Off to Work

The crunch

of gravel 

beneath the beaten bike.

Every other jingle and jangle

of the broken brake

echoes across the small lake,

steam rising

into the cool morning air.

Clouds overhead confirm

the day’s predicted weather

and my hot breath

floats across the road.

Passing the house on the corner,

I grab the jingling brake

to silence it

and taking one last breath

I hold it.

I slowly bike by,

my heartbeat booming 

in my ears and

I fear it will give 

away my location.

A short rustle

and from the corner

of my eye I see the dog

bound over the six-foot-tall fence.

I let my breath out in a scream

and it pierces the silent morning.

I can feel the dog’s hot breath on my heels

and I can hear his panting as if right behind my ears.

I look over my shoulder

and the dog trots back to his territory.

Back to do his business in the dewy grass

and back to his warm dog house.

I let go of the break 

that’s still in my hand.

I hear it ding 

on the frame and

the crunch

of gravel 

beneath the beaten bike.

Fresh Air ... Times Square

Mid July, and hiking up the White Mountains.

I’d rather read a book 

about climbing a mountain than climb one myself.

Though according to Charlie this isn’t a mountain, it’s a hill.

Too bad Charlie, i’m gonna call it a mountain.

It’s surprisingly hot for Alaska.

Chooch has her own name for the mountains.

It’s her Mach-cha-ben-ya rocks, 

named such because of the movie.

Prime place to hoist Simba above your head.

Mud is getting all over me.

Far away from any cell service,

Far away from any cute coffee shops

where I could curl up and read.

Is the air getting thinner?

I am John Krakauer.

Side cramp, side cramp.

Chooch has been born and raised in Alaska, 

which is evident in her apparel.

Her orange, checkered shorts clash 

with her purple shirt.

The thirteen-year-old then 

dares me to do something that is harder then hiking.

“Pro-Con list, Liz,” says Chooch.

“It’s the only way you’re gonna get through this.”

Rich the Printer

I’ve named the apartment’s printer.

It’s name looks like Rich, but with a few other letters.

I think it’s the brand’s name.

Rich is a bit needy.

He is in want of

constant cuddling and

attention.

I’ve named the apartment’s printer.

His name is Rich.

You need to be nice to him.

Sometimes he needs to be turned off and then on.

Just a quick nap.

A reboot and then back to working properly.

I’ve named the apartment’s printer.

It bugs me when people don’t call him that.

Printers have feelings too.

duh.

His sixth sense is knowing when something’s due,

And you need to print.

He then refuses to work.

I’ve named the apartment’s printer.

It’s kinda like having a baby.

One that’s in charge of your grades,

and well being.

A Guide to Growing a Garden

for Janna

I do not know when it was 

that I learned about weeding and watering.

But I do know it was with a fork, a spade,

and a green watering can.

It seemed like science,

my least favorite subject.

So, I abandoned my garden.

I went along like this,

hating the whole scenario, 

having left the plot of land to fend for itself,

until much later in my youth.

I received a wheelbarrow, a tool to add along with

the over used fork, spade, and my old green watering can.

Though things were better with this new tool,

it was still no fun and, so, my garden stayed unkept.

A bit later, 

a still young version of myself,

met a lady who was a gardner too.

Armed with the ability to weed and water,

and my small collection of tools,

she taught me to create life in my garden,

and keep it flowing.

She had me sink my hands into the cold, dark earth.

My nails filling with black C’s of mud.

At first this annoyed me. 

The cold earth stuck in my nails, 

carrying it around with me,

letting people see me like this. 

How could I?

But it became more and more normal,

and I learned to cultivate my garden,

with her plot beside mine.

Her’s, though more mature, was a work in progress, like mine.

Both of us students to the ways of gardening and

we learned by trial and error.

She told me not to fear.

So I didn’t.

And ever since

I’ve wanted to thank her.

Thank you. Thank you so much.

Eliza

Words, words, words!

I'm so sick of words

I get words all day through

First from him, now from you

Is that all you blighters can do?

- Show Me "My Fair Lady"

Wording

This blog is dedicated to beautiful words.

Some may seem ugly

Some may seem mean

but they are words,

all the same.