May 23, 2020

"De Soleil"

Photo by Diego PH on Unsplash

"De Soleil" 
(A poem I wrote at age 18)


In the distance, so very far deep,
Forever’s a part of our throne.
Given this scene of sunshine,
Beauty holds all warmth known.

Of Cypress and Cedar, we keep,
The adjacent streets we’ve grown,
Memories of which we dine,
With no weakness ever shown.

Time flies, paths grow steep,
But the sword abides stone.
And miles of highway line,
Come not between my soul’s own.

April 24, 2020

April 19, 2020

Camping, July 2016

The following is an excerpt from a journal I kept in 2016. The passages come from a camping trip I took with my father and my brother, each written/recorded consecutively over the course of 4 days. eNJoy!

Essentials, July 2016

Smokey lungs, a midnight ritual with whiskey and unshaven cheeks. I look up to the sky; the dying fire light licks the undersided bellies of leaves and bottom branches like lily pads. Stars poke through the opaque blackness beyond our bug spray and drunken stories. The firepit fades, ashes and condensation line the outside of our mugs. The slices of moonlight kiss my pupils in keeping me grounded to this reality.

Refractions of light,
a leafy sunrise,
Junior Catskills mountains on the horizon.
Backdrops of their older, taller brothers.
Birds waking up,
a rooster in the woods.
Why is there a rooster in the middle of the woods?

I contemplate my existence in the woods. Think about my purpose and my timeline. Revitalize with the beautiful landscape and dig down for my organic roots. In the woods. The leafy sunrise that fills my lungs and the birds from all their nests. They ground me here in the earth, even if only temporary. I am not afraid. I am not anxious. I am here. I am at peace with where I am, with what I am. The sun came up again and that makes me happy. The only constant is that I have no control over any of it. Here in the woods or not.

“Remember to wipe it down before you pack it up,” says Rog to Todd, who’s shaking his head because he already knows to do so.

Bitter coffee, bits of grinds stuck to my teeth, still floating around. I sip it slowly cause it’s still too hot. A percolator from the 80's that still works. I set them aside to start packing.

“Glen, why are you packing up your tent?”

I look at him, confused why he is asking me, a little angry that he’s calling me out for doing so. “Because we’re leaving today, no?”

“Yes, but I’m not ready yet.”

“I’m not rushing you. Just packing up my tent.”

"Well stop."

So I stop and go back to my coffee, watching the two of them pack up their things in the woods.