Upon The Sunken Road

 

Look out yonder, toward the distant hills,
upon the sunken road.
Lined with a hastily thrown ribbon of stones.

A setting sun bowing down,
drawing the curtain on a scene of tragic drama,
played along summer fields, streams and
battered lanes of glory, hate and grief.

Calls and cries, “o mother, o mother”
on graven lips, as life slipped away,
but mostly silent now,  given up to the unknown
eternal wandering.

Look out yonder, toward the distant hills
upon the sunken road.
Sons and fathers, fallen and broken,
bloodied and tattered
killed on that fateful day.

Upon the sunken road.

 

 

His Newborn Child

 

I looked at the picture, cursory at first.
The young man sitting in the hospital room
his newborn child in his lap, bundled up
against the chill of the room, I assumed.

He was a proud new dad, taken in by the
joyous moment, I was sure.

I couldn’t see its face, bundled up as it was
but a beautiful newborn son or daughter
to its dad, I could tell, even from the picture’s
view, which was taken from the hallway, probably
and looking into the room, at the touching scene.

It brought back precious memories of my three children,
when they were newborn, and how I felt
and how much I love them, even as they now grow up.

I looked at the picture
then I read the caption
the young father was saying goodbye to his child

His young child was stillborn.

 

The Summer of His Discontent

 

Summer’s sunrays cleansing away
the last vestiges of winter’s dreary depression.

Summer’s warmth, basking desolation
with encouragement, another season
of renewal and rejuvenation.

Birds sing, nests nestled on shaded boughs
near and far, nature’s lullaby heard in the
ceilings of green.

Then.

Summer’s hope, delicate solice and enjoyable
familial gatherings, broken and withered.

Destroyed by fateful schemes, deliriously contrived
conveniences of nonsense.  Diseased and distressed
ministrations announced by the demons within.

Drink, depression, desperation, denial.  An unwinnable
detestable diet of destruction.  Resulting pattern of a forloin path taken during

the summer of his discontent.

 

Realized in Simple Places

Simplicity shatters
an act normally simple,
to some -

Routine disrupted
an act normally routine,
to some -

Ceilings crushed in
from within,
causing concern,
to some -

Fiery bursts of spender,
towards heaven skyward,
realized simply,
to some -

Celebrate simplicity’s
life reverse,
wiped tears and sweat from brows,
to some -

Rejoice – simplicity’s simple
atom – of time – realized,
to some -

Dreams

Phoenix rising with crowned glory
generations time line passing by
then sprinting

Eve’s equal fruit of
conception wandering
nation’s children

imagined through eons
realized with joyous
retribution of peace

Shared table, full of pleasure
together by watchtowers steady hands of splender

Together, hearts united
along the march of mankind’s
progress, peaceful realization

Heaven’s earthly host stands together in fruition
mankind as one – finally – united.

Advice To Be Not Advised

A ponderer’s folly
given in confidence
besmirching fame
or acceptance among
lettered classes.

“A toast!” ,  gilded with
grandiose closeted dreams
of victory – over

Beggar’s reality in
form yet refusal
to ordain the thought

When it will - as
always seems the case
bursts in daylights eye of

Strangers honest impression
with studded yokes
of acclaim – or letters at least

“Carry On!” , forthwith to inner
proclamation of glory – withstanding
lettered noses – ugly – filled
with reign (not rain entirely)

“Victory!” , myself – to self
call to put on fine and heavy

Gilded mail  to cover
vital threads that hang
from precipitous ponderer’s folly – protection

From lettered glances of
eyes – blinded or blurry
by acclaimed ego veto.

