Grim

Of course Grim is beautiful,
the closest thing to perfection.
A glimmer,
balanced before the plummet,
yearning for affection.
Should the sun ever set
on the day he first saw us,
the moon will reveal
our liberation upon us
And when the sun rises,
the day will bring forth
an original generation
with Grim as their source.

And Just Like That

And just like that, I'm neutral.
Against all odds, I've pushed back the truth.
Face to face.
This is how I see.

And just like that, I'm punished.
Sent to my doom, they've taken my wings.
Carry me into the dark.
This is how I fall.

And just like that, I'm damned again.
The pain is real, I've felt it all this time.
Tell me that I'll get through this.
That this is how I begin.

And just like that, there is redemption.
Called from the pit, I see the next step.
Completion follows through movement.
This is how I fight.

Frustrated

I am the one to fall,
I fall easily and I fell for you.
When the fall is over...
you collide.
A hard hit.

This time is this time.
Respectfully, another chance.
I've been court jester.
I've been another stand.
I've been the next notch.

A hard hit.

Is this time the contrary?
Naive by curse,
I follow through.
Shame on me;
your word is golden.

But for you I've fallen.
Tried and true.
Again, I'm happy.
Again, it hurts.
Again, I'm confused.

Your word is golden.

When we talk, we talk.
Smiles and all.
When I'm alone I wonder,
if tell you I fell already...
will you ask, "Have you?"

When the fall is over
we all land somewhere.
It's a matter of impact.
It's a fact of life.
It's a matter of fact.

Will you ask, "Have you?"

Between You and Me

Writing this poem is what it's like loving you, it's all I want to do.

It's like dinner, wherever we dine, your thoughts are on my mind.

With you, there's no need for an extra pillow, with your head on mine.

With you and I, every song is good. You be the D.J., I'll drive.

A day with you is easy, I'd hold your hand forever if you'd let me.

And no matter how weird, my ketchup is free.

With mountains in the distance, our horizon has a heartbeat.

And between you and me, a towel and a pair of Converse are all we'll ever need.

Some Things

Something You.

You don't just cherish life,
you live it.
Life is you.

Something learned.

The definition of you is,
brilliant; full of light.
Synonym: intelligent

Something me.

Something me, is you.
That's life I'd die for.
That's you.

Something Brilliant.

