But of Its Portending

All things die and the world moves on.

How is that for an opening line?

But death itself is merely a catalyst of change in the world. Old things must pass away and new things arise. Traditions – those old ruts worn deep into the red earth of our psychi – grow over as we depart their arid consistencies and blaze new traditions of logic and meaning into the underbrush. How this change takes place, and more importantly, why, is not for me to discuss here. Accept this: time changes people and how they think.

Must we be surprised by the shifting modes from generation to generation? How our parents thought and thus lived WAS different from their parents. The environments of our antecedents changed because of certain technologies or art influencing them and their culture at that time. Our ancestors chose to either react against or consume their culture’s thinking. In this way, they created new environments, new ruts of logic to grant some meaning to their lives. They created and reinforced “tradition” by adding by-laws and more by-laws and thus changed the traditions entirely over the centuries. This fact remains: their thinking changed and they changed.

They had to, because no method of thought is ever timeless or static.

The cycle of creation, death and regeneration continues in us. Before we die, we must build new technologies, create new art, reform the traditions, etc. not only for the sake of expression, but also because creation is what creatures reflecting the Creator must do. We must react with or against the current tides of thought just as those before us. It follows, then, that the old traditions and ideas, have weakened and rusted since our parents recreated them. Through overuse the modes have grown starkly “out of context”. Once again, no method of thought remains timeless. Rather, we in this generation, must disassemble the modes, reanalyze them, and reconstruct them, using both old parts, and new fabrications that streamline, contextualize and maintain truth to us in our age before we also die. The modes – be it theology art, logic, traditions – must change.

Allow me to clarify: the underlying morals never change, but the rules dictating and illustrating how we interact with them, do change. Truth itself will never change. The means to truth change but not the end. Another illustration is to say that many waters, many springs of thought boil forth in their time and place, creating and bleeding into semi-permanent runnels and branches which then feed the greater unchanging rivers. Too soon, those primary sources and runnels dry up and die or change direction or new fountains break through the earths surface and trickle in a new pattern. Yet all of these in their time and place lead upwards to the eternal Being of the sea.

With that thought in mind, why is so much energy forced into forming and protecting the younger generations from their context? Why arm them from sin with rusty butter knives of thinking. Let them create change with tools fitting the problems of their time. Perhaps in the days of our grandfathers, giants loomed across the land. They killed those monsters with those butter knives but now we suffer a thick plague of flies so we pray for giant fly swatters and for women and men to lift them. If time is a flood; why try to repair the crumbling dam, using old styles (merely rags) of clothes, reformation era stones of theology and logic? Wings tied to horses and carts can not fly at the same pace as airplanes. Update. Adapt.

This poem spawned from the understanding that trying to save things is futile. To fear change is a profligate sin which paralyzes self from experiencing God through the newness of change. If we embrace the dynamic circle of life, we realize that our telos is not to save ourselves or our progeny from the changes brought by “this present age”. Through death we propagate new life by allowing our methods of thought to be taken, broken down and reconstructed for a new context. OK. Enough. Read this poem. Admittedly, it’s hard to follow. This poem is meant to sooth the pain of change.

The rabbit’s in my lawn again yesterday, today 

eating as it can between macadam 

yellow heads and leaves of grass. 

From kitchen window (pane half-cocked, still wet)

I see the rabbit stooping.

Mouth to the ground, ears aroused. 

Remembers it the distant rain?

For yesterday, the afternoon heavy, gray broke 

its fasting pouring hail and water

down upon this velvet strip of earth

over rabbit’s den, over thorns and weeds

Into the deep cracked, black macadam,

Oh, the seeping rivers fell. 

“She will die soon,” I say aloud to the kitchen sink. 

look how she hobbles

like a stranger, penitent. Like a burdened pilgrim,

or prophet whose heavy tongue, weighs down, weighs down 

by this mystery of death. 

Yet no soon does this thought pass between

my lips of mind, then I understand that

the end begins only when I 

acknowledge my desire

for something -be it anything,

any experience however transcendental,

any rabbit – to live forever.

Because nothing lives forever.  

Death is inevitable, and my desire

illuminated, intensified, this truth.

