the accidental poet

a tree…
kind of like me
well… in a way.
it reaches up and out.
yet it is held back, kept from growing…
pruned, clipped, trimmed…
like Me sometimes.
They try and limit
Me…
They try and Thwart
Me…
but I will outsmart Them,
They will not stop me.
Like a tree I will continue up and out,
finding every possible
way to keep myself from Them,
and like a Tree after the Winter I
will blossom and flourish
and I will foil Them.
For I Am That Tree.

In the furnace of my room
I sit and contemplate.
Staring at the ceiling fan
I let the whirling, twirling blades
mesmerize me.
I let my mind wander, to things
that never cross my mind.
But they don’t stay there for long.
is it just me, or have the blades of
this fan cut through my thoughts?
I stare intently, thinking of nothing
but the rotating blades,
nothing

Giggling and talking over dinner,
You look at my lovingly over your drink.
A day spent together laughing and loving
Is reflected in your sparkling eyes.

You reach into your pocket and pull
From it a small, tiny paper box.
Opening it reveals a simple band of silver.
I catch my breath at the unexpected.

Taking the ring in your beautiful hands,
You gently slip the band on my finger.
I look down at my newly decorated hand,
And look back at your eyes… the world blurry.

The best gift that you have ever given
Is the time I’ve spent with you.
The band of silber I now have
Only makes my love for you grow more.

As the tears fall from my eyes
Like rain from a swollen cloud,
I look up at him, standing there,
With a look of helplessness on his face.

He has seen me throw temper tantrums
And bawl when I was a tiny child, or
Even when I was an elementary shcool kid,
But never has he seen my heart broken.

He comes to me, hesitent at first,
A child, tottering on his first steps.
His hand reaches out for my shoulder,
His first offering to me, his first attempt.

As my eyes meet his, and he sees the depth
Of my despair there, I see the tears well
Up in his eyes too. He pulls me close to him,
Holding my head tight against his own head.

When I feel as if I can cry no more, when it
Seems that no more tears will come, he holds
My head in his hands, looks deep into my eyes,
And tells me it will be okay. I believe him, for he is my father.

The heavy aroma of lilacs.
which I never really cared for.
and roses always filled the house
just prior to my leaving.
But leaving is not the right term
for what inevitably came.
In those months of spring and early
summer I would now call it
Escape.
Year after year it was undeniable
that I would be sent to that
place of rain, that place of
the surefooted soldiers, My
Escape.
For even though I hated that place,
Even though you forced me to go
To that dreary pit of hell, in its own
way, it was still my
Escape.
On that last night, the night before
my departure, I would sit in my room.
Sit in my room writing in my book,
bound by a single rubberband as if that
strap of flimsy rubber could
Keep out the prying eyes of the world.
I would sit there writing of my
Escape.
Listening to the thunking of the cleaver
as you chop away at the smoking body
of some dead animal, I write.
I write in my secret of secrets book
of my pending
Escape.
I can picture you chopping and thunking
awaywith your cleaver, heaving your
breast that used to be suckled by me.
The ominous tone of the chopping
makes me think of last suppers,
and that death may awaitme
tomorrow. But it is not so much
a last supper, as it is a farewell offering.
Though I loathe to go, I loathe
to stay. And so, with all of my spring
thoughts down on paper, I open my
bedroom door, walk down the narrow
dark hallway to the kitchen, to begin
the ritual that will be my
Escape.

Ever since we had taken our first camping trip, Jeff had always dreamed of going to Yellowstone, and we had finally been able to swing it. As we got on to Interstate 94 out of Eau Claire, I could practically see Jeff’s excitement pouring from every gland in his body.
“Erik, I can’t believe it, we finally get to go to Yellowstone,” Jeff said as he poured over the maps and itinerary one more time. One thing Jeff was, was methodical. I counted that as one of the blessings on our trips, because he always had everything planned out perfectly.

(more…)