Poetry Friday: Love Letter to my Ugly Sweater

Poem of the Day!

Love letter to my ugly sweater

Today is ugly sweater day,

Thus the entire school is decorated
Like a Charlie brown Christmas tree,
Wilted over with
Clashing colors and wool-knitted covers
With turtle necks,
Makeshift vests,
Tinsel draped across the chest.
 

But I question whether,

Looking at the tag that dangles from my sweater,
Its creator intended it to be
 
Ugly.
 
Someone scraped together
pennies to pursue a dream,
learned the trade of knits and seams
And produced this for me,

It fits me.
 
This sweater is ugly
To many,
But it keeps me warm
And probably did the same for its previous owner,
Who thought it through
And bought it new,
Who wore it proudly until he outgrew it,
Until it lost the beautiful flicker that once caught his eye
And dumped it off for someone else,
To be recycled multiple times.
 
Some think it to be ugly,
But I think it’s perfect,
And that’s the beauty of this world,
 
That we were all made beautiful,
and this truth:
Someone experienced love,
and you're living proof.

Everything is beautiful--
not to everyone--
but all it takes is one
 
And though people may outgrow you
Label you ugly or mark you a failure,
dump you off for someone else,
stamp you with decreased value
 
You are new to somebody
Who would love for you to keep them warm,
Who will think you fit perfectly,
Who will scrape together pennies and love
And whatever else it takes to wear you with pride,
to never outgrow you.

A letter from the uninspired poet, carved into wood

A letter from the uninspired poet, carved into wood

Write not
only when words crash
through your head like waves,
filling your lungs until you cough them
back to surface, still as themselves
but carrying your blood, a piece of your soul.
 
Write not
for admiring fingers
that sway like grass blades
or leeching arms that wave
when you force your breath upon them,
or for the scoffing ears of critics.
 
Write not
only for pain, or love, or to be heard
by selected persons, to be called perfect,
write not to receive mercy from
merciless worlds,
 
but Write always,
tunnel through stutters,
chisel through blockage
with the tip of your pen,
and if you bleed, leave a trail
so they will know how you came
to emerge, covered in proof
that the secret to freedom
is accepting and
overcoming discomfort.

 

 

 

Leaping: the perks of embracing change, risk, and discomfort

This is a concept I've been trying to nail down for a while. Still don't quite have it, but it's a start. In essence, I feel the need to change my surroundings. I want to seek new opportunities and meet new people. I want to hear new sounds and see from new perspectives.

The thing is, we all do. Somewhere inside us we all want to "travel" or "See the world."
The problem is, we convince ourselves that life won't let us.
The reality is, we are the only thing standing in our way.

It is okay to get comfortable and stay where you are, but so few times in our lives does the itch to take a risk grow so strong that we feel the need to change. I have already let a few of those moments pass me by, and I won't let it happen again. It is in those moments we have the greatest chance to land on our feet if we leap, leaving behind any chance of regret.

So, here ya go. I love you for reading.




Love note from a traveler
I led you to a horizon,
an overlook of life-breathing fields
to revive our starved desire,
yet when the Sun’s arms reached for us,
pressed their welcoming palms to our faces
and unlatched the dark doors
of cloudy futures, you resisted
 
the glistening meadows ahead, spoke
worry of risk as I toed the cliff to freedom,
spoke excuses that crept up my back
like the impatient fingers of children
tugging my shirt to leave, return home
to familiar dark rooms and dust and patterned walls
who mimic patterned days,
 
the rows of houses,
squares of cement and scheduled time
to lament invented struggle, to speak hatred
of humdrum, of wishes to be led
to new horizons, unknowing
of my plans to return,
to toe that cliff and wait for westward winds
 
to catch my arms,
outstretched as they are,
to embrace the gift of endless sky
and abandon the hands
tying down my shirtwaist so
I may leap toward freedom and leave
in the dust a reminder of where I once stood.

When Death Wakes Us...

We type #thestruggle as a joke and follow twitter members named "First World Problems," so I assume we understand the absurdity of our culture's tendency to chronically complain. We are all guilty--some more than others--of turning a minor problem into a tragedy. We focus on which clothes to wear, which phones to buy, and which of our things we can flaunt in certain circles. The reality is, this stuff doesn't matter. At all. And though this is an oft explored idea, life always has vacancy for a little wake up call.

