An Alliteration Adventure

Alliteration, an act of artistry,

bending and breaking the boundaries,

creating a crazed cacophony, a

disastrous, dreadful din.

Entertain the effectiveness at evoking emotion,

finding a feeling a fellow can fathom.

Generally, gibberish is greatly

hazardous, as haphazardly heaping

irrelevant invocations is indeed a

jovial jest at judgment.

Keep knowledgeable, kings

and lovely ladies living a leisurely lifestyle.

Most mindful monsieurs and mademoiselles

need no noticeable nudge

onwards on occasions of

purely pleasurable perusing. Perhaps

questioning the quality of this quest

rests regally in the reach of you readers,

a selection so superb and scope so

tremendous, though the truth is timidly

uttered. Unusually unrealistic

visions are vainly viewed

when writers work wearily, wanting

a xerox xanadu, a xoanon

you youngsters yourselves yearn for.

The zenith of zen and zeal.

Soul

The things that we say in our minds and our hearts

can best be expressed through our songs and our arts.

But these things that we say often get stowed away

committed to darkness and not the light of day.

But every so often something deep will slip past

and the speed at which it travels will be faster than fast.

And despite how hard you may try to stop it’s rapid spread

rest assured my quiet friend it’s already been read.

They say the best that you can do in such a messy situation

is to find an explanation for your little deviation

for your innocent creation may just go and shock a nation

so be patient while you scan your work inside your mental station.

’cause everything today is all about PC PR

the way people might react, no longer what’s in your heart.

The world’s a mess but I must stress DON’T acquiesce under duress

instead confess to THEIR distress that this whole mess was your success

and go profess that you obsess over the best that they oppress.

I suggest that you impress upon the the best of the noblesse

that to repress will end with protest unless they reassess all they suppress.

But I digress.

Those private things that get past may be better off out there

because you never know just what it takes to inspire someone somewhere.

So let flow your creative juice and let go your inhibitions

and believe what your heart tells you, not their silly superstitions.

Censor only what you feel you should, don’t let them take control

of what you write and what you say and what’s deep in your soul.

Spring Rain

The rain falls steadily from the sky,
soaking the world in a dark gray,
flooding the streets with emptiness.
The flash of headlights throw shadows,
casting them back and forth slowly,
making them sway in a somber dance.
Miniscule bombs drop on the surface,
creating self-healing craters in puddles,
and throwing ripple after ripple outwards.
The rain washes over the dirt covered world,
washing away layers of filth and grime,
leaving everything a little cleaner, a little clearer.

Welcome to the Academy

Gentlemen, welcome to the Academy. The Institute. The finest school that turns out the finest young men. You are no longer a child. You are a future Son of Xavier.

It was arcane, an antique, something that somehow survived the tortures of time. A stoic, unwavering monolith that stood proud and unchanged. If you did not understand it, you were not a part of it. To understand it was to life it, to live it was to learn it, to learn it was to understand it. A neverending cycle, looping for an eternity.

We did our best to understand, clinging to eachother for dear life. It swallowed us whole, one by one. Ground us up, injected what was left with honor and committment and service and courage and a sense of duty, a command of language, the knowledge of right and wrong and when which one was needed. And then it built us back from the ground up. That’s what it did. That’s what it was made to do. Swallow frightened children, and spit them out as soldiers, be it in the literal or figurative sense.

We were good little slates, filling up with all the necessary information, learning the rhetoric, memorizing the steps, our roles to fill. And that’s how it was. Fill the glass with the juice of knowledge, and drink it down. Be all you can be, what they want you to be. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, For the greater Glory of God. Written on our papers, etched on our minds. Property of the church and the school and the tradition. Shirt and tie and patch adorned blazer.

I was a part of the cadre, as I was meant to be. I became what I had to be. I did what I had to do. And it stayed with me. To this day, it’s with me. It made me who I am. A Jesuit run, JROTC involved all-boy school. was no place for feelings. So I wrote. I wrote, and here I am today, writing. I survived, just as it survived. A relic. I am not of this time. I am a product of the past in the present. I am a soldier in the battle of life. I am a Son of Xavier. I am part of the cadre. I am one of the many men who have walked down those halls.

I am.

Hidden Darkness

Secrets concealed from the world,
hidden away from prying eyes.
People still pass through,
trying to uncover the unseen,
to reveal what can never be.

But eyes will never see it,
nor mouths speak it,
nor ears hear it.
It has become one with darkness.

It lives in each shadowy corner,
under every bed and dresser,
embedded in the room itself.

