Chasing Crickets - a poem

If it is possible to capture the moment
like a cricket one goes chasing after
on bent knees as a child, I would.
Quietly, I would cup my palms
in polar regions,
enclosing towards the silent insect
as it twitches its antennas,
waiting to jump again.
But just like those pesky creatures
whenever I am close to catching it,
in a quick bound, it hops away.
My little feet scuffle onward,
attempting a capture, but it escapes.
I reattempt, it dodges.
Finally, I lunge forward, trying to land
the fleshly, dark cage of my hands
over the tiny Houdini
and all of sudden, it's gone.
After a moment of frustration,
I rise, dust myself off,
and as soon as I open my eyes,
I see another one just ahead,
twitching, waiting to play my game.
For years, I have continued this,
Practicing my predatory patience.
Some days, I catch several,
but as they tickle my fingers,
There is no question what I must do.
I cannot hang onto them forever,
they are too tiny, they call
for too much attention.
One day, after years of chasing,
just as suddenly they disappear,
I will stop. Crossing my legs, I will sit
and watch as they hop around me,
dodging all the other children
chasing them. That night,
as I lay staring at my bedroom ceiling,
waning like the moon casting shadows
right outside my window,
I will listen to the tiny creatures
orchestrating a symphony. Obviously,
I already know they sing, but before that time,
Surely, I will have never heard them so clearly.

Don't Know What To Write...

Just know I have to.
All this emotion has been welling up inside
ready to spill from me in free verse
and keep flowing until I choose to stop it.
I am so tired of all this confusion and
false beginnings, these rehashings of the shit
I hoped we put an end to.
So tired of my heart breaking
as it lays on the alter for your taking,
not your teasing or your faking.
You are a liar and blind,
naive and young,
not ready for me and all I have to offer.
The line above is the bottom.

But I have not chosen to stop yet,
my chest is aching,
and no matter what I tell myself,
it is so difficult forsaking
all I have known for the past year and half.
What is felt and understood over time like that
does not just go away, hide.
The ride does not end as abruptly
as I may want it to, it coasts on steadily
for the momentum was more than enough
to carry it for years.
The tears I have shed for you
are more than I have given any.
I offered you everything I had
but you rejected it, me.
Your jealousy is pointless,
you get one last chance,
one more opportunity.
If you do it again, never say
I did not warn you.

I am ranting, raving,
forgive me, but realize also,
I am not kidding. This is not some joke.
Beaut, my love, girl,
make up your mind.
That is all this is about.
Say, "Yes" or
let me go,
release me.

Adding to the Deal - a poem

In a deep, raspy voice,
a jazz musician spoke,
told the listening world,
"There's a good deal
to smile about,"
then softly chuckled
and played. In invisible,
transmitting waves,
through the silent night,
his trumpet transcended time,
unified families, incited
romance and reflection,
completed the border
to Life's puzzle of meaning.
Even if only for a moment,
note by note,
riff by riff,
measure by measure,
to the tune of smooth,
perfected music,
he gave this small world
exactly what he said.

Thought I Should...

...Put some of my poetry influences up on the web. No use only posting mine all of the time. There's so much good stuff out there and am so selfish, trying to only create my own and imitate theirs. This poem is not by any means my favorite ever, but it is the only one I could find for the time being by Billy Collins, a contemporary poet I do enjoy. If you like it even a little bit, I suggest you pick up "Sailing Alone Around the Room," an edited selection of his recent work. He tends to flow and not bind himself to a format, but his concepts and imagery are usually quite good. Enjoy.

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one
--a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table--
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

We, History - a poem

History does not keep tabs
On normal men, does not
Record their triumphs
Or errors. History favors only
The mighty, the great, the infamous,
Those who form nations,
Betray empires, make fortunes,
Begin wars, prompt peace, kill.
But what of the mechanics
Who help get us to work on time,
The cooks who have perfected
The ideal balance between cheese
And scrambled eggs?
What of the bar tenders
Who order us drinks on the house
When our luck is down, night is blue,
Tomorrow seems gray?
What of the driver who lets us in
When we are merging,
Of our firemen, police, military?
What of our quiet brothers,
Joyful sisters, the unknown poets,
Of the old barbers who perfect
Our haircuts and styles, know us by name,
Been there five days a week
For over twenty years?
What of our pastors, accountants,
Sweaty yard workers, our faithful mothers,
Our tired, persevering fathers?
What of us?
We are the history
Of this great moment,
Of this year, the decade,
And the century to come. The volumes
And tomes may not record our struggles,
Our flaws, kindnesses, a day in our shoes.
Authors may not write concerning
The effort we put forth everyday
To hold our families together,
Excel in the workplace, may not
Detail what it is that elongates
The wrinkles lining our brows,
Under our eyes, across our faces.
But every hour, minute, second,
We possess the power to make
And break lives,
To train our sons, protect our daughters,
Work hard, love our wives.
No matter what historians may say,
The text books may describe,
Art conveys through color and subject,
We are the mighty,
The great,
The infamous.

