Goleta the Goodland

I can’t recall a time, before Goleta the Goodland
It lingers in the veins, this destination of decency
It’s flavor a recollection of pleasant ideas
It’s sky a foggy memory to behold
I’ve not come across another town like it
It calls to the soul for a return
To smell the sea, hear the gulls, and swim it’s peopled currents
There is a time when you can see the heart of the town
It’s not at festivals or parades as is the norm of others
But at moments of elation in our children, their graduations and events
Traveling through the throng, you can see and hear pride and joy wistfully on the wind.
Goleta is a grand home, it’s land beautifully sculpted as if God wished for one single sanctuary on Earth
Maybe, perhaps, when I am a better man, I’ll be worthy to return

Advertisements

Middle School

Feeling the electric lines and their sparkling chatter recalls a sense of self

A reverting of time as memories of large hair, low jeans, and evolving form return

Futures shaped by revolving choices, some regretted and others laughed away

Friends made, true or not, in haymaker fashion of smiles and tears

Running in the light breaks, books thrown to the wind as the sun embraces our skin

There were happier days of my youth, but few can reach this time of chaos and uncertainty

Saturday

What better day, than saturday

What dawn arrives to announce itself so joyously

What dusk lingers so long

There are lesser days who try the same,

Sunday with its jealous time

Friday with its reminders

But saturday holds my heart

Though I dread its forthcoming nights

Nostalgia

That ancient enemy

The shiner of the tarnished, that anachronistic foe

It arrives with pleasantries, but never leaves the same

It tells you all the wonderful things that happened in your past,

But when it departs, it leaves a bitterness unequaled in the world

If squalor had a feeling, nostalgia would be its definition

There are few defenses to this heartless foe excepting apathy

Give up your emotions, let your heart die

Or you’ll find the monster pressing on your present

A Video Reflection

Age is not always a bright reflection of our experiences
At times, it can be signs of ignorance, those still trapped in their original worlds, scared to expand, afraid to explore
But there are those from which empathy is their sole creation
They express their lives by improving the lives of others.

A boy, a smart boy, arrives to stifle that joy of improvement
He’ll bandy with the best, spread his dark wings and dampen
But he’ll listen, when spoken to truly and freely
He’s not a fool, just an overused tool from societies networking

It’s hard to be empathetic, but when you find a boy in your shade-
Who sees and feels the same as you once had, all signs point to help
So you’ll give him the rough edge, the real sincerity
Because you care, because helping makes you better

 

 

When asked to write a poem about this video clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qM-gZintWDc&feature=youtu.be

A Poem for Cris and Mike

Like a feather falling in a storm, love has its own currents

These currents have no mind, no choices, no set path

We know not when we will be swept into the tempest

Taken on an unexpected journey to a destination brighter than the last

But when that feather settles itself, when it finally connects with the world

We call that home

 

Disclaimer: This poem was written on the day of, and for, the wedding of my friends Cris and Mike.

Humility

That which is divine

Humility is a shelter against the storm of egos

A bulwark from which superiority has no strength

Those who gain it, never know it

Those who seek it, find themselves at self-odds

It’s recognized by all, but found in few

The freest of us hold it in plenitude

It requires nothing but pure thoughts,

and escapes the forgotten

Gnomic Father Pt. 2

Time to clean up now,

go grab the broom

A tidy house this allows,

you’ll understand real soon

 

Nice and even strokes,

no reason to hurry

The idea this evokes,

of feeling clean and not dirty

 

Slide the dustpan along,

grabbing the weekslong remains

No reason to live wrong,

breathing our own pains

Now the easy part, throwing it all away

Slide our parts to the trash, preparing for new days

 

 

American Stoic

Stoic is as stoic does not

The straight line with no dividing pathways,

eating your feelings and experiences

A glutton of unprecise needs and unending appetite

But there is another way

There’s a way to find a middle

It doesn’t break the self,

it only breaks the routine

Call upon your average angels

Live within the grey screens

Logic can exist without emotion,

emotion can exist without logic

But life is most harsh without thought,

and who wants to live in a world of broken smiles

The oldest saying is plan for the worst, hope for the best

Yet a stoic doesn’t hope, merely plans

Fill your head with your heart, find a stranger path