the end is near
and it can’t come fast enough
but i can still see
the year in its entirety
laid out like a lemonade stand
everything for sale
just a quarter
as the neighbors march by
and i make no money
i wait here for the moment
when it will all be resolved
when the new year
will be resolved, resolved, resolved
as if i need a solution
again, again, again.
perhaps when the ball drops
i will know what it will be.
do we fight this fight
or give in for one night?
do we stand our ground
and put up with the sound?
it’s hard to know what to do
when it isn’t us, but you
we can’t control what others want
only their actions tonight will haunt.
sleep will come when exhaustion wins
and we’ll forget this evening’s sins
moving on to the light of day
we’ll say what we want to say.
I was your age once
and when the teacher said,
Do your homework
and everyone sat
in giggling circles
of middle school talk,
abandoning all ambition,
I sat alone at my desk
and finished my assignments,
never once in three years
taking one home,
yet had a straight-A report card.
Perhaps that is why
I cannot relate to you,
finals coming down your pike
faster than the bullet train,
yet you sit in giggling circles
of apathy, no worries for home life,
your future, education passing
by before you can hold out your ticket.
I wish you could see yourself
ten, fifteen years from now,
remembering (forgetting) this time.
Perhaps you would look back
and wish you had taken
your seat on that train that passed,
or perhaps you will still sit
in giggling circles,
unaware of all that you have missed.
two months and half a day later
we have three grocery sacks
filled with homemade breads,
a peach box filled with apple butter jars,
miniature bags of homemade candy
and an early Christmas gift
for everyone we know.
it could be more, it could be less.
sometimes i wonder if it will ever be enough.
Dear Self-Absorbed Republicans,
Thank you once again
for denying public interests
and literacy
and all that is good
to us lower-class citizens
who can no longer use
the “public” library
that you voted down.
Go ahead and take your
free cards in
so you can stock up on
rated R movies
ignoring the masses
that surround you
and can no longer
check out thirty-three books
a week for our children
to benefit from.
One day,
just like Karl Marx predicted,
we will rise up
and show you that,
despite your measly offerings,
we are still strong,
still united,
and always willing
to fight our way to the top.
with dry, windburned cheeks
and layer upon layer,
my headlamp prominent
as a beacon on my helmet,
i face this winter like no other.
it stands between now and the end,
these hills and my mountain,
and no matter how cold,
no matter the unending wind,
no matter the disapproving glances,
i will pedal my way to a better tomorrow.
the only thing better
than knowing we’ve helped the earth
just a tad
with our fresh cut tree
is coming home
from a long day at work
to a house
with a lingering smell of pine.
the leaves left from fall
dance across our patio,
their crisp skeletal skins skidding
to the howling background hymn.
this same howling harmony
danced across the road today,
beating me down to my bones
as i pushed toward a quieter tune.
trapped inside a fluorescent prison,
i couldn’t quite find the melody
that with a few angry notes
the wind whipped out of me.
perhaps you stand somewhere
on the other side of the sky,
unable to hear the song i sing
amidst the howling, haunting music.
it came to me in the summer.
Writing My Bike:
this should be the name of my new blog.
will i only write when i ride?
will i only ride when i write?
winter’s creeping in
with bitter cold mornings
that make my pedals run stiffly,
my layered legs tight with frost,
my mittened hands gripping
the first wisps of light on early mornings.
He may try, but Jack Frost can’t deter me.
i’ll be writing my bike to the top
of a mountain in May (racing a train),
and i need these legs to pedal me
through everything that will come
between now and then.
we’re counting down
and can’t even begin
without a fight.
the felt openings
hold only mini ornaments
this year, no candy.
we’re trying to cut back,
though you can’t seem
to understand why.
this should be the advent
of happiness. perhaps
we can reinvent ourselves
and come, reborn, tomorrow.
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