Alumnus of Earth

Line Poetry, Party Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Questions, Thoughts

Pomp and Circumstance. 

On repeat for an hour, one of the most trying performances of high school. 

Dragging on and on forever for another to bask in. 

What if pomp and circumstance kept on going after our bodies decomposed? 

When the soul gets its diploma

And moves away from the little town they grew up with. 

Will it ever grow homesick of the solar system? 

Things do not die, but no graduation is the same. 

Sometimes we think they go too soon. 

But we don’t lose them after a funeral. 

They don’t become nonexistent, merely 

An Alumnus of Earth. 

Excitement:

gratitude, Nature, Peace, Poetry, Uncategorized, Whimsical as Heck

Today, I turned I’ve hours in Wal-Mart into a couple of sizeable steps on my journey.

Thinking in the pouring rain and then the fourth aisle (for the third time), it was a happy Mother’s Day.

In two days I’ll be a happy public servant. My friends have elections to win, and I want to stand helpfully political by their side.

Smoke billows from the incense like dog fur growing,

The diamonds and four-sided stars putter and cough,

As a swirling gale from five feet away comes to snatch the fur in a circling whirlwind.

It hangs in the air and sticks to the wind like glue,

Giving it a definition I never thought of.

I look around my room. Shoe-hangers, instrument corners, and some god-blessed open space.

This place has a definition I never thought of.

Perhaps the elements play darts with the two pairs of flip flops that face

The blusters coming from the open window across the room,

A smidge less than twenty feet away.

A wind spitball hits me as I type that.

Everything’s doing fine.

Everything breathes.

This isn’t foreshadowing any other June horror stories.

I’ve got my peace.

So maybe I need to run and give it to others.

What was Tim’s last name again?

Dream No. 1

dreams, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Uncategorized

I can be a nice blue sky,

Waking from a dream in twilight.

The park is quiet, sullen like an old war story

And I’m  part of many- lovers, tacticians, fighters, musicians

They’re all coming to the crown in the green grass, this floating tablet

The shakes the earth upon its flight.

My robes are threadbare, but I am garbed in seven gorgeous notes.

The wind scatters myself from the swaying grasses,

All the way up the earthen spiral to our crown.

How did I grow to love you so?

I suppose it’ll only answered in the logic of a dream.

But those seven notes speak it louder than my subconscious ever could.

It’s an unconscious spell,

A lovely incantation on the eighth hour.

“I can be a nice, blue sky.”

Gratitude is a Weapon

Amherst, Empowerment, gratitude, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

Gratitude is a weapon, keeping eyes sharpened to edge and warmth in its holster.

I’ve taken tabletop infinity for granted.

Food deserving of national prestige has become commonplace, valueless as a plastic swipe to forget. Now, I’m hungry.

My love-saturated heart grew weary of people’s attention, and now it starves for it again.

The space I wished to travel across faster has become fixed and cramped. I yearn to let my roots down to spread and paint the room.

The commodities I scorned as Capitalist I see as luxurious now, in this backwater little kind of town.

And how many more are out there? How many more live under heavier blankets?

It boggles my mind.

It feels like there is so little I know, but I know that gratitude is in order.

So I’ll sit back as I attempt to stretch once again into lotus,

And visit the temple I carry in my chest with affection.

My left eye throbs with the weight of observation.

My body aches with the motion of today.

24 well-spent hours and still, little has changed.

How do I make it past this college dream to fight for the right to keep dreaming afterwards?

How can I build this all up if my surroundings fill me with feelings like additional luggage to unpack?

In a nibble’s fraction of my inability to comprehend the universe around me,

I fail to comprehend the totality of life on Earth- in America, Massachusetts, Amherst or No Bro.

So I thank the air that chooses to bend,

And I thank the inspirations I’ve been forced to leave behind.

I thank the people who have taught me patience and the people who have learned to be patient with me.

I don’t think I thank them enough, so I thank them again for the few and far-between.

May the thankful react live longer than Mother’s Day Weekend.

May our collective gratitude burst forth often, like bundles of light to nag us with sweetness.

So we never have the chance to lose our luster.