July Nights - a poem

Of those pleasant, July nights
at the coffee shop,
before it grew cold,
the biggest decision at hand
was whether or not
to order my beverage
hot or iced.
Of course, there was the choice
between what movies to see
that coming Friday.
And, on occassion, there came
the immense questions:
should I ask her in person,
write a note, or call her
with that inevitable tremble
and hesitation in my voice.
Life seemed so big,
so dramatic, so complicated.
Over the weekends, live music
filled the rare silence normally
known only during midterms
and finals. If it were not
for failed musicians
still trying,
or those peers of mine,
I was absolutely certain,
the world would have been
a quiet, boring place.

One night, many years later,
I returned for nostalgia's sake,
and a cup of joe.
It seemed noisier than ever.
The music was drowned out
by all the stilted laughter,
all those familiar kids
I didn't know.
I just wanted to listen
to the music,
hear the chords,
give the guy sitting up there
with his lonely guitar
strumming with all he had
a chance.
He wasn't that bad,
but as I looked around,
listened, I was
the only one clapping.
It was October
and not that much cooler,
just cold enough to know
summer was over,
late enough to realize
I had a long day tomorrow,
far too busy to stay
and meet new people, evaluating
the chances I had
with some cute girl
just a table away
in a world of only first names,
and constant flirting.

Quality Over Quantity

My roommate and I were talking last night about discipleship, about quality over quantity. He really encouraged me in the fact that he said I develop more quality and focus in on individuals. It's good to know someone else noticed that, because it has been a hard step for me. It's necessary in my opinion to be the most effective discipler. If you look at Paul, when he addresses his disciples Timothy, Titus, Onesimus, he says "my (true) child in the faith." A child requires attention, growth, financial help, and so many other things. I hate the word "mentor." It's a worldly word. We can be a role model to people, most definitely, but, if we want to go after the Bible's definition, it's about discipleship and concentrated, intentional effort to help that person grow up in Christ, to be a father-like figure in our love, patience, and instruction towards them. I have a lot more about this on my mind, but I'll have to write it down later.

Also, I wrote a poem last night. It's just a first draft, but I had the last two lines running through my head the night before, so I had to get it out of me.

Elbows and Whispers
Subtle. I have always
seen perfection in this way.
It has never faced me,
like a man, proudly,
puffing out its chest, flexing.
In silent, solemn moments,
I have found it hidden,
revealing its scraped elbows
like a child playing hide and seek
who does not know he is exposed.
Today, I found it
as dusk descended
soft and fast. I waited so long
and at last, rain fell,
but I was at the office,
tying up loose ends, prolonging
the drive home. When I finally
shut off my computer,
yawned, walked outside,
the sky had fused
and the debris of orange, pink, lavender
was all that remained.
I drove away
to the hum of traffic,
towards the flaming sky,
silent, reverent, insignificant.
Surveying lightning in the distance,
I smiled, partly as a result
of my discovery, partly
hypnotized by the changeless hum
knowing this existence is merely
a whisper of the life to come.

Ramblings

It's late, but for some reason, I'm really not tired. I felt like I had to get up and write. I'm not exactly sure what, but I feel like there's something.

The times I have decided to write lately have all been focused on poetry. I don't know why, necessarily, but poetry has been the focus. I know I would be able to better explain it all and really capture the moments, thoughts, observations, or whatever else in prose. Sometimes, though, poetry just feels more natural, more appropriate.

I started working on other stuff--short stories and such--but I have not had the motivation to sit down and finish them. Maybe this weekend, though I doubt it considering all I have to do. I wonder sometimes how much of the "busy" we self-inflict. I know I add things that really aren't necessary to my schedule. I have gotten better at saying "no," to people, it's necessary, but I still "yes" too often. It all seems so important at the time. It's not really, but, I tell myself it is most of the time.

We live in a culture of "yes" though. So many kids today don't even get to spend time with their own parents because their parents are always saying "yes" to others, and "no" to their families. It's ridiculous when you think about really. Family should be the number one focus. There's a guy I greatly respect who owns a large business and is extremely involved in ministry. He taught me a philosophy I will pass on to as many others as I can. It involves the idea of resolution.

