Tag Archives: hope

the noise of insanity.

And there are these days where I feel the walls of my mind falling apart among themselves in silent clamor. I hear them crumbling and cracking within my head as they struggle for space within to call their own. I push them, and push them again far away from the stairs to my heart. I will not open that straining door to those blackened blocks of fear, of panic, of insecurity and failure.

Life and her grace continue to provide me with newer and brighter mornings to find hope in every hopeless situation. It lays at my feet the capacity to build newer and better relationships. I must capture all the fleeting frantic sticky moments of this day and force them… no, cradle them within my soul and mortar those tumbling chunks of insanity within.

I WILL succeed today. I WILL once again, be able to detour that which is not welcome in my world. I WILL breathe in the perfect peace and fill my lungs with inhaled freedom. I will squeeze my eyes shut harder still to deny the light of any cruelty on this day as this gloriously exhaustive struggle of staying sane remains.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under Life..., Poetry

this is your life.

4 Comments

Filed under Life...

Stonewall.

my photo of "Stonewall"

Daryl and I were here in April of this year. It was a much more subdued visit than what transpired at this same location yesterday.

It was a chilly, rainy early afternoon as we searched the winding, uneven streets of New York’s west village for a little bar called the Stonewall Inn. Daryl and some wonderful lesbian friends of ours jumping the clogged drain puddles and dodging the vicious splashes of speeding taxicabs with umbrellas in hand as we came upon this tiny brick place in a city of tall, thick concrete. A glowing orange neon sign greeted us into the day.

It was much smaller than I expected. I remember the first time I saw the “Cheers” bar in Boston I was underwhelmed at its small size. I expected it to be larger than life itself… filled with those folks from the TV show singing songs while Sam and Diane argued flirtatiously in a corner. I was disappointed then, but not today.

The Stonewall Inn was barely open this early afternoon. “The gays” typically don’t begin bar hopping until much later in the early evening, so the bar was deserted, except for a short little fire plug bartender named typically, Joe. He welcomed us in immediately as if desperate for company on this miserable Saturday afternoon. Folding our dripping umbrellas and leaving them by the front door, I looked around. You could smell the age and the mustiness of this dark and dingy place. A thick painted tin ceiling and dark poster filled walls hugged us as small tables were tossed about a small elevated “stage” hardly protected by a single red velvet rope. Black and white photos of the now famous “Stonewall Riots” were haphazardly placed around on the deep paneled walls of this establishment. Framed newspaper and magazine clippings of history were draped behind the bar. Somehow the light of day made this bar look like me when I wake up in the morning. Raw and exposed. Pale and puffy. Vulnerable yet somehow as cozy as the thick fleece robe I throw on to ward off the early morning chill.

“What’ll it be?” Joe smiled, as we pulled our heavily shellacked bar stools across the old wooden floor making a wood on wood scraping echo that empty bars tend to make. We looked like a bunch of drowned rats as Joe hooked us up with clean-glassed beverages. He continued shuffling around the place acting as though he had to get ready for some large crowd, punctuated with a chuckle or two about a drag show here a few nights before.

My group of friends sat and listened to Joe’s ipod music playing loud enough over the bar’s worn speaker system to get a foot tapping from Janet Jackson’s “Control.” I continued walking around the bar’s interior, studying the photos on the walls of the Riots of 1969 trying to imagine a world where gays and lesbians had to hide so much of themselves, even in the progressiveness and toleration of New York City. To have to fear for your livelihood, your reputation and in some cases, your life must have been unimaginable to deal with on a daily basis.

Daryl and I attempted to play a game of pool on the Stonewalls well worn and uneven table, its dulled orange felt dusty with cigarette ashes and a cocktail straw. I smiled as I thought that gay men typically aren’t playing the game as a sport anyway, but as more of a way to connect to someone else if only for a moment… or possibly to start a conversation with a future life partner. The pool table eventually ate our cue ball, refused to spit it back out and our game was done. Joe didn’t have the key or the means to fix it.

We chatted and joked with each other and with Joe for another hour or so while finishing up a couple of rounds of cocktails. Daryl purchased two souvenir tee shirts for his sister and Mom, and we moved on. The rain had let up a bit as we headed out into the streets of the Village as the ghosts of men and women past smiled as we all left giggling hand in hand not realizing that in a few months there would be throngs here celebrating another milestone, another victory.

Thank you for your tiring fight, people of this tiny little place called Stonewall. Thank you for your beginning to bring the right of marriage to ALL people to the sidewalks and streets of this city… this state and eventually this country.

14 Comments

Filed under Life...

change a comin’

it comes

again

without denial

no stopping

its path of life.

at first, a tiny snowball

glistening and soft

with lies of faith

then

rolling

and rolling still

rumbling

tumbling harder

sneaking up

and hurling down

into my valley of peace

in its subtle and snarky way

until it smashes coldly

into me

as an avalanche of change

all at once

exploding into pieces

or so it seems

to jolt me

overwhelm me

to suck my breath away

with its harsh

frigid

reality

stealing all

that is warm

and known

and full of comfort

it throws me at tomorrow’s darkness

without a blanket

where I don’t really want to go

right now.

1 Comment

Filed under Life..., Poetry

addicted to this journey…

My son at the age of 23 is currently on a several month upswing in a path of addiction.

I am falling in love with him all over again as we talk several times a week from his facility in Arizona. I am smart enough to know that his struggle is far from complete, but at this stage of his life he is the most lucid, the most honest and the most progressive I have seen him in years. He has no computer or way to see this rather elementary but heartfelt poem, so I shoot it out into the world, in hope that it finds it’s way to him…

this path you choose

go onward still

one step ahead

another will

the sun too bright

as sky blinds blue

clouds lead the way

to hope for you

no worry son

begin today

in ways so new

for you I pray

bring peace to heart

and solice too

dear son of mine

your soul is true

still barely lost

keep searching though

leave past behind

forgive the cost

beyond the darkness

through light of day

see hands of faith

to lead your way

push farther now

to take this ride

to make it to

the truth inside.

18 Comments

Filed under Life..., Poetry

when the pain comes out at night.

only pain

lonely pain

long  minute

in the hours of night.

breathe dear chest

sigh hard

seek  strength

as you begin this plight.

as clock sees

the tears stream

their paths the same

once more.

as darkness blurs

the hope to view

what lies beyond such door.

tomorrow’s truth

may hope arise

as day’s harsh light begins

let peace within

reign o’er the soul

to flee the pain again.

ed.

2 Comments

Filed under Poetry

keep climbin’ soul…

 some days rush by

some days just stay

to underwhelm me

in such a way

to take them on

they run me down

as I push forth

with faith’s sweet crown.

keep climbin’ soul

take heart to rise

i still see love

within your eyes

to reach for life

as arms of hope

envelope every dream

allow me peace

forgive me joy

in all there is to be.

ed.

4 Comments

Filed under Poetry