Childhood chills
sledding down hills
adrenaline adventure
barrel to the bottom
sensation celebration
reluctant realization
arduous climb back
ascending again
legs languid
exhausting escalator
planting a flag at the peak
finding breath in fresh air
inspecting the landscape
made for more
hills become mountains
formula for faster
avalanche astronaut
garnering Gs
the bottom bottoms out
cavernous canyon
can’t climb back
ground too uneasy
shifting environment
hazards harass
some keep sledding.

i've been
reading poetry
ee cummings and--
sylvia plath
pretty pools of words filled with color

--and ducks

charles bukowski is a
***** old man
lots of ***** old
words
and images
but real dirt, not pretend
real's so hard to find
these days

they talk about love like it's
broken--painful--deadly--
always wonderfully beautiful
(like the beautiful snake whose
poison's killing you)

that's not
love

because it's falling asleep with warm breath on the back of your neck and your bed a little too small
because it's laughing so hard that you almost snort macaroni and cheese out your nose
because it's doing laundry and pausing just to notice how your clothes smell like her
because it's waiting alone, imagining how big you'll smile when she comes back - it's always bigger than you think.
because it's knowing that the pain's not part of love, it's part of being human

they don't know
nearly as much as they
think--
they do

i love--
baseball in the park when it's not too hot
(I play shortstop)
chocolate ice cream cones in the hot sun
(dripping down my hand)
flying kites in autumn winds
(the falling leaves make the difference)
sledding through the snow
(and crashing into snowbanks)

i love--
coca-cola
(in the glass bottles)
root beer
(with vanilla ice cream)
7-up
(it's better than sprite)
mountain dew
(caffeine!)

i love--
you
(and the soapy smell after you shower)
you
(making me laugh more)
you
(how much you care about people)
you
(and you let me, too)

that's my proof they
don't know
(what
they're talking about
that is)
so--
i think poetry
is overrated

you went sledding
with the kids
while I filed the paperwork
and cried

I used to be your lady boy
shining in green pit-bar light
as you kissed me like
the kids were with my mother
stuck at the bottom of the
treehouse slide in a pile
in mud
laughing
when

in reality they were
just budding inside of you
fertilized with apple liquor
and the perfume smoking
from my chest as you
unbuttoned the first few
revealing the scar left by
my brother's first pocket knife

the skin of my young years
the skin I am wearing now
cut by these ******* papers as
you freeze
tearlessly
in a pom pom hat
teaching our babies how to make
the perfect snowball

I look over at my clock for the fifth time in the past hour. 2:07 a.m. I pull the sheets closer to my face, as if that alone will help me fall asleep. But, as I turn to check the clock for the sixth time, it is apparent that I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. I sigh as I get out of bed and pull on his sweatshirt. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but if I close my eyes long enough, I can sometimes remember. Sensory recall, I think; yes, that’s what it’s called. I’d just call it love, but I guess a technical term can work, too. I head over to my window; it’s already half-open, so all I have to do is remove the screen. After setting it aside, I climb through the space linking my room to the outside world. The shingles on the rooftop are gritty against my bare feet, but I don’t mind. I just like the comfort of the nighttime summer air, with its coolness and distinct scent. I gingerly tiptoe to my favorite spot on the roof; it’s not too far from my window, but it’s the highest spot. And the highest spot is the best, because it has the best view of the sky, and all the stars that encompass it. I sit down and look up. All I see above me is a dark indigo blanket, dotted with hundreds of little shining specks. I trace them with my finger, searching for the brightest one. As I do this, I begin to talk to him.
“Hey, Ash. It’s really nice out tonight. But you probably knew that already. I miss you like crazy. School’s been rough…I’m still trying to find someone as smart as you to help me with my calculus homework. English is good, though. We have to write a paper on someone we admire. Don’t tell mom, but…I think I’m gonna write about you. There’s so much I could talk about; how you chased the monsters out of my room after dad left. How you cooked me pancakes on Sundays when mom got called in to work- and how you gave each one a chocolate chip smiley face. And then there’s the time we went sledding and I tried to use my sled like a snowboard - like you did - and fell. Remember that? I couldn’t stand up on my own, so you carried me home. You were so strong- and not just physically. You were there for me when dad left. If you hadn’t been there during that first year after he moved out… I don’t know what I would’ve done. Or what mom would’ve done, for that matter. You kept us all together, Ash. You were like the glue in our broken family. And I never did get to thank you for that. I wish I could thank you in person. You know I would if I could. There are a lot of things I would say and do and….I just miss you. So much…” I stop talking to wipe a tear from my eye. I try to stifle the sobs that are threatening to escape my mouth. I have to be strong, like Asher was. I gaze up at the sky again and continue.
“I really hope you can hear me. I’d like to think you can. Mom said that you would always see us, and hear us, and feel us…but I don’t know. I just need a sign. I need to know that you’ve heard every word I’ve said on this roof for the past six months. I need to know that you’ll hear every story I’ll share for years to come. I need to know you’re still here with me somehow.” I search the sky for an answer. Nothing. Tears stream down my face, burning like a liquid flame. He couldn’t hear me. He never has and he never will. He’ll never know how much I miss and need him.
The stars are blurry now, the tears in my eyes clouding my vision. But even with this distorted perspective, I see it. The flash- incredibly fast and incredibly bright, like a mini supernova. It was right there one second, and gone the next; just like Asher. It was a shooting star - something I hadn’t seen since he and I sat on the roof last summer. A grin spread across my face, tears still falling onto the black shingles.
“I love you, too. Goodnight, Ash.”