Every year there is at least one person you know who has decided to quit smoking "for good," work out three times a week, eat healthier. How many people, though, have you heard ever say their resolution for the year is to "spend more time with their family," or something actually significant and will make a difference not only that person's life, but also in the lives of those he loves? Well, this guy I admire in almost every way taught me to choose one word for every year. Don't be focused on a long list of self-improvements. Focus on one word and make everything for that year revolve around it. For instance, the first year he did this, the word he chose was "simplify." When it came down to decisions, he asked himself, "Does this simplify my life so that I can spend more time with my family, in ministry, etc.?" Brilliant. I am indebted to the man for this philosophy. The only unfortunate thing about it is the word I chose for this year has been difficult: "patience." Well, I sure have learned a lot because of it.

What does it mean to be patient? Truly, and completely patient, relying on the Lord? It's complicated. I would love to say it's easy and that I've figured it all out, but that wouldn't be true. I'm still learning. But, I can say one thing. My timing doesn't matter anymore. I have realized that God opens doors and shuts them at the time necessary. It's as though I am on this elevator on its way up. Instead of waiting for the elevator to reach the next floor, I would rather hit the emergency stop button, the forbidden red, pry open the doors only to realize I can't get off yet. How stupid. I'm waiting now. The elevator music may bore me in the meantime, but I need to hang in there and just wait for the elevator to stop as it was designed to, when it was designed to. It's tough.

I'm sure there's a lot more I could say, and quite honestly, I'm still not all that tired. I am also fairly confident that this is not that cohesive. I apologize. But these ramblings weren't meant for you, weren't composed for your reading pleasure. They were for me. Sorry. I'll write something a little more reader-friendly in the near future. For now, I'm going to try and fall asleep. I guess I will have to be patient for it.

Politics

When it comes to elections, or politics of my state and nation, no problem. It is a matter distant from me and I do not feel the harsh blows of personal attack. But when it comes to office politics, I am overwhelmed. I have been in the midst of a position transition for the past month at work, and I have never before witnessed such ridiculous behavior. The two managers I am transitioning between are as different as night and... well, afternoon at least. One of them is kind and respectable, while the other, in my honest to God opinion, is not respectable whatsoever. How is it a man of his position can so completely become unfair? I am in awe.

I may be going against my morals here, but I will be working for him. Office politics have led me to this decision. I am uneasy with the move to say the least, but am confident God will bless me if I trust him and work "with fear and trembling, in the sincerity of [my] heart, as to Christ," like it says in Ephesians 6:5. Maybe I can influence his character. It's doubtful, but I can hope. Gosh, I'm sick. I better get to praying hard and fast. I hate stuff like this.

Why am I writing all this? Well, Smartel told me last night over the phone that I needed to post something soon, because she enjoys it. Luckily, I enjoy it too, and I needed to get all of this off my chest anyway. On Monday, I visited the Phoenix Seminary class studying Ecclesiastes. It's a great book, and I hate ending my stuff on sad notes, so I better post a poem I wrote following the class, too. A lot of people see Ecclesiastes as a negative book, but I have always known that is not true. Daryl Delhousaye confirmed my observation. So, here's the poem, and until next post, that's all I have for you, Smartel.

Something Great, Profound
Every morning, I wake hoping
Today is the day.
Finally, I wil add value,
Supply the world with my contribution,
Say something great, profound.
But morning quickly slips into afternoon,
Afternoon into evening,
And the night dissolves into another dawn,
Another missed opportunity,
Another wasted hope.
In the early hours, cold, hazy,
I amaze at its purity,
At my genuine aspiration
To change the world.
I am only 22, but,
It will not be long
Before life slips through my fingers
And the grainy nothingness that lingers
Are mere memories of this borrowed dust.
There is no harm in hoping,
No problem with striving to do what I can
Or proclaiming what I believe.
But it is necessary,
Every now and then,
To let it all go, stop pressuring myself,
To just enjoy the day
For what it is:
Another one,
Nothing new.

My Voice - a poem

It's natural. Or so we tell ourselves
over and over again. We have substituted syntax
for the relaxation of our pens
and minds. All these lines and lines
of prose labeled as poetry
and poetry disguised as prose clutter
our shelves. While the critics call it
individual style, an author's voice
flow, punch, brilliance
I know what it really is.
My colloquialisms are not attempts
to connect with the common man
whoever that man may be
by whichever denominator we may divide.
I'm just too damn lazy to skip
the apostrophies, add the commas
reword my inconsistent participles.
Contractions are my best friends
I usually go with the past tense
spell words as I hear them.
I hated Spanish 101 and don't kid myself.
Most likely'll never learn another language-
had a hard enough time with mine.
But just to stick with trends
and follow this generation's reinventions
let's call these little imperfections my voice, style
my mastery of English.

