Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Poem, Poetry, single mothers
Heroes (A Mother’s Eyes)
I see her almost everyday and she’s my hero
I wonder if there’s any way that she could know
Whether there’s water falling from the sky
Or snow stacked so high it’s up to the thigh
She’s always there and she always cares
It doesn’t matter what, but with him she shares
There’s no way for me to
tell if she’s a single mother
But when I see her
I remember growing up with my brother
See, it didn’t matter if my mom had it or not
But she always made sure what we wanted, we got
I see my mother in her
when she steps onto the bus
I see a sentiment
where a child’s happiness is a must
If it’s wet outside
then here he comes in a raincoat
He looks ready to steer his very own boat
And on days when he feels like wearing a hat
I see him at 7am wearing just that
They always walk together hand in hand
And he sits upright next to her like a little man
Today he sat down
and emptied sand from his left shoe
And she gave him a look that read
“I need you”
She ran her fingers through his hair
and over his head
And silently wished
he could have heard what she said
I don’t know where they’re headed
or where their destination ends
And it’s only about 4 or 5 bus stops
that I share with them
But on days like today
I remember them throughout the day
I remember what I silently heard her say
I remember the way she reached into her bag
And pull out 2 slices of bread
wrapped in a plastic bag
The way she carefully folded
the invisible plastic in half
Exposing half of a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich, he laughed
I see it every morning
the way she puts him first
And in remembrance, into tears, I nearly burst
She’s going to work somewhere
and starting her day
And her son is going somewhere
to learn and to play
A mother’s eyes can never tell lies
But they always hold in them
a very pleasant surprise
On any morning that I happen to look up and see
This mother and son step onto the number nineteen
I feel easy and relaxed and I always remember
That day I left my mother four days after December
Single mothers are my heroes
and their son’s saviors
They give and they give
and never ask for favors
I don’t know whether or not
she’s on her own
But she brings these memories
to me like a wind blown
And one day, whether on purpose or not
That boy will become a man
and realize what it is he’s got
A mother who always makes sure
what he wants, he has
And that in life he will never,
ever finish last.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Memorial Day, Patriotism, Poem, Poetry, Soliders, Victims, War
In honor of Memorial Day I thought I would post a poem I wrote a few years ago. It came about after a conversation I had with a good friend of mine and hearing his reaction to the movie ‘Stop Loss’ being about American soldiers. He said something along the line of “I”m tired of all these movies about American soliders and their sad lives. Why can’t we hear about some other country than America?” My reaction was pretty instant. I saw his point, but I couldn’t help but think how relevant stories always are, no matter what country. I told him he should write a Canadian war story. That if someone wanted to be heard and have their story told….then (by all means) write it. And we, the people, will read it and watch it and be inspired by it.
We ended up agreeing to disagree. In my usual style I backed down and said nothing more and went home and wrote this poem after I had a lot more time to let those words steep. And this came out. To be honest, I don’t think he has ever read this poem. But if you’re out there, and you happen to be reading this Mike. Thanks for the inspiration.
Let’s not forget the soldiers and veterans that fight for the most basic of rights for us, and their families that pay prices that cannot be quantified by any figure. Their bravery is boundless and their sacrifice/s are/is endless and ultimate.
soldiers of war
you say you’re tired of hearing stories
about American soldiers
stories that highlight the plight
of these Americans
and their suffering
the sad, little lives
of gun-toting Americans
who kill people everyday
you say it’s about time
you heard the story of
a real victim of war
someone who has really suffered loss
well, my friend
what is a real victim of war?
there are casualties that you or I
cannot see and can never understand
casualties that die inside of the living
while the living keep on living
but those are dead men walking
everything they ever thought is over
and you sit from your position of neutrality
with the power to condemn
you sit in your living room
and rub the names of
so many dead soldiers
into the ground because
you can’t see them
you only see a flag
you only see two countries
and truckloads of rhetoric between them
but take away the American flag
take away the politics
strip away the soldier’s uniform
and what do you have?
you have a person
a tightly wound thing that lives
and breathes and trembles in fear
a bundle of nerves hanging on razor blades
you have a husband and a father
you have a young boy
hoping to carve out the word meaning
into the tree of life
you have a stone cold killer
with ice in his eyes
who melts into his sheets every night
you have a man forsaken by his country
and left to fend for himself
because they protest the war
but they forget about him
trying to survive
you have a man
who is doing what he can
for his country
he may or may not believe
in the fight he is fighting
but brothers in arms are brothers in blood
a brotherhood I can never understand
one that you can never understand
so you sit there
with the right to question
on a throne of complacency
in a kingdom of doubt
and you belittle the emotional depth
of a solider and his family
because of the flag that he flies
why don’t you stop
making it about political agendas
and start connecting?
