Dad wore glasses. Box framed, thin lenses, if not perched on his nose, “missing” in some obvious place, the kitchen table, usually. I loved Dad’s glasses. When I was little they would often go “missing” on my own face. I would do it on occasion in my teens, just to see his reaction.
“Jeremy have you seen my glasses?” He would say from the other room. I’d remain seated.
“Nope!” He’d come in eventually.
“Hey! There they are,”
I would act real surprised.
“Whoa! Didn’t see them there,”
It was a ritual of sorts.
Dad used to pack my lunches. He always packed carrots because they “helped me see better” so I wouldn’t end up like “old man cataracts here.” I would always throw them away. Truth was: I wanted glasses, just like Dad. His intentions were noble, he only wanted my vision to remain clear as I aged, but noble intentions are for knights and superheroes when you’re six.
Heavy mist muffles the sun’s
All throughout the winding streets
and the lush green parks,
Fog swirls across the Thames,
as it slowly laps upon its banks.
Under this darkness,
and beautiful fog drenched darkness,
a different London comes alive.
A London where ghosts
of days gone by
emerge from the rolling fog,
to tour their majestic city once more.
One can hear a distinctive clopping over bridges,
the distant whistle of a bomb...
The thrum of a steam boat
and the tolling of the clock tower.
The clock’s amber glow colours the abundant fog,
illuminating the bustles and pocket watches of those
ghostly men and women of long long ago.
Thus is the night,
of the ancient
Known best by those who lived through it all;
and the fog.
My heart feels swollen,
Like it’s filled with too much blood,
too much pain.
My insides are aching,
aching for love,
For lately I have lost so much love,
and have nothing to replace it with.
I lost love that was in the form of greens eyes and footballs,
I lost love that sang like an angel with flowing chocolate waves,
I can’t gain the love of the Indian boy I yearn for,
and I can’t express the love for a man with eyes that are filled with oceans and a mind which is wired similar to my own.
I am throbbing,
for I do not want to feel this love,
this lost love,
unexpressed, unwanted love,
this love that is not returned.
I want to crawl back inside myself,
into the dark caverns of my mind,
where no emotions,
no love can reach me,
and the darkness.
I hate the way my heart trembles,
how my eyes burn,
and my fingers shake.
I am being incinerated by the light,
and I can’t stand it anymore.
I need to hide,
to crawl away,
I can’t be here,
I don’t want to stay.
There’s no love for me here,
and everyone keeps slipping away.
This is why I never wanted to come out in the first place,
Why feel pain when I can just feel nothing at all?
When you fall and someone picks you up, it shows they are kind.
When you see someone being bullied and you stand up for them, it shows you are brave.
But when a bully hurts someone, it shows they are insecure and need a friend.
Stand up to bullies and look deeper.
A writer shapes the blame, the lust, the demise, the grace,
while the artist is more visual. The artist shapes the face.
The musician plays the music, the musician plays the song,
the record player echoes back, thirty years long.
Heroes fight the wars, saving damsels, politics
Hereos kill many, all of the heretics.
Will the liars defect?
Will the liars defend?
When it comes to the truth, this all depends.
The conformist will conform, will depend, will rely
The insubordinate will rebel, cheat and lie.
But a person can do all these things,
it's all a matter of choice,
a matter of decision,
a matter of voice.
green cabbages freshly picked stacked in a pile on the still wet grass ready to be taken by a customer
green cabbages in a plastic bag sit on a cart these cabbages are strangers and nobody knows how they got here maybe they were frozen and shipped here, maybe they were wrapped in plastic and driven here, maybe they took a boat
do your self and the environment a favor eat local
penetrating white and golden brass
behind honey-colored wood
and waltzing horse hair,
piano with british inflections,
a crescendo of laughs,
and red-rose fingers.
stepping into storms and
walking out hand-in-hand;
we melt into a pot
and meld our passions
into iron walls.
chains of emotions
love runs under beams of
we build the ethos
of this room
build it from
insipid meals and midnight ties and
from infinite sunday-afternoon hours,
from russian churches and cobblestone tallinn
we build it ourselves.
Our lives are built on this fundamental concept, our own, personalized, self-driven beings. As children, we were galvanized to explore and broaden our interests, living as 'endless dreamers', if you will. To be young and fearless, venturing into our true curiosity and wonderment with no conception of limitations, or potential for that matter. Our naivity only lasts so long, we inevitably come to realize how selective the future is when it pertains to pursuing our own ambitions. Read more »