In death is beauty, not of its desolation or loss,

but of its portending. 

Beyond all of the poetic jargon, this poem is a simple narrative about a rabbit that I saw hobbling around the house for several weeks. It seemed weak and sick and I strongly desired to help the poor thing. My sympathy for the rabbit wished it would never die. Which is not a terrible sentiment. Not to digress, the sentiment itself looks forward to a day when no rabbit or human will hobble sickly through a few short months or years. Despite this, the sentiment in its context remains unrealistic.

Why? And how does this poem relate to the thoughts preceding the poem?

Very simple. People fear change because they are both afraid of the ending and afraid of the pain that ending brings. A tradition is created mainly as a method of preserving and upholding human happiness in specific context. Thus the tradition is acceptable in that it create a tiny sphere of happiness for the human as long as the human who prescribes to it lives according to its standards.

Here is the problem: People are selfish to believe that their specific tradition/mode and thus their specific method of happiness is applicable to everyone in every time and space. This idea is embodied in the rabbit. We all desire our own aesthetic and religious principles or traditions to last forever.

But I say unto you that the end begins when you desire your thinking to live forever because now you are aware of the end and the inevitable shift that will happen even if you choose to ignore death. Or, if the end is realized, the tendency may be to prepare for it by stockpiling specific traditions, modes, logic, etc. onto the minds of the progeny so that they can have the same happy life you did. But you can not prolong the end. You cannot escape change. Your thinking can not preserve your ideals. In fact, I would recommend not thinking about how to preserve your thinking, rather focus on living and teaching the truth in your context. Focus on showing your progeny how to adapt. The kingdom of heaven can shape-shift into any color of heart in any era or land.

The very obvious question is “what is my portending? How will an end or change to me and my thinking and the thinking of my generation be any good?” The use of portending in the poem might be confusing. I use the word in the sense that death portends a change, a newness, a certain beauty that could not have happened otherwise.

I cannot tell you what your ultimate portending is only that if change of thought occurs in your life or in those younger then you at least you can observe and experience something new. When you die, death will be exhilarating because it means that someone new will take your mind’s place and weight upon themselves and use it’s truth for good. The world, then, made lighter by one soul, can move more easily and quickly into the Kingdom of Heaven.

Lament: How to Look for Lost Things

One assurance of life, as factual as death, is the loss of innocence that arrives with the loss of childhood. I am not a child anymore, and never will be again. I am staggered, struck, thrown down beneath this blinding weight: that the bliss I once handled and tasted, ran through with arms spread wide, smelling of sun and glee, that romance, that utter independence on nothing except the day itself, long and brilliant, that total sheer delight blind of time, oblivious and unaware of death, all that 

all that

is gone.

My mother and I both experienced a certain heaviness in my transition from a child to a man. My mother lost a boy, and what did she gain? 

“I don’t know”, she said to me once ” I don’t know who you are anymore. It’s like I woke up and found a stranger living in the same house as me. Who are you? Who is this stranger you have become?”

At the time I couldn’t answer. I was 19, less inarticulate and less self aware. I processed her words for several months and wrote two or three poems all dealing in various ways with the loss of childhood and the turning of time. These poems were saw-toothed, forbidding, full of doom and chaos. Think of them as “articulately inarticulate”, if you will. All of them attempted expressing a thought too deep for tears, or tongues. Over the years, (I am four years older now) most of the poetry I have written deals with the loss of innocence and childhood stemming from that moment. 

This poem is another lament. It tells you how to look for lost things. Read it.

My mother used to tell me,
look for lost objects, things like pins
and hammers, love, or moments of childhood  
the way a woman looks for them. 


Women overturn things, moving where they saw it last
peering into dark corners with a lamp in their eyes. Hope
compels them, she said, to search the attic, behind 
book shelves and all the beds, or sifting the grass


then peering through the trees through which 
the lane comes. Men are like giants, she said,
when they lose something they stalk over 
the blue mountains scattering glances 


down between the valleys but never stooping, 
never bending their eyes to really look because 
men know they can always build a new thing, recover from 
their losses, turn away from pain, treating sorrow as weakness.