Father's and Coffee

    It was right after reading a blog post about a book I had been anticipating for weeks, written by my favorite author Neil Gaimon, that I told myself to just stay awake. This was at six thirty in the morning, a time and decision that only a select few would choose over the call of their pillow. So, I continued, onto the previous post as I had missed that one. It was here that Neil wrote about another author that he had the briefest of relationships with through comic cons and such parties as writers have. An author whom had recently passed, one he held in high regards as an amazing man in literary and literal sense. The types of things that he wrote about, had I not already been in and out of tears this particular morning, would have caused me to cry oceans. (no pun to the coming book.)
    It was these things and his short description of their relationship that I was reminded of my fathers father whom had passed while my sister and I were in middle school. My sister; she still remembers him greatly, I on the other hand, could barely remember his face without a picture and I wouldn't have it any other way. He was a great man so any memory I have is precious. But if you could put him in a crowd I'd still be lost. There are those in our family who never even met the man and have dreams of him. I think how lucky they are and hold no resentment, I wish they could have met him; known him. And though his face may have faded from my reality the memories of laying into the rise and fall of his napping chest, in his favorite recliner, in the cool Florida air have not. And every time someone asks what time it is, before answering, I want to be able to explain how to build a watch, an option my grandfather would offer. Something I'm still not sure he could really do but will always believe to be true.
    So when Neil spoke of this man I cried. It was with heavy conscious I got out of bed and headed downstairs where I could smell coffee. As I lay down on the couch curling up with my thoughts I noticed my mother's father preparing his coffee. He saw me and smiled and I braved away my tears for the moment, but I felt it made him happy to see me up and moving. Even if it was just to change locations. My thoughts changed direction as I watch his morning routine, this man was a carpenter and a gun collector most of his life and so precision is inherent. As I continued to spy though squinted eyes I watched as he pours a little coffee, pours a little creamer, stirs and tests. And again, pours a little coffee, pours a little creamer, stirs and tests. This happened a few times and I was getting giggly as I watched. As he strove for this cups perfection I'm thinking he's just about ruined the coffee. After a stern nod to his mug he pops that coffee into the microwave. I just about laughed out loud watching this. Nuking the first cup of fresh coffee...priceless.
    But the scent still lingered and I was reminded of being young and my own father coming into my room, early and sleepy, just to let me smell the grinds before making his first pot. I thought of how my parents would take my sister and I along to church events, and of how I would try to look intelligent like Dad and make my own cup and carry it around weaving pompously through the crowd. Much like my mother's father I would add too much of everything and the coffee would be a cool mixture of sugar, creamer, sugar, coffee and more sugar. I'd still drink it for the sugar though. It wouldn't be until I had worked at a coffee shop that I learned about pairing; with the correct pastry and paired coffee no one ever should need sugar or cream. I worked a local shop that my father frequented. As an avid drinker of coffee he had years of practice, I loved watching him buy his first cup of freshly brewed mud because right after being handed this cup he'd remove the lid and take a drink, followed up by a 'thank you' and a smile. The man is a beast. I asked how he could stand the 200 degree coffee right then to which he responded, "practice" and smiled. In that moment, with his smile and the lingering smell of coffee, I can see his father's face a little better.
     I didn't know I would love coffee as much as I do as an adult, but I smelled it when I was young, got hooked and assumed it to be a characteristic passed down over generations to share the love. From the grounds of my childhood to the relationships built over cups of mud,  to the warmth in my soul it's brought, I believe coffee to be a different kind of seed to be sewn.
    So my heart goes out, I love coffee, but I love you more, Dad. Thank you.

Atop a Bridge reprise

The wind stopped me and questioned my face. Softly, perfectly; like a sweet breath in every crevice.
Enticing my intelligence.
Neutralizing my intended lean, high upon this humble bridge, the wind pushes with aggravation.

Demanding my attention, It spoke; asked of a relationship... one to die for.
My ignorance, a free pass.
Living the grey, walking on the line between the rising and setting sun. Infinite twilights. Two days in a day, twice the amount of stars.

It's a different kind of grey to live; an area of complete presence and awareness of past and future.
The naked sky and it's stormy quandaries combine revealing: life is born of night and day.
All the justification to say this is my bad life and the next one will be good. Death will be good.

My hands have been clinched for a while; dirty nails digging into my palms. When I look down at my hands, tools for creation, all I see is failure and hurt, and I'm sad at the lies I've told and the destruction they've wrought.

I take deep mental breaths and idle for a moment before temptation creeps in, then, as usual I'm back to fighting, internally, the fight I'm always fighting.

Gale force winds are blowing now and I could lay in the wind completely.
It's no new thing for me to trust this much and as much as I've been hurt you'd think I would know...nobody holds you forever.

The Gentle Beast speaks again and I want to cry.
How could one refuse to hear him.?

He speaks of grandiose places filled the sweet stench of nature, a place where the 'grey' becomes a safe haven for a life of among a million brilliant.
You could see everything, all of it.
How could one refuse to see him?

There's a sigh in the wind..., then I fall.

I plead, "If you've been there forever, why stop now?"
The only answer is wind.
The bridge, the instance of my feet touching stone, gone; no longer a foothold, it becomes a small memory.

I am diving and instantly I'm acutely aware of how I was never really alone until now.

And as the fall quickens, He speaks the word "Trust" and I know.
This fall was a leap of faith and I've become the wind. 

My life flashes before my eyes, not for fear of death, but because I'm living, moving, breathing. I finally reply, blowing, moving so swiftly now, content with what's happened.

How could one refuse him? I sigh, "I came for death, but now I'm alive."

Atop a bridge there is another...leaning into the wind.