“We’re gonna move?!” was the plot twist
In the remake comedy “Cheaper by the Dozen.”
Never would I have thought, though, that in 2007,
In the family room of 170 Wildflower Creek Drive,
My mother would propose the idea of moving
To us three children.

The idea of moving was exciting yet scary to me,
Being still under double digits in age.
The split-foyer house had always been my default refuge,
Where I always felt drawn to, if ever distant for however long.
The closet under the split-foyer stairwell, the red basement carpet,
The flowery wall paper tracing the walls of the second floor.
Knees bent on the off-white couch cushion in the family room
Spying on our front yard and the rows of houses,
Which columned to infinity from what I could see.
Friendly get-togethers, a Super Bowl XL bash, birthday parties,
The Japanese Juniper rooted towards the up-slanted corner of the black-tinted fence.
Our backyard’s deck with stairs, all that I would soon have to desert
For what seemed best at the time.
A room to myself sounded like a luxury,
But a lot of times, when things seem too good to be true in life,
I ponder if any strings are ever attached, invisibly at work.

All that we owned that had any contact with the McDonagh name,
Except for what kept the house together,
Either entered storage for an interim period of house-searching
Or tagged along to the Sun Crest apartments off Route 11-South.
I never thought I’d see our basement’s two-door, internally connected closet
Emptied and spacious enough to make circular paths in-and-out.
I remember the night that my family and I officially rode away
From the neighborhood property.
The glowing heart of the house, the foyer’s brown chandelier,
Discoed yellow-brown, unshapely-stretched reflections of light
Through the indented individual crystal-like brown glass
That cocooned the non-majestic lightbulbs inward.
As our van and family pulled away from the driveway,
Like the south pole of a magnet from the north pole,
All I had left to offer the house that provided me shelter and memories
Was a “this-isn’t-fair” glance as I leaned my head in the back seat of the van,
Resting my glasses on the backseat window as if some magnetism
Penetrated the glass to remind me that bonds, whether in science or love,
Don’t break easily.

In the summer of 2008, my family and I made the best
Out of the small apartment space,
Though thoughts of Wildflower Creek still lingered.
Many distractions befell me, however:
My 11th birthday party that July, jogging around our apartment building,
Video games, other visits with friends,
And, I cannot forget, the many houses I had to explore in the area
Before my parents settled on one and were not outbid by others.
Even though today I would not mind touring houses,
My mind was a million miles away from wanting to foot around stairs and rooms,
Even though it was necessary.

By the end of August 2008, we collectively agreed upon a house
And had many close neighbors help us move into a new familial abode.
The postal address claimed the area to be part of Kearneysville,
Though on the outskirts of Martinsburg.
This house, bricked-faced with touches of burgundy,
Was favored according to the equidistance
Regarding most of our out-of-house activities.

Assuredly enough, I have well-acquainted myself with this location by now,
My eyes always wanting to look out my bedroom window
To see the array of the day: the appearance of the outdoor skies,
The apex of the Veterans Affairs’ chapel building,
The gray fence of our posterior neighbor,
Two slender black-walnut trees intimately planted next to each other.
The Veterans Affairs facility’s bugle blows always annoyed me every 8 a.m.,
But, 10 years later, that’s the least of my troubles and I rarely hear it anymore myself.
At this point, I cannot tally all of the blessings that have entered this house
And that have come from establishing new roots under a new roof:
Two Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl appearances, the dawning growth of my outgoing spirit,
My theatre premiere, encountering new faces, learning how to drive in the Quad Graphics’ parking lot, taking advantage of new activities, visiting places I never thought I’d travel to,
The loss of our dog Jessie (2004-2013), the gaining of our present canine companion Bailey (b.2012), the election of Pope Francis, my first paid job, the arrival of the 2010’s;
My twelve-year Upward basketball legacy drew to a close in this Kearneysville residence (2004-2016); the historical election of President Barack Obama as the first president with African-American roots; even experiencing higher education in recent months.
This Kearneysville house has provided more than shelter; in its expansive vacuum and detailed
Indentations where potential dust may cling, this house has provided me
With the rest I need to continue life;
This house has helped me see
The profound blessing of the simple, ordinary mandatories.
In this house, I have been taught and disciplined
To implement my stewardship, to care with my own hands and being
In the hope that this dormant structure will continue to provide support
For my family circle and those to follow.
Sometimes I have been out the door so frequently
That this house has almost become less of “home.”