I’ll keep the syrup of gratitude at a boil,

So it can splash viscous like water across an infinite tabletop of cups running over,

And melt with abundance through the hardened hearts of the people who need it.

That is how I will fight my wars.

Gratitude is my weapon.

A Good Great

Amherst, Peace, Poetry, Stuff to do

I glance across the monolith

To the boy chewing on his headphone cables

And wonder what he’ll end up becoming after his time passes.

Will he make it big in his corner of the world, like I hope and hope I will?

I don’t know him well enough to find that truth.

I don’t know myself well enough to know my fate.

So I agonize over these forces with an imaginary locus of control.

I think of the article I almost wrote. The novel I’ve been trying to finish.

Something clicks in my head, an invisible loudspeaker materializes

With veins bursting in their forehead

Among the obscenities and cuss-outs, I hear this.

“Take it day by day and just fucking do it.”

All of this existential future dread took up the space that my improvement needed,

So I fell off of my rails and succumbed.

No more.

It’s back to the poetry. An easy routine whose greatness becomes easier in time. A photo a day to complement.

In a life where time is the antagonist and greatness the ends,

I realize I have nothing but time and greatness is subjective.

Bad people can get what they want and win.

They’re called great without ever being good.

Why put time in energy to compare myself to these vastly differing goals?

I’ve got skills to develop and time

To make my path to a good great.

 

The reflection in the mirror after 4 years at UMass will not encase me in who I’ll be for the rest of my life.

All we can do is move forward.

What a beautiful gift of a “can” that is.

Frequency

Empowerment, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I’ve got little bubbles in me,

They’re pockets of technicolor energy

It’s effervescence bouncing constant, tension free

Contributes to my glowing frequency.

 

Effort, lessons of a germ turning I into we.

Equal balance giving extra for free.

Rehearsed colors painting air with glee.

Reverse colonists feeding back to the tree.

The worst clicking heels backward to flee

The first mimic heals to the bequeathed

A terse lyric feels the dangers of screens

The gurgling murk is a manger obscene

Filled up with emotional cocktails’ canteen

Of anger and spite where confliction careens,

So we never ask why, or “what does it mean”?

And thus dash our hopes down of returning to clean.

 

What an arduous task to escape from this trance,

When the key is locked up in a bright buddy’s glance.

When our pilot light’s dark,

And our flint will alone cannot kindle our spark,

To give love to another is to make your mark,

And resume your life with the frequency in your heart.

Lobby Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Politics, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

It was a regular Thursday. 

Wax oozed from the walls and the pores of our faces. 

We stepped through the marble edifices of political gods, 

Men and women like most of us. The wax was doctrine. 

The surface deflected every scent but superiority. 

Quiet howls shrieked, smothered by business casual. There are no people here. 

Only lobbyists. 

Pentacles carved into these wondrous halls can’t be a coincidence if nothing is coincidence. 

I am not coincidence. They are not coincidence. 

So why I’m the world do we feel so out of our own skin? 

Photo opps, flag halls. Pseudo strategy. Stop the anxiety. 

The wax drips from these Corinthian bullies, 

Bright eyes in white guise stand marbled with intimidating decorum. 

If only we could connect with this history. 

Of Sarah, and patriotism, Oliver Ames, Amen I say to you. To history. 

Timidness stands where reverence deserves, 

The wax coats these bodies fully

And I haven’t the chisel to break it. 

Hurry up and wait. 

Heat the wax, so it may set

And paralyze us all. 

Why must this be so on Lobby Day? 

Write for the words.

Meditate for each in and out.

Run, cause you’re out of time.

Fly, to flee your feelings.

Pray cause it’s lent.

Be good, or you’ll find trouble.

 

It baffles me how easy it is to forget the real reasons we live.

What’s your reason for doing what you are right now?

I’m unplugged, the light’s been off and I’ve forgotten where the switch is.

I’ve turned friends into false idols to dominate my time,

Self-constructed monsters run amok through my headspace,

Cause the mice will play when the joy is away.

But all it takes is a simple flick up, when you know where to touch.

