Superbowl Sunday

I gave football my heart,

And it took my shoulder,

I gave football my sweat,

And it took my knees.

Give football a yard,

And it will take a hundred,

But I’ll still turn on the tv,

Because football still has my heart.

My Plants

Potted plants on the window sill,

One red, one yellow, one blue,

Belonging to the bears,

One pot too big, too small, just right.

Three plants on the window sill,

One tall, one short, one dead,

Did I forget to water them?

Two plants on the window sill.

Travel Writing Series

I’ve had the opportunity to visit some pretty unique places. From countries abroad to states here at home, I have made some awesome memories seeing famous sites, and visiting historical locales. I want to start an article series highlighting some of the places, buildings, and geography that I have enjoyed the most.

This poem was inspired by the world-famous catedral in Barcelona, Spain. The yet unfinished masterpiece of Catalán architect, Antoní Gaudí.

An Ode to La Sagrada Familia

From the vaulting arches,
And pillars of gray bone,
To the columns soldier like marching,
As an army carved from stone,

Branched limbs spread toward Heaven,
Drawing both walls and eyes,
To the pinnacles of the avians,
Thrown into the heights of the skies,

But looking lower,
On the level of the feet of man,
These great trees glower,
And squat. Hatching mighty, lumbering plans,

Sounds echo and reverberate,
Like the beating within a giant’s veins,
With words of pious, solemn fate,
In artfully etched windows stained,

Their colors paint the air,
By the sun’s steady hand,
Heated rays and cool tints in pairs,
Casting scenes of lighted lands,

And from tower’s gracious peaks,
To living, breathing column’s base,
The spirit of Gaudí speaks,
“Complete me now with all haste!”

My first article in the travel series will come out on Monday, follow me to be notified!

Breaking News

Have you heard
The news?
The events that have
transpired?
The paper says it
Is so,
As do the reporters in
their microphones,
Such big news!
How could you
not have heard it?
It’s true, I know it is,
They said it was.
And I believed.

Fire

No mouth, but many tongues

Of orange, yellow, and red

You taste and you lick,

Wood, stone and brick,

Devouring it all,

You gobble and you gulp,

Hissing and spitting,

You greedy beast you,

Never stopping to chew,

You inhale it all,

Belching out black,

How can bright make such dark?

You pop your joints, crack your knuckles,

Always ready to cause trouble,

You are so hot-headed.

It Brings To Mind

When the waters lie under my gaze,
And the oar is held strong within my hand,
It brings to mind a gentle phrase,
And parts the currents that shape the sands.
Then propels me and my tiny craft,
Onward from the fluid’s edge,
To test the waves within my path,
With every stroke I sign my pledge.
I will not fall into the brink,
Sharper than a sword, my wits,
Steady above the murky drink,
Even in the storms, and fits.
Until I glide on top of clearest glass,
And it matters not the future or what is in my past.

Mr. Umbrella-head

An umbrella-head walks through the rain,
Droplets smack and bounce off of him,
For 40 days and 40 nights and on for 40 blocks,
The downpour lasts,
The umbrella-head has wet shoes,
Shoes filled with soaked socks,
A dripping briefcase is held,
In his other hand,
That one is soaked, rather, with ideas,
He ducks into a building,
And folds closed his head,
Slipping and sliding on the stone stairs,
And inward to the office he goes,
To face another storm.

Machine Man

My mind is made of turning gears,
That twist and grind between my ears,
They push and pull ideas apart,
I believe they’re connected to my heart,
‘Cause I feel pistons pumping there,
Clashing against my chest, I swear,
When I move my hands and feet,
I hear them swinging to a beat,
When I walk and when I stride,
I feel them churning deep inside,
And where I look there’s a clink,
Of lenses settling when I blink,
My limbs are filled with polished springs,
And pulleys wrapped with elastic string,
I must be a machine man,
Yet more than a walking tin can?

Weighted Words

It’s funny looking back on how much one’s writing style can change. Some of it I still like and others I want to just crumple up and throw away. But they’re treasures and stepping stones, and undoubtedly my tastes for words will change again and again as the years go by.

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If I could feel a word’s weight within my hands,
I would have such an easier time watching what I say,
If I could feel how heavy they were,
How harsh, how big, how light,
With a simple scale,
My life would be at least three times less difficult,
But, as it is with many things, that is simply not the case.
If I could perhaps measure them,
By length, or width, or maybe volume,
My choices would be quite quicker,
Free from the fear of saying something wrong.
But the perfect word is hard to find,
And if it does not fit exactly as it should,
Things just don’t make sense.

If I could only weigh my words.

The Written

I’ve decided to use this blog mostly for my writing and poetry. I first want to share some of my older stuff that I’ve held onto over the years and then start sharing weekly projects, poems, etc. Here’s one to get started:

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Voice

I hear the words you spoke, seeming millennia ago,
Not in bare whispers, but in the full bellow of your voice,
Articulate and clear, even across the many years now between us,
The sound is a caress against my eardrums,
It does not matter the anger,
Just to hear you and remember,
That once you were with me,

I recall the fear and the hate,
In my memories, that you had against me after I did it,
But it no longer matters,
The sound of your utterances,
Undulating, from high to low,
Makes me happy,
I have forgotten what went wrong,

The comfort of your words is all that remains,
And I hold on to them,
With a grip like a vice,
Even as I let their meanings drift away forever,
The sound,
Your sound,
Is where I find my solace.