The impending decade-anniversary of family, house, and life
May never match a Rosary’s decade,
But both are met as devotions of resilience.
As a church official said,
“Home is a relationship more than a place.”
However, memories or relationships can take place
Under ceilings.
How much harder, as years progress,
Might it be to change my default houser?

Though words plainly expand the levitation of gases,
I still feel a twitch in my nerves when you talk,
Like anything I have ever said was meaningless;
Yet, when I express that your speech bothers my sensory system,
I feel a guilt
That I am the one who changed you
For my own satisfaction.
Why do I cater to myself
Instead of I who am more considerate?

Some new can be the same
And some same can be new.
New can be same
If there are the same results,
The same viae
To arrive at the same loci.
Things are different though
All the same.

Some, guilting myself, use reverse-psychology
To aim for a timely desire
Through patient methods…

The “I-don’t-want-to-be-a-bother” thought
Chains me down to be present in a social crowd,
And put on the cute quiet-boy card.
How is that any more sociable than being social?
I don’t know…even I don’t understand my ways.

I’ve also put on self-depriving airs
To deviously slurp compassion from people
When I wanted to hear that people care for me,
Even though, obviously, just being present
Should be caring enough.

Let this be a caveat lest others
Fall for the shy stunts.

Lying in the car seat,
Head hairs smeared against the window,
Eyes shut in slumber.
The sun takes a bow
With its finale rays
That split through
Columns of trees alongside the road.
Though the inner, red-blue nervy scene of a forgotten blink
Serves as the eyes surrounding imagery,
The inner eyelids start flouncing
From a stronger pulse of red
Back to the darker internal hue.
The flashes of sun that zoom in presto tempo
Outside closed eyes,
Which can confuse dreams and dizzy focus.
As the trees make the sun blink,
Awaken to the mirages before the sun dreams.

I should have known better:
The Catholic all-boy camps,
Themed with talks on vocations,
Never truly acknowledged prayer,
But the clock
And its ticking weighing all
With its cesium hypnosis.

“Regulars” expand beyond religious culture, though.
When I go to meet people casually or formally,
Regardless of age,
I am time’s pawn
That never understands when it’s time to end
Unless I want that time to end.
When I don’t like an event,
An hour can feel like an eon.
When I enjoy moments so much,
An hour is a blissful breath-second.

Due assignments,
Ugh! Perfect focus never exists then,
Only “****, ****, ****” in tapping my skull
To assess the situation
And submit a ******* draft, ******!
Don’t be late…too late,
The white rabbit’s time is on schedule:
I’m always late.
Time to start over.

This is just a brief commentary that these next six poems I post are from taking an online corresponding poetry lesson with a poet named Dawn Leas.  She's a poet of the times and has contemporary empathy for the writers of this millennium.  I mention this as well as these poems are based on her edits as well.  Enjoy.

Without mutual communication
Concerning an act,
How do I know if
What I'm doing is right?
Or how do I know
Others are thinking
Of my same internal interpretation?
Also it is for the benefit of learning
To say a reflection aloud
Of a deed done
To better understand the done deed.

Without action,
What good are words
Or any language?
If words make things happen,
But if action speaks louder than words,
Get demonstration's megaphone
And put it at full blast!
I learn by doing,
I normally stare and pretend
I'm taking every word in,
Unless I catch someone's
Oral flaws.
I like to listen to people though,
But there are times where what we learn
And practice
Needs movement
And emotion
And exertion.

Just like with every action
I eventually need some level of a break,
And with every still-based working
Moving becomes a break from stillness.

