"ventnor" poems
If pressed, I wouldn’t say that I’m unhappy
To leave one home for another,
But that I’m living in the future
And thusly have no control over my surroundings,
For they do not–might not ever–exist, and the I today and the I of June
Are distant relatives.
So, if further proposed the question
Of whether or not I grieve,
I’d reply that this town is like a loved one
Who I shall only visit on leap years,
And decisions are as deaths.
When I go, I’ll leave a piece behind forever.
If asked, I might not disclose
That the fresh wound of impatient joy harbors a quiet fear
Of disappearing into Ventnor City
From the hearts of those who are still in mine.
Yet, should one wonder
If I might reconsider,
I’d reply that decisions are as new lives.
When I arrive, I’ll weep with uncertainty.
I’ll meet the I of June on the shoreline.
I’ll feel the boardwalk under my feet and realize, with a start,
I’m home.
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 7:40 PM UTC
They say real strength is not just enduring it,
but picking up the pieces afterwards.
I guess it just takes awhile with a heart made of glass.
Transparent with clear intentions.
No lies. No deceit. No games
but the game was played anyway.
You traded Board Walk for Baltic,
Ventnor for Vermont,
and every piece of fake money you had
for another roll.
Forget getting out of jail for free,
when your stuck in misery.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
Wet pavement
Gray clouds
Speeding cars
Talking loud
Green light
Cars go
The crosswalk says no
Tennis ***** being smacked
Families begin to pack
Others walk upon the boards
Kids rebelling from their chores
Waves crash
Upon the sand
The gambler gets
His final hand
Gusts of wind
Consistently blow
Until the day
Of the first snow
It's far away
But I'm here now
Was home at once
Was home at now
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC