Long More often than not Poems
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Outside you just see the marquis,
it’s ancient lights all glittery,
amidst a city past it’s prime,
hallmark of a more genteel time.
This was a movie palace once,
now mostly stage, theatric fun,
larger than Broadway’s hallowed grounds,
though it’s the only stage around.
Old New York has dozens of plays,
here just one means a special day,
the touring shows, when they come here
will always make the locals cheer.
The women like the musicals,
and a date night that’s eventful,
the men don’t get it, but they come
for ‘rewards’ from girlfriends when done.
That’s why I’m sitting in this seat,
enrapt woman right next to me,
the singing makes me roll my eyes,
but more often than not I find
that even if the play does bore
the theater itself is much more:
Gold chandelier perched up above,
casts light on painted gods of love
who frolic on ceiling plaster,
with eyes of cut alabaster,
above the stage, an ancient scene,
fawns and satyrs, a Grecian dream,
and gilt patterns around the sides,
just beyond where the curtain slides,
marble pillasters flank the stage,
frame the pit where orchestras play,
fancy seats with curving armrests,
splendid cushions in velvet dressed,
there’s opera boxes up above,
but I just do not make enough.
In pressed white shirts and vests ornate
the ushers stand ready and wait,
a pipe organ warmed up the crowd,
harmonic tones of richest sound.
It seems something from days long gone,
shines light on where the world’s gone wrong,
No post-modern black box so stark,
No building thrown up without heart,
But something built up to proclaim
that beauty should never be tamed,
even if Broadway makes me groan,
this building is art cut from stone.
Of course, I don’t say this to her,
she wants theater, not architecture,
but it’s what I appreciate
when dragged out on just such a date.
Death is not a due destination deserved;
rather, it’s a God privilege that’s reserved.
Yet, you yellow-bellied bigots feel frightfully
free to stalk and murder us—
Prey to be hung, shot, kneed, or by any means
to stop the Black Exodus.
Playing the Greek-like god that you are not, you’ve sought
to “whiteout” all who are black.
But with a Casper-The-Ghost comic-like eerie dumbness, you
can’t fathom what you lack—
That we hued ones of God have had hued eyes on the prize
far too long to be turned back.
As we continue to trek over a way that has been like sojourning
the valley of the shadow of death
And have more often than not been the unjustified victims of that
5th Amendment-like shadow’s fate—
Know that there’s no longer any apathy in us left and that judgment
day is coming to your bigoted racist hate.
When in having or showing a seemingly moderate,
most humble estimate of one's great merits,
and importance, free from ones vanity,
egotism, boastfulness, or grateful pretensions.
When free from ostentation or showing extravagance.
Can you a modest house,
white washed as new cotton picket fences.
When kind when in having,
or showing a proper regard for the decencies
behavior, speech, long fevered press,
and desert is best served:
when a modest neckline is not seen on that dress.
A demure young chorus girl.
Not being prudish could suggest an exaggerated,
self-conscious proper well fitting form of modesty
or propriety in behavior or lacking in conversation
when one whom like I, being thought of, as you wish
to be thought of,
easily shocked and who more often than not
is thinkingly tolerant.
Could a prudish objection to a harmless remark thus provoke.
When I am loving you, but you never me.
Bold, but coarse.
Often is the bread, when seeing the greenest sea.
I am but a small,
humble, low, slower, meeker version of thee.
A candle light woman.
Bright camera woman,
and a dream for he, comes true.
Can you not find,
this being this your modest of modest of styles today.
Can we not be ostentatious or kind of pretentious
without it being unseemingly, not extremely or excessively?
When it is modest and moderate,
decorous and or decent, when coming, I ask this of thee.
Love me and thou be art,
it is most often then, only when found by thee, is modestly.
Keeping due measure of your new found treasure.
It is a concentration of all of your riches,
and often one which is considered lost or forgotten
until being, you it is fire, 'rediscovered.
Of fine ripe women and wine, 'not improper or lewd,
Never once considered, a shrew.
'I will, ' therefore, with only thee...
Being that women adorned in themselves is modesty...
