whether it’s waiting at the DMV or waiting, literally in this case,
One second.
After all, does not the body wait
To finally be at rest,
Each day drawing the body closer to its rest?
I have waited for exciting mail to be delivered before,
Whether arriving to others as gifts or to me miscellaneously.
Trust is the key, trusting that the many processes
Will accomplish the goal.
So, what about now?
Please hold while your life is being planned for the next day.

The Coast Guard lives it,
But I take for granted
Being prepared.
It’s not just a task
That should be accomplished days in advance
Before having company over to visit.
Preparedness is an everyday,
Voluntary discipline
That requires a squinting mind,
A moving body, however mobile,
And open eyes
Ready for sudden changes
In the day.
Even a celebration is a preparation,
For festivities
Are meant to be shared
Because they are meant to arouse excitement
Concerning the amazing things that those absent
Might not know about
Or may not believe
If not for a sincere account.
Often, readiness is plainly living.
Keep in mind, however,
To not always expect the expected either.

Sorry for not making this entry a poem, but I thought I would take the time to spread that, if you ARE or if YOU KNOW OF anyone in middle school or high school who likes writing poetry (or prose/essays), please consider checking out/having them check out this poetry contest website: https://www.poeticpower.com/index.php?page=students

No joke, I have been published by this company before, and even if you are not the final winner, whoever enters can still at least be published in the book that comes out seasonally.  For more information, please see the site or I can try to answer questions about it (no promises, though, considering I haven't been active on that site since...well...high school lol).  Thank you!

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose ***** snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

Songs bear the light of poetry,
But, though Augustine states singing sprouts spirituality,
“De-compose” the composed
And read the words as though
Reading any other book, and feel the light of Augustine’s mantra
Heat before witnessing growths of ember.
Does not the meaning, rather than the importance, of poetry resound more at first glance
From reading in plain concentration
Than with music
That can steer attention to reaching the note
That staccatos along the textual truth,
That leads the mind in common-time land
Like a stone drumming along a still lake?
Is truth behind words important enough
To lay the foundation for impending music?
The truth sets free
Before a sweet melody!

As chatter evaporates,
The poet first-up begins to read;
As poetry speaks,
Ears listen.

And, thus, the fight for total concentration begins,
Closed-lips the discipline,
Whether the piece of writing
Can be comprehended by all or not.

Though minds may wander,
Ears still listen.
The reading continues
And the listeners position and budge,
Reviving a fixed concentration.

One has eyes open
Staring at the burr-burr carpet.
Someone else shuts their eyes,
Wrinkling them with a thinker’s strain,
Or is it thinking going on in that brain?

Another listener with head bowed low
Prays through the reading,
Asking for what line
To walk away pondering
Or what poetical form “stands out.”

A sincere ending,
And the room harmonizes hums,
The best kind of response,
For its noise reminds the reader
That there was interest at all,
Yet no vocabulary in the responsorial hum,
For a listening poet should know better:
An author’s poem belongs to that author’s imagination.

No matter the desire to be open to all things,
We are always a close-minded people;
After all, does skin not enwrap
The sinuses of our imagination, thinking, and what we allow
To enter our cognition?

Cryptograms:
Secret messages waiting to be revealed
A symbol shields the letter in hiding.
Gee, a hint would sure sound nice,
But cryptographers aren’t always that merciful.
There are times where I am left
To guess, err, and scribble down
The correct corresponding equivalency,
Z=A, for instance,
Until I arrive at the satisfactory accomplishment
Of a puzzle solved and a stronger knowledge of code.

Jumbles:
Another newspaper favorite,
Words appear as sloppy anagrams,
Which requires much staring and mental shifting
Of letters until a rearranged combination of letters
Produces an existent word approved by Oxford or Webster.
Within each blank printed box is a certain number of circles,
The puzzler, guessing the words from each row of nonsensical anagrams,
Gathers the letters in the circumscribed spaces
Only to do more mental or written unscrambling
As no answer exists without persistence and resilience.

Crosswords:
My “worst nightmare” in the world of puzzles,
The only enigmas where I have to leave enigmas be
Because I always fall behind in experience and knowledge
To have any clue of what the hints mean,
For some hints are implicit cryptograms,
The solver needs to consider each word of the hint closely
To understand the pun, the sarcasm, wrapped up in the obvious literalism.
Some days I come close
To filling in all up-words and down-words,
But realize that I am never quite right, even in my most confident state.

Is a puzzle ever truly solved?
I don’t know! Figure it out yourself!

Until now, I never realized before
The beauty in the Beast
Or how Beauty is so beast!