But stare off in homework and assignments
And grow weary of your fitness regimen.
If there's no temporary escape,
Who can keep their act to words
Or their word to act?

I wanted to voluntarily give my time
in 2011
without any parental/outside influence
to build my own heart
and my own destiny.

I’m sure people have had plenty of dates
with Destiny,
leaving Fate to pay the tab.
What Destiny didn’t tell me
at age fourteen
are that churches that mingle together
are still different populations
with different works of focus.

In the Catholic tradition,
any Catholic can go to any designated church
for holy communion,
holding constant how anyone can attend anywhere.

I received more than the church
when I wanted to go to camps
with another church outside my family’s church.
Rather, I got a helping of obedience, discipline,
work, teasing, trouble, uneasy fellowship,
and a deacon who I believe was never true to the words
he preached.

This deacon, Dave Galvin, was not a personal
heart-to-heart person.
All he did, at least to me,
was assign me to loads of work,
answer my problems by pooling for other people’s answers,
and keep camps and youth of his church
[yes, not even being the lead pastor]
on as inflexible of a schedule as possible.

I almost think some days
he wanted me to starve,
because suffering makes him smile.
Most times around this minister
I would take my life as a failure
if I didn’t understand his instructions
Or didn’t have a faux homily lined up
in less than a minute
for a homiletics competition among
other high-school guys at the time.

He rarely smiled during services
unless the priest made a joke.
Gossip says that his family cheats
with religious obligations.
It wouldn’t surprise me
if this man’s family were another
cover-up story.

There’s no genuine fun with this man.
Being around his church and his mannerisms
almost trapped me permanently from recognizing life
outside being pruned as a seminary prodigy,
trapped as a Trappist.

And yet most people mimic him
and reference his motives and leadership.
Being the only one at most church activities
with Dave
from an alien church of another town,
I tried so hard to keep my mind from being controlled
and of being intensely Catholicized
to the point of breaking down.

Now, what I make of my former interactions
with Dave’s church
is meat for my resumes
and stories to recount.
I thought I was free-will from the Divine
not Dave’s puppet.

Not to make too many other announcements, but I recently came across this meditation in my inbox by Fr. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan author, who talks more deeply about spirituality on his site called Center for Action and Contemplation.  The reason why I share Richard Rohr's name today is because his meditation for today ties spirituality and poetry together, which I had to share with this poetry-rich online community!!  I apologize if it seems too "Christianized" for those who  have other beliefs, but I encourage all to keep the poetry topic in mind more as I am not seeking to promote any outside or irrelevant source on this site.  To access the specific meditation on poetry from the CAC, here is the link:  https://cac.org/poetry-2018-05-22/     If anyone experiences trouble in accessing the meditation write-up, let me know.  Peace fellow poets! :D

I’m for sure not a Barbara Walters
Or Bill O’Reilly,
But, sure enough, I have scholastic interviewing experience,
And I see it all around.
The questions I ask, the questions beckoned toward me
All seek answers,
Whether the questions are true and thoughtful
Or fillers that fog up the air.
At every meeting or get-together,
Whether casual, usual, professional, etc.
Words will be spoken,
And unless serious objections arise
Or more than two people are circulating verbal clauses,
You, my friend, could also be simultaneously under review.

Warm is a cold we become used to.

There stands a mental tendency
To match a certain emotion
With a particular person
And call it ordinary.

At some point in time,
That person’s usual emotion
With take a detour,
Blinding the eye with unrecognition.

Somehow and in some way,
Someone will be bothered
By the sudden shift
Of what seemed to be emotional normalcy before.

If it’s too good to be true,
Then guilt will press the one affected
With the motivation to bring back
What was before.

When it seems that the world
Returns to its original axis of position
And that person acts like themselves again,
We rejoice that what was seen as a dream
Was fleeting,
Because as long as pain tampers bone,
We’re still on our way.

