goodsitizen

Words matter

Weathered and Grey

I noticed my first grey hair today and I wasn’t shocked like I thought I should be.

I didn’t feel older than I already do,

I didn’t look older than I already am.

I already think I am too old for certain endeavors, certain experiences, and certain adventures.

I remember when I was too young for all things now taken for granted;

the daily activities of a weathered man.

These very complaints I hear from others.

” I’m too old for that, way past my prime.”

” I’m too young for this, it’s not merely my time.”

These words become repetitive as we are waiting to die.

I didn’t want these thoughts with my first grey hair, 

so I made up my mind with that cold scared stare.

I would have a word with God while waiting to die.

We are never too young or too old to experience life,

that is the only gift given with each day and each night.

With each breath we are given we must do something right,

to man or to woman, to earth or to wild.

We are given so much time, thus why we are special.

We must look after all of mom’s earth even if just friendly smiles. 

The accumulation of wealth has replaced our actions.

Our minds are lost thinking we have to decide,

but we must live life until the moment we die.

Share with your sisters.

Share with your brothers.

Share with the ocean, the mountains, the feathered.

Share this gift we unwrap every day.

Share this gift as your hair turns to grey.

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Mating Call of the Average.

I.

Can we all strive to be more than we’ve become?

Is God our true leader, are we following his son?

Does time only procrastinate to help us along,

or does it taunt us with dreams ’till we’re too exhausted to fight?

Composing the drum…..breaks is all we ask for,

a time to reflect.

Clocking in at six, living a life of neglect.

Servitude is Goditude.  It’s what they expect.

No colored lines or class or sect.

We are all part of the same system with love and respect.

Don’t buy into the notion of hatred for your brother,

it’s all a design for us to hate our own mothers.

There is an enemy which is common but this is not it.

It’s the ones you can’t see,

the fine print they omit.

II.

When dreams come to a halt, everything stops.

Music shuts off and lights go out.

Your mind crashes down in a drunken stupor,

no thoughts, no words, no backup disc.

Reality sets in like a porno fist,

shocking and painful and messy at best.

Never sure whats coming each minute you progress.

If I could shut it off I would but don’t have the strength.

Dreams are that fist, just covered in shit.

Best to stop here, wash off, look back and reminisce before your lungs collapse under realities bricks.

A Night in the Third World. People You Meet Pt.1

The music was loud and the drug users were more than obvious.  The ocean was still as the sky erupted in the background.  These constant illuminations showed us briefly where the mainland was as most of us had probably forgotten.  It was a reminder of a reality that we would all have to go back to at some point in our lives.  However, when I look back now, I don’t think everyone will make it back.

That dock on the water, where we all gathered before the sun rose, kept us a float. We might have trouble walking but we definitely can’t swim.

Eagle rays danced around us, chasing the lights.

We all continued to dance, chasing the night.

A girl had asked me to tell her my story.  It was at that point I realized I didn’t know what my story was.  I couldn’t answer the simple question of “who am I?”  I believed she could sense I was uncomfortable at that fact so she asked me to dance. I wonder how many people can ever answer that.

Neither of us were great dancers and I’m sure countless drinks, a pack of cigarettes, and possibly other substances, didn’t add well to the equation.  The Caribbean air and an island that felt like it belonged to us, made none of that matter.

We were in a zone and there was no coming back; at least not for the night.

Love was in the sea breeze and bodies were getting closer and closer to “One Love”.  Around the table, over the water, people were exploring the closest person to them.  Local girls were trying to chat up any foreign boy who didn’t have a woman by his side.  They would use any word or tactic they could to make any man feel like a king.  I suppose not even that worked though as most sauntered off with a smile, yet alone.

Maybe the modern man has been so beaten down that nothing can make him feel like a king anymore.  That brings a tear to my eye because I used to know some kings, but sadly no more.

This girl who made me realize I have no clue who I am, was more outgoing than I could ever be, which led to a night of crushed feet and shared dreams.  She was older than I, yet probably what I needed at that moment in time.

She was gorgeous and true, with a kindness that shined through.

At least that’s what I remember; it could have been the booze.

I remember I found her earring; it was like I saved her life.

Next she lost her shoes.

It was that kind of night.

As people slowly started to leave, some alone and some with someone they hardly know, we sat and talked while those around us began to come down from whatever reality they had been living for the past few hours or days.  It was during this conversation that I got a glimpse of a weakness in someone so confident and sure, a brief window past the drink as it were.

She had been on the road much longer than I.

Running from something but running out of places to hide.

We tried to talk about life and what we all need.  I tried to figure out what she wanted and where she was going, but in that moment I saw a change in her face.  She looked as if she was about to cry.  I saw that fear in her face which is in us all.  She didn’t know who she was anymore than you or I.

Fortunately the night was not about confronting sadness or chasing life.  It was about enjoying the moment which we so seldom do.  It was about letting go of the storm in the distance and sitting back with strangers, enjoying the show.

When the numbers began to thin and we sat in silence for a while, she made it clear to me that she didn’t want to be alone, and well neither did I.  She asked me to walk her back to the hostel where we both had a bed, so we walked out onto the street for that trek up the hill.

We were all alone in silence just before the roosters would awake, when she grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and looked straight into my eyes.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked.

Needless to say, I didn’t know how to reply.

