The garage has been cleared for spring, hosed down and washed, bicycles on the front lawn flipped onto their handlebars and drying, rivers of lather down the concrete driveway and snaking through the tire treads of all the vehicles planted on its surface. The cars sit satisfied in the sunlight, waxed, shining, silver, black and red. The motorcycles lean casually on their kickstands, dusty and waiting. In July our grass will be brown, saturated and scratchy. In May the sunlight is still something it’s missed since autumn and it drinks it in accordingly, appreciative, and greener for it. The crabapple trees near the street have started to bloom. They will for two weeks, first peppered with white blossoms and then covered entirely until the leaves are lost behind them. Then they’ll fall, only some days later, all of the flowers lilting down and laying over the grass. The breeze will take them early, sometimes, so that the blossoms fall before being a part of the tree’s summer coat, and it brings them over the driveway. One flower falls while I’m watching and drifts over, circling me at the top of the driveway where the garage meets it at its open door, adjusting and polishing steel-toe boots made for an eleven-year-old’s foot.
After a second it moves to the bulging headlamps of the yellow Ferrari Dino, to the top of its smooth and earnest eyes, landing just above the wheel-well on the front left side. It lingers for another second or two. It’s taken again by the breeze, taken in by the motorcycles, surveying the group, and then it moves again, slowly, to my father at the edge of the driveway near the street, cranking the throttle of a small, white dirt bike and trying to keep it running.
The blossom catches the exhaust pushed from the tiny bike’s tail pipe and darts away, high up and over the house to the backyard.
I blink, watching my father waving and telling me to come over while he’s got it running. My gaze shifts back to the boots, never used, my hand still running a cloth over their surface again and again, finding spots on a pair of boots that’d never seen dirt.
“The boots are fine, Alex! Let’s give this a try.” He said.
It was a Christmas present. I’d wanted it. I’d asked for it. And now I have it. At the back of the garage it’d looked almost meek, shy and reserved behind all those bicycles propped up against it. Sitting there it looked tame, friendly, like it might bring us both somewhere interesting. But it’s something frightening, I realize, unused for too long. An anxious child. I sympathize.
It was a strange evening. I saw many faces during the day and they seemed so rough to me. Less smiles then usually, less kind words. What did I do?..
I finished my work as usual and decided to go over the neighborhood before coming home. I was walking and asking myself, why people are so unstable. Why do they
I’ve foundthis followingthe dust, take noteof not the journeybut the record. If there’s anythingI’ll be able to sayafterwards, it’s that I could’ve tried to bea saving grace instead, the regretincreases with life. A centuryago, this was scrappedto a piece, and tomorrowit will be ? So if youhave timeenoughand canfeel theselips for yourself, thiswilderness isyour inheritance.
There's a MAJOR difference between being SORRY and having REMORSE.Remorse won't do it again, Sorry will do it again but work harder to cover its tracks.Remorse realizes others aren't fools so it just as well tell the truth...Sorry thinks its smarter than everyone else and will try to make you feel like a fool.Remorse leads to forgiveness, healing, and peace.Sorry leads to anger, pain, and distance.Recognize the difference.
Today's writing prompt: Write two pages of nervously anticipating a phone call.
What is considered two pages on this? Hum-diddly-um...and START!
Both my dog and I waited...waited...waited...Because, today was the day. Today was the day that I would find out...tap...tap...tap...ring! ring!
"hi, is emily there?"
"yes! who's this?"
"are you interested in taking a short survey-"
or not...tap...tap...tap...My eyes started watering from staring at this god-forsaken phone. Oh, how my eyes hurt.
5 minutes...10 minutes...15 went by...ring! ring!
"...oh, hey you."
"well, gee, don't sound too excited! what's up?!"
"waiting for a phone call. can I call you later, girl?"
"uhm, sure, sorry. bye."
and again...What was taking him so long?!
to be continued...(for the bell is about to ring and I shall depart outside into the snow and onto the bus) peace off! and bless yo' face!
Every find something you wrote years ago and you wince at how bad it is? Here's one that I thought was just so clever and witty and now....oh dear lord what have I done?
Reflecting on the fragile ability of technology to bring the world closer together and also to make it more isolated.
Dedicated to my brother Jesse.
These are the first 3 chapters from a work I've been planning for a long time. Throughout the course of the next couple months, I'll be regularly adding content to it in the form of new chapters. I hope you enjoy it. Putting this work together has been and will continue to be something of an emotional purging. It's a bit insane for me to think that I've actually begun to write this, but it's been long overdue.
I'll be chronicling the last few years of my life in the form of a novel, hopefully taking you on a journey that will be memorable, charming, and curious. Feel free to leave whatever feedback you like. I'm open to any thoughts you'd like to share.
A sincere thanks to all who read this.
This is a poem about my grandma who passed away a few years ago, i usually write a lot about her.