Spaces
Spaces
And their
Artistic use
Can be
Interesting
Or
Annoying
Usually it’s a
n
n
o
y
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n
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December 7, 2012
Benson, Vermont
I was thinking about how recently I read a poem somewhere where the writer put a whole bunch of extra spaces in the work. I’m sure in their mind it was for some deeper purpose trying to make a comment about something (or something), but I found it to be distracting and irksome. I thought I would dabble with the same method. Yup, it’s still annoying.
Trying To Type Quickly, Quietly
Trying to type quickly, quietly
Attempting to get my ideas out
In the mostly-darkened room
But the clicking of the keys
Is an accomplice
Working in tandem
With the gentle sawing,
The rhythmic snoring
From the wife in the bed
Who fell asleep waiting
For me to finish and join her
December 8, 2012
Benson, Vermont
Peaking In The Distance
Ridging layers of mountains
Peaking in the distance
Widening up my view
Each summit
Looming successively taller
Looking slightly paler
Impressing me more
December 15, 2012
Burlington, Vermont
The drive up to Burlington is impressive with the snow-capped Green Mountains to the East and the taller and more numerous Adirondack Mountains to the West.
All You Have Is Now
The past is over and done with
The future hasn’t happened yet
The area where you live your life
Is the faintest sliver in-between
You can’t cling to the past
And you can’t touch the future
All you have is now
December 15, 2012
Benson, Vermont
And when you think about it, trying to measure the present is nearly impossible as you can get into billionth of seconds (and well beyond) and still not capture the present. As things happen, they’re in the past.
(And thus concludes the Deep Thought portion of the evening. Thank you.)
First On The Scene
Cold dark night
Winding up a steep mountain road
Going the posted fifty
In a second the night changes
As a scary scene unfolded
Under the looming leafless trees
Illuminated only by our high beams
A car with no lights
Sitting sideways
Blocking the downmountain lane
We’re the first on the scene
Of a one-car accident
That happened maybe two minutes earlier
Hazards on, we pull over
And check our phones for a signal
Nothing
The car behind slows
And we tell them to go and call for help
We dash across the darkness to the figure
A woman alone
She’s alright
But her car isn’t
Crumpled front and leaking some sort of liquid
It won’t drive again
My wife takes the woman to our car
And calms her down
Twin lights round the corner up above
Still far, but coming fast
Unaware of the damage ahead
I raise my phone’s light
And waive the car to stop
Another coming up offers help
Together we direct traffic
Until the police arrive
An hour later we leave and discuss
Poor college student
On her way home to Connecticut
For a long weekend
With her family and boyfriend
Only an hour out of school
And four from home
A tire blows out
Down a steep mountain road
Sending her across the oncoming lanes
Headfirst into an embankment
Spun her around until she stopped
She’s not going to Connecticut tonight
But in the grand scheme of things, that’s ok
Because she’s not going to the morgue either
December 15, 2012
Benson, Vermont
This happened a little over a week ago. Very scary stuff, but at least everyone was fine.
That Same Song Finds Me
A song played on my computer
One attached to too many emotions
I was going to say memories
But that’s not entirely true -
The memories are just a swirly blur
But the sentiments are solidly clear.
I felt a sadness for that period in my life
In my early twenties
When this song was on heavy rotation
The soundtrack for all the late-night,
Cold-weather, hard-drinking,
Fun-loving evenings
Finally free from the covered comfort of college
Just starting to make our way in life
Dressed to the nines in our naivety
While keenly unaware
Of the dual preciousness
Found in life and time.
Blur ahead to now
The times, people, and wants have all changed
As a decade and a half passed
Showing us words like “forever”
And intentions we held close and gathered
Were nothing more than empty gestures
Fading illusions forgotten
Writhing into wrinkles
Scarring the edges of the eyes
That have lost the luster and
The sprightly innocence
In a years-long exchange
For hard-earned experience.
Now that same song finds me
A very different person
I am laser-focused on what I want,
While working with new people,
And keeping an eye on the time.
