That First Day

Those shakes, that uncertainty

No day is worse than the first

What will happen, what can’t be reversed

The fear tears at you, drives itself into a wavering spine and goes further

Do you know anyone, are you walking through a blind maze

What happens when feet meets threshold, what can I hope to change

Vanishing is a hope, transparency a fear, it’s friendship I need to survive

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The Collector

She’s a collector of simple things

The breakdowns, the sheared hair, the open vein

She collects them all, nothing missed

If owned by lessers and their greaters

 

She places them in a box

Not a 7-sided thing like Pandora’s

But a box of light, remembering better times, and

opened with a key of understanding, a key of growth

 

She meanders as she walks, touching here and there

Always looking for her next trophy, her next piece of the puzzle

She doesn’t always find what she needs, but

she does always find a helping hand

When the night swiftly courses, bringing its daily offerings and empty platitudes

She walks her path, leaving resolution and missed cravings in her wake

 

 

Home

Home is not walls, nor roof, floor, nor a set of french doors.
Home is a state of mind.
It’s a place we go to become ourselves
Home can be traveling the autobahn
It can be playing video games alongside friends with laughter vibrating in the airwaves
It’s finding a companion who needs you and learning you need them too
Home is a decision, a choice that this is where I’m most comfortable, this is where I can be myself.
Home is a state of mind, a state of being, and a statement of self.

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

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

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.

Up

If and when we start again

I hope I’ll be kinder

I hope I’ll be a better friend

Though I may need reminders

 

I wonder what will happen

When we recall the past

Will it darken and blacken

Or will it really last

 

Simple truths abound beyond,

Demanding their sad say

Do they know of whom I’m fond

or what I wish of this day

I tell myself, just stay strong but,

I only hope that you’ll stay

The Door

Beyond the walk there lies a door

Past the door are many more

It stretches beyond what we can see

Until we find eternity

 

The door has paint for many eyes

The colors blend and sometimes blind

They make up shapes and symbols for all

Creating fate and making thralls

 

There are those who focus on the door,

and others on where lies the floor

It matters not how you turn the handle,

nor whether you were quite the vandal

But what you do when that circles turned,

who you were and what you learned.