My cousin is a police officer and sees things that never reach the papers. To be an outsider looking in on someone else's pain is bad enough, but to carry the responsibility of "calming them down" so you can ask them objective, emotionless questions is a burden I wish not to endure. He described to me a recent call, which he called the "saddest thing [he's] ever seen," and which inspired this poem. The event caused us both to think about the minute things that consumed our attention that day--including what we were wearing. It led us to conclude that a tragic amount of people drift away from reality into a society-induced sleep that steals them from what is truly important. Sadly, sometimes death can be the only thing to wake them...


A Policeman's Paltry Wardrobe, Justified

My medley of clothes, complete

with blues to exploit my eyes

and reds and yellows and matching ties

for each point-collared shirt, dangles above brown feet

 

and black-toed leather with wooden soles,

worn from dancing when I wore them to dance

with the pinstriped pleated pants

now pinned to the plastic, ready for banquets or weddings or any of their roles;

 

Indeed I can

assemble such wonder,
a wardrobe of garments set asunder

from counterparts, fit for any moment for any man

who dares to invest such care

in appearance, who thinks patterns

and linens would matter

if I happened to trip and fall dead to the bottom of the stair

like this woman, found by her daughter

in this crimson sweater of wool,

which matches the blood rippling from her skull

onto the concrete that caught her;

this blue smile, unaltered by gargling screams

that grapple with the chilling warmth in her cheeks,

which wrestles with the exhaling breath that seeks

to wake her from infinite dreams—

O revive the eight men and me, black-suited,

who circle a throttled body, contorted

yet dressed for this moment mistakably thwarted

by phantom chance, while true purpose ascends from her grave, uprooted

by the thought of my closet, aligned

for show and supposed events,

this collage of color meant to represent

a life which, if defined by this, is undefined,

and so I waive the right to repurpose

these things drooping from steel like wilted dreams

or like the limbs of a mother, death seeping from her seams,

bludgeoning me with a cost I conclude isn’t worth it.

A Poem for Pain

My poem of the day is on pain and the cluster of emotion that comes with it. How often do we find ourselves searching for reasons behind our pain? This search is a problem too difficult to explain, and so this poem is not an attempt to answer the "why?" but to address the "what"--that process of thought which inevitably follows misfortune.

 

“When pain is to be born,

a little courage helps more than much knowledge,

a little human sympathy more than much courage,

and the least tincture of the love of God more than all.”

                        -C.S. Lewis

 

Traffic
 

I wonder through the tint

of this protective window,

 

wonder about this scene exposed

to me, akin to the first time

 

I saw a man like him and wondered,

like I do now, how long (if at all) he checked

 

the mirror above his drain, if he noticed

the unattended cowlick roosting atop his skull—

 

I should have grabbed the lining of his coat

or stung a fist in the chin above his throat,

 

an attempt to stop the bloody shrill,

the shrieking melody of man and steel—
 

I wonder, would my wonder serve better as a wish

for those collapsed on this axis of chance
 

and free will—I should have talked to him still,

should have searched for a thought to impose—

 

and blue men search for a name within his clothes

and his family will search for reasons, they will search

 

for breath beneath the stains that latch the fabric to his chest,

they will guess at his pain and they will search

 

and find fabricated answers, and nothing, and knowing this

I reach

 

onward to peace

desert my wonder to dissolve into hope,

wistful exhaust over forgotten street

 

 

 

Happy Mother's Day: A shout out to mommy

House Etiquette

A mother stands beside her friend and boasts
about a dustless house, displays her masterpiece
and follows the waxed grain of a wood floor to a corner,
where her daughter neatly places three silver
plated vessels before before an ornate samovar
filled with orange pekoe tea, and after the girl
perfects the arrangement, the mother glares
at her friend to declare her parental superiority as

the friend withholds laughter at the thought of this woman
with boys, wonders if she'd bother waxing
her pine pergo or if she possesses the skill to soften
three coarse and calloused brothers,  pull them from
their quarrels and polish them of blood and dirt
and place them neatly before anything: a perfect arrangment
of tempered thunder, achieved with the vitality only found
in souls of women who raise men.

On Starbucks and Catholics: A mindless explanation of purposeless thought

People prefer to be fed in different ways, and though the end result is often filling, the means can alter the ultimate fulfillment for one person or another. This preference is a product of a natural, lifelong conditioning process, and is the root of capitalist ideals and closed mindedness. It is through this observation that I will liken Starbucks Coffee to the Catholic Church.

Millions of thoughts just raced through your head—you Anti-Catholics probably squealed with joy and hoped for an ensuing paragraph that bashed the Christian organization; you will be disappointed. I have no qualms with the Catholic Church, and find no taste in insulting its oft criticized past. I simply plan to make a connection between the emotional and spiritual fulfillment felt at both establishments.