If these walls could talk,
they would say nothing.

Silence.

Train 2 [Part 2]

Suddenly, a rush forward

onto the train, both frantic

and calculated, a simple

routine for veterans such

as these straphangers.

Once through the door,

the rush declines, as we

slowly head for our seats.

Those already seated clear

space for us, shifting bags

and jackets and cups of

steamy hot coffee from

a trendy, expensive chain.

We all settle in with a sigh

of relief, as the lights above

us flicker and cut for a brief

moment. They come back on

revealing a complete lack

of surprise, on our part.

It’s an older train, made

of metal and fake wood panels

and genuine imitation  leather

colored maroon and navy blue.

The older wheel assemblies below

us rock and creak and jar us with

every irregularity on the track,

but we do not squirm or flinch

or give it a second thought.

Wordlessly the conductor

passes through, punching the

tickets of the single ride crowd

and simply waving to me and

my travel pack of friends.

She doesn’t bother to check

our tickets anymore. We’re the

monthly pass crowd, carrying

tickets that say “We’ll be there”.

Day after day, we line up, same

time and place, to get on the same

train and car making the same

journey to the same stops. We

know it by heart, by mind, by

soul. It’s become a part of us.

Forest Hills to Hicksville.

Kew Gardens to Westbury.

Jamaica to anywhere at all.

No matter your stop, you were

one of us. There’s a silent, shared

understanding, an unspoken

sense of honor or respect. We

come from different social circles

and different times, but this is our

binding ritual. The ride feels longer

than it really is, but before you know

it, your stop arrives, and you’re forced

to head out into the big world,out of

that sheltered little train car where

you feel safe and happy and warm.

Train 2 [Part 1]

Standing silently in the station,

a warm breeze blowing the scent

of tar and technology that was

intrinsic to trains. I stood

and stretched, forcing the weary

achy feeling of a long night’s sleep

from my bones. A commuter in

arms struggles past me, throwing

herself down into a nearby bench.

Trains come and go, electric sliding

quietly and diesel screaming noisily,

announcing it’s quick arrival and

departure. We all wait, one impatient

organism, as restless as the tides, shifting

uneasily from side to side, shoulder to

shoulder, anticipating the arrival of

our sleek, shining metal chariot. A

flash of silver in the distance marks

it’s arrival. The screech of metal on

metal is muffled by it’s own mass,

the car sliding by slowly and coming

to a rest in front of us. We line up at

the door, standing aside to avoid the

people streaming forth from it’s interior.

Just

I’m nothing new or special, just
another writer looking to make
his mark on the world, make an
impression, change some lives.

I’m nothing new or special, just
a guy who thinks he’s found a
way to make a difference, to
open some eyes, to rise up.

I’m nothing new or special, just
someone who realizes that
there’s more to life, that he
can accomplish something great.

I’m nothing new or special, just
a man fed up with giving up, tired
of not caring, saddened by how
quickly people seem to forget.

I’m nothing new or special, just
one in a long line of thinkers and
doers, a footsoldier in the army
fighting the war against ignorance.

I’m nothing new or special, just
one of the many voices of our
time, a man who like many others
is trying to be heard in the crowd.

I am nothing new or special. There
will always be people like me. The
speaker, the thinker, the visionary,
defined by their words and ideas.

Quick Birthday

So it happened once again. I leveled up in the game of life. Another year older, another year wiser, another year of doing whatever it is I do. Happy birthday to me. *insert party favor sound*

——————————–

And all at once a year goes by.

One number. One change.

An eight becomes a nine.

Something is different.

Everything is the same.

Life goes on.

Speak Out

Sitting pensievely with my laptop, I

begin to think, mind racing through the

possibilities, the many things I could write.

A poem, or a short story, or a limerick

perhaps? The choices are nearly infinite.

Do I write about love,  or death, or war,

or the state of the world today? I bear the

burden of having a voice. A responsibility

not only to myself, but to my readers, past,

present and future. To them, I can be a source

of inspiration. An instrument of education. So

I do my best to inform my readers. I tell them

how I see the world we live in, remind them

that they too, have a voice, and can be heard.

If you do not trust me, do not believe me. I am

not infallible. I am not all seeing. But what I do

see, read and consider. Do not let these words

fall upon deaf ears, blind eyes, closed minds. Be

open to the possibility of a world where words

have more power than assault rifles. Where ideas

are stronger than the oppressive hand of society

as a whole. Be the variable. Be different. Speak out.