I fell in love with poetry while I was at MIT. It was more than just an escape valve from the stress of my technical studies. It was my way of exploring life through words. Trying to capture a power human emotion, a memory, or a scene in a Haiku format became a fun game. And like any creative endeavor, once you started the flood gates continued to open up. I found myself needing to keep a journal with me at all times, and would often stop several times along my bike commute to campus to capture ideas, phrases, or sentences.
She shoos me up the staircase
while prattling on
like a proud mother
“I don’t think I can”
Yet she pays no attention
and rushes past me
stopping only to point intensely
at the small X mark upon center stage
Exposing one, lonely microphone
(the focal point)
of a million eyeballs
To stand my creation up
in front of the masses
will they judge?
“You should write a book.”
Although I always appreciated the compliment, but I could never tell if it was sincere or not. Was I really that good or creative at writing? Or was it simply like the words of a mother, who’s unconditional love was so strong that even a finger painting of a blue dog would land itself on the fridge.
Honestly, it doesn’t really matter. We all have things to share (thoughts, pictures, stories, laughs, hugs) and it gets boring to sit on the sidelines and let everyone else have the fun. Sure, we can be self depreciating and claim that no one will care or our actions won’t mean anything. But I disagree. Sometimes the seemingly insignificant things we in life can completely change the lives of someone else, whether we know it or not. And so what if it doesn’t? I’m not willing to take that chance!
A deep breath in, my day is done,
At least seven times the clock has rung.
Begin my walk along side the sun,
while wiping dirt up off my face.
Happy? I'd like to think I am.
But I'm just an plain old working man
doing grueling work, just to feed the fam.
Odd jobs from place to place.
The tracks before me, just installed of course
took just six weeks with a ten man force.
Shiny steel rails above rocks so coarse,
gleaming softly in warm dusk rays.
Walking on the streets at night
dimly light by lamp post lights.
Ten till midnight, by my count
with not another soul in sight.
Green leaves upon the summer trees
gently waving summer breeze.
Tis a vibrant park outside the home,
a hundred vets, yet he's all alone.
Oh surely friends will wave and smile
though blind, they are, to the fear/denial.
Tis safer that it's kept this way,
for the bench is where he came to stay.
Every day at half passed one,
the healing warmth of Florida's sun.
All is well till his face droops down
to see the leaves his eyes have found.
Her only sight, a red tipped stick.
That ticks with order,
She fends my questions with a smile
"I miss colors like fish miss the clouds"