Because humans have prioritized feeding methods, which I claim in the introduction to this essay, it is difficult for most people to familiarize themselves with the unfamiliar. People like their comfort zones, and how dare something new breech that mental force field. Hence the reason that, despite so many credible recommendations, every time I step up to the menu at Portillo’s Hot Dogs, I stare acquiescently at the Cheeseburger option, and order an Italian Beef. It’s like clockwork, and I wouldn’t dare break my devotion to the thinly sliced meat soaked in Au Jus for a greasy heap of the same meat. Thus, I couldn’t help but blog when a similar situation materialized during my recent trip to Starbucks, and I became, once again, a primary example to illustrate something that irritates me.

I am a Protestant Christian, and have been for a long time. I am also an avid coffee drinker. Through these two things—faith and coffee—I reach a state of complete satisfaction, though in different ways. And just like anything else, I have preferences in the way I am fed these two wonderful things. In short, I like my Jesus and my coffee a certain way.

Let me stop rambling and tell you my story:

Preference 1: Coffee, a backstory

I look forward to two things every night: reading scripture and salivating over the cup of--what my colleague Aaron Shaffer aptly calls-- “liquid hot brown” that awaits me in the morning. I’m not kidding. I even thank God for coffee before my head hits the pillow.

I was thrust into the beverage by Student Teaching, a phase in my life where I had no energy or time or life and needed something to keep my head from constantly smacking the desk below me. Coffee was my answer, and in time I reached a perfect balance of liquefied beans, cream, and sugar that I now prefer—nay—demand in the mornings. Because of my coffee amateurism (all of my friends in college did it as I refused to join the mainstream craze), I never acquired a taste for the Italian culture of the drink. Instead, I bought a 15-dollar coffee maker at Wal Mart, and didn’t know how to respond to “how do you take your coffee?” in any other way than “With a little cream and sugar, I guess.”

Preference 2: Christianity, a backstory

My parents raised me in a Christian home, a part of my life for which I am indescribably grateful. Though my behavior has not always lent itself to my religion, I do my best to adhere to its ideals, and fight to be a man of love and peace who does not judge anyone and accepts everyone.

My family is one of the greatest in American history; my childhood consisted of large gatherings, practical jokes, competitions between cousins, and Christmases celebrated with near strangers who would leave our house feeling like part of the family.

We approached our faith in the same way, and lived by the idea that God accepts us for who we are, so we would do the same to those around us. The message in our church was simple: love everyone, and we did our best. We had flaws, and still do, but that was a primary reason for why we treated others with such respect.

I wear jeans to church, sing simple worship songs and watch strangers step inside the auditorium on Sundays and slowly become great friends. It doesn't matter where you came from, how you got there or how cold you are to the idea of our church, we do our best to warm you up.

The connection

Chicago has a Starbucks on every third street corner, or at least it seems that way. I think it is safe to say that a large portion of coffee drinkers is Starbucks religious, for whom stepping into the sanctuary of indie music and sepia photography is nothing short of a spiritual high. Given my java background, I have managed to stay away from the café monopoly lest I embarrass myself with mispronunciations of the Italian sizes.

It also seems as if one out of every three churches I see are Catholic. Many of my students and friends discuss their Lenten sacrifices in early spring, including my beautiful girlfriend. Like my experience with Starbucks, my limited experience with Catholic Masses leave me worried that I’m not following the right script. It’s not that I don’t belong—the people in Catholic churches are just as welcoming as the congregation of my church, and the staff at Starbucks is always cheery—it’s just that I am unfamiliar with exactly how things work.

Do I wait by the counter to get my coffee, or sit down? Is it okay to just sit in here and work without ordering? How do I order a regular coffee? How do I know what prayer to say? Do I kneel now or just sit? 

There's nothing wrong with any of it; I just wish the instructions were posted somewhere.

Knowing exactly what to order at Starbucks is like knowing exactly what to say in response to a Catholic Priest’s words to the congregation. Kids at Starbucks order their Vente Tazzo Chai Tea Latte’s just as members of the Catholic Congregation say “it is right and just to give him thanks” following a Priest's call to prayer (I don't even know if I got that right). 

Long story short, I can go to Starbucks for coffee and a Catholic service for worship, and I am receiving the right food—it’s just not prepared the way I like it. I love and respect the people who find fulfillment in these organizations, but I’ll stick to my 20 oz. gas station coffee with cream, my protestant church, and while we’re at it, my Italian beef.

Happy Saturday.