Lost

I loved thee in the end I see
so much more than you to me

Now I see so you in me
as confusion was to thee

Wandered feelings broken free
worldly pleasure needed be

Broken dreams that now I see
meant much more to you than me

If by chance these words you see
know how much you meant to me

Torn Asunder

Quiver of arrows, once tinged with glimmering hopes and vaulted dreams, survive rusted and dull, cast aside by wondering desire

Encouraged by temptuous games of gleeful demons, their  lifeless faces deformed by harrowing screams and riotous laughter at the thought of humanly deceit

Pitiful sorrow brought to unguarded hearts longing for youthful passion,  glimmering hopes and vaulted dreams  of yesteryear

As acrid rain upon the virginal thoughts of unwavering contentment and boundless solidarity that hold two together when love captures their hearts

Ending needlessly, flicked away by reckless adherence to envy and  imagined innocent lust that wonders all around like clouds enveloping mountain peaks when one looks up and away from the path ahead

With catastrophic results, shredded lives of broken trust with tumultuous fits of anger and shame raining down on homes that once welcomed happiness and respect

Innocent childrens outstretched arms, thirsting for solace and understanding of  lives torn asunder by some force beyond their recognition

Mortal hearts, shattered open, festered and dead now on fields of once lively meadows of happiness

Past pervaded by rising sunlight, colorful flowers, and giddy laughter of young lovers with a lifetime of devotion to offer each other

Broken and breached now,  tainted and stained,  the stench of sorrow and deceit in the air always reminded by the touch of innocent tiny hands who seek understanding

Wishing to walk among the lively meadows of happiness, that no longer exist, cast aside by wondering desire and deceit and a longing for youthful passion of yesteryear

© Stephen Sites

A Regret At Death

He stands alone in time his health
has fallen to despair

His mind a swirl alone of fright
of death who wonders near.

His thoughts are turned to fonder days
with voices him around

But in this lonely state of now
the silence, it abounds.

He fears of death, its cold embrace
will make its fated rounds

Upon his weak and fragile form
with little warning sound.

He wishes he had sought a way
to seek to make amends

To those he hurt and pushed aside
when time, it had no end.

He feels the pain within his chest
but knowing death is near

He follows it o’ saddened thoughts
of all the wasted years.

© Steve Sites

Who Is There? (A Christmas Poem)

Who is there, at Christmas time
whose action follow words

Who is there, at Christmas time
as children fight the hurt?

Who is there, at Christmas time
to fill a stomach’s ache

Who is there, at Christmas time
a difference there to make?

Who is there, at Christmas time
to tip the beggars cup

Who is there at Christmas time
to lift the sullen up?

Who is there at Christmas time
to visit sick and aged

Who is there at Christmas time
to help time wile away?

Who is there at Christmas time
that stop and give a thought

Who is there at Christmas time
hear cries that break a heart?

© Steve Sites

Relaxation

 

 I went in and took a seat in the little, out of the way bar that I passed, hoping for just a cold beer or two.  The lights were dim, really dim and just a handful of people were there, sitting at tables scattered around the place.  They were talking, mostly in hushed tones, at least I couldn’t hear them.  But occasionally someone would laugh, here and there.  Cigarette smoke hung in the air. 

I was tired, especially my legs, after driving for hours.   Ready for a rest and a cold beer.  I looked up at the little stage, built into the wall of the bar.  A man sat there, quiet, by himself and holding a guitar on his lap.  He was a black man, looked grizzled with age and life from where I  sat.  He had on sunglasses,  a light khaki suit, black and white striped tie and a fedora hat of the same color as his suit.  A cigarette dangled from his lips.

 I thought the sunglasses a little odd, but who knows what you’ll see anymore.  And I didn’t care either because these little out of the way dives are where you really see life as it is.  I figured i’d drink a limit of three beers then look for a motel, maybe stop at a gas station and get a six-pack to drink before falling asleep.  Maybe that would help with my insomnia too, that seems to strike me way too much these days.  A few more people came into the bar and took seats at the little tables.  I believe there were only two or three white faces in the place, including me. 

As I turned up the bottle to finish off my second beer, the old musician up on stage started to strum and tune that guitar, the cigarette still in his mouth.  The waitress, a pretty, light brown skinned woman must have saw me finish the second beer and as she looked my way, I held up two fingers, deciding i’d go for four beers instead of three.  I wanted to see what that old man on stage could do.  The waitress brought me over two more Bud Lights and I took a drink from one as I watched her cute little figure swagger over towards another table.

