Dear Sir,
Remember that December? The December we met
in the little Starbucks on Fifth Avenue?
It was snowing, a very soft, sweet snow, and you had an umbrella.
I thought that was weird.
You ordered a mocha light frappuccino, with a gift card
that had on it a picture of a reindeer whose little red nose lit up
every few seconds.
I wondered who gave it to you.
The little Van Gogh stars on your umbrella winked at me,
and I wondered.
I sipped my peppermint mocha in pensive silence, feeling
very alone in the world.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet;
So would a peppermint mocha,
and that knowledge made me feel more alone then ever.
Suddenly—a miracle!—you glanced in my direction.
You stopped moving for the tiniest fraction of a second,
and the umbrella stars paused their winking.
You drifted casually across the coffee-stirrer-strewn floor
to my chair. You stared at me with bottomless eyes,
confident where I was teetering on the brink of decision.
You leaned forward, one hand on the back of my chair, the other tilting my chin up to your invitation.
It would be pathetic to accuse you of walking out of my life,
since you never really entered it. But
nonetheless, you left a hole. A little space in my cheek that I save for only the very sweetest things.
You were mistletoe—
fleeting and delicate, hanging just out of reach.
The saddest thing is, my peppermint mocha smells just the same as always.
S.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Autumn
When the colors are changing
the moist leaves jumble in an ecstasy—
an extravaganza—a calamity
of wet vibrancy.
Water in the gutter
turns the color of strong tea.
the moist leaves jumble in an ecstasy—
an extravaganza—a calamity
of wet vibrancy.
Water in the gutter
turns the color of strong tea.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Darling Drew
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
how I wish I could stop waiting for you
to finish finding life’s mysteries out,
while wondering why God is about
making us unhappy.
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
I can’t imagine a world without you,
where man is a judge, corrupt and unkind,
who says we can wed only if we were blind
or very unhappy.
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
give me reasons why I can’t love you,
why I can’t please you, tease you like before,
when we ruled the world like legends and lore,
never truly unhappy.
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
we live in an age that’s not ready for you,
God wants you to learn to compromise
the life you yearn in your own eyes—
one that is not unhappy.
But Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
if you’re looking for something, look for you;
and know I’ll try my best to do
never getting tired of you,
for that’s what makes us happy.
how I wish I could stop waiting for you
to finish finding life’s mysteries out,
while wondering why God is about
making us unhappy.
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
I can’t imagine a world without you,
where man is a judge, corrupt and unkind,
who says we can wed only if we were blind
or very unhappy.
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
give me reasons why I can’t love you,
why I can’t please you, tease you like before,
when we ruled the world like legends and lore,
never truly unhappy.
Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
we live in an age that’s not ready for you,
God wants you to learn to compromise
the life you yearn in your own eyes—
one that is not unhappy.
But Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
if you’re looking for something, look for you;
and know I’ll try my best to do
never getting tired of you,
for that’s what makes us happy.
RAPE
Right when she turned eighteen she was old enough to carry off on her own.
So, she wore short and tight outfits because she thought she was grown.
And soon she caught the eye of a young man did not know.
So, she gave him her number and they talked on the phone.
Previously, she gave him her address and invited him to her home.
So, one night he came through the door and shouted with an angry tone.
Eventually, onto the floor her body had flown.
And nobody was there to hear because they were all alone.
So, she wore short and tight outfits because she thought she was grown.
And soon she caught the eye of a young man did not know.
So, she gave him her number and they talked on the phone.
Previously, she gave him her address and invited him to her home.
So, one night he came through the door and shouted with an angry tone.
Eventually, onto the floor her body had flown.
And nobody was there to hear because they were all alone.
The Teenage Life
From ages 14 to 18, freshmen year to senior year when will it end?
The same old priceless moments occur again and again.
Fights. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. and Lies.
Bad Grades. Detention. Tears at Night.
Mocking. Gossip. Friends Left Behind.
When will all this ignite?