I won't remember you...
the husky sound of your voice
tall, lanky stature
Lithuanian shape of your
Baltic blue eyes sledding
across my heart

even this embrace
standing on Melbourne beach
the wind swoons
two silhouettes melting into
each other

All the lines on my hands
are erased
the ocean pours tears into
a half moon shell
my body, a blind mermaid
washed ashore
upon the smooth, faceless sand

I love....

butterflies. movies. music. my family. my friends. my wii. chocolate. ice cream. chicken. lemonade on a hot summer day. watching tv. talking. God.  my computer. my classroom. my job. my sister. my mom. my dad. my grandma. my grandpa. love. working out. playing the flute. driving in my car listening to music. walking. biking. sledding. the first snow. chap stick. sleeping. dogs. my house. my roommates.

you.

Numbers are placed in blocks
Jump rope
And hopscotch

One
Two
Skip a few
Ice skating and sledding
In the winter

Back to spring
We're so full of life
And happy inside

Seasons come
Memories fade
But there's something gloomy
And something gray

This year I don't feel like
I want to play

Cusp

Once I wrote these words:

Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff of about your life
that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.
(http://hellopoetry.com/poem/now-you-are-ready-to-write/)

so here I am, hands on my chest,
so unready, incapable of writing,

the battle site changed,
sledding to the top of my head,
moved northwards, mush, mush.

just don't have what's required
to melt that mush open,
just don't have the anymore
to finish this Iditarod race
called my Idiot life.

nobody knows the silences
kept in my treasure box.
nobody knows the nail-beds
slept, bloodied, by this
mthrfking depression,
unexpectedly returned to sender,
unable now,
to write, free and clear.

suffused, this words reappears,
you don't get it, the twilight twinkies
below laughing, twinkling,
middle ******* me,
so not suffused,
nah nah nah nah
you don't got it,
you got nothing.

the words supply, torn and  tired
reappears, now escapee prisoners
before flatlining, crashing
as I am currently 20,000 feet over
somewhere above the Eastern Seaboard;

we may land smooth,
but not in any groove
that fits me anymore.

Here's the sorest, sorriest laugh,
what you are about to read
was eons ago born, and today
birthed.

Happy M.F'ing  Birthday #0
don't even, can't complain fresh,
reusing unused words that never got
devoured, so now, used up too,
like me.

cut by thicket's branches
(that in their defense, maim only to self-protect)
calluses of experience
not enough to survive
what is now needed,
new chapters required.

choruses of repetitive choirs fresh,
inspire but land on surfaces
heart-hardened by fear contagion.

who will know and
who will care and who
will make them all go away,
but me...

so touch my self,  
reminder to self is emailed,
beat the odds so man-many times,
one more time, what's the big deal?

fresh differences,
maybe,

words that are new
not in my vocabulary,
maybe.

Struggle, long lived,
is the status quo,
** **, don't you know,
nobody tole ya?

world's axis is tilted
you can fall off
a familiar horse,
get off course,
so east easy
a gravitational force so subtle,
clueless you're drowning
till the riptide
has liberated your
pockets possessions,
pathetic borrowings
of unoriginal thoughts
you thought you actually owned!
now you realize
new inspirational how to books
keep getting writ,
published for experienced suckers
like you.

so here at the pointed cusp
a crescent shaped tangent,
lines crossed, intersection of a curveball
turning inwards, retracing prior paths,
familiar but tho the forecasts predict
being on the cusp of something,
crystal ball reveals nothing at all.