The old man had been strumming and plucking around on that guitar, which to me looked about as old as he did, for five or ten minutes.  Then, suddenly, as I worked on nursing that third beer, he let his fingers fly across those guitar strings with a sound that filled that whole little place.  Man alive, he started playing that thing and belting out some lyrics that sounded like he was in so much pain, he just had to be saved from something awful.  No microphone, no amp, just him and that guitar and his soul.  He made that guitar purr like a cat and he belted out the blues like nobody i’d heard in a long, long time.  You could feel the electricity in the air when he played and sang.  You could almost feel the hard times he’d had and the rough living he’d lived. 

I finished that fourth beer and sat a little while longer and listened to him play.  I looked at my watch and i’d been there over an hour and it was past ten o’clock, so I knew I had to hit the road and find a  motel room.  I laid down a 5 spot on the table for the tip and walked out of the bar.  But on the way out, I folded a ten dollar bill and put it in the cup beside the old man’s feet.  He nodded, through those sunglasses and continued to sing.  Damn, I thought, sometimes you find the best relaxation in the most out of the way places.

© Stephen Sites

Brain Freeze

 

I have brain freeze.  Writer’s block.  Call it whatever you want, but I have it. 

For a few days now.  I read extensively.  I write notes and beginning phrases in my little notebook – when i’m out and about and a catchy phrase or idea hits me.  Then later, when I sit to write – blank. 

Nothing else comes, something to build around the phrase or idea, nothing comes.  I write when the emotion hits me, to write, as i’ve said before.  The pure, raw emotion hasn’t seemed to come easily for days now.  I don’t know why.  I feel it.  I think of it.  I jot it down in bits and pieces in my notebook.  But I can’t get it all pulled together for some reason.  It will pass, I know, soon hopefully. 

 To get through it, I must write, I know.  Anything.  Just write myself out of it.  The brain freeze.  Writer’s Block.  I write and soon the emotions and thoughts will come out in effective phrases.  Until then, I will write.  Something.  Just write.

© Steve Sites  2008

Best Friend

It’s been several months now, it seems longer though, since I last saw my best friend.  We were inseparable for quite a while there, normally spending time at my apartment, watching tv, laughing, just enjoying the evening really.  Not having to worry about work problems, unpaid bills that lay on the table unopened or even the memories of exhaustion and aggravation from too many women over too little period of time, at least that’s the way I felt.  I think he understood all that, he seemed to anyway. 

I don’t believe that my buddy, my best friend, cared about those type of things – had any of the problems I was having – or at least I couldn’t tell that he did. I’d do all the talking, bitching, cussing, griping, even occasionally laugh and he’d seem to be content with that.  Just let me be who I wanted to be, at the time.  Get it all out of my system I guess.  My free in-house counselor, I suppose you could say.  I don’t think he minded too much though, he knew I could be a pure asshole at times but a joy to be around at other times.  That’s the way it is when you fight with the demons inside you.  He never seemed to be bothered by the demons.  He was pretty much the same all the time.

I guess it’s hard to find a good best friend like that, at least for a guy sometimes.  With all the shit I had going on in my life though, between getting through a divorce, trying to move on, dealing with the melancholy – no, make that just plain damn, down-in-the-dirt, nasty depression –  my friend was still there.  He remained by my side.  He’d manage to get my spirits high again, at least for a while, to think about better things and forget about the problems. 

It’s hard to find a friend like that.  It really is.  But, I carry on now.  It’s been several months since i’ve seen him.  I don’t seem to really miss him that much, but I do think about all the good times we spent together.  I may never see him again.  I may not want to see him again.  He was always there for me, I sadly remember though.  Never asking for anything in return –  at the time.  But, now, as I think of it all, I know why he did it all, why he was there.

 

He wanted my soul.

Goodbye best friend. 

Goodbye alcohol.

©  Stephen Sites

A Writer’s Confession

I would never critique my own writing since I don’t really give a shit as long as I can tolerate it.

That would be like shooting oneself to end it all, or shooting oneself in the foot to stay out of the line of fire.