The fighting, the bickering, the nonsense the drama
Is so hot it could measure up the temperature of a sauna.
Will this all die out or will it continue?
Will I have to worry about my child dealing with these issues?
Or will it be thrown away and forgotten like a dirty old tissue?
The life of a teenager from my point of view.
The same old priceless moments occur again and again.
Fights. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. and Lies.
Bad Grades. Detention. Tears at Night.
Mocking. Gossip. Friends Left Behind.
When will all this ignite?
The fighting, the bickering, the nonsense the drama
Is so hot it could measure up the temperature of a sauna.
Will this all die out or will it continue?
Will I have to worry about my child dealing with these issues?
Or will it be thrown away and forgotten like a dirty old tissue?
The life of a teenager from my point of view.
A Game vs Reality
Are you really the one?
Or have I been struck with cupids arrow filled with passionate unanimous love?
Am I jus another fool to fall for you continuous, secret, little games?
Should I believe the stereotype that all teenage boys are the same?
Lurking and exploring any beautiful, insecure female you see.
Feeding her ears with lovely remarks, which builds up her self-esteem.
"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
"We are definatly meant to be."
Are two of the possibly millions of statements that had the audcacity to
Disperse from the tip of your tongue.
Please tell me if I'm wrong.
Is your love a "game" as they say?
Or is it so real that your willing to stay?
Thank You for Supporting, or The Souvenir of Stupidity
I take about fifty of them. Maybe more. A friend convinces me that we should attach as many as we can to our volunteer shirts. Even though our shirts are heavy, we look pretty good, if not ridiculous. We become human support banners, and many of the participants are glad to see our enthusiasm. It’s the least we can do. Besides, the supervisor wants to get rid of the buttons anyway.
When it’s all over, I wait about an hour for my parents to pick me up. One by one, the parking lot empties until it becomes lifeless.
I try to ignore the chilly air. I try to ignore the dreary sky. I especially try to ignore my loneliness.
Forebodingly, my parents’ car looms into the parking lot, and I try not to look distressed. They give each other confused glances while I settle in the car.
“Well, Sir Robin, you seem to be sporting the latest in chainmail today,” my father scoffs.
My mother is less amused. “Did you get any hours done, or did you just spend your time fastening buttons?”
I answer, “Yeah, I got plenty of hours done. But it was more fun than work.”
“More fun than work? What type of service did you do?”
“Oh, we just gave out prizes to the athletes and helped in some of the games. Lots of people. We got to see them compete and play games and win medals. It was pretty awesome.”
“That’s great,” my dad says. “So you’ve now filled out your requirement?”
Mom answers this. “Of course he did. Show us the form.”
While I scramble to find it, the car hits a bunch of road bumps, and the buttons on my shirt clang loudly. Sooner or later I overhear whispering between my parents.
Dad murmurs, “…He should wear that shirt during this year’s Christmas party. Am I right? That way he can dance when we all sing ‘Jingle Bells.’”
“Very funny,” Mom replies sarcastically. “What’s more important is that he gets all those community service hours done. I don’t wait him failing for…failing to get a measly 10 hours.”
“I’m sure he has it all filled, signed, and ready to go.”
“This is his last chance. He’s already past the deadline.”
I don’t believe in deadlines, but the faster she sees it, the faster I can relieve her nagging. To stall her, I ask if she wants to see one of the buttons up close. She accepts and examines the button carefully, seeming to admire the stick figures with arms spread out and joining. She reads the script on the button out loud: “Thank You for Supporting Somerset County Special Olympics.” She attempts to hand it back, but the car hits another road bump and pierces my finger instead with the pin on the back of the button. My finger starts to bleed. I ask for a Band-Aid.
“I don’t have any on me,” she says.
“But you’re a nurse.”
“You’re not going to die,” she remarks before changing the subject. “Where’s the form?”
“I swear it was in one of my pockets, done and completed.”
“You lost it?”
“I dunno. Look, it’s not the end of the world if I lost it.”
Dad barges in. “Do you want to go back?”