I expected so much more
from you than this
I expected you to at least pretend
to understand how it must feel
to open the door and see 2 men
standing on your welcome mat
telling you your life is over
and you never got to say goodbye
now you get to cradle a picture to sleep
that you might empathize with
sons and daughters losing their role models
what it takes to write a last letter
every time you suit up to face the bullets
that, my friend
has nothing to do with political policies
or rhetoric or presidencies
or any label you can stamp on it
that has to do with human compassion
in war, nobody wins
every side loses something
they can never get back
every side loses people
in multiple realities
everyone victim has a voice
and that voice has nothing to do
with stars or stripes
or maple leafs
or crescent moons and stars
that voice has to do with the sun
it has to do with loss
and things that cannot be touched
but can be killed
it has to do with childhood and innocence
with last rites and second chances
not flags.
anything but flags
Filed under: poems | Tags: 30/30, NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry
This is yesterday’s poem for those following at home. I will posting today’s poem later this evening. I still have to catch up on those 2 days I missed out on a while ago. Whew! We’re in the home stretch now.
Stand With Me
When I feel like I have nothing,
although everything I’d ever dreamed of
is in my throat, I’ll need you
to stand with me.
When I fall down winding trails and jagged cliffs,
I’ll need you to pick me up.
I’ve never had too much pride to admit
when I need a helping hand.
When I need help surviving the cold.
We all get lost in the vast universe,
drifting as light as a feather
without a tether to tie us down
to any one thing.
We all ask questions to the sky,
calling out to the stars
as if they will somehow answer.
That’s where I will be when you need me.
When I have to be, I can be the
stars, moon and clouds for you.
I can be the sun and the mountains
at the same time.
I can be these things for you.
I can be your foundation
and your fortitude
when you cannot find these things.
And other times,
I will need you to be them for me.
And in-between,
we can be perfect pictures of happy people,
uplifting ourselves and each other
at the same time.
But in those fractured moments
when my legs feel broken,
when I cannot stand on my own two feet,
I will need you
to stand with me.
And I, will stand with you.
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: 30/30, NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry
Okay, so this 30 poems in 30 days challenge is really beginning to get difficult in this home stretch. It’s frustrating because I am starting a new poem everyday and these are poems that I would LOVE to take the time to edit and flesh out ideas with, but I can’t (right now). I look forward to when this whole challenge is over, not only so that it’s over….so that I can go through these poems and pick some of them to elaborate on and actually “finish.” Anyway, with that being said, here it my day 19 contribution…a poem that I think I could turn into a 3minute piece. But for now, this is it.
The Blacksmith
Destiny needs work.
We were meant to
achieve certain things,
but not by accident.
It’s not as if
a meteor will fall from space
and land in your yard
with an ideal job
and a perfect life.
We were meant to
go outside of our comfort zone
and break down walls
to find what we perceive
as our destiny.
Nothing in life comes easy
and complacency breeds regret.
So I have chosen to work on my destiny.
To hammer at it
until it finds itself in a shape
that I envisioned it as.
Into a shape that I am happy with.
And because priorities change
and goals get rearranged,
I will keep hammering
until the day that I die.
Making my life into
what I want it to be.
Because I am
my own blacksmith
and I will build
my own suit of armor.
Filed under: poems, the sweetst thing | Tags: 30/30, Love, NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry
Love
I’d never understood
the real meaning of it
until I met her.
It looked like an accident, really.
A sequence of events unfolded
along with a small string of
unconventional decisions that led me there.
That pointed me in her direction.
It had to have been fate though.
I had given up on finding anything real.
I wouldn’t say it happened at first sight,
but she had my undivided attention
and would harbor my affection
in ways I never thought possible.
She led me down a whirlwind path
and straight up into the clouds.
It took me about a month to tell her.
We were sitting on the stairs
leading to her apartment.
I told her that I felt so happy
just being around her.
That I longed for her when she was gone.
That I worried when she was away.
