To keep the still in frames

2009-11-27 14.44.21

 

I take more pictures in winter, to keep the still in frames
I sometimes glimpse a bit of spring, through melted snow and flames

The chilly sent of icy rain, hangs throughout the town
The frosty breath of frozen lungs, while snow is falling down

I see a river flow beneath, coursing cold and runneth green
I see a North-bound, rusted train, barreling down with steam

The glow of warmth, bright with light, there’s one I call my home
I pray for the broken, ragged few, who spend this night alone

Where would I be, without this place, into a man been made
I often doubt and cry aloud, hoping again that you’d save

It’s Christmas time in Cincy-town, soon a city colored white
I will rest and spend good time, with my family here tonight

Bless us, Lord! Keep us safe! We fall down on our knees
We pray for much and forget to thank, but now we’re begging please

We are your kids, we hide as such, breaking all the joy you built
We placed on him all the shame, but still carry around our guilt

Take it all! And throw it out! I’ve been hanging on too long
Hope you’ll accept these feeble words, that now come out in song

I am one man and a broken one, you’ve asked to humbly serve
I will fail and fail again, because I haven’t got the nerve

The season is right and ripe with joy, only good comes from above
I pray for heaven coming down, I pray for your unfailing love

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Video to come

My view this morning. Standing on top of Longworth Hall, with Cincinnati’s skyline behind me. I preformed a spoken word piece in the freezing cold (my hands were shaking) and with the help of my friend Christine, I hope it will become an awesome poetry video. Be on the lookout!

water_tower

For Sure

I constantly have to slow down and reset.

  • When I get really sad
  • When I become overly confident and emotional
  • When I take things too seriously

I always have to reset and when I do, I ask myself the same question:
What do you know for sure?

My faith is not bulletproof. My relationships aren’t either. Few things are.

I do know for sure that I enjoy driving late at night and contemplating. Thinking about whatever I feel is pressing and worth mulling over. For the same reason, I enjoy walking, deep in thought, after the sun has gone down.

There is something peaceful about the quiet of a December night and the feeling that everyone in the world is tucked away in their beds, but me. It isn’t so much that I feel powerful, but perhaps that I am experiencing a special moment designed for me centuries ago.

Frequently, I come to the conclusion that I can’t come to any conclusions. I struggle to define what really matters. However, the things I know for sure, center around ideas like: peace, contentment and tranquility. Quiet moments of clarity give me a glimpse of what is important and what is lasting. Those things, I want to hold on to forever.

Indian Summer, Blackberry Winter

She is yelling in a barely audible whisper
Shrill, but comforting
Soft too

Cold, but not bitter
Like peeling ivory –
Waves of chills

I turn my jacket collar up
against her wind,
My back turned to her brunt

It’s when I most know I’m alive
In her quiet
In her intoxicating still

* * *

They always try and break it
Shatter her silence
But she’s resilient and always wins

Though, she doesn’t call it winning
She’s not much for competition
There’s no better or worse

She understands the moon’s
dull light, stoic and unassuming
compared to the glorious sun

She also understands
their insufferable efforts
to try and make a villain out of her

The Dead

It has come again –
The dead
It’s creeping in

I don’t mind it
It’s really not that bad
So, I let it in

It comes whether you want it to,
Or not
You can’t will it away

The dead doesn’t work like that
It is concentrated power
It’s consecrated too

The dead is a valley
In between two mountains
You must journey through

What is the difference,
Between the dead and winter?
Nothing.

Winter
Is a coat
The dead wears.

Chasing Down

I hopped a train to get to you.
Problem is, I don’t know who
you are. Maybe you’re some
midnight malady. Maybe you’re
a daybreak too late. But then
again, maybe I’m too late.

Enough of that talk. Silence now.
All I need is this sweet winter
silence. I collected a barrell full
of railroad spikes. I’ll trade it for
a a pint of whiskey, some food,
a few dollars and a leather-bound
book. For to write it all down.

There I go whistling by. Like some
misplaced memory. You’re always on
my mind. Like the time. I hope you’ve
kept all your collections. I want to wade
through them. I want to find the barn
and sift through mountains of dust.
I want to know every inch of you.

I am like a snow-swept pine
and you are the coal that keeps
this train running. I provide the
oxygen and you the fire.

This train isn’t going fast enough.
Not fast enough to catch you.
I yell as loud as I can to hurry up,
but no one hears me. The drone of the
locomotive billows and my words are
nothing more than whispers.

Then the train stops.
And I’m in some unknown town with
a barrel of iron and rust, praying.
You are always one town away.