Back in life there is not enough time in the day.  I was always rushing around trying to make someone happy, but never myself.  Life was a vessel to produce and not to enjoy.

She held me for a moment and reminded me that there is only here and now.  She wanted me to enjoy every moment, every feeling, every sound.

Her hand on my arm was comforting. It allowed me to slow down.

As we walked up the hill she pointed out details I may have otherwise missed; a pattern in some stone work, a cat on a ledge.  She was my tour guide to that experience and for that I will never forget.

We arrived at the hostel with the sun almost up and it was clear what we were both thinking, yet the pool was calling us out. The mornings were still hot on this beautiful land, so after a kiss we put our feet in.

Bats bounced off the water for their morning feed, the perfect white noise for nights like these.

She lay down beside me holding my hand with her head on my lap.  We both began to drift off, getting all that we need. I can only hope I gave her as much comfort as she gave to me.

We explored the meaning of life, and she taught me to be slow. For that one beautiful night it didn’t matter who I was or whether I felt like a king or where I needed to go.

It didn’t matter that we couldn’t dance or that she was afraid.

It didn’t matter if we had money or a place to stay.

We just held each other by the pool, as night turned to day.

Heritage

Watch as I sit here and light this up,

darkness fades casting shadows on blood stained walls.

Thinking of thoughts while feelings are stuck,

actions harboured and tied to docks,

anchored at sea and drowned in locks.

No traceable words from brothers that be,

food for thought but no degrees.

Ancestors with a shovel, drinking for trouble,

passed out on a Sunday face down in the psalms.

Only hope for salvation is writing my wrongs.

Vengeance is golden when your heart is so cold and

resistance takes brains and time and resolution.

Can you hear the words your brothers do not preach?

Can you hear the words your family does not teach?

Do you feed off the stares when you walk down the street?

See their pupils dilate,

brow perspirate,

pace fluctuate.

Is it a fair assessment of indoctrinated reviews?

Follow this will; thoughts can stay in your pews.

Does love flow as easily as this, with these words and feelings of lost beliefs?

Hurried screams heard from where your ancestors sleep,

letting their work all fall to the street,

succumbing to emotions, blue collar soul, lost with no purpose awaiting the fall.

Is this how it goes when the words are for nothing?

Not a soul understands them, am I the last one surviving?

I heard your kids died long ago when you stopped having dreams.

You gave up, gave in, and gave out ‘love’ on the street.

Your child screams back from a distant place,

“why did you give up on our home, on this face?”

Take these lessons and write them down in pen.

Read them over and over until you forget,

history proves it again and again.

No crops, no roads, no lay of the land.

You and I are doomed,

doomed my friend.

Park Life

All the time spent next to you on my couch and in my thoughts,

playing games and chasing shots.

Holding in silence the moments  lost,

You exhaled, I pushed away, we drifted apart.

All those nights alone in my head,

never put thought to paper from pen.

Not that you didn’t deserve it,

you oh so did.

Not that I didn’t think it,

I’m just a kid.

Too much focus on the micro brew selection instead of your vanilla scented neck.

Dying to have a taste with my hands upon your waist and a giggle as I nibble.

This is where my future comes alive!

If not for my indecisive nature and movie fiction story lines,

I could have a shot at happiness with you asleep by my side,

with you wrapped in my quilt, reading the lines on the crooked sheets.

The lines show your life and where you’re supposed to be.

I couldn’t read them but I knew,

so I did what any man would do.

With bouts of silence I wore a disguise to never look into those big green eyes,

this suffering character isn’t you,

you tried to show me the life you knew.

I fought with contempt and so much haste,

love is a struggle and in bad taste.

Word for word with tears in your eye,

I held you close so you couldn’t see mine.

This wasn’t the time nor the place.

I wouldn’t fight or tie up shoes and chase.  

The worst excuse for a man and human race. 

My thoughts, my life, my hate, my dark.

Do you ever think about those days in the sun, down the street, on the grass, 

in the park?

We weren’t asleep just absorbing every moment and imagining we never had to leave.

I can feel the grass tickle your skin as I lay here alone.

Eyes are heavy,

thoughts are spinning,

walls are building,

days are ending.

Feel the moonlight shining in, through the shades on photo tin.

Take a picture, watch this life

go down in flames, no love in sight.

Words matter?

Off in the distance on these grassy fields,

searching for a truth among cardboard cutouts and mirages of perfection.

Bugs crawl, playing with the hair on my legs,

the truest feeling about this day.

Watching for movements and stories told.

Stories and lies, heard them all before.

A days projection is merely exaggeration.  Can one tell hopefulness from pure imagination.

Taken out of context it may all be true.

When put into perspective, your friends are the ones you’d save.

Across the valley and through the flames, the words expelled are children’s tales. 

What ends up of the words you tell?

Do they go into the abyss when no one listens?

Do they stay in your thoughts when no one asks?

Do they manufacture disbelief under your own pen?

Words matter when they state the truth,

even if no one believes, not me or you.

When searching for movement in a far off land,

Remember that motions lie,

actions pretend.

Remember that paper is the earth and God is the pen.

We must learn to love despite the lies,

off in the distance people go on with their lives.

Feel the sun beat down on pasty white skin,

grass itches every moment, while across the field

the truth is expressed from what they are told.

Lessons are given while some grow old.

No one may listen, the day will die,

but the book is always open and the pen always writes.