Pain and It's Place

Pain is life. Pain is the beginning and the ending, the trials and tribulations. Pain has a place and a time. It is not loved but it gives a person perspective. One's pain is only a sliver of this world's problems. It is hard to gauge pain on a worldly level but the pain has made only made us stronger. And maybe the world is getting stronger through the pain.
My grandfather, a Korean war vet, walked with persistence and vigor through this world to his last days. He suffered the pain that made him into the courageous and heroic man he was. I can only imagine how much pain he had, not only throughout his numbed body that had been bitten by frost bite but all the emotional pain, that could drive anyone crazy with anguish and grief. How anyone could suffer that much pain and come out being a stronger individual is beside me. I cannot fathom how our military heroes suffer so much pain and fight to protect a nation that they may never see again. I can only say thank you to all those brave soldiers that risk the pain for a better world.
Pain is a piece of you and a piece of me. Pain comes from creation and destruction.
Emily Dickinson wrote several poems on pain and loneliness of which she suffered. Emily lived in Amherst, MA. She wrote over 1,170 poems while she lived almost none of which she published. After her death, her younger sister submitted many of the poems. One of Emily's most notorious poems details pain, "After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes." This poem is about suffering and death. "The feets wooden way" is indicative of a wooden casket. "Like a stone," in reference to a headstone.
Pain is a constant companion for many of us. But we were all made to withstand its fatal blows and come out a stronger individual. We were all created to withstand pain.
You can't outrun pain it will always catch you in your tracks... when you least expect it. So be strong.
Que sera, sera.

A View

The sun fell in moon drops

Across the chiseled lawn.

Green and sparkling with dew

Fresh fallen

A calm silence fell

Across the weathered brick house.

The shudders cling dryly to the house

Shifting with the slightest draft.

The dawn brightens the crest of the hill

Reflecting dew

And creating a weary residence

That pawed the very visage of the young girl’s view.

When the Marigolds Bloom

When the marigolds bloom,
I will come to you.
I will sing from the ground.
My notes floating upward to your cracked window.

When the marigolds bloom,
We shall see each other
Dressed in our Sunday's best.
A white flower adorned at your chest.

When the Marigolds bloom,
The ages will pass
One slipped out the door.
For academia and the lights of sound and fury.
Two, three, four
Five, seven
They go.

When the marigolds bloom
We'll sit hand in hand.
Gazing over the waters of our youth.

The White House on the Beach

Wishing thoughts of a far off land I can see you standing in the sand
There's a colored striped ball by your feet.
Your feet covered in small crystals of sand.

She is laughing
Her bright red lipstick
Perfectly carved
Onto her laughing lips.

She can see the gulls swooping ahead.
Bombing into the ocean
After squirming fish that struggle in their craws.

A crab wanders across the beach
it legs scratching the seashore
Leaving little-scuffling imprints.

A white house is overlooking the sea.
It has a tower with a light.
That shines into the sea at night.

The air seems light with a brisk salty breeze.
It smells of waves and sun kisses.

Then,
I realize I'm home.

What the Partridge Brings

The Partridge took
Half year to arrive
at this place
My heart.
There the nest he's made
A burning like this inside
A furnace in an organ
A bellow of a roof.

The Partridge escaped
Out a hole in the flue.

A letter sent by pigeon
No partridge to be seen.
A furious wind
Striking the Northern front frightened anguished flying North.

Will it last?

The pigeon senses which direction to fly.
But will it
Fly?

For something that could not be As thought?

The Partridge slips
Through the Trees
Gathering Nuts and other Berries.
You Awaken I do too
The grass outside Is growing green
A newborn partridge cheeps its first breath.

Grain Season

A train of grain trucks rumbles through the night, their piercing lights stabbing the darkness. The farmers, sweat, and dirt covering their taut muscles and dusty hair have worked a long day and pulled in bushels of grain to support their families. Their mirrors are clouded with dust they've brought from the fields, the dust that steals their time.