I told her that I knew it was too early
and I knew she had to leave soon.
That I didn’t want to complicate things
more than we already had, but
I think I’ve fallen in love with you.
She squeezed my hand and
looked me long in the eye.
She could see that it was true.
She shed a single tear and we embraced.
In the silence I told her
she didn’t have to say it back,
that I understood if she needed more time,
I just needed to get it off my chest.
She just wasn’t ready.
After another month
of late-night phone calls and
being attached almost everyday,
we were sitting on the floor in her sister’s living room.
She placed her lips beside my right ear
and whispered the words
I love you too.
My breath escaped me,
water swelled in her eyes and
we embraced so long and so immense
our breath became one.
That was almost 14yrs ago.
Love is not an easy thing.
It is joyous.
It is liberating.
Most of all, it is comforting
to know that when you fall asleep at night
there is a spirit to share your dreams with.
Love is learning to surrender
in the moments where you feel the most vulnerable.
It is not giving up when you know
that the payoff for any treacherous journey
covered by dark clouds will be
a thousand folds more than you can imagine.
It is knowing that you are worthy
of everything you desire.
It is having the confidence to be yourself.
Love is something that you
have to learn through experience,
not through books or
even lessons from your grandfather.
When she spoke those words to me
I started to believe that I was worth more.
That cannot be measured by anything
except for the pumping of blood
through an organ that rests between your lungs.
We have grown and we have changed
as people over the years.
But we always knew that
we were meant to be,
so we put in the work.
We elevated one another when we needed it.
We gave each other the space when we needed it.
And we have grown strong like a tree
that graciously braves passing storms.
A broken branch, a few fallen leaves
but stronger with roots winding deep into the earth.
These days, when I wake up in the morning,
the warmth of her body lying next to me
is like a second sun rising.
I embrace her before I rise.
I exhale into her frame before I begin my day.
And kiss her gentle lips before I rest for the night.
These days, I understand the real meaning of Love
because she has been gracious
to learn it with me.
Filed under: poems | Tags: NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry, Tranquility Bay
Transitory
I remember when it happened
like it was yesterday.
I’d heard rumors
that it happened
in the dead of night.
That they never gave you notice,
for fear of the news
spreading like wildfire.
For fear of breeding jealousy,
of spawning runaway plans.
The guard awoke me at 2am
with a violent, continuous shake
and his finger over his lips
sssssshhhhhhhhh.
He told me to pack my things.
That I had 15min.
Don’t wake anyone.
I’d spent months with them,
they were my brothers.
They would rise and
I would be gone and
their day would go on
as it had before.
Those walls, those faces
….that place shaped my life for months.
In the shortest of flashes it was to be over.
My box was packed
and I was told to go downstairs.
David was in the car.
We hadn’t been the best of friends,
but we knew each other.
Where are we going? What’s happening?
I don’t know, but we might be going home.
We were in shock.
We sat in the back.
The car shifted into gear,
the wheels started rolling.
We looked out the window
to see the white, concrete building
that bound us together
slipping behind us
as we rotated our heads.
The concrete slowly
gave way to green bushes
as the car picked up speed.
We didn’t speak again
that I can remember.
I stared out the window
amazed at how life happens.
So much, so fast, so big.
Then, without warning
it fades into the memory bank.
I was astonished that everything
about Tranquility Bay
was now in my past.
That my future lay ahead.
And I was passing through
a checkpoint before I could progress.
We drove until we could
slowly watch dawn approach.
We arrived at the airport as light broke.
We wished each other well.
We’d known that the ride
was only transitory and that
he would forever be a part of my life
for becoming that moment.
I turned,
saw my father and brother
standing there, in Jamaica.
My heart filled with mirth
as smiles stretched across their faces
and I knew that I’d just crossed the border
into the beginning of my future.
Raj was there,
I didn’t expect him.
It reminded me
of our childhood all at once,
and all was well.
Filed under: poems | Tags: 30/30, NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry, Sleep
Give Me Sleep
Sleep will come when the body is ready. After sleepless night after sleepless night. The remote control affixed in your hand. The bed the last thing on your mind. There are moments where you know you need to sleep, but your mind simply will not allow it. But after a number of days or weeks or months. There comes a moment where the gas run out and the muscles tire down and the joints fold in and the pillows call out. That moment is right now. Good night wonderful world. My dreams are callings, I better answer.