Someone asked me recently
What drives me to write in a journal,
Just a page or two each day.
I have been waiting to answer this question myself
And was amazed that an outside social-media voice
Prompted my response.
Here's what I had to say:

"I want to remember the person I actually turned out to be at this point in time and not let poor memory resort to stereotypes to describe my 20s. I made a mistake I think not writing earlier because there’s a lot I don’t remember from the previous decade.  I want to remember the ordinary moments and to record where I showed my humanness and where I failed. I want to remind myself that, as swelled of a head as I can have most times, that I am human too and I’d like to be that person who has stories and moments that can relate to what people consider embarrassing or wrong so not to shame themselves for actions and words stumbled across by people left and right. It’s one thing to feel guilty about something; it’s another thing to feel like the world ended because of one moment, like how I have treated a lot of my own life moments."

I don't journal for myself entirely,
Yet I do take pleasure in that time of concentration.
To live in the present is the goal,
To live in the future is understandable,
But to remember how I lived in the past
Reminds me I have been human all the way up to now.

You have heard of the “monster under the bed”
Or “the boogie man in the closet.”
But nothing is more frightening
Than mistaking things as having life
In broad daylight.

A car
Its headlights are eyes
Its anterior insignia is the nose
And the area between a car’s front lights and symbol
Is the mouth that never moves.

An electrical outlet
Still though it seems
Stares at you from its wired soul
Through rectangular slits.
An outlet is never happy to see you,
It’s mouth the top half of a semicircle.
Ha! Take that!
A plug will keep you quiet!

Floral patterned curtains
Fool you with detail.
Much staring can lead
Into seeing dotted swirls as eyes
Curved arcs as brows
Or even a flower’s center as the face of a ghost
It’s ******* seeds molding a drooping face.

So, remember when next time you’re at home or in the public
The population may be larger than it seems.

Not just another side of me
Or everything I've done
And hear everything I said
Far from ear's reach.
But I'm the one that thinks,
As soon as I pass the security check
At every place in Washington D.C.
That I forgot to pull something out of my pocket
As a security precaution and protocol.
I pass scanners, but I think I'm that villain
That tricks the bomb-sniffers,
Without lifting a finger,
Into thinking that there's no harmful instrument on me...
When I hypnotize my memory
Thinking I passed GO
When I should have stayed at the STOP....

Other cases outside reality: TV shows and movies.
Oh my god!
What I would do sometimes to cut the middle of most plots
Just to twist heads,
Open eyes,
Slap faces,
Just to uncover who's on justice side
And who abused justice as a disguise.

Though night and day cover the same earth,
Their worlds are far unrelated;
Yes, the two portals of time
I know have skies the same,
But what one attracts
The other scares away.

Having lived a campus-student life,
Later departing to seek rest,
I was attracted to Scarborough’s halls
When darkness would ink the above
And when the daytime student traffic
Minimized, which freed space hard to claim
With the sun exposed.

Rays of LED lights flash
On the library’s main outside portico,
Students’ shoulders magnetized to the foundational pillars,
Bodies slanted, neutral-faced and minds set for commuting home.

Perfect!  Though other peers plan according to the daily rush,
I know there will be a chair for me and a platform to stack my books
Inside the library.
I neck my head heavenward
As I ascend the split-foyer stairs,
Seeing if others descend so as not to run over or be run over.

The second-floor is a puzzle,
A maze of paths edging the perimeter,
The space columned with light-brown shelves of books.
Let’s see: Study room?  Taken.
A free table along the main communal hall of the second floor?
Eh, I feel watched there.
Aha!  A fine venue!
A single-person desk, an attached light,
Room on the desk for layering my backpack’s own library,
And side wooden indentations to conceal my peripheral vision.
I never would have expected to lust for nightly library moments,
But I believe, now, that my visits were past due.

The kitchen table is at the right position
Where my family and I can leisurely face our eyes
In the direction of the clear-glass screen door that displays
Views of our backyard.