I’m making it happen.
Still though,
The nostalgic underpinning
Of this song makes me sad
With the hitting realization
I spent too much of my precious life
Driving down the wrong road.
But in the end, it’s alright
Since it brought me to where I needed to be
And I have learned a great deal along the way
December 15, 2012
Benson, Vermont
Back in the late 90s, I had a five-disc CD changer. Some of the discs frequently found playing on shuffle were: Fiona Apple When The Pawn…, Dave Matthews Crash, Music For The Masses (a Depeche Mode tribute CD), Romeo + Juliette Soundtrack (never saw the movie, but this album was amazing), Garbage Version 2.0, and probably a Best Of CD by The Smiths.
The Poet King Of Amherst
The Poet King of Amherst
Looked out from his chamber
Across the quad
To the mountain beyond
And nodded approvingly
At the nature he created
Fro
m the descriptive words
That sprang from his mind.
With a snap and a nod
He alerted his minders
Of his intentions.
They were well-trained
And knew exactly what to do
The champagne was chilled
The car was prepared
And, amid guards and fanfare,
He exited the building
And was led to his awaiting car.
The stretch Bentley roared off
The leafy Amherst campus
Turned, and passed the Lord Jeff
The window lowered
And he raised a sparkling glass
In tribute to both the inn and the man.
Another turn to the light
(Which changed just for him
Because the King waits for nothing)
A right onto North Pleasant
And he gave an approving nod
To the bookshops they passed
And a flurry of hundreds
Are tossed into the crowds
To show he was pleased.
Minutes later, passing through
The University of Massachusetts
His people hurled insults
And haiku written on rocks
At the students they drove by
Not wanting to waste an ode
On the less-educated dullards
Who couldn’t understand
Who wouldn’t appreciate
His enchanting lyrical verse.
Both aspects of his work were done:
The building up and
The tearing down,
So they looped back to town
And into the cemetery
Where a string quartet awaited
The King’s royal arrival.
His minders rolled a length
Of gentle fibered carpet
From his door
To the fenced-in
Wrought-iron enclosure
Surrounding a small tree
And four headstones
Of the Dickinson plot.
The musicians played
As he walked through the gate
Disrobed, and climbed
Into a solid gold bathtub
Filled with heated Cristal.
A subject handed him
A pad of exquisite paper,
And a pen made from
The bones of Whitman.
With his idyllic setting in place
He penned his poetry.
With each work finished,
He signed with a flourish
And handed it to an assistant
Who carried the poem away,
With reverence, on a silken pillow.
This was repeated repeatedly
Over the next few hours:
Poem, pillow, away.
Poem, pillow, away.
Poem, pillow, away.
As the sun set, he rose
And stepped from the tub
Into a freshly-warmed robe
That’s when the quartet stopped
The DJ spun his fat beats
And the whole of Amherst
Turned out for the kickin’ rave,
The nightly celebration of poetry
Centered around Emily’s grave
Curated by MC Frosty himself.
The party continued unabated
Until the clock struck two
When the Poet King of Amherst
Waived and took his leave,
Amid the joyful well-wishing
Of his loyal subjects,
Returned to the college
And retired for the evening.
Tomorrow he will repeat
His daily tradition
Just as he always has
Just as he always will.
December 19, 2012
Benson, Vermont
Holy wow, this was a silly one. I admit I don’t know a lot about Robert Frost other than he lived in New Hampshire for a time, taught at Amherst College, and read a poem at Kennedy’s inauguration. So, from that knowledge I was able to write this poem. Despite my lack of knowledge, I think it’s a pretty good representation of his daily life.
So Essential
The water raining down
Quenching, enriching, enlivening;
The earth reaching up
Receiving, stirring, awakening
From the faint pitter-patter
Of the life-giving liquid.
So simple,
So pure, yet
So essential
For everything
We see and need
December 19, 2012
Benson, Vermont
A poem I wrote and submitted to Taproot Magazine. The topic word for this issue is “WATER.”
