Walk in the Woods
Abstract: Flowers
A poem, about flowers in extreme places.
If you ventured beyond Canada, once the sun returns from hibernation,
To the Arctic Circle,
You’d find a lemon colored poppy growing above the unmelted snow and blooming in the cold.
And should you wish to climb Everest,
Say hello to Himalayan poppy,
the Arctic’s cousin,
as you climb above the clouds.
Here in America,
In the Valley we named after Death,
grows a low bush with little flowers,
no heat to strong for this desert wreath.
And further south, way far down,
in the country of Chile,
you’ll discover the most dry land on earth.
The Atacama goes years with rain, up to ten.
But when it comes, the valley is violet with the Desert Flower.
Hot or cold, wet or dry, low and high,
We are never far from a flower,
A reminder of the Glory of His power.
Abstract: Write It Out
A poem, about feeling angry and defensive and weak.
A thousand sensations feel better than this,
cool wind on my face,
the warm sun on a cold day.
The cool splash of a water fall in the summer,
and a hug from my momma.
Finishing a good book,
mowing the lawn,
or watching the sun drop with a friend after a hike.
Down a more sinister road,
being drunk or stoned is better than this.
Destroying glass jars on the road behind my house carries a satisfaction too.
But sitting alone in despair,
anger coursing through my veins,
feeling so weak and useless,
my breath catches in my chest.
I want to spill my violence on the world and share my pain.
Abstract: Generation Crab
A poem, about the flaws in my generation.
Our judging eyes scan for opportunity amid the shallow light,
pinchers at the ready.
We are medicated and offended,
Technologically advanced and anxious.
We are self-absorbed crabs,
Blaming God and our parents.
But we don’t believe in God,
So we blame capitalism instead.
We go to therapy because we can’t be honest,
and even then, we refuse to be earnest,
rather we protest for what’s ours then devour it.
No thanks given.
We pounce on dead bodies, in ways the world has never seen.
And wait to destroy those whose words are mean.
Hopeless and selfish,
Afraid to sacrifice.
We murder our children and dreams.
For all the knowledge and creativity we possess,
only our love for self-destruction grows.
Despite all our advantages,
we still demand more.
Circling the bottom of the darkness,
cursing the light,
choking on whatever floats to the sea floor.
Abstract: 1924
A poem, about now and then. And how the only difference is us.
I heard a man say the events of the world was dragging him down,
that it was too much and he was about to bust.
I cocked my head and stared into the distance.
He ain’t wrong.
We got wars and high prices,
Old fools for Presidents and plenty of college kids acting self-righteous.
Then I looked in my own heart, at my set of frustrations,
They say unemployment is low but my pay sucks,
and don’t get me starting on dating.
But…
We ain’t special.
What that young man needs is perspective.
Ought to use that glass he clutches to look back,
Read about what happened a hundred years ago,
And know life just ain’t that bad.
(In 1924, Hilter was found guilty of the Beer Hall Putsch, but let out after only nine months of prison time. Communism spread to China and tightened its grip on Soviet Russia. Fascist parties in Italy began winning elections. Hundreds of miners died in West Virginia coal mines. Riots and massacres occurred in Argentina, India, and Georgia. Earthquakes, fires, and tornadoes killed thousands of people from Japan to Hungary to Oklahoma. And least we forget Jim Crow was a thing. Prohibition was mid-swing. Only half the homes in US had electricity and indoor plumbing was uncommon. And Polio was a threat, small pox too.
My point is, the man above is wrong. Dead ass wrong. Though the world is crazy, it always has been.)
Abstract: The Peak
A poem, about making the pain count.
The taller the mountain,
the better the views from the peak.
And this prize has a price,
of thin air and treacherous trail.
But all roads are fraught with unforeseen tragedy and pain.
So climb…or crawl if needed. One trembling hand over the other.
Because, there’s no point to all this sorrow, without the view from the peak.
Abstract: True Talent
A poem, about the way I feel when I fall into self-sabotage.
I’ve slurped down a whole pint of ice cream in a matter of minutes,
And stood in a dark pantry, slamming peanut butter cups like a rat.
I’ve left texts unsent,
And parties unattended.
Spent money I didn’t have,
And all to avoid feeling bad.
And these are my minor sins,
Those I’m comfort admitting to my friends.
For I am a king of self-destruction.
Abstract: Odyssey of the Mind
A poem, about painful memories.
I was nine when they called my name and expected me to join my team on stage.
But I refused.
With every fiber of my being I refused.
And all these years later, I don’t know why.
We were being recognized for our performance in some brainiac competition.
And they wanted me to wear a shitty yellow jacket.
Odyssey of the Mind.
We designed tiny vehicles and raced them.
For one vehicle, a teammate stole a design from a college professor.
After the competition, same dude took the vehicle to an interview for a STEM program.
Today, Jared is an engineer.
I don’t think I’ve ever grown up, like a real adult should.
I think about childhood competitions and feeling embarrassed.
And I still feel embarrassed.
Abstract: Remembering What Was
A poem, about what life was like for most of human existence.
Not too long ago, men slept in caves, hunted on foot with weapons made of sharp rock and bone,
And their wives stayed behind to gather what there was to pluck from the land, with children strapped at their back.
And this is the way it was for thousands of the years.
Family after family, the world over, men focused on food and tools and security.
Women, raised the next generation, taught them how it must be done.
Together they survived famines and war, floods and fire,
Endured slavery, oppression, and disease.
For thousands of years.
Thousands and thousands of years.
Abstract: Light Touch
A poem, about turning a weakness into a strength.
I have been accused of a light touch, of being too subtle and laying off when going hard would’ve done me good.
My working mind can’t find the reason why I tend to hang back, but still I find it curious.
After all, a task is either under done, done, or over done.
Only two real errors exist, and if so, doesn’t it profit to ask for more?
Is there gain in this examination?
Dare I ask the question: what does my propensity to under perform say about me?
My conclusion is in the negative, there is no gain.
The real answer to my query is already in my pocket, stored for safe keeping.
Go hard, Nik.
Fail and flail, but dive deeper.
Work longer.
Think and re-think and embrace the process.
You will always be more finesse than power.
More elegance than swagger.
So let your deft touch be your super power.
Abstract: Spring ‘24
A poem, about the dual nature of spring.
Today is bright and warm.
New leaves stretch to greet the sun,
And leopard frogs are yelling for a mates down by the creek, a taste of the summer to come.
But yesterday was cool and gray and drizzly.
The mountains were dusted with fresh powder,
And the wind nicked at my lips, a reminder we still closer to winter than summer.
And that’s what spring is,
Not winter,
Not summer.
Something in between.
Abstract: Mondays
A poem, about Mondays.
Mondays, the first day, a rebirth day,
The start of the week and a chance to erase what was sad and discouraging,
and let the dream to rise anew,
as if last week didn’t happen or at least isn’t going to keep me from what I need to do now.
I like Mondays, it’s all the other days that drag me down.
If I could, I take the energy I have for Monday and roll it tight,
and smoke it all week long.
Abstract: New and Old
A poem, about meaningful texts from friends.
I like a clean screen,
free of old messages and memes.
Like a new novel or notebook,
I wish it had that new paper smell,
unblemished and pure and prepared for the next adventure.
But sometimes, I don’t delete the old.
Words of light delivered in a dark hour,
I keep them to remember what is good and true,
that Love is always returned to those who use it.
And why would I want to erase that?