On the evening of March 16, I sat on the dark brown, black wooden chair at my usual curve of the table.
There are times where I sit and, though I cogitate “Get up! Get up!”, there are times where I just cannot collect the energy to rise from a still, muscle-relaxing pose.
The setting, yellow-white tint of the sun lured my soul to head outside, the natural character in me felt a need for.
Without delay, I zipped on my AHA sweater and capped my head with a retro blue-and-red Super Mario winter hat.
Opening the side door of the garage, the setting sun continued to lure my presence to still myself before its gentle mantle.
[At least there is no admission for seeing nature run its course!]

This evening scene of twilight I had to view seated on a purple cushion 90-degreed,
Unfolded on the outdoor swing.
I try not to let the urban sights of a barn shed, a house gated, dogs’ barks to my right
Derail my focus of natural concentration.
I learned in meditation once to just let noises and sights come as they please,
For they will have their exit.
I may not be a master at letting things go, but I kept meditative concentration
As the practice for the evening.

Every couple beats I would turn my eyes away from the westward sunset
To see if I noticed a lower sun and a higher indigo darkness.
Maybe I am not bound to the ascetic life, but I would not let the crispy, invisible chills
Of the evening winds chase me inside so easily, though the cold rush along the thighs of
My Lee jeans was a caveat that soon, Kearneysville would submerge into hours of a dark, polar void.

I tried to lose sense of the clock, so time would not be my focus in nature, which doesn’t go by Greenwich anyway.
The right amount of cold air lingered that night: enough to be outside for a while and enough to keep the pestiferous gnats away from my eyes.
No clouds passed my line of vision aimed at the ionosphere, and all the hues of the sun’s petering rays shone a “goodnight.”  This evening sun vanished in the optimistic vigilance that natural green scenes and Emerald green scenes were only one horizon away.

To me, poetry is easier written
Than read.
If reading poetry is more difficult
To come by,
Why do I read poetry still?
See, that is the point:
It’s when I don’t understand a poem
That I want to read on.
For poetry proclaims
That there will always be those quirks in life
Which will never be understood fully
Unless we confront the author for which the work came to be.

I've stayed in hotels and other traveling accommodations before,
Whether for a day or two,
A week or two,
Even staying at relatives
Like Granny and Pappy,
Places I'd never want to leave.

But now I am somewhere that's my place,
My room, my community:
Fairmont State.
Can't wait to start over
And try school again
In a different town
With a brand new attitude.

Some tasks may still be
The same level of difficulty,
Like making friends,
Timing and sharing,
Getting to class and hitting the books,
But I think what'll keep me from dropping out this time
Is the hometown support of friends, family and other neighbors,
Like a major athlete going for the gold
To return to the people that nurtured such a yearning.
Some say life's not FAIR
When most pay a FARE,
But if I can FAREwell,
I can FAIRmont.

A masters in disasters?
A bachelor as a chancellor?
A Ph.D. in you and me?
When can it stop, this silly slop
Of pun exposed to everyone?

Think about it:
Could we possibly see Confucius and Jesus together
Holding hands amid the skies?
Or Buddha and Rabbi
Laughing not at, but with each other?
Isn’t that what paradise is:
Friends over *******?

https://artsofthought.com/2018/05/01/poets-mind-an-interview-with-jamadhi-verse/

Supporting fellow poets; check out Jamadhi Verse on here!!!! :D

I, as a kid,
Always imagined being a video game character
And hoped to gain abilities
That would shock the world.
Although that's considered a fantasia of some sort,
It's not too far off
From the fantasia of reality:
That we can imagine change.
And after imagining,
Accepting and beginning that change.

Jittery, jittery,
My skin knows
When I don't know
Where I am.

Acting like I've been through this
Lands me between
Amateur and professional.
Pick your choice.

Round one...
Rules, regulations, and blood
Pin me on a cushion.
(Squeeze)
One pump of blood through a tube,
And squeeze again.
I can't shake the feeling,
The feeling shakes me.
There goes
Some of me to restore
Hope and vivacity.