I fold the little have learned
into a handkerchief
folded three times over,
tied cusp to cusp
with a trefoil knot,
which while
mathematically correct,  
is too easy as my hanky is almost empty
and hobo heart journey scary is thinking
done.

I don’t have* any pressure to go sledding
Because I’m still afraid of falling on the ice
And you loved the snow

I don’t have to risk my life on icy back roads every day
On the pretense of returning your things
Just so I don’t have to wait 24 hours to see you

I don’t have an extra pair of your shoes under my bed
From when you accidentally left them there
You were always leaving your things around

I don’t have a second home to spend the day at
With open fields full of snow banks for fort-building
The house is gone and so are you

I don’t have a reason to build a snow-fort this year
No one cares to sleep in it, it’s too cold
You were that kind of crazy

I don’t have someone to bake cardamom cookies with
We both had sticky dough on our hands
And we washed them in the same sink at the same time

I don’t have a friend at the Christmas parties
Who can back up my wild stories about the week
And argue with me about the rules for card games

I don’t have a cuddle-buddy for watching movies
We never really got the chance to do that
We were always running off to get some alone time

I don’t have to hide when I’m changing out of my wet snowy clothes
Because you’re never going to walk in from the cold
And start changing your clothes too

I don’t have a fire in my hearth
But I’m sure there’s one in yours
I used to enjoy watching you make them with your dad

I don’t have any wet, *****, sandy puddles to clean up
Because you’ll never walk across my kitchen
And forget to take off your boots

I don’t have to walk around barefoot
Even if it means getting my socks wet
Because you’re not there to remind me with your calloused toes

I don’t have twice as many presents under the tree
Not because we ever exchanged gifts, we were too poor
But every present you received and loved made me happy too

I don’t have snow down my neck from the snowballs you threw
I don’t have wet globs of melting ice in my hair because you tackled me
I don’t have anyone to make tea for, because I don’t even like tea
I don’t have your countless little siblings to share my snacks with
I don’t have to make cooking mistakes because I can’t bring you baked oatmeal
I don’t have a built in heater to share the backseat with
I don’t have a hoodie I can pass back and forth between us
I don’t have a companion to go on long walks with
I don’t have a curious mind to share kissing ideas with
I don’t have a hand to hold when I’m about to fall down on the ice

I don’t have you

This is the time of year that makes me miss you
I start to notice the empty spaces in my life
And there are little things everywhere to remind me of you.

I met you in the sixth grade. I do not remember the first words we spoke, or if you asked my name or vice versa. I do, however, recall us being paired together for every science project. I don't have to close my eyes to remember the pre-summer heat beating down on my skin (which was pale in comparison to your natural tan) as we laid rulers along the pavement outside the school to measure how far our "car" could go. I remember smiling. I remember laughing. I couldn't tell you if it was a joke you made or something the teacher said, but I remember being happy.

Seventh grade came and went. We did not speak. I missed you a little, but not too much. I was only 13 and had never loved you.

I walked into my second bell on the first day of eighth grade and saw you sitting in the second seat in the second row (**** me for remembering little things like that). You smiled and said hi and I smiled and said hi and that was it. We never talked much in that class, in all honesty; your best friend sat behind you, as did mine behind me, and we really only asked each other for help on homework questions. But I didn't mind. I didn't have anything to miss. I had never really loved you.

Fast forward to February (still a timid little eighth grader). My best friend that sat behind me so many months ago had a boyfriend and I was lonely. I do not know what prompted me to do this, or where the courage came from, but one day, I decided I wanted to talk to you again. I texted five different people to get your number (desperation? Never), and before I knew it I had sent a message saying that I "hoped you remembered me and that I hadn't talked to you in a while and how had you been?" An immediate response sent shockwaves through my body :" hey :) I've been good." And for the first time since the fall of that year, I began to feel happy again.

It was now April and we were at the local amusement park with friends. My best friend, feeling clever, decided to start a "hand holding chain" in an attempt to get me to hold yours. It worked. I had never held a boy's hand before. Yours was bigger than mine, and warm, and I had to physically stop myself from smiling. But I was also terrified, because in that moment, I realized how much I liked you, and how much I never wanted you to let go of my hand.