And channels of friends, love, direction and reasons come flooding into view,

And you sit dumbfounded to see it never left in the first place.

Disconnection is a hell of a drug. So it goes, and flows,

and flows,

Washing every trash statue erected in your insecurity away like a Listerine tsunami.

Clean enough for the government to redirect it towards those Florida gated communities.

Death never smelled so shiny.

Rebirth, easy as a smile with the light coming from inside.

Mid blessing, a piece of birdshit plopped inches away from Osbourne and my hand.

The path of righteousness put me just outside the radius enough to see I was in that blessing.

Acne turns to cartography when the third eye opens on a fresh zit.

Cosmetic, or cosmic?

We can’t tell for ourselves, but only hope.

Hope is all we could ever do.

Hope is all we could ever need.

Empowerment, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I’ve Been There Before

Joylessness, love, Peace, Poetry, Problems, The World is Beautiful

I can see it right in front of me.

The look on two people’s faces, closely conjoined

One shows the other something they love,

You can tell it in the wrinkles of their smile and the high in their eyes.

The other person- disjointed. Façades of pleasure coat themselves in a silicone mask

To feign the feelings the other has, naturally coursing through them.

I’m sorry you’re forced to receive the plastic. You deserve organic joy from the things that shake you.

I can see the annoyance on your face mirroring their smirk,

Your time is limited and it’s a feeling I know all too well.

We’ve descended into the desert- lent has begun for this observer, and with it the promise of

and with it the promise of

One hell of a trial.

And yet, there is goodness no farther away than out the corner of my eye.

If I keep that sense of encompassing love around me,

I’ll be able to glow right through the spooks.

Today is a day to avoid cemeteries,

But how do we abstain from the mausoleums in others’ hearts?

How do we find peace in our subconscious when our dreams are constantly attacked?

Surgeons, domestic terrorists, and insect amalgamates are throwing everything they can

To disrupt our pace and our peace.

As I write on top of this monolith,

My fingers feel the ease of flow and the nimbleness

Of a well-warmed guitar.

Even if my heart is unprepared,

Even if my mind is clouded,

Even if my voice is murmurs and grape juice,

My fingers flow, and express their love.

This is the scape I know the best,

So I’ll just let my fingers go, and be free and love how they wish.

You’re Not Doing Half Bad

Internal Poetry, Peace, Problems, Questions, The World is Beautiful

I woke up today to the normally scheduled sleep pattern

But I got out from one hell of a dummy dream.

Every now and again, my subconscious likes to trick me into believing

I’ve wasted my time, it all flies before me,

And I can’t hold my own through a paper bag.

So sometimes, it takes the manifestations of my slumber

And injects truly nonsensical moments into the dream,

Where I completely fail at everything I do

And respond with a dumb “Oh well,” before

Moving on to fuck the next thing up.

Amusement park rides and pseudo band camps

Illustrate distant worries and fears that I’ve yet to fully tackle.

But they’re well on their way.

Accountability is on its way to becoming habitual.

My afterburner productivity mornings are on their way to the routine.

I want to make this and continue to be Fabulous,

But the road is long and daunting,

And even my own dreamscape has money against me.

So how In the world do you still love yourself like you’re the champ?

It’s been months since I picked up the “fake it till you make it” mentality

Gathering dust in the corner pile behind the high school prom memories

(I never went to prom)

Even if I am afraid of failure,

I’m nailing the majority of my grades.

I’m creating content left and right across all mediums.

I’ve got a surplus of $ in the bank from things I’ve started this semester.

I’ve turned the month of loose change time we’ve spent here

And turned it into unfathomable memories,

Celestial alignments,

Massive teachings,

Epiphanies, left and right

Friendship congregations

Struggles overcome with patience

Emotional support

And the accountability I was afraid of losing.

I’ve taken victory from the jaws of defeat

And had my cup overflow with merry.

I’ve certainly gotten my money’s worth with investor’s acumen,

And I don’t intend to stop.

So we’ll lace up,

Hit the track,

Hit the papers,

Grab the pen,

Roll the papers,

Roll my Rs,

Roll my steps,

Write the words,

Write to live

Write to love

Write to forgive.