It starts with a breath:
I smell what I see,
I inhale what I can't see.
Then the world of my body spins:
I feel the taste,
Taste what I feel,
Hear what I see,
See what I hear,
Smell what I see (yet not 4-D),
See what I smell;
Taste what I smell,
Smell what I taste (they go together);
Hear what I taste,
Taste what I hear.
Feel what I hear (nails on a chalkboard),
Hear what I feel;
Taste what I hear,
Hear what I taste;
Taste what I see,
See what I taste;
Feel what I smell,
Smell what I feel;
Hear what I smell,
Smell what I hear;
Amid these confusing permutations,
I am who I am,
At least that makes (a) sense.

During the years prior to high-school graduation,
It was never a “piece-of-cake”
To adjust back to reality. A.K.A. school, immediately following
Occasions, such as vacations, for any reason, or even ordinary weekends.
There’s also that event that took place during a “school night,”
Where the thought of have to “hit the books” the next day
Haunted my conscience amid focus and participation, as I knew
There never were many take-off extensions during the week.
I’d be one who tended
To stare out a window and fantasize
Of the arousals and feel-goods
From being around groups or plainly out of the house.
There were times where I’d stare
And picture still being with my grandparents in Pittsburgh
Upon arriving home from visiting them at their house.
On some Sundays, we’d host a family from our church
To watch football games, eat, chat,
And freeze-tag around the condensed square of yard
Shielding the Kearneysville property.
How could I have bounced right into school Monday
With thoughts of care-free run-arounds
And my loosened muscles on furniture while watching football
Still spinning in my head?
Is fun really a dream come true
Or is it a manipulative dream that speeds up during the good times
And slows down with the drags in life?
I’d even find myself adjusting to reality
Even if I were not the primal host at my house.
When either my parents or siblings
Would invite friends or other people distracting their attention to the house,
I’d always feel like I had the house to myself,
Their attention on the humane outlier making them invisible
And not focusing on my whereabouts or whodunits.
To me, stepping off the grass and back on the mud track of reality
Won’t always work the way it should,
Whether recovering from brief gathering events
Or rock concert trips.
I heard a Sunday sermon where the minister referred to humanity as each a “vacationer.”
Might that imply that reality is an effortful fantasy?  After all, don’t vacations require work too?

Not everyone can be an “every-one”
But I am one who wants to dip my hands
In many fields of life
So as to be an omni-aid “when duty calls.”
Of course, I don’t always know what I get myself into,
And may not consider that I could regret doing too much
Or find myself doing what I don’t want to do.
Generally, if I could, I would monetarily give
To every figure standing vertically still along main areas of traffic
Who always appear to be seeking some kind of recognition.
Not that I stare, but when my pockets lack coins or bills,
I can only offer a silent word behind the steering wheel
For the ones standing in search of hope car-by-car.
I love to write, so why not write to a soldier or someone who could use a note?
Because, alas, rules and regulations for companies intimidate my passion
To do good yet follow procedures.
With my loves for drawing, writing, cleaning, fixing, puzzles,
I know there’s a lot I can contribute,
Not speaking haughtily but in respectful confidence,
But it also can come down to who would be receptively interested,
How often I could commit,
And am I giving more than I’m being given?
If I can give until I cannot give anymore,
As wearing as this may sound in words,
What else would I need?

Bonjourno, paisanos!
Didn’t think I could say actual words,
right?
Most of us virtual protagonists
like Pac Man and Crash Bandicoot
don’t talk much since we are
systematically required to listen
to enemy plans and damsel-in-distress gratitudes,
to actively work to stay alive,
making it hard to breathe
and cough up a sentence or two.

Now that I momentarily have the freedom
of [legitimate] speech,
I’ll let you in on my thoughts
about comrades, enemies, and my abilities…

Most days I can’t stand
how a princess like Toadstool
keeps falling into the wrong hands.
Even us characters have a life
when gaming systems power off.
Most days I’m not the only hero
but the co-hero.
Though most times my friend Toad and brother Luigi
are scared of warding off intrusions,
they’re my only reinforcements.

My archnemesis Bowser and his army of koopa-turtles and armless goombas
aren’t too bright.
When Bowser acquires power-ups beyond
my virtual abilities as an inner-city plumber,
I scurry to find others who know
Bowser’s vulnerable spots
and who help me gain acrobatic abilities.

The food I eat
Provides strength and focus--
like mushrooms that make me grow taller, smaller, and lengthen
my lifespan.

I’m sure some of you wish
you could hop across wide crevices
or defeat troublesome figures.

