Home » Posts tagged 'hope' (Page 4)
I’ll always remember that day
And keep it as a reminder—
That day in which you looked my way
And I didn’t have a clue who you were
And you didn’t have a clue who I was
That day in which our eyes told stories—
As to what is most important.
So if and when we lose our way, I know
Together we’ll find ourselves again—
Where eyes can say what words cannot express—
And stories, we, can only tell together.
Man. Life can get pretty weird,
and if that means something
supernatural or uncanny, then
I’ll take it! Anything other than
Ugly normal, is fine by me…
Beautiful music plays
while I remember—the worst—
most beautiful days.
Most things can’t be unsaid,
though in my heart—
under the mess I’ve made—they
can be understood, in time
with patience and surrender.
I’ll always surrender.
I just haven’t got the skin,
I just haven’t got the heart
not to know better.
Men in the park
grip brown paper bags
certain as Catholic nuns
grasp their faith,
both counting one
by one, until neither
makes any difference
in the course of eternity.
Two paths, one park bench—
Angelic in their own rite.
The television’s on.
It’s freezing in here.
I should probably be asleep, but I’m not.
It’s 4:53. It’s always 4:53, when, click, the heat turns on.
Now the draft from the window’s competing with the dull heat, which smells like last years dust, pouring through the vent, above the door, which leads to the living room where the TV’s still on.
In about an hour the sun will be up and it will be another morning.
I can’t tell yet whether or not I’ll be excited or scared, but either way, I have to write my grandmother—thanking her for the letter she sent a couple days prior—she used to fill the cards with glitter but doesn’t anymore…
Perhaps there’s a glitter shortage, I don’t know.
I’ve been pulling my beard out again, which I don’t like, but still do. Why? A doctor would probably claim it’s nerves but by this point in life I know better than that.
It’s funny really, thoughts, how they come and go as easily as a hair can be plucked from your chin.
If I had eggs in the fridge I’d probably boil some for breakfast but I don’t have any because yesterday while shopping I’d debated prices in my head for what seemed like too long to be debating prices of eggs, causing an uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t shake, making me anxious and aware that I’d been standing in the isle for what seemed like eons though was probably only a couple minutes, still, too long to be debating whether or not I wanted to pay 2.39 or 2.99 for a dozen of eggs.
The heat feels good now, while the right side of my face warms up, the left side is still dealing with the draft from the window.
Common sense tells me to close the window though my better judgement says to just let it be. What’s the point, really?
It’s 5:06 now. It’s always 5:06.
The repetitive nature of this statement keeps recurring in my mind as if the idea isn’t fully mine, though I use it anyway.
Perhaps it’s my conscious mind coming back to me? Perhaps it’s programming I just don’t have the strength to deny, either way…whatever.
It’s 8:08 on the East Coast. My mother’s probably pouring coffee, reading the morning news. My brother’s probably already dragged himself from bed and into work. My nephew’s to school. My sister-in-law to her studio where she makes jewelry from metal and her imagination.
Their routine gives me comfort because right now I don’t have one.
This pandemic has us all in a pretty weird state of affairs, though, my affairs have always been pretty weird now that I think about it.
At least I’m writing again. That’s good.
Everything is pretty all right right now—knock on wood.
And what if this is as good as it gets? Hog wash.
At least it’s warm in here, closing the window, watching the sun rise.
My nail beds are long. I’ve always been told that. “You’ve got piano hands,” they said once, go figure, I don’t play—if I did this would probably make for a better story though, well, you know.
Turning off the TV seems irrational as it’ll just get turned on again tonight, unless, unplugging the TV—Ah! That’s better.
Insomnia, it’s the breakfast of champions.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.
Where are we
but forever
Alone, together
in the cosmos
of our love.
For the majority of my adult life I have lived in impoverished communities, mainly because it’s what I am able to afford. I have seen, felt, and heard the cries of both men and women, alone in gutters, pulling the arms of children onward to a life not many of us will ever lead. Some of course have made choices leading them down this path, others are facing hard times, but I see the majority of them, just as I see myself, as I see my loved ones, as common people. So regardless of the outcome of an election, regardless of the winning or losing side, I still see many men, women, and innocent children who will continue to suffer either way. I do my best to spare what little I have to offer, be it a dollar or two, a bottle of water, or even a smile which seems to go even further than the former because at least they know that they are seen, and like so many of us often feel, we like those less fortunate are not forgotten. So just be a decent person, treat people with dignity and respect, regardless of their current standings in life. Do what you can to leave the world a better place than it was yesterday. And be well, my friends. Be humble and aware. And give more than you receive, when possible. With love, gratitude, and thanks to all who’ve graced my path, and who I continue to think of daily.
There’s a sewer pipe
in the dark, by the L.A. river
like a grave in the ground
where people sleep
by the highway, by the neighborhood
where pumpkins soon
will be replaced by
feasts of Turkey, stuffing, corn
and carefully locked doors,
then to be replaced by balsams and fern
white lights and tender eyes
of Christmas morning,
regardless of the hole by the L.A. river
where people sleep
live, and love—and pray, regardless
of the election, regardless
of the president
I still weep.
Do you?
It is as cold
as a steel locket,
isolation
loosely hangs
two chains from a collar,
white as bone, worn
from the hours, of nuance
carefully placed by the bedside,
waiting to be opened
polished and willing
as obligatory as peace
before, the inevitable dawn
which beckons us to
repeat, our autumnal fall
from the burdens we carry.
Words Of An Average White Male 