When beechen quickened red buds begin then to swell,
And the woods, far off this woman can see.
Being thus when this is, I have written
on this page.
It seems too me like modesty.
Purely moments meant just for me
Moments to only feel so true
Beneath the moon, moments can only be
More often than not… these moments remain but few
Given time to bear, my mind wanders
To find myself standing upon a past I hardly remember
With a mind to dream, need I bother?
To find myself a future for a life to never live forever
Can I dwell a little more… perhaps?
Might a different light come to shine?
Darken moments though short-lived… was bled
Did I age much to feel left behind?
And once more… are moments never to last
Words and memories… to write, to remember soon
A now from a yesterday, a future from a past
All felt like an ending beneath the witnessing moon
Like a dream where moments feel untrue
Or perhaps… that’s simply just me
To behold the lost of time from moments few
I can but give words for my moments to be
Powerful as a winter wind gust,
Pretty as a spring lily,
Warm as summer sun,
Fun as a fall leaf pile.
All encompassed in one person.
Flawed but beautiful.
I watch with admiration at the
Strong
Independent
Woman.
And I wonder to myself,
Whether I want to be her or be with her.
I force that tightness in my chest down.
Impossible.
They say to be anything you want,
But not this.
They would never accept this.
This would be inconceivable.
So the thought of inner peace fills my heart,
And I realize I am alone.
Whether I want to be her or with her is irrelevant,
Because neither will happen.
I dream of a day when I am loved.
When I live freely, in the open out of the cloud of despair.
The comfort of the cloud keeps me trapped
Once I leave, I cannot return, and I cannot stuff it back into a box.
But living under the cloud my whole life
Makes me cringe, cry, cower
I think it easier to love no one than to ever fall in love with the wrong one.
We are there walking on a beach,
Together like my grandma and I used to walk all those days ago when I was a little child.
As the sun hits her hair, I think how blessed I am to have found her.
The warm salty breeze blows her hair across her face, and I see her smile.
I feel the squeeze of her hand.
She is next to me. Now and forever. My love.
Fair, not at all.
Slowly torturing yourself. Exactly
Imagining futures that you have no business thinking about.
Imagining being loved while being too cowardly to show the world what you really are.
Putting yourself in the worst positions, for the sake of a stupid organ that has gotten you nowhere.
That stupid heart that skips too many times and more often than not you wish would stop beating altogether.
But when you’re alone and you look at her, you see something you shouldn’t, and you feel a connection that isn’t there.
That can’t be there. She doesn’t care for you. No matter how much you want those looks and stray touches to mean. They don’t. Nothing more than two friends. Guest, not date. Alone, not together.
I once asked my grandpa, “How do you stay so young
as you grow older every year?”
I remember Grandpa smiling as he put his arm around me
and whispered in my ear.
“I can’t stop from getting older.” He said
“I know one day the last verse of my song will be sung…
but in the meantime finding happiness every day helps me feel young.”
“That’s not to say life is always easy…
there will always be tragedy and sadness too
but whatever life throws at me…this is what I try to do…”
“I try to love more than I hate…I try to give more than I take…
And I prepare myself for a new adventure every moment I’m awake.”
“I’ve found when I try to live this way more often than not…surprisingly
I don’t have to search for happiness…because happiness will find me.”
I remember the day the final verse of Grandpa’s song was sung…
a smile met my tears as I thought…how the old man did die young.
I think about this often now that Grandpa’s gone…
How though he is no longer here…his legacy lives on.
How the chorus of his song has continued…as all great choruses do
in me…and in everyone he told his secret to.
In all of us who try to love more than we hate…
who try to give more than we take…
and who prepare ourselves for a new adventure…
every moment we’re awake.
There she sat alone feeling but nothing inside
Now so grown she so quickly began to slide
She didn't participate, just an accepted fact
So depressed in fate for the rest she lacked
The darker it got the more she began to hide
She'd hid a lot and more often than not cried
The days were dark and the nights very loud
Always stuck in park among a moving crowd
There sitting alone this nights darkest hour
A Light had shown as she had felt His Power
Now an attentive ear cured of it's negativity
And something was clear she now felt free
She watched the next night and on it went
Gaining more sight as to what it all meant
She missed a few shows but God kept calling
I sure hope you know that we are all falling
Job 4:4
Thy words have upholden him that was falling,
and thou hast strengthened the feeble knees.
