Saturday, May 16, 2015

Proper Title by Matthew Ciaramitaro

Proper TItle
Trapped in the broken system.
Order is spoken listen.
Slaves we are and children.
It’s awkward when written.

The revolution is underway,
Things will change from night to day.
The grip they have will soon slip away.

Tonight’s the night.
It’s our crowning moment.

No more oppression. Freedom has come. Our sweet sorrow is over and peace will last forever.

The gangs have taken over.
The violence is beginning.

We were supposed to seize the day,
But now we jump into piles of hay
Else I fear in piles we will soon lay.

Without order chaos.
Winning losers makes us.
Dictators never last.
Trapped in the broken system.

Whenever you break out you will be reined back in.

Only so much freedom may be taken, before all of it is taken.

Be a Rock by Matthew Ciaramitaro

Be a Rock
As a boulder rolls down a mountain,
It crumbles, it breaks.
But then the dust begins clouding
Whether the pieces are together or apart.
However so, they fall in the same direction.
They were one, but move together as two parts.
So one they still are, the fractures made fractions
Of the whole that the boulder once was,
But even with a hole in the heart of the stone,
The hole becomes a hearth, and even through the dust.
The pieces find each other, and are never alone.

As a boulder rolls down a mountain,
it breaks until all thats left is a few stones,
One stone is thrown into a fountain,
Others are brought into peoples homes,
Yet the stones will always be a part of the boulder
The stones are the boulder whether in tandem or isolated.
Even as the world begins to smolder.
Each stone dies as it was created.

As the boulder rolls, it begins to rain.
The rain falls unto a wildfire.
Two things so separate, so different, yet the same.
They join, and one becomes wetter and the other becomes drier,
Yet entirely, the two are now one, floating together in the air.
And even when the clouds and the rain tear them apart,
the water will alway find the fire somewhere.
Whether it art by weather, or art by art.
Thy fire burns ferociously and thy lake sits calmly,
Yet thy fire is so soothing, and thy lake becomes a rapid.
My passion lives no matter what becomes thee,
And the fire's love for the rain can never be vapid.

As the boulder rolls down a mountain,
The rain falls unto a wildfire.
As one becomes many, there's no discounting.
That many will become one, and together they will acquire

An eternal existence within the other,
that draws them back to each other.
But in being the same neither can be an other.
Even when apart from one another.

As the boulder rolls down a mountain,
A beginning begins an end, and ends a beginning.
As the rains falls unto a wildfire,
An end ends a beginning and begins an end.

Deleterious to Health by Matthew Ciaramitaro

Deleterious to Health
I've got a cot with shingles wrought.
I clean each drop off of the cot
But still, I find so many blots.
I work, I ache, I sleep, I wake,
And yet, I find, my cot, still breaks.

They talk of how my hands turn black
With soot, from keeping it intact,
yet me my cot has sought attack,
I fight, I lose, I yield, I lose,
It seems, I've lost, the will to move.

My work, in vain, caused great disdain
to me, my name, and all in this game.
Each day, I claim, it bursts aflame.
I fix, I change, but it's ephemeral.
I never will escape the peril.

I want simply a chance to lead
A day where once I can be free
A day where once I can attack ,
I choose, I pick, I aim, I miss
There is never a day where I get success.

Yet friends, they come, they lift the load.
To me their worth is more than gold.
They are what I would not forebode.
Family, and friends, and love, they send.

They keep my life from bitter end.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Set in Stone by Spencer Taft

Set in Stone

It is easy to feel like a mind of concrete,
A single block, set among thousands,
as layers of discarded chewing gum sit on your surface
keeping the secrets in.
Just trying to survive, with the assault of rain and snow and sun and footsteps of others
Trying to pierce the surface, as you refuse to falter,
until a crack appears, splitting the surface in two for an hour or so
As children avoid it
Lest their mothers pay the price.
And you do the same.
You sit, open and weak to the elements,
until a new layer of stone is piled on top
and you are right back where you started,
Minus some indents where the cracks were,
Stuck right where you are
Just staying alive.

Your surface, smooth as marble at a glance,
looks just like the other blocks around you
As the people above waltz over you,
Laser focused on their routines.
Their sneakers, boots, $200 loafers
all taking their toll,
one chip at a time.
They never look back.

Seasons change, people come and go,
But still you stay, stoic and stable
Expecting nothing from anyone, but willing to endure
Whatever they throw your way,
Cracks be damned.

Eventually you realize
Those cracks, hidden under all those layers,
go deeper than you know.
Suddenly, you’re not so strong.
Your stone fa├žade stays, strong as ever.
As your core crumbles by the hour.
The people bear down on you
day after day,
never a second thought,
While you can do nothing but watch,
and wait,
and pray it ends up alright
and add more layers to the surface,

because the surface is all that’s left.

A Walk in the Park by Spencer Taft

A Walk in the Park
Love is not giggling on a park bench
Love is not holding hands in the midday sun, applying pecks to the cheek.
Love is not a texted smiley face or a wish to have a good day.
Love is not seeing someone every day and reveling in their presence.
Love is not knowing that someone is rooting for you.
Love is not knowing that every day, you can count on someone saying “hello”.
Love is not an emotional thread that connects the lives of two people.
Love is not unconditional agreement to the ideals of another.
Love is not control.
Love is not thinking more of one person than you do of the whole rest of the world
Love is not support in times of trouble and celebration in triumph
Love is not knowing that someone cares.
Love is not easy
Love is not cheap
Love is not fair.

Love, real love,
Is devoid of romanticized disney princess fantasy
Far above pretense and stereotype.
Love only reveals itself
when you say the wrong thing, and hurt someone
and realize you can’t live with yourself

Until you know they’re safe.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Dancing to Frank Sinatra
By Kate Parisi

Across the room his eyes are shining
blue as an endless see of
wishing and dreaming and hoping
that maybe one day he'll grow up
and be what he thinks he should be,
to be what his parents want,
to love how he’s supposed to love
as told by everyone else.
He wants to be an engineer--
he told me once--
but the way he said it
wasn't hopeful and dreaming
it was a hopeless dream;
a bucket list wish.
But I thought bucket lists
were supposed to be made for people
who needed something to look forward to.
Here I am thinking he has that,
here I am thinking that every person
has something to look forward to.
Here I am, wrong again.

I catch his eye from his corner seat
slouched back in a weighted way
as if the world he carries on his shoulders
is more like Jupiter than Earth.
But when our eyes meet
he looks at me like he’s just remembered
the nights we had where
talking about our futures
didn't seem like a chore, but rather
a place we could go together
where gravity wasn't gravity
and hopes were reality.
We were astronauts and cowboys,
we were firefighters and doctors and singers
and lovers and livers and we lived
in our time, our infinity, as if it was our now.
As if we could wake up tomorrow and live
how we said we could live.
It was always more fun that way.

He looks at me now like he did the first time,
the gleam in his eyes a mix of surprise
and curiosity. Of hope.
He rises from his seat and moves,
the weight of the world on his shoulders
replaced by a smattering of stardust.

His hands on mine,
holding and breathing and caring.

We danced until the sun rose again.