Passing Wood (Somewhere in Ithaca, NY)

Somewhere in these woods, there is a glade
full of rusty retired cars. The paths are too narrow,
kept hostage by sky reaching cedars and short shrubs
so I know these cars weren’t driven there. The forest
grew around those relics. Not a tree bumps a bumper
and no grass grows taller than the rims. The forest
is kept at bay by those watchful headlights, dim
but not dumb. The woods will never encroach.
No branch will reach in through the window
and tune the radio with its cold arms.
Nor will the thorny bushes poke its fingers
around the backseat searching for keys.
And the old matches will stay unmoved.
The still wet and useless but undisturbed.
And the engine will rot but never be replaced.

Cars are called she. I don’t know why.
I know that she is lost. But she is okay,
content with calling the grove home,
as long as it respects her. As long as
it does not seek to uproot her.
She will be happy and grow older here.
And she will greet every lost boy who finds
her just the same way. He will see those headlights
and swear by all things good that they shined.

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Between Timid and Timbuktu (After Kurt Vonnegut)

as the theater empties out,

water running to the safety

and security of the ocean

of its kind, I imagine the words

between timid and timbuktu.

the moment when these lights

rise on the stage, players

devoted to what they love,

and those storming seas

roaring to see what life

is like on shore. all pleasures

floating in the cool air,

putting the foaming waters

to rest with approaching beaches.

it is magical; full of nothing but

sand castles and cloud animals,

turning the mundane into a strange

experiment in taming nature.

but soon, the clouds turn to overcast.

and the roaring sea returns

in high tide. quickly demolishing

our castles, and rolling back to sea,

wholly unchanged and unaware.

New York in Short

after the night has ended, before

the sun rises I sit and think about

believing. something, anything to believe.

stories like my own, told by someone

who can tell them better than I can.

everyone else has long gone home,

likely sleeping off the memories

of bad jokes and misunderstandings

quiet quarrels, fighting words

wisely left deep in the throat.

but I am awake with the cricket,

with the moon whose crater filled

face reminds me of the boulders

in central park. I’ve never been

but I wouldn’t mind going. Earth

science taught me that they were

dropped by glaciers during the ice age,

an unwanted child, left on the steps

of a church it would help build.

there are so many unwanted ones

in new york. outcasts from one place

or another looking to build their temple

in the sand, where it may unscramble

the riddles of piety. where it may

crumble to the satisfaction of

its attendants, releasing all the

mystery of mysticism that

the orthodox would follow.

tearing the labels of the label maker

is the birthright of those who

have been reborn in exodus.

baptized in exile, who have refused

to be exercised of their demons.

because what is a demon?

is it not the forgotten child,

carrying its message long

after the glacier has melted?

is it not the outcast, left to clean

the nails from Calvary and going home

with his nails painted red;

his hands, drenched in salvation.

Growing Forest

He was a forest

More than he was a man.

He had vines in his arms,

And roots in his hands.

I tore his wilderness

Tore it limb from limb

And I demolished the passion

That was housed in him.

I do not mean to cry,

For what I’ve done can’t be forgot.

I only wish to remember him,

For all that I am not.

He was the plant in the dirt

That I refused to see

But now I’ll plant another tree,

And hope he grows free.

If These Waters Could Speak

I walked along the Belt Parkway today, looking for things to write about. With all the trash that pollutes the waters near the Parkway, the water brought multiple beer cans, beer bottles, and other man made items. It was sad, but it made me think of everywhere that water had been.

If these waters could speak

They’d tell stories

Of kissing the shore

And being sent away

They’d sing of punctured hulls

And songs like broken glass.

They’d whisper of the rocks

Skipped all their faces

They’d shout and praise

For all the people they’ve held

If only these waters

Could speak.

Stand Firm

It always seems like people underestimate the power of little things. Just because the wind is blowing, doesn’t mean a tornado will start. Just because theres some sun, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna get sun burn. Living life, thinking about what could be, is painful and useless. Instead, we should pay attention to the actual problems. But often, we skip over reality and jump to what might go wrong. So just chill out, and see the world as it is.

Stand firm called the tree

Stand firm against the wind

He is not our enemy

But he is likely akin

Stand tall said the birch

Stand tall against the nights

And bird watch from perch

Keep that man in your sight.

And stand strong said the beaver

To his dam about to fall

So he cut down the tree,

And left nothing at all.

But many trees were small,

And learned to call, “Stand firm against beaver.

Don’t let him take us all!”

As We Sit At Willow’s Feet

It is our responsibility as the human race to right the wrongs of our forefathers. Generation after generation of humans have polluted this Earth, and no nation, organization, or united people have stepped up to say it must stop. To stop polluting would mean we would have to stop industries. To stop industries we would lose profit. And God forbid we lose profit. This society is so money hungry, it can not stand to lose a few dollars, even if those dollars can save Earth. And as much as I sit here and write about saving Earth from the evil humans, these poems won’t save the Earth. This blog won’t save the Earth. But people who believe in and unite for a common cause, they can save the Earth.

Let it rain in the desert

Let it snow on the street

Let it thunder in the fields

As we sit at willow’s feet

Let the sky fall

Let Earth rise to catch it

Let the this ground shake

As we try to crack it

Let the owl scream

Let their voices be unchained

Let our own voices fade

If we leave this unchanged.