Uncle John is Swimming

As anniversaries approach, 

serious sentiments emerge

from the unkempt places in our minds. 
Let them...

Uncle John is Swimming

I am underwater.

and the whole world is silent

except the beating of my heart

and the whispers of my thoughts.

A sea of sadness,

A sea of strangers

to everyone but the deceased.

Oh, but the wise know one comes for the living,

so they are displaced

from a family displaced.

My breath is staccato.

Between the notes my heart skips a beat

so loud that it vibrates the wrinkles-

of an aged father.

My head is underwater.

Alas, the receding world is silent

until-a wave of sadness hits me like a load of concrete blocks

escaping from the back of a truck.

New Jersey fears,

nightmares.

Ode to the highway,

the passed away,

and the far away.

Ode to the resting place.

Ode to his resting place.

To dirty water tears

in sewage drains,

gifts to the deranged displaced.

To crumbling bodies

held together by crumbling souls.

I’m crying now with my eyes sewn shut

and all that’s released is steam

from the heavy heat that is my thoughts.

A valley of volcanoes –

beneath a coral reef.

Floral Wreaths

line the coffin,

a funeral of mass proportions,

broken vindications,

the faucet needs fixin’.

But the hands of the man of the house

have turned to dust,

the pipes rust.

The bathroom is underwater.

A family underwater

We are all underwater

And he is underground.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

Expectations are intricately intertwined with experience.  For example, even if I attempt to keep my mind blank before a show, it is inevitable that thoughts begin to brew about what the concert will reveal. Often times I tend to forget this pre-concert ritual. For, the show, more often than not, takes me away, if not in the exact way that I had expected, on a parallel plane.

When I saw The Asteroids Galaxy Tour, however, my vague ideas about what the show was going to be and what it actually turned out to be were so different, that it struck a chord within me.

Sitting on the floor of my room on the afternoon of the show, I couldn’t help but move my body to the sounds of Asteroid’s eclectic Danish pop music as it overflowed from my speakers. Picture this: if my life were a television show, this would be the moment when the camera would zoom in on my serene and happy face as the sweet sounds of a harp played and the scene faded into a fantasy. In this daydream, I was jumping around in a sea of my peers, young and beautiful, clad completely in sequins and stars.

That is not how it went down. As soon as we arrived it was evident that we were the youngest people there. We stood, surrounded by well-dressed, hipper than hip 25-30 year olds, calmly waiting for the show to begin. We were jittery. My mind was having difficulty processing this: people aren’t piled on top of each other? What? No pushing for a spot up front? Seriously? It was nothing that I expected. It wasn’t crazy, but it was beautiful.

It was just a sexy, soulful starlet and her gang of groovy dudes, jamming. No one was dancing on top of each other, but no one was standing still. Everyone was enthralled in the music and no one was overly enthralled in his or her vices. It was a short, sweet and energetic show. It was perfect and it was nothing that I had expected

Lead Singer Mette Lindberg: Isn't she awesome?

2011

Rocking

Rock

and roll,

it’s out of control.

The beat of the drums

echoes deep in my soul.

Rock back and forth

in the waves of the sound,

with edges-so rough

and a base, smooth and round. 

The rocking chair under me scrapes on the ground. 

Rocking and rolling, 

my heart skips a beat

and I’m tapping my feet

to this music-so sweet. 

This room full of passion has become my retreat

and this rocking, rocking, rocking chair-my seat.

To sit back and observe

a rain stick turn-full of pebbles

and faces, lighting up,

those silly little rebels.

Pretend to be bad

but your innocent, I’m sure

for, the sound of the music is nothing but pure

and the eyes in the audience say

“Give me more” 

More beats and more drums

more twitling thumbs

fingering strums.

More base-smooth and round

vibrating the ground,

more moving around

more rock and roll sound.

Creative Writing Class / 2009

Writers Block

In a society made of words, consumed by the media, writers block is a relevant issue. I wrote this silly poem a while ago, but at this point in time, it couldn't apply more. 

Writer’s block

Brings me back

To the time my greatest worry

Was afternoon snack-

And on the way home not to step on the crack

-For fear of breaking my mother’s back.

The words were jibber jabber, sacred jargon

And the lessons please, thank you and beg your pardon

I wish I was back in kindergarten

When roses were red

And violets were blue

Now flowers are so complex in hue

And everything seems to come back to you.

I’m out on a tangent

That’s driving me wild

The face of a woman

But the eyes of a child

I miss the days when things were mild

The sun came up and went to bed

Along with the old man who bumped his head

And blushing faces turned pink, not red

Tick tack toe troubles have faded away

Board games grow dusty, waiting for a rainy day

And building blocks sold at a yard sale in May

While the block of a writer-is here to stay.

Poetry in English Class / 2009

Wandering New York

When you’re moving in transit, all that you have are your thoughts.

             Darting eyes litter the streets as lines form in either direction on the sidewalks. Headphones play and glances are picked up and put down more quickly than it takes for a full opinion to be formed. Look right, there’s a twentysomething with a patchy red beard, tuning out the world with his ear buds. Look left, there’s a hotdog cart, gone in the time it takes to glance at the price, replaced by a baby in a stroller, a highfalutin businessman, a beauty, a sob story, an unexpected friend. And then it’s on to the next block, on to the next set of sights and sounds, on to the next bunch of peripheral people with courteous commuter smiles.

All the while, my mind is wandering, racing, trying to keep up with it all:

‘Didn’t ask for that extended eye contact’          

‘Come on slow walkers’

‘Cute baby’         

‘I wonder how old they are’

‘Do I look that young?’

‘Cool long trail shirt’

‘Shit, almost tripped there’

‘My lucky day, another walk sign’

               I’ve arrived, and I join the masses, delving into the depths of the station. Teller, Ticket, and Human Traffic: typical tribulations. The people who’ve got plenty of time are rushing; the people who are rushing are sprinting.  There are a slew of undecipherable ramblings heard overhead but no one really reacts. Until the track number is posted—then, It’s a human zoo. Flocking figures fixate on the gate. The ten minutes allotted for boarding never seems like enough time, everyone shares a common goal but no one seems to notice anyone else.

‘Excuse me, pardon me’

‘Pardon me, excuse me’

‘After you’

‘After me?’

‘Actually, after the man in the wheelchair’

             The talking is limited as everyone claims his or her seat. Strangers accompany friends, as friends split up to accommodate strangers. Slipping into a seat is unsettling but once you’ve sat, your satisfied. One by one, the headphones go in and the computers come out, books open and eyes close.

It’s the first leg, the last leg and the middle of a journey: to each, their own.

And at the end of the day, when the train stops at your station, 

and you lift your suitcase from the overhead compartment or your backpack from your lap, 

allow the man talking on the phone cut you off or maybe find the gumption to cut him off instead, descend the stairs and make your way off of the platform, 

perhaps smile at your mom in her minivan, 

maybe slip the key into the ignition of your Audi 

or even just begin the walk, 

you’ve made it—you’re going home. 
2011