Two...
I know how everyone
Has their own definition
For them...
But really?
Twirling the hairs on my chin
Just to remind myself of masculinity?
Puh-lease. It's gotta go.
I don't care if my razor is a manual,
My "beard" never looked right anyway.
(Strokes along shaving-cream spots)
Owwwwww!
I had to apply cream twice
To shave the hairs in the under-corners
Of my jaw
And to clot the blood
For just two figurative seconds.
Paper towel after paper towel after...
The trash is red,
The tile floor has blood circles
Forming a macaroni path
From my dorm room to the sink.

One could play connect the dots
On the sorry face of mine.
I looked like a quiet ******
With each rub and dab I ran
Along the blood eruptions,
Not slowing for me to catch them.
Blood gravitated
Toward the skin inside my shirt collar.
If life really is a game,
I hate this round, match, etc.
Bound by ethics
To clean the ruins from the battle of hygiene,
I had to at least see
If a paper towel could suction
To the blood tears on my face
So I could use my hands.
Catching my look in the sink mirror,
I looked like a desperado
Wounded along a tight bandana,
Around a mouthless casualty.

I guess the Anglican insert of "******"
Makes some sense,
Since most things come about
Through blood and words.
Sometimes for me
It can feel good not to feel good
Just to remind myself I can still feel
The world around me.

For all that blood does and for the many times
It leaves the body,
It's too bad it can't escape
It's own cells.

Let poetry receive honor
In every expression!
O Poetry, be the spirit of casual conversation,
The purpose for music bedecking your emotion!
O Poetry, let me find you everywhere:
Trees, people, oceans, buildings, the center of the earth,
Books and in the invisible amid the visible!
O Poetry, touch every heart
According to life events and direction,
According to imagination and creativity!
O Poetry, teach me,
Let me learn from you
And want to learn from you,
For without you,
I would be a self-poet internalized,
Letting thoughts loiter my soul,
Wandering and wondering
For a way out.
As I was begotten from a womb,
You, Poetry, as a mother, have always hewn my greater self
Out of my troubled soul.
Cheers, Ad Multos Annos, Hooray,
Here’s to Poetry!

I’m not mad,
I’m not mean,
Unlike the dual-colored monster:
The Big Blue-Green.

The Blue Green’s not orange
And especially not yellow,
Because he’s as irate
As the red of the rainbow.

Don’t call that Blue-Green pink
And definitely not purple,
Or prepare to give into
A raging Blue-Green whirlpool.

All the other colors
Turn faint white
As they cower before
The Blue-Green’s might.

What can the Blue-Green do?
It’s only two colors.
Ah, that’s the Blue-Green’s trick
To entrap some fellers.

The Blue-Green doesn’t dye,
Nor lives as a vision to glance,
But it’s the fear inside you
Whipping its lance.

Often, I trick myself into thinking
It’s just a one-time feeling;
My, how I can fool myself
Into reconsidering my thoughts and feelings:
“What am I doing?”
“What am I thinking?” flow life’s inquiries.

I’m not a fool that I know I’m a fool
For speeding blood-flow in a beautiful woman’s presence.
Perhaps I can fake that I don’t notice
Or maybe say something for once.

Maybe about her hair
As it thickens, folds, threads, waves.
Or could it be a new style in my eyes?
Leave it to heart
To end up finding out.

Why do I stumble, my eyes?
And see what may divert my stir?
Don’t you see beauty in real-time, my eyes?
Such is pretend: imagery, photo-shopping.

See the royal richness before you, my eyes!
See the eyes across from you!
Open your heart, my eyes, to see that she, in her stare,
Has open her heart unto you!

She may blow a kiss; she may not
But her mouth is wonderful just the same.
Her lips say “Stay with me”
Without stretching to romantically whisper.

Could I hold your hand?
May I kiss your cheek?
I am simply honored to be
With you, a heart near to my own!

How I wish there was a way
To express love with more emotion;
For the idea, the thought drives me
To find a powerful way,
Such that I may let you know
You mean more beyond imagination!
More than they eye may fall prey to believe!

To continue my words to you,
May I play you a melody on the 88 keys?
To hear your voice hug the air
With an anthem that you love
An anthem that comforts and brings together?