May 15, 2010: I remember the conversation perfectly.
You: so who do you like?
Me: I'll tell if you tell
You: I asked you first
Me: I asked you second
You: doesn't count.
(here comes a supernova of bravery)
Me: alright. I hope this doesn't make things awkward, but...I guess I kinda like you (:
(an intense wave of fear and relief crash over me)
You:  :)
And that was the day I began to feel loved.

May 19, 2010: We are at the park by our school (with friends, of course). My friends are telling me to kiss you. I can't do that. I'm much too terrified. You look at me from across the playground and smile. I think I love you but I'm not sure because I'm only fourteen. My best-friend-who-has-a-boyfriend  walks me to the top of the hill we had gone sledding on over the winter - and pushes me down it. Not hard enough to fall, but enough to send me half-jogging-nearly-tripping all the way down to the bottom. And you, being the superhero that you were, chased after me. I began to make my ascent back up the hill, but you grabbed my hand. You said that we should take a walk through the woods instead. My palms become incredibly sweaty and my heart stops but I say okay and we begin to walk. You know all of the paths because you run cross country and you go through these woods all the time every fall. I know none of these paths and I am very scared. You tell me you have a surprise for me and you lead me to a path that ends at a shelter. I walk underneath it and see initials etched into the wood. I'm reading the ones above me when, suddenly, your arms are around my waist. I jump. "What's wrong?" you ask. I don't know. I don't know why that scared me. I say "nothing," but I'm shaking - visibly. You look worried and step away. I want to cry. I turn around to apologize and perhaps try to explain, but your face is so close to mine and I'm thinking you might kiss me and even though I really want to kiss you, I walk away. You follow. We say nothing. Then it starts to rain. We're by a creek now. There's a wooden board right next to our feet (I **** you not). You pick it up and lay it so I can use it as a bridge as we cross over to the other side. You're still holding my hand. I'm still shaking. We're in a clearing now. I think we're close to that hill. I begin to walk but, once again, you grab my hand. I do not turn around this time. I am frozen in fear. I can feel your breath on my neck as you whisper in my ear, "I don't know how to do this very well, but..." and your hand cups the side of my face and I begin to turn around and suddenly I'm panicking and shaking and I run - literally run - away from you. And I have never hated myself more. I should have been happy, but I wasn't.

A few weeks later, we are standing on a bridge. You're behind me. You put your arms around me. I am wearing your beaded necklace from Hawaii ("it's not a necklace," you'd say, "because necklaces are for girls). I do not flinch. I am happy. Something about you put me at ease after I became more aware of your presence and your scent and the way your hand fit in mine. And I was happy.

Four years later, I don't have to close my eyes to remember the text I sent you after I fell in love with you. I told you that I had heard a rumor that you liked someone else and I didn't want to date you anymore (I had never believed the rumor). I was afraid of finally being close to someone, and probably other things, and I sent you away. I'm typing this incredibly long recollection and I'm realizing there are so many more little stories I could tell about us, and how even though I was only fourteen I do believe I loved you, because you were the first person I was able to give my love to. I hope your girlfriend now appreciates you, because I know I do even though you're gone. I never got to kiss you, but I still loved you more than I love hot cocoa after catching snowflakes on my tongue, and that should say more than all of these words ever will.

A square, white, four bedroom, one bath country home
With fourteen kids, parents and much family love
We didn’t have abundance:  fiscally poor
But we had each other:  banked on our family
We shared our victories and or trying pain
We were a modest Scottish Catholic Clan

Isolated, we were not to our immediate clan
Our uncle’s lived within a trot, fifteen in his home
We kids worked and played on the farm without pain
It was an adventurous labor of extended family love
We worked, laughed, cried, and played as a family
In the early years, we young ones were anything but poor

However, in grammar school, we learned the meaning of poor
And materialism and envy, outside our cloistered clan
But together we lived and loved as a close nit family
Sure we had disagreements, not material goods, but a solid home
White paint peeled on the outside, yet inside was painted love
Still, there were poverty jokes, ridicule and masked pain

Every family has strife, baggage, and superfluous pain
Our parents didn’t drink; we had faith, yet fiscally poor
Ole Dad plumbed toilets; Mom slaved in the house, both with love
So we wouldn’t trade riches for our impoverished meager clan
Summer berries to pick, winter sledding, spring kites, and forever home
Kickball games, splashing  in ponds, nature hikes and family