Filed under: poems | Tags: 30/30, NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry
This is yesterday’s poem. I am still going to post one tonight for day 16. I am also still 2 days behind for missing last weekend, and I am going to catch up! Anyway, here is yesterday contribution.
Finale
He spoke with a tremor under his ribcage.
His insides rumbled like an earthquake
at the deepest depth of the ocean,
for no one could see the tremble
in his skin. Or on his lips.
He had fought long and hard.
He had fought with
utmost grace and determination.
He had fought and he is
now losing that fight.
The treatment stopped months ago
and he had taken his foot
off of the brake since then.
A man who dies with regret
writes a book with missing pages.
So he filled his book and he lay there,
weak on the outside
and strong on the inside.
Wanting to run a marathon
but only able to raise and lower
his lungs as they inflate
inside of his scrawny chest.
He spoke with a tremor.
He spoke a word meant
only for his wife to hear.
He spoke a word that
was paired with an exhale
that would be his very last
while her hand rest inside of his.
While her eyes locked into his.
While his spirit was readying to
exit his fragile frame,
they shared a finale
of miraculous moments.
And he spoke with a tremor.
His voice sounded like the wind
as it travelled through her entire body.
And then, he was at peace.
And so was she.
Filed under: poems | Tags: NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry
King of Regret
He wears his crown
with the burden of an executioner.
Heart growing colder every time
his axe splits through a spinal column.
It sits atop his head pointed and as heavy
as the walls of a human gas chamber.
He sits on a throne
made of never-ending descent.
A throne the size of a thimble,
complete with poison ivy and oak.
For when he perches himself
upon this throne he feels like
he is constantly falling,
like his skin is burning.
When he sits on this throne
he does not feel like a king.
He feels small.
He feels like there is not a breath of nobility
left within his overweight frame.
He has always had
the best of intentions in life.
But there was a seed that was sewn
long ago by his very own hand.
It has germinated and
taken on a separate life
inside of him.
Now there are two horribly different people
dressed within the same skin.
The once-noble king
trying to cope with the actions
of his not-so-better half.
And the night owl on the prowl
trying on the flesh of women
as if they were rented tuxedoes.
Paying for the services of
sucking and slapping skin.
Salaciously sinning without sentiments
of that which is sacred.
The carnal desire.
It builds until that demon
takes over the body of the king.
He pushes and he pushes
until the walls fall over.
Until he torches the walls of the palace
and leaves with a smirk on his face.
Desecrating the very house that built him.
Our king is left with the burden of regret.
Left with a crown made of cast iron
as tall as the Empire State Building
threatening to snap his neck with every turn.
This king of regret
has everything for splendor and happiness,
but relishes in embellishing the urges of the beast
he has created as the scapegoat for his misdeeds.
This king of regret
knows the pure joys of children
but holds more shame in his heart
with every trip he takes to the brothel.
This king of regret
is a sad, sad man with so much to live for
and a dungeon run amuck with secrets.
But somewhere beneath the sut-stained skin
of this king of regret there is a heart made of gold.
A heart built for salvation.
A spirit made for redemption.
And one day, this king of regret
will wear a crown built for noble kings.
He will sit in a throne made of gold.
He will find peace on those cold nights.
He will find everything he has ever sought.
But first, he must
slay his dragon
Filed under: poems | Tags: NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month, Poem, Poetry
We Are
We are something
we never dreamed of becoming.
We are lips split from
cold winters and braving
the chill of the world.
We are the disenfranchised
and the broken social scene
tethered to the outskirts
of popular media.
We are proud and ashamed
all in the same breath,
because there is
no other way of existing.
We breathe in fire
and regurgitate it
in the form of words.
Of ideas that started out
as seedlings in the
caverns of our hearts.
Ideas that travel the earth
and scales mountains.
We build empires from
shambles of pillaged villages.
We bear the burden of everything
that plagues our day to day
and provides peril for the world.
We wear a badge of honor
for what the Almighty has gifted us with.
We will scream at
the walls that divide
until they crumble.
We will speak
in the place of the voiceless.
We have voices,
so we make choices
by tripping over verses.
We are not afraid
to expose our beating hearts
in the name of
expression and inspiration.
We are dragons flying overhead
in circles, spewing gasoline saliva.
We are verse.
We are prose.
We are not textbooks.
We are poetry.
a cork board 