Poetry that got me the only 'A' of my college career

Boston Common

Standing as soldiers in march,

rows give way to a small gap

where smaller beings look up

in awe, carrying tomorrow’s torch.

The hills of our fathers’ land,

now covered with iron and steel.

We will eat our hunger’s fill,

others buried in the sand—

Upon where ghosts used to graze,

silence lost, with nature’s ways.

July 4^th, A Few Years Ago

Walking house to house around the pond,

no breeze to shake off the air’s stifling

hold. A dream-like glow on streetside lamps,

day’s heat refused to sleep with the sun,

instead flirting with dark air over

the tar-stench blacktop.

Fighting the city lights to see stars

who maybe died with the dinosaurs,

someone’s already tasting dinner

for the second or third time tonight.

Drinks get warm in the blue moon’s hard stare,

and the sky explodes under pressure

of our expectations of grandeur.

Fire streaming upwards, children screaming

at the many pops and cracks above,

we grab another beer, a Camel,

and hope it’ll always be this easy.

Near Independence Pass

The cold ground beneath me cracks,

but only the few blades of grass give way.

Coughing, trying to seize a breath,

I am taller than the mountain

across from me.

The wind is vainly striving

to toss me down into the azure abyss.

I strain my eyes. A thin line divides

the green and continues to the next

ceiling-less hall of peaks and crags.

Using my fingers to dig a seed-deep hole,

I place an old high school ID card

just under the loose-pebble soil.

Covering it up, I hope for rain.

I am going to be here forever.

Three jets fly through the valley.

Even though they were far below,

I still wave hello.

Massachusetts Avenue

Suspended above the murky Charles,

walking back from the Yard,

I see a blurred sun rise behind trees

and empty buildings, horizon

wavering like oil on water.

Fathers walked these paths,

though then they were lined

with trees, not metal obelisks.

Through hills long obscured,

they would come, bringing their

pocket-sized swords to do battle

with aristocrats and kings.

Now I walk as they did, but

under much less noble means.

Even a city that doesn’t sleep

dies sometime during the night.

Eerily empty streets on both sides,

not even the stray animals and

Costello’s drunks dare to leave cover.

Now I see those mightier men

looking back at me.

I myself am a son also—

But not of liberty.

Rorschach

We were a Rorschach on the hillside,

white ink, delicately splattered.

Keeping to our sides,

always meeting in the middle of the page.

We laughed.

It sailed over the surface of the lake

on the backs of little bugs, skating.

The sun looked even brighter behind

our reflections, a spotlight down-stage,

and the fish watched us with envy

they could never know.

If only it could stay as a photograph— forever transfixed,

a thousand words would never be necessary.

But, we yelled.

This time, carried only through the walls

by much larger, unsavory bugs.

Cheap fluorescent lights

with their cold, lifeless gazes

cast hard-edged shadows on floor.

We were nothing more than two

meticulous drops, standing prostrate

around the corners, crossing our sides

as the ink spilled off the page.

Thirty-Six Holes

The days were long as they were humid.

A choral ensemble of hind legs and beaks,

singing amongst the other tiny lives,

provided the deafening drone.

Reverence, respect, honor;

Nature’s noisy chaos is in balance

on the days when we let Her speak.

He called it “the game”—

I never understood.

Bringing me along, carrying the bags,

never able to keep up, just another bag

full of blunt instruments with the rest.

The holes were trials.

I, the little white ball,

being whacked, sliced, and skulled

across the green ocean,

but never landing where I want,

nestled on top of the short stuff.

“Sometimes life hits a bad shot,

but play’r as she lies.”

My father was a believer—

I simply felt it was manual labor,

hands sore and calloused

from digging my club into the ground

as some sort of crude pick axe—

the grassy smells of soil and

fertilizer filling the air

with every hack.

I never learned the secrets,

nor did I strike oil,

But I found some peace

among the divots and a lost ball,

and saw that winning

was not the goal at all.

He told me it was nothing more

than what man has professed

for two thousand years—

“Nosce te ipsum.”