We were not taught to show emotions, hug, not an “I love you family,”
Albeit, an honest, polite, and proud Scottish Clan
The old house was eternally warm; it was our forever home
Until 1999. Dad passed from cancer still money poor
Yet rich in the knowledge of family and that his true pain
Was never saying that word; on his deathbed he whispered “Love”

Though our patriarch was laid to rest, we rose with the word “Love”
Eventually, the house was sold, but always one huge family
Mom spends her days in a retirement home remembering her clan
As time passes and memories fades, it lessens the pain
Of the loss of a noble father, economically poor
Yet with a strong work ethic, church, and love, built a home

Fourteen children now forged fourteen homes on love
Many, still, financially poor, but rich in forever family
Correcting mistakes that caused pain, while perpetuating our clan

It happens all of the sudden.  One day it’s just one time and then it’s need.  That’s when you run into trouble.  After that, it’s a whole other ballgame.  It isn’t addiction until you need.  

I remember the first time.  You always remember your first time.  It’s like opening the biggest present at Christmas, it’s like sledding on that extra icy hill you knew was just a little too slippery, it’s like skydiving shooting stars high flying crazy.  

Instant exhilaration.  

It’s like that millisecond licking your lips before you go in for the kiss, that steamy shower on your cool skin.  

Absolute seduction.  

You just smile, lean back and say

****.

My first time I said no.
No way.
No how.
I don’t do that.

It was a door in the back of my mind I had branded with a Do Not Enter sign.  I argued morals, I argued boundaries.  A secret promise to myself I kept safe behind lines I swore I wouldn’t cross.  But what really stopped me dead in my tracks, what kept me away from the forbidden fruit was fear.  

Maybe even some paranoia, or a little indignation at the idea of putting things up my delicate little pixie nose, scratching the thin tissue of my sinuses.  

But suddenly your friends are doing it, and they look just fine.  That security blanket of fear dissolves, a scary story to tuck away under your pillow like the boogieman.  They call it peer pressure, I think of it more like peer assurance.  Or maybe an experiment.  And that’s all we’re doing right?  The first time I said no.  The second time suddenly those lines were disappearing up my nose.

And then just, ah hah! This is what it’s like, this is the hype.  Like the first time you sit in the front seat of a car.  And think to yourself, well

That was pretty fun.

But nothing serious, just a fling.  One **** one night stand, no biggie.

But it’s nothing like that.  It’s like someone running up to you and whispering in your ear the biggest, darkest secret of life.  And that’s the funny thing, because that’s just it.

It starts with want.

And you have fun.  You get lost in your own lust and you take all you can get.   And you crave those little white pills because you just feel sosososo good.

And then one day you’re tired before school and you don’t know how to pep yourself up.  And you get this idea.  This crazy idea.  And you rail a little white pill.  And as you walk out the door, you feel like a million dollars.  You feel like you slept for 10 hours, like you just got every question on a test right including the extra credit.  And you breeze right through your day, high flying on autopilot.

That’s the ***** secret with the whole thing.  It makes everything so **** easy.  

Tired? Have a line.
Hungry? Have a line.
Sad? Have a line.
Bored? Have a line.

It becomes a ritual, it becomes a secret club no one else can know about.  It’s that lover you sneak off to in the middle of those lonely nights, when your thoughts endlessly thrash against your skull, doubts echoing into the dark room surrounding you.  

But it’s not your life.  More like a habit, like a friend from the wrong side of the tracks.  

What happens from then on is hard to say.  For me, it was when my world shut down around me, when I felt like I was absolutely alone.  When I felt like I was free falling and I had nowhere to land.  Like I had just been beaten in an alleyway left for dead.  I needed someone to hold me.  And all I saw was the Ritalin.  

For me, it was falling in love.  It was giving my soul to you and having you rip it apart.  It was the way you looked into my eyes and stroked my hair.  It was the echo of you closing the door.  You left me behind.  You made me love you and then you just kept walking past.  It was getting my heart broken for the last time, it was a moment of weakness.  As my world crumbled, I took a whiff on courage.  

And suddenly it’s need.  

It tricks you, it makes you forget that once upon a time you were fine alone.  It manipulates you and makes you think you can’t live without it.  Suddenly, there is no life without drugs.  