Sleeping Beauty

I cannot remember the last time I slept so long. It's a beautiful thing. "How long," you ask? Well, I slept twelve and a half hours. I fell asleep at 7pm. Not bad, right? I feel great.

I don't have a lot to say right now, I pretty much just wanted to boast about my beauty sleep. It's unbelievable. You should try it sometime soon. I feel better than I have in a long, long, long time. Yes, three longs.

Finally, the Writing Juices Flow Again

As I have written over the past month or so, it has been extremely difficult for me to write anything of creative value. Every time I have specifically gone to spend time alone and write, I have not been able to write anything. Truly. I set my pen to the paper and I go blank. Completely blank.

Finally, last night, all of that changed. I spent hours writing, and though not everything I wrote was spectacular by any means, I felt the creative juices flowing once again. It came simply. It was as though all these words had been stored up inside my brain and they could not wait to make their way to the paper. So, what did I write? Mostly poetry. But, it was poetry that actually had meaning and it wasn't just some feeble attempt and scribbling stuff on the paper. It actually had a cohesive theme, beginning, and ending. Sure, the words could be more eloquent, but they always could. Some of the work is quite personal, so all I am really ready to share is what I have below. But, hopefully this is a sign that I will be back at it in no time, writing about stuff other than my current state of affairs and emotion, about life, God, love, humor, work, philosophy, my family, friends, and more. We'll see. But this is a good beginning at least. I have hope.


Goes On
It's not as easy
As you make it out to be.
I am jealous.
That smile appears so sincere,
And your "I'm great" response
Sounds carefree. If it were me
It would be careless. But,
Not you. You look... happy.

I don't know how many times
My eyes stared into yours
And I told you
That's all I wanted: for you to feel that,
Be. But now,
I'm not as sure. It hurts
That of everything I gave you, this
Incited it instantly.

"Life goes on," you simply utter.
I have so much going for me, you console.
"I need you to move on,"
You more demand than ask.
There is all this going, going, going.
I disagree, though. A show must
Go on, the world will
Keep moving, but life?

One day you will understand
When you love someone as much
As I love you. Don't try
To fool yourself into saying
You did, and don't dare say
You do. The present has proven
The veracity of Us-that tiny, damned word,
Which seemed so much bigger to me.

Good for you, my beautiful girl.
Continue, but realize.
Until time mends
Wounds this deep,
Until the sting
Finally subsides,
Life does not just go on,
It staggers.


Familiar Superlatives
Until it comes upon you
Or you fall in it,
It all seems so familiar, almost boring.
The words appear formula-driven,
Cliché-ridden, the stories are as tired
As time itself.

Since the dawn of creation,
It has underlined history,
Destroyed leaders, formed nations,
Been the life and death of generations
Behind us, breathed reason into sunsets,
Stars, sex, wars, murders.

I knew very well, could even recite
What it would feel like, what I
Might do when it befell me.
To the depths of hell, I would travel,
I would swim across oceans, "sacrifice"
Would become a regularly used word.

Gravity would no longer control me,
And though my wings would not be visible,
Indeed, like a bird, flight would be mine.
And most of all, somehow, hopefully,
Like so many others before me,
I would grow noble.

Up until recently, I always viewed Romeo
A fool. "Over a girl" I clarified
At a young age? But she was not
Just a girl, Juliet was his girl,
His life, and hence, his death.
If I only knew what it truly feels like.

When what seems so perfect
Comes to an abrupt end,
I expected what accompanies even less.
I read it all, knew Shakespeare, history. But,
How could such pain surmount, such depression,
Such anger, again, over a girl?

I was the fool.

If it has not befell you, yet,
I will save you from all those copious
Familiar superlatives. When it comes,
It's unlike anything.
When she's gone,
You'll hurt like hell.

Thank the Lord it's Friday

The week really has passed quickly, but I am so thankful Friday has finally arrived... or I've finally arrived to Friday. It's all about perspective I guess. Three day weekends are a marvelous, glorious gift. My to-do list is not that extensive, though existent. Mainly it's about cleaning the house a little and writing some, too. I'm going to spend as much time possible on Monday just reading and writing. It'll be great for me.

Well, considering I have a short day today (my CEO said we can leave after 2:00), I better act like I'm working a little bit at least.

Make it easy. - a poem

Skip the B.S.
Get to the point.
I already know what
You're going to say.

Stop looking at me
With that 'I'm confused' glaze.
Be honest. Shut
Up. Walk away.