Thanks to gamers and patrons
who adventure through space and evolving scenery
with me.
I hope in the midst of Rockwell-style art in motion,
you all take away real-life lessons.
Wahoo!

Parties, sleepovers,
and making it to the weekend
were and are familial excuses
to pull out foods I drool[ed] over
such as fried chicken in the evening
and donuts in the mornings.

Another special fun-food excuse I recall
was a time my Granny and Pappy (maternally related)
patiently endured a three-hour car ride
to visit my family in West Virginia.

[The mystery of their visits
Is how my dad successfully shrouds himself
the majority of the time his in-laws so lodge.]

Something as simple as a supper
felt like a Cold War:
My dad and Pappy
seated at either end of the table.
The sour taste of the evening
wasn’t the skim milk I almost drank.
with saucy spaghetti,
But how my grandfather offered me
a disproportionate beverage
(I had a harder time rejecting offers, then)
and how my dad softly yet sternly
shook his head to my left
with a frowned mouth and anger-stirred eyebrows.

My dad would have been louder
about saving my stomach the trouble
had I not been fearful of loud voices
other than my own,
Whether with sarcastic laughter included
or loud with revealing words.

Caught in the middle as always,
I listened to my dad,
mentally recalling my last comsumable experiment:
When I swallowed rigatoni pasta
without giving the due mechanical digestion.
My stomach acid was angry with my pathetic transition
from eating pasta and feeling fine
to constant flushing behind closed doors.



My dad and Pappy don’t get along.
Years ago I asked my mom privately
why they only say hi and bye
at family gatherings.
My mom could only shrug,
saying how Pappy and Dad
simply had different views of life
that somehow can’t overlap
in harmony.
I’m not a peacemaker,
but I’d prefer not to be a sitcom family
of disconnection.

Suppose there’s a reason
why most grandparents
and their adult children
don’t constantly interact:
If they can’t homogenize their realities,
they don’t mix.

The music that plays back in memory
Becomes the better version of music aloud.
After all, memory doesn’t require a scrolling mouse
And clicking pad
To play back favored tunes.
When working or staring at a given space,
The music plays,
Yet no one else can hear it,
No one but the DJ, a Picasso
Whose playlist is creative art
From various artists.

A breeze
that disappears.
Just like
The uniformed
Army
Guarding a wreath
Of remembrance:
Flight 93,
9...1...1...
The bus kept going,
Passengers guessing
What the army officers
Could possibly be out
In the dragging sun for,
Motionless and focused,
Like the queen's guards.

Good deeds are worthwhile,
But it can take an eternity
To say "mission accomplished."
Walking to a flower shop,
Buying a rose,
Walking tens of steps
Of never-ending sidewalk,
Actually feeling lost.

I never found these people
And the memorial wreath.
I felt I had wasted my time.
Don't tell me to remember
If I know I thought about it.
Maybe frustration
Is the only way I'll learn,
But from here to the grave,
Remember those unsaved.

I have no regrets
starting a landscaping job this summer
after responding to a newspaper advertisement.

During my phone interview
with my soon-to-be boss Jeff,
I learned that this seasonal job
meant working in a team of two.
Jeff said this guy’s name was Mel,
A man who claims over twenty years of experience
piping sewer systems
for the Martinsburg water filtration plant
on top of his continued seasonal work
weeding streets, painting curbs,
and waving to city neighbors.
I usually go along with what I’m given,
but I’m an inexperienced worker,
let alone in pairs of teams.
I also wasn’t happy about working with another guy.
I often think that any person I work with
Will be my age, someone I already know (heaven forbid I should be picked on doubly),
And someone else who doesn’t know the job either.

Not that I’m a full-time feminist,
but I haven’t had many enjoyable moments
associating with the guys
outside my family,
most men I’ve met
are largely competitive, pride-absorbing carnivores.

I was met with relief
when I found out my colleague
is a 72-year-old Mel who seems slow at first glance
yet I am barely able to keep pace with him painting and weeding along streets.

When I first heard my colleague’s name,
I didn’t stereotype.

I honestly assumed my coworker would be my age.
My mental picture of my colleague
was only half wrong:
He may be wrinkled and gray on the outside,
with a raspy voice that quakes his loose dentures on the inside,
but his attitudes and actions haven’t caught up with the times.
I occasionally see him
staring me down while I’m painting
to make sure I don’t overpaint or angle the roller
at an up-down stroke position.
And when I’m driving the company car,
he’ll calmly let out an “Easy there!”
when I’m only going 15 on a 25.


The saying goes:
“A picture is worth a thousand words.”
And a thousand pictures can grow
from one word:
Mel.