You’re avoiding people, you’re skipping lunch to powder your nose, your eyes are bugged open and you’re chomping gum 24/7.  People insist you look fabulous from the lost weight and you feel ******* fabulous from your lost hate, buried under the influence.  You are up for 3 days and asleep for 20 hours.  And the crash.  Your head pounds and your hands shake.  You yell at all your friends and you’re late to work 4 days in a row.  And you just needneedneed to go up again because you just can’t take it anymore.

You scamper up as high as you can reach and you’re afraid to come down.  But your body can only last so long.

The big OD is not something taken lightly, a grey no-man's land where brittle lifelines tend to snap.  I was lucky.  I didn’t break, didn't get the 911 nightmare, just took too much too fast, and I felt SO good.  But then, I didn’t feel so good.  Suddenly, I felt pretty **** awful.  I didn’t go into cardiac arrest or anything, but it scared me shitless.  Scared me right off the ****, minus a binge or two.

At least, it did.  For a little while.

Now that voice I know too well is whispering again, and I don’t always feel like saying no.  

I remember when I used to flaunt my new hobby to my friends.  I felt like some sort of glamorous superstar that knew exactly how to have a good time.  Like it was some sort of VIP club that they just had to get into.  And then I didn’t wanna talk about it, they just don’t get it.  They don’t get it.  I need it.  But only sometimes.

Yeah yeah, stupid.  I get it.  You think I’m asking for it.  I lost control and I’m gonna lose it again.  But I made myself stop before, of course I can do it again.  I am cool, calm, collected and totally in control.

Right?

 I felt so cold when you left me here.  I never want to feel again.

While working on the formula for his next destination.
Dr Who made an error with straight forward multiplication
His assistant broke his train of thought with some ill timed ‘do-gooding’
Though she knew he couldn’t concentrate while eating Christmas pudding

When the tardis landed with a routine solid “thump”
He opened the door in a tee shirt, and took a backwards jump
“This doesn’t look like China.” he mused, looking out the door
And went to get some warmer clothes so he could go and explore

He finally re-emerged wrapped in layers of bedding
“Where is the basic farming? Why are those people sledding?”
“I wanted to study parrots and all I see is penguins.
I aimed for Riceland, not Iceland” He turned and went back in.

So pretty to see everything in white

Making all things look very bright

Everything was covered for as far as I could see

Nothing but eerie silence for a while I felt free

Everyone venturing out should wear their snowshoes

Their cars stranded on the road look like icy igloos

The weighted down evergreens have a glow

For they are beautifully blanketed with snow

Schools, roads and businesses are shut down

And no one is allowed out about in the town

Should get out and have some winter wonderland fun

Build a snow man and go sledding some

Make a snow fort or  snow angels and snow-cream

Better hurry up before it's plowed, for now, it’s not a dream

Copyright 2013

All Rights Reserved

True tangled Gordian thoughts entwine
Amid labyrinthine paths that wind
Sliding sledding serpentine
To assay value and extent
Braid a mind a shoreward end
Seeking weeping thrashing send
Infused with knowledge deep and sound
A consciousness cogitabund
Within the portals self confined
Disconnected judgements breed
Diffuse journeys often made
To darkened places
Where no light
Of vision lucid sparkling bright
Will penetrate and seem so safe
Writhing heavy leaden womb
Elusive dissolute abound
Reclusive and so moribund
But in the darkened space there seems
A distant tendril sparkling white
A reaching focal point to strive
To make that leap
Great grasping bound
Wrapping arms so safe around
Clasping forgone lines abandoned
Sublimating impasse upward
Strength of purpose
Welling forward
Great eruption spewing outwards
Lava flowed eureka moment
Spreading outwards
Flowing downwards
Cogent sentient live born
Brewed in darkness
Drinks the bright
With clarity and strength unite
Dazzling brilliant shining moment
Cleft asunder glorious light  ....!

I awoke this morning
To a fresh fallen snow
As the world basked in it's beauty
Showered in it's glow
There is nothing more calming
That I have ever known
Than waking up in the morning
To a fresh fallen snow

The children stayed home today
We made angels in the snow
Then all went back inside
For hot chocolate by the stove
No greater time together
In heaven or down below
As the children stayed home today
Making angels in the snow

We went out sledding
All the kids and me
Marveled at the majesty
Icicles hanging from the trees
Nothing could compare
That I have ever seen
As we went out sledding
All the kids and me

4 months later...