I would never categorize  my own writing either since I don’t give a shit into what style it falls as long as I can tolerate it.

I don’t know enough either about the acceptable forms of poetry or even enough about my own form to attempt that.

Either way, when it’s all said and done, i’ll write my way and you write yours.  I don’t know if you’ll be happy, but I believe I will.

© Steve Sites

I Am Not A Poet

I do not consider myself a poet.

Any wizard or wonder of wordsmithery.
I write emotions at times, when the need hits me.

I am no respector of rhyme or meter.
No student of poets, old or new either.

Few I would point to for inspiration, approbation.
Sometimes pure emotion is the best motivation.

I do not consider myself a poet.
But one with emotion who cannot stand stoic.

I am not a poet.

© Steve Sites

For My Dear

I ask myself, it seems always lately, how life can be so strange as it sometimes turns out to be.  How so many miles from me, a shining star suddenly is seen by my lonely, wondering eyes and that star twinkles at me just at the right moment in time, and captivates me, and holds my gaze. 

A star unlike any other, in the universe.  I just feel it is MY star, maybe for a reason only God knows, but it is mine; and as I think upon it, more and more, this star my dear, is you.  You have became MY star, I hope, and twinkle just for me, though all can see your beauty and brightness as they gaze upon you. 

This star of mine, that you are, has truly captivated my heart; your beauty, your smile, your laugh, your sweet words, your everything, your soul has captivated me.  And I don’t ever want to let you go.  I find myself thinking of you at every waking moment, it seems. 

I awake to you.
I hum to you.
I travel with you.
I work with you.
I eat with you.
I read with you.
I sit and think with you.
I lay down to sleep with you.
I dream with you.

I can only hope that now, it can all come true and it will not be just in my mind and heart, but more, so much more, soon my dear.  I love you, my bright, twinkling, forever star!

© Steve Sites

How Do I Write?

How do I write?  Why do I write?  A question asked at times, as if writing must always follow some particular reason or well laid out pattern or harmonious scheme.

As an academician might arrange notes and evidence around him, spectacles at the ready, brow furrowed, in preparation for the serious task at hand of writing some consequential piece of scholarship.

I write because I have something I want to say.  As nature’s beasts and beings have a purpose, a reason, upon which they don’t bother to stop to mediate, contemplate or speculate.

Not for flattery, prizes nor spurious adulation, I write because I have something to say, for my own satisfaction.

© Steve Sites

Lament for Love

A lament for love.

That bloomed and lasted from years ago, when youthful, innocent thoughts were of never being spent apart nor ever far away. Thoughts of growing old together, souls encompassed, two minds joined as one.

A lament for love, an end of which I could not see,would not see, nor believed to be, separated by any earthly means, time nor measure.

A lament for love that now, three years past, brings a remorseful curse to my lips, at times. A curse of that love of long ago, that had no end in those youthful, innocent days. 

This is my lament for love.

© Steve Sites

Mind Clutter

I sit, bent over, back sore and elbows stiff,
in front of the screen, my mind sifting
through files of clutter, searching
for bits of useful prose.

I should sleep, at 2 am, but I don’t. Insomnia, as usual, haunts me again tonight. So I reflect, I think, I write. I bend down, hunkered over the computer, back sore and elbows stiff. Searching for words to express my thoughts.

Words escape me, decent ones anyway most of the time, but occasionally a few slip from my mind and down my arms and into my fingers. I type them, all the while reflecting and thinking and doing crude editing as I go, never happy with the way they come out.

But I continue on, through the fog of insomnia. I reflect, I think and I type because I feel I must. Whether anybody else reads or likes what I write is not really a concern as I sit there with back sore and elbows stiff.

I trudge on.  I write.

 

© Steve Sites  2008

Why?

Ask a bird, if you could, in its mind, how do you fly?  Why do you fly?

Ask a bee, if you could, in its mind, how do you make honey?  Why do you make honey?

Ask the sun, if you could, in its mind, how do you make light?  Why do you make light? 

Then ask me why.

© Steve Sites