I ignore this. Too busy thinking.
I blew it. I ruined my last chance. All that work was nothing. I went to the Special Olympics and all I got was this T-shirt and about 50 pins. Maybe I should come up with an excuse. “Yeah, it was really windy that day, Mr. Bartlett.” I take back everything I ever said about the Special Olympics. I didn’t deserve this; this wasn’t my fault, right? I mean, what did I come here for? I guess it was for hours. But we gave out about a million of those buttons and plenty of Frisbees and stress balls and all kinds of stuff. And they looked so gratified with us helping them out, and…
Dad turns on the radio since I look so deep in thought. When I zap out of it, I say, “It’s okay. I’ll take the heat.”
I glance at the button that pricked me. It will be a souvenir, something that will remind me of the joys of volunteering, and the consequences for losing its documentation.
I pin it back to my shirt again.
When it’s all over, I wait about an hour for my parents to pick me up. One by one, the parking lot empties until it becomes lifeless.
I try to ignore the chilly air. I try to ignore the dreary sky. I especially try to ignore my loneliness.
Forebodingly, my parents’ car looms into the parking lot, and I try not to look distressed. They give each other confused glances while I settle in the car.
“Well, Sir Robin, you seem to be sporting the latest in chainmail today,” my father scoffs.
My mother is less amused. “Did you get any hours done, or did you just spend your time fastening buttons?”
I answer, “Yeah, I got plenty of hours done. But it was more fun than work.”
“More fun than work? What type of service did you do?”
“Oh, we just gave out prizes to the athletes and helped in some of the games. Lots of people. We got to see them compete and play games and win medals. It was pretty awesome.”
“That’s great,” my dad says. “So you’ve now filled out your requirement?”
Mom answers this. “Of course he did. Show us the form.”
While I scramble to find it, the car hits a bunch of road bumps, and the buttons on my shirt clang loudly. Sooner or later I overhear whispering between my parents.
Dad murmurs, “…He should wear that shirt during this year’s Christmas party. Am I right? That way he can dance when we all sing ‘Jingle Bells.’”
“Very funny,” Mom replies sarcastically. “What’s more important is that he gets all those community service hours done. I don’t wait him failing for…failing to get a measly 10 hours.”
“I’m sure he has it all filled, signed, and ready to go.”
“This is his last chance. He’s already past the deadline.”
I don’t believe in deadlines, but the faster she sees it, the faster I can relieve her nagging. To stall her, I ask if she wants to see one of the buttons up close. She accepts and examines the button carefully, seeming to admire the stick figures with arms spread out and joining. She reads the script on the button out loud: “Thank You for Supporting Somerset County Special Olympics.” She attempts to hand it back, but the car hits another road bump and pierces my finger instead with the pin on the back of the button. My finger starts to bleed. I ask for a Band-Aid.
“I don’t have any on me,” she says.
“But you’re a nurse.”
“You’re not going to die,” she remarks before changing the subject. “Where’s the form?”
“I swear it was in one of my pockets, done and completed.”
“You lost it?”
“I dunno. Look, it’s not the end of the world if I lost it.”
Dad barges in. “Do you want to go back?”
I ignore this. Too busy thinking.
I blew it. I ruined my last chance. All that work was nothing. I went to the Special Olympics and all I got was this T-shirt and about 50 pins. Maybe I should come up with an excuse. “Yeah, it was really windy that day, Mr. Bartlett.” I take back everything I ever said about the Special Olympics. I didn’t deserve this; this wasn’t my fault, right? I mean, what did I come here for? I guess it was for hours. But we gave out about a million of those buttons and plenty of Frisbees and stress balls and all kinds of stuff. And they looked so gratified with us helping them out, and…
Dad turns on the radio since I look so deep in thought. When I zap out of it, I say, “It’s okay. I’ll take the heat.”
I glance at the button that pricked me. It will be a souvenir, something that will remind me of the joys of volunteering, and the consequences for losing its documentation.
I pin it back to my shirt again.
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