It snowed again today
Just like the umpteen days before
In fact it's snowed for four months straight
But hey who's keeping score
It's cold and it's wet
I can't take it anymore
As it snows again today
Just like the umpteen days before

With all of this snow
Not sure if I should flip or fly
Since early September
I've been stuck inside
Go ahead and make your funny comments
If you don't value your life
With all of this snow
Not sure if I should flip or fly

As it keeps on snowing
The kids keep staying home
What I wouldn't give
For one minute of sanity alone
I'm not sure who tops the list
Me or them when it comes to groans
As it keeps on snowing
And the kids keep staying home

It's been one long blizzard
I feel the need to escape
I can think of plenty stronger words
Let's just say snow I hate
I should have moved to Florida
But I'm snowed in and it's to late
With this one long blizzard
And no chance to escape...

is drinking not one but three mugs of ghiradelli hot cocoa
is putting  the heat on 73 degrees
is thinking on tuesday about friday
is hitting the snooze button yet again
is getting a full eight hours of sleep
is turning red while sledding
is staying up on hello poetry
is not thinking about the "should haves"

When dough is in short supply,
puddings get nervous, I wonder why?
They tell their parrots to take to the air,
to see if there's more hidden anywhere.
One flew out to the north Atlantic
his efforts brave and quite fantastic.
The dough of Icelands polar bears
was safely stored and waiting there.
One parrot flew to the Snow Queens wedding
for dough, and to try his wing at sledding.
He was so tired when he took his dough to the station,
he was forced to use his powers of multi - placation
for the guards were nasty and horrid and grumpy
and almost  turned the dough all lumpy.

Way above our little town
Sitting high upon the hill
The place we all  called Christmas House
And I think it sits there still

We used to go there sledding
No one once chased us away
That place we all called Christmas House
I wonder if they still sled there today

To us it seemed enormous
All lit up with lights so bright
That place we all called Christmas house
I wonder if it's still lit up tonight

There was a tree in the front window
You could see it from the road
The place we all called Christmas House
It was a palace when it snowed

There were wreaths in all the windows
The arbor covered with red bows
The place we all called Christmas House
I wonder if anybody knows

It's been years since I have seen it
It gave all our hearts a lift
The place we all called Christmas House
To visit there, it was a gift

We went there every winter
We would sled, have snowball fights
The place we all called Christmas House
Was always lit so bright

One thing I remember though
In all my time upon the hill
The place we all called Christmas House
Was always quiet, empty, still

I know it's been near forty years
Since I left home, moved away
The place we all called Christmas House
Still sticks with me today

It's a memory of a better time
When  the winters were much colder
The place we all called Christmas House
Makes me forget that I got older

I've dug out my old sled this year
To take  home, back to the start
To the place we all called Christmas House
Is on a hill, and in my heart

White
Coming down in soft flakes,
Melting on my toung
Beautiful for such a short time.
Floating down blissfully
Waiting to land,

Landing,
Softly being crushed under my boots.
As I walk up the hill to go sledding.
As I zip down the hill,
Snow getting in my eyes,
My cheeks red and burning,
Being cut by a million tiny knifes.
Going over a jump and,
"catching air"
The wind is knocked out of me as I land
Reaching the bottom,
Disipointment at how short the ride is.

Going inside to sit on the couch eating popcorn and drinking cocoa.
Watching to snow flutter down out side.
Thinking about what it is like,
To be a snowflake.
To be created high uo in the clouds,
A beautiful piece of ice crystle.
To small to be marveled at
Only to float blissfully to the ground,
To be crumpled up by a boot.
On its way up a hill to sled.

To be flattend by a sled,
As it zooms down the hill,
Hitting a bump and flying into the air,
To flatten may more of us.

What would it be like to be a snow flake?

There's a lot of news
these days
about the one percent
who have all the money
and the ninety nine percent
of us
who don't have much
of anything
so I got thinking
about how sad and unfortunate
it must be
to be the one percent
with stalkers and identity thieves
and the media attacks
and the hatred towards them
and how they have to protect themselves
in their fortresses
clinging to their fortunes
dreaming like Citizen Kane
of the happy times
in their chilhood, sledding,
when they were poor
while us ninety nine percent
who are the lucky ones
like me with my income of poverty
are greedy for a piece of them
so I even want a million dollars
even though I have enough
of everything
so I don't know if any of this
is true,
but think of a rich person
sitting on his toilet...
where is his money then?