Let Down By Something, By Nothing
Today’s the big day
The major date
Circled in red
On the calendars
Of the gullible,
The superstitious,
And those easily led astray.
A day just like any other
Nothing remarkable happened
The world didn’t end
Leaving the foolish
Feeling let down
By something,
By nothing
December 21, 2012
At the beginning of this year, when I worked for the government, countless people would come to my window and start talking about how the Mayans predicted the end of the world later this year. I don’t know why they would talk to a stranger about it, but it happened with unusual frequency. It’s not like I had a sign that said, “Hi! Let’s talk about the end of the world!” but still, people would constantly bring it up. Each time, they would joke, or comment, about it with a deep underlying seriousness and fear that was plainly obvious that they did actually believe in it. I hope that this non-event caused them all to take more stock in actual facts and scientific reasoning versus superstitious gullibility.
Revive My Interest
I’ve tried to listen to the songs
I’ve even put up festive lights
But no matter what I do
I’m just not feeling the season
It’s my first year without a tree
And I didn’t send a single card
Not because I don’t care
About my friends
But rather I feel indifferent
About the day
I’m wondering if what I’m feeling
Is somehow related to getting older
Or maybe my holiday joy is waning
Due to my minimal exposure
To television, advertising,
Malls, society, and shopping
I’ve surrounded myself with lights
Which I’m really enjoying
But they are doing nothing
To revive my interest in Christmas
December 24, 2012
Benson, Vermont
I noticed this last year too, but then it was more of a noticeable reduction in Christmas spirit. I’m sitting here in the darkening daylight of Christmas Eve, my office lit only by Christmas lights, and I have zero interest or spirit in the holiday. It’s been the same way all month. Kari said she is feeling the same way as well. I used to love, love, love this season, but now I could not care less and I have no idea why.
The Smell Of Tradition
On a cold evening
With empty roads
I signal and turn
Into the oddly unlit
Parking lot of the
Small-town strip mall
Six PM and everything
Is closed and dark
Save for my destination:
The Chinese restaurant
Open and lit at the end.
Five minutes later
I’m back on the road
Heading for home
With our Christmas dinner
Filling my car
With the smell of tradition
December 25, 2012
Benson, Vermont
For the past few Christmases, we’ve foregone making a special dinner in favor of getting Chinese food. When I walked into the place, no one was there, but behind the counter I saw they had a bunch of orders ready to go, and as I left, several other cars were pulling in. It seems we weren’t the only ones.
One Side Knows
Facts and scientific reasoning
Versus
Fear and superstitious gullibility
One side knows with deductive thinking
While the other thinks they do through
Handed-down, close-minded naivety
Provable rational thought
Always wins over
Poorly-cobbled folklore
December 26, 2012
Benson, Vermont
I got to thinking about the whole Mayans end-of-the-world-thing again. Yesterday I searched for after-the-fact interviews with people who claimed it was going to happen, but I couldn’t find any. It reminds me of that Christian preacher, Harold Camping, who claimed several times the world was going to end, and each time the dates came and passed without incident. The scarier thing is each time one of these “doomsday” people make proclamations, they get thousands of followers. I wonder what goes through their minds after their leader is proven wrong?
Dead-Ends And Other Places
Walking alone
To try to clear and sort
The tilting towering thoughts
Threatening to tip
And the deep emotional depths
Preparing to rip it all down
The dirt road
Crunches quietly underfoot
Offering no hint of an answer
Giving no indication
Of how I should proceed
I’m not really surprised
As dirt roads often lead to dead-ends
And other places no one wants to be
I stare blankly
At the view
A wide field
A single horse
In the middle
Way out there
Sitting right under
A gray sky
Heavily threatening
The horse ignoring
All of it
Something falling
Light tapping
Rain starting
Not noticing
Not moving
Keep staring
Not thinking
About anything
About what I had intended
I had plans for this walk