VIII.
Chris had done lots of studying in school,
and then logically came to understand
that there was no deity in this world,
there was just matter, life, and then humans.
And for several years this just simplified things,
he felt smart, and could see the world with reason,
even felt bad for those folks ‘trapped’ by faith,
would often joke about them to have some fun.
But as Chris was approaching his thirties,
some troubling thoughts were bubbling up,
when he started asking moral questions
his understanding got even more rough.
He thought that all morals were relative,
but if so were they even morals at all?
If you only did what you had power to
then did the powerful make moral calls?
He noticed that his atheistic friends
never really could go draw a hard line,
they’d do what they wanted and afterwards
think up fine-sounding words to justify.
He found that friends who still were believers
were better people, more often than not.
They were not perfect by any means, no,
what group of people is free or all rot?
They also seemed to have kids and family,
while the other side seemed mostly alone,
it made Chris wonder what he really valued,
what it would take to have a happy home?
And when it came to physics, the universe,
he increasingly was coming to find
his reason could answer the ‘how’ well enough,
but it was useless when it came to the ‘why?’
Yes, Chris realized, later than most folk do,
no one can escape existential pain,
to be a man is to live with not knowing,
because human nature just doesn’t change.
What can I say
I don't receive it every day
Though I never check it
But once a year
So how would I know
If It was really there
Just like on Facebook as well
I never check my messages
Which irks my daughter to no end
Though I truly must confess
This is also the way of my house
As I watch the messages scroll
And I wonder should I answer it
By the time I figure out if I should
That number is surely gone from sight
It is no big thing to me though
My older sister used to go crazy
She would say how am I suppose
To get a hold of you in an emergency
I'd say because I hear the message
I most always keep the ringer off
Then I had the see through phone
So I just watched the lights go off
Maybe I will check my soup mail
more often than not
I wrote this last night because I checked my soup mail and seen there were 5 messages;
9/ 24- 25/ 12;30am 2012
Let's play a game, shall we?
It's a fun little number I like to call
"Do I miss you because I love you,
or because you're my brain's scar tissue?"
Let's review the facts, shall we?
You're a spoiled NEET who took pleasure from my pain
From making me bend over backwards
And watching my free will vanish
Like a parasite, you latch on to everyone
Begging for gifts and food like a child
Passive-aggressively plotting when you don't get your way
And everyone gives in to get you to shut up
By all accounts, you're a horrible person
So tell me why, tell me why
Why do you still haunt my dreams at night?
Why does the thought of losing you still hurt me so?
You're like heroin
Because man, doing lines of you through the night
Was the greatest high when the trip was fine
And the comedown was so fierce
So here I lay, sweating yet freezing
Dope sick and hungover after the greatest afterparty
Craving another hit to feel the ceiling again
Gently gnawing on my twelfth step chip
But you weren't always that way, you know
The love we shared was once pure
And each day was a blessing that I'd give so much to return to
And I think that's the you that I miss
But hey, that person died two years ago
You wore her skin so well that I didn't realize
That I still had a body to bury
Before you skinned it and wore it
More often than not, it's the pure memories I recall
When I'm clutching my phone with my thumb above the send key
And another withdrawal pang hits my temple
And jolts my thumb to the clear key
So where are you now?
I can't imagine I'm in a much better place right now
Eating my fourth cup of cup noodles tonight
Poring over a broth stained essay
It's comforting to share a pitiful existence with you
Because in a weird way, I feel more connected with you than ever
Sharing a loving, tender kiss across time and space
As we both scoop the last shrimp from the bottom of the cup
But each cup leads me closer to my dream
As you stagnate at home
Self-actualization is a difficult concept to measure
But your NEET dream dies with the last of your savings
The sun rises and the glare from the screen hits my eyes
Another frosty December morning
Through the sight of the rising sun and the scars you left behind
For now at least, you and I are forever intertwined.