As the rain might fall
I’ll hold you under my umbrella;
Your face shaded in half under its protection
Firing a pulsing launch of blood in me!

I am honored to be next to you
Breathing in a neighboring air;
Though a flower wilts when away from ground
I will not let such a blossom as you go parched!
You, a precious bloom, a luring beauty
Tell me what makes you grow and I
Will feed it to you, “amor mea.”

Why must I let the simple opticals
Distract me from the beauty I see?
She is attractive so; why must my mind
Break free and wander?
Such is my weakness; Love, you fortify my low energy.

Do not think, Love
That I come to you to remain alive!
No! There are many a vital aid
But I want you for more than your beauty
More than because you understand me.

I want you for you!
Listen, I do struggle mentally
To see your beauty all around
But you always see it in me!
Teach me! Be my guide!
Society restricts women, past and forward;
Remember, I am your equal
But as long as I am with you, you are
The better half!
I fault to fight the statement
But it’s truth, and I want to chase you
My reality, partner; my abstract; my truth
All in the same woman wonder!

O Lord,
With my hands clasped together,
Never let me forget my friendship with you.
O Lord,
With my head bowed low,
Never let me forget that You are the primal origin and I am the secondary creation.
O Lord,
With my eyes closed,
Allow me to look into myself so as to see beauty in me,
That I may see and feel equal beauty toward what surrounds my life.
O Lord,
If my prayer requires me to silence myself,
May I be attentive to the sounds I hear,
And accept the aural in the air so as to let nothing bother me from Your Love.
O Lord,
When I conclude formal prayer and time set apart for You,
Never let me forget that You are with me always in life
And that it’s worth more to abide in You than any other dwelling in this world.
Amen.

My originality, yes,
Can be overshadowed by who I
Resemble.

I assume positions and mannerisms
Like my dad,
I’ve been told.
The laughter, the cadences in dialogue
Similar on the paternal end, it seems.

Any mention of resembling Mom?
Not really,
Mostly the “like father, like son” interpretation.
I know I have Mom in me, though;
She even told me how I have her lips,
And my dad notices the excited energy Mom and I both have.
Time to break the norm:
I propose “like mother, like son”
For what I learn and have inherited from the maternal side.

I’m not just a mix of my parents, though,
I’m also a homogenization of those I encounter.

There were times where I would try
To emulate my brother’s life strength,
Letting words that try to haunt evaporate from memory.
Of course, when people advise me to “be yourself”
The truth becomes clearer as I experiment with ways
Of trying to escape the life-burdens only I can undertake
That mimicry only makes “me-me-cry.”

Sometimes I’d love my sister’s assertiveness,
How somehow the strength of her direct dialogue
Thunders when her mind is set on a course of action.

Too many instances
Where before friends my eyes become “copy machines”
Scanning what I see fit to scale, but unfit for me:
Folding my arms toughly,
******* my hands in my pants’ pockets,
Adjusting the cadences of my voice,
Adjusting the volume/tone of my voice,
Thinking I can think what others think.

How do I stay original, regardless of how I’m prone to change?
Well, at least I have one area of originality:
Who I’ve encountered
And where I’ve been
At uniquely arranged times fit for me.

...A city here
That now bears ruins.
...A renowned ship
That has fallen asunder.
...Creatures so ginormous
And dominant
Not even today's technology
Could de-populate such wonders.
...A slave plantation
Along this grass,
Romping the dirt,
Doing much of the work for historically
Acclaimed inventor names of the time.
Where blood spurt and rationality
Could not be found across persons
Because of the rods and cones
That see different hues
Instead of similar traits.
...A person who walked here
That made a beneficial change,
Forwarding freedom, living and brotherhood.
Now where I sit and write
Will soon be a place
Where there was once
A home.

Might as well be the law of demographics
In that people who are favored in some places
Are not going to be cared for in others as much.
The news is definitely a place...
After all: North East West South,
More than one place to correct a leading message.
It's easy to get haughty
And to just as easily plunge to distress,
But the body needs to feel both
To remember it's mortality.