Step-daughter

She sits beside me in

the car,

“I hate you.”

It’s that type of car ride.

Angry, sad,

She glares                                                                     ahead  as I

Tighten my grip on the wheel.

I am a man with an (unclear role) specific title:

Step-Father.

 

Thrown together,

She had 8 years without me.

I have 8 years to catch up on, but,

Now she is 12.

“I hate you.”

 

I have some homework to do.

 

She has both her mother and her father within her.

None of me.

I love her because of it.

She is my little stranger, sitting beside me.

She grabs my hand and holds it as tight as she can,

“I love you.”

We both have some homework to do.

Yet, I think we are getting by alright.

 

Facebook Rant

Ok ,here is a rant, or perhaps just an outpouring of the weird thought process I just had. I was sitting down at the computer, checking out some internet humour sights, and having quite the chuckle over the Beyonce meme that has been going around. I am sure you know the one I am talking about, where she is flexing muscles larger than I will ever have with a classic “derp” face, anyways I was laughing. Hard. I even got more of a chuckle when I heard that Beyonce released a plea to the internet, asking for people not to post that image. Now asking the internet to not do something is sort of like walking up to a hungry Lion and asking it to not eat you, the results are predictable and sometime hilarious.

Then it hit me.

Here was a woman, who had a questionable/damning photo that got released on the internet, pleading for people to not post it.

Think about it for a moment and tell me what pops up in your mind? For me, I suddenly thought about Amanda Todd.

Now before everyone starts yelling about the differences between Beyonce and Amanda Todd let me tell you I am quite aware of them. I strongly doubt Beyonce is going to have any suicide issues over this, but what bothers me is the similarity in our reactions. When Amanda Todd pleaded to have her pictures removed, those responsible just laughed and continued to hound her, with tragic results. Now of course the rest of us all got in an uproar, put on a pink shirt, and demanded “NEVER AGAIN!”. We signed petitions, demanded tougher stances on bullying, and went back with a feeling of smug self righteousness to our computers.
Feeling happy, we then logged in, and started to laugh at someone else’s misfortunes. Honey Boo-Boo, countless humiliating You tube videos, etc. I was right there laughing to. Yet really what is the difference between the bullies who hounded Amanda Todd, and the rest of us? Laughing at celeberties is a pass time, no doubt, but if we really want to take a stance on bullying perhaps we need to look at the culture we have created around us. We live off of others misfortunes. It’s true, go watch TMZ, read Us magazine, and try and tell me we don’t. If we really want to stop bullying, we have to change EVERYTHING. Not just schools, though that would be a good start, but everything in Society. To do this though, we have to start with ourselves. 

Personally, I really do not care about Beyonce. Yet I guess I can show enough respect to not dwell on her silly picture, not for her, but for my son. You see, I am quite sure he is going to pick up a lot of my bad habits (secret nose picking, or wearing socks two days in a row are my top choices) but I am going to be damned if he is going to learn cruelty from me. Thanks.

Been a while…

they do not know

how lucky they are

having someone sing                                         to them

they cross their arms

classic tough kids

“jambawana”

“hello, how are you”

to understand the language you have

to sing

you have

to 

sing

with crossed arms

they stare

waiting for what they          insist

is theirs

they know

so

little

so little

to judge so quickly

not knowing                             that in so

little time

they will be alone                                        (with crossed arms)

wondering

why no one

sings

to them.

Untitled

I try to sleep, jealous

of those who can speak eloquently.

I stutter my prose, frozen by my fears

Of relevence.

I can not sing.

I wash my hands in the bathroom sink, to get rid of the smell of the day and dirt

Before I lay beside my wife,

My cat is shovelling through the blankets,

Desperate for the warmth we share.

In these final hours,

before tonight becomes yesterday,

I know that I can not sing.

And I realize, that I really do not care.

Father

It comes to pass

A summer’s drive reminds me of when I was a teenager

We would go out, you would drive and talk

while I would sulk in the seat beside you and try not to listen

Complaining that you would talk about nothing

Demanding you would get to the point.

The innocence of father’s and sons,

As impatient as I was, I figured you would always be there.

So it really did not matter if I listened at that moment.

But now.

       I know you are mortal.

And I know

That when you die, a part of me will be gone too.

And right now

I am having a hard time imagining what it will be like, when you are not there.

So one more time,

Can we go for a drive and talk

About nothing?

Untitled

You want me to write you a poem,

as if it is such an easy thing.

“You are good with words” you whisper,

as if on command I will sing.

What should I say? That I do not say every morning when I wake up beside you?

Everyday I am with you, holding your hand and supporting you,

This is my poem to you.

I have no words for this,

I have no great and epic song.

I am standing here holding all the pieces,

Desperately keeping things from going wrong.

I will not write you a poem, because simply put,

I am your poem.

We will not be friends

once we are done.

One of us will find God

while the other  moves on.

Now count the empty chairs

gathered around our living room,

Tell me how we still have our friends,

when there is no more me and you.

I am the bastard

who said that he would stay

You get to be the martyr

who decides to walk away.

There is so much

that I do not want to say

                                           who really wants to hear an answer?

We will not be friends

This is now done.

One of us has found god

and I have moved on.

                                               is there really any answer?

Continue reading

Wounded Birds (first draft)

We sat outside the gas station

comparing wounded birds

Proud of our charity

we felt like eloquent heroes with heroic words.

Mine was found, deserted by her family

Yours broken as some cats cruel plaything

(But all cat’s are cruel, it’s a simple rule)

we bandaged their wings, held them to the winds

to give them the feel of flight

our own feelings kept inside

like broken birds kept safely in their boxes.

Brennan (First Draft)

Tragic consequences,

Fragile condecending,

words play up my mind

at play, so confusing.

Desperate, seeking answers

to questions coming faster

Deeper thoughts arising with

answers buried in him.

Cut down and brought around

Displayed then cold in the ground.

Days gone, still reflecting on

made decisions still objecting to

Useless questions asking

why we were never listening?

Cut down and brought around

Displayed then cold in the ground.

Holding yourself to ground.

Letting your reasons out.

More work in progress

(just something I have been writing for the creative writing forums of a game I play, figured it deserves to be up here as well)

Today I die.

This is not something I say lightly. Nor is it a declaration of hopeless surrender. I say this because it is the simple truth. Today I die.

The fear of dying drives a lot of mortals on Telara, I have seen more than a few enter dark pacts to try to bargain for as much time as they can gain, this fear is the great equalizer among most of us. Even my people, long-lived as we are, have their own that try to hold on to life. We try to say it is the duty given to us, that we can not leave it for the lesser races, but it is fear. Simple and clear.

My swords parry, then strike. Parry, then strike, never stop. Always in motion.

 To embrace death, to truly accept it, is not giving up  life. It is becoming aware of just how precious and fragile these moments truly are. To become alive and truly live. In accepting my eventual death, I become focused on my task at hand. Standing by the side of my kinsmen and my friends, as the mad king opens a Rift to destroy us all.

This would be a good death.

 In a flash, before my swords can even finish their first, and last, victim. The Shade takes us. We die in the thousands. For the cause of freedom, we die.

It should be over.

Nothing ever ends.

The Vigil awakens me. Awakens others. We become the Ascended, brought back not for our virtue, or our nobility, but for our skill and our might. The desperate act to save a world from eventual death.

All of us are afraid of dying, even the gods it seems. Yet here I stand, alive. I raise my swords in to the air, catching the first rays of the morning sun.

I begin this day of my ascension as I would any other. With a simple declaration.

Today I die.