You are a ******
For happiness

You don't believe me
Do you?

You think, nah,
I'm clean.
Sober, even.

Well, you're wrong.

When you were young,
You got a taste of it.
                                                          Happiness.
And it was pure.
It was innocent.
And it was the best
You've ever ******* felt
In your whole entire life.

It came in many forms.

Sledding with your older brother,
In the mountains of magic
Glittering snow
That you would only grow
To hate
Over the years
The back breaking, black ice
*******
You had to salt and shovel
Weeks on end
Enough to wage a war
With nature

But then, back then,
You were happy with snow.
Maybe even
In love with it.

You got a taste.


Your favorite ice cream bar
Every lick.
Insatiable. Delicious.
The perfect ending
To a gorgeous summer afternoon.
Of course,
As the months peeled away
You'd learn that
Ice cream makes you fat
And sugar is a disease
Before you know any better
You're counting calories
And carbs
And pounds
And inches
And everything becomes
A ******* number
Suddenly you focus so much
On your body
That you lose your soul

But then, back then,
It simply didn't matter.
You were only a kid.
With a sweet tooth.

You got a taste.


Your mother's arms
Warm, welcoming
You could tell her any secret
And she would fight off
Every demon
Chase the closet monsters away
And craft a dream catcher
For all those nightmares
Then the days crack apart
Your calendar flips over the decades
And the woman with the title
Mother
Is nothing more than a stranger
You can't even remember her age
Anymore
Torn apart by trivial fights
Over mall money
And curfews
Mother?
What mother?
You have no mother,
Only a **** with shared DNA.

But then, back then,
It was blissful
Her kisses were the only medicine
You needed

You got a taste.


And now,
You spend your whole life
Searching for the
Glitter in the snow
And the heaven
In the ice cream
And the warmth
In your mother's arms

But
Everything is dull now
But
It's all bad for you
But
Her arms are six feet under

Happiness.
You are a ******
You are addicted

And you will never get your fix

Because all you ever got
Was a taste

Just enough to keep you searching
                                                                   But never satisfied.

                                                     ­                                                       *  You got a taste.

My father was a philosopher, or liked to pretend as much.
He couldn’t look at the world for what it was, but rather what it represented.
“This tree isn’t just a tree,” he’d say,
“It’s a symbol of the wisdom of man,
growing until it’s cut away, stripped, and used for God knows what purposes.”
To me, it was just a wooden friend made for climbing.

There was a frozen lake near us he often gazed over while driving to the 7-11 for cigs.
He said it was a perfect image of impermanence:
a beautiful crystal sea with solid skin, soon to melt, and become a bathtub to wash the local compost clean.

My brother and I go sledding on our snow days.
If you don’t, well, it might as well be a weekend,
or a grading day,
or Flag Day.

We’d slide across that glassy plain on our bellies,
our hearts beating through the ice;
music for the fishes below.
It was in those days that I thought of my life as perfect,
and I realized all the possibilities that the fire of my youth could fuel.
Well, one day our hearts beat too fast,
or too strong,
or the fish wished to meet the musicians, or something happened for reasons which I still can’t come to terms with.
The glass… it shattered.
And my brother fell through the other side,
to dance with the herrings and sturgeons till he was all out of breath.
And he tired quickly of the dance.
And I wasn’t a strong enough partner to lead him off the dancefloor.

My father, when he heard the news of his son’s new hobby,
it was as though every book he ever read,
and every four-syllable word he ever knew,
and every overdrawn metaphor he ever spoke were all just a weird series of lies.
He swam into his bedroom, and through a blizzard of thrown pictures, sobs, and “*****” he calmed himself to stupor.


He went in the room my father, the intellectual, and came out as Roy, the sorrow-drunken spatter of roadside slush.
Whenever we pass the lake, he no longer comments on what it represents, but rather what it is:
“a ******-up graveyard for innocent little angels.”  
The world is no longer a set of symbols, but a tangible environment,  
though one he looks at through a lens of tears and amber bloodshots.  
My father is no longer a philosopher, but a poet, spitting out sonnets of regret and rage.  

And as for me, I haven’t really much to talk about.
I guess I’m sitting stagnant, frozen.  
I don’t want to be like my father, but I’m realizing it’s inevitable.
I haven’t felt anything genuine since his heart beat its last song.
Hell, I don’t even sled on snow days anymore.  
They might as well be a weekend,
or a grading day,
or Flag Day.