Women can’t help loving what they have
with a fierce mother’s mercy. And when they 
lose something, they fall on their knees peel back 
the carpet, overturn the asphalt in the lane, bend the trees, 


or sweep up the dog hairs and pins to see if what they love
hides there, behind. They dip their fingers into the river,
dredging and saying, “my son, my son, where are you?”  

The most accessible moral from this blog post is that transition for my mother and I has been difficult. The person I was as a child and later when 16 or 17 is nearly unrecognizable now. He has changed, becoming darker, more intense of humor. He is more independent and solitary. His arguments, now, are as sharp as a snake’s teeth. His head is as heavy as an anvil. He changes little for others and loves few people. Yet he laments with his mother because they both remember a young boy, easy going, naive, innocent, blithe. They both stagger beneath the thought that he is lost now. He won’t come home again. They dredge their fingers in the same river, wondering and searching, separated by a thousand miles of tears and loss. 

I Fear Dying Alone

Not in the scenario in which l never find love and affection or live a meager, meaningless life. Those types of fears are common to all men and women, but not to me. By “alone” I mean the type of aloneness in which I find no significance in a relationship beyond mere interaction and titillation. Ultimately, isolation unto myself becomes my only source of comfort (and thus my prison). 


Does that make sense? A community of the most engaging, spiritually enriching, giving, caring, human beings could surround me, yet I would prefer to be alone. And engage only when engaged with, on a perfunctory level where in I disclose only the cheapest, most accessible trinkets of my soul, because the objects of greatest value I would rather remain hidden in obscurity, that I, alone, may stare into what dim radiance they offer.

Read this poem.

In a corner of the midnight 

This old man sits, alone, staring into 

His eye lids. Above him, 

With gripping austerity, a nail 

Hangs a portrait: those etched in the frame 

Have all gone away now. And the old man 

Knows this even as he stares unflinching,

Breathing heavily. 

Now, the cuckoo rouses 

Saying, wake up! wake up! And the nail 

Digs deeper into the wall, and frame 

Sees nothing. 

Alone! alone! the cuckoo says accusing

To the silence thick and stubborn. 

Alone! Then turns to rest a pitiful

Rest while the nails knuckles turn white,

The portrait stares blindly at the scene 

Of the old man’s nodding head. 

He should’ve changed by now, the cuckoo mutters loudly

almost weeping. Midnight is the hardest hour.

Son of man, can those bones live again” the cuckoo says

one last time to the old man, the nail, the portrait 

But the silence tightens 

And the nail sweats at the jaw almost weeping

With excursion,

The people in the frame dance a silent unseen 

Dance backwards. 

Good poetry, like good comedy, follows the “rule of three’s”. Three things project in this poem.

  1. The cuckoo
  2. The photograph
  3. The nail

The old man is connected to all of these. They represent differing aspects of his solitude.The cuckoo is a conscience that repeats the obvious to the man while he sleeps. “You are alone. You should have changed by now. You shouldn’t have become alone. What can change you. oh you, what can make you different now that you are this old.”

The people in the frame have all moved on and he has moved away from them. Perhaps they died, or perhaps the old man never connected to them in a long lasting relationship. After many years, he secluded himself unto himself. They might still speak to him, but they never truly speak to him, rather, to only a figment of him: that cheap, easy phantom which he allows to be spoken to. They dance backwards because they are memories and he thinks of them in the past’s context, not as an ongoing relationship. 

The people hang by the nail and the nail represents stubbornness. The man refuses to admit that those in the frame mean nothing to him. They mean quite a lot in an abstract way. But he would rather be alone, and would rather interact with the memory, the intimations of relationship then to know and be known. 

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Escaped the Weight of Darkness

Winter holds a certain mystic appeal for me. I enjoy winter not for winter itself but because the coldness foreshadows an inevitable change. Winter becomes spring and spring becomes summer. It is romantic to watch the snow melt into rain in March, and the rain brings out the greenness of the grass and buds in April – but this greening happens slowly. I anticipate this slow verdance with a patience that I do not have in any other areas of life.

Merely observing the change is pleasurable.

Which reminds me of a poem called “For They have Escaped the Weight of Darkness”. Read it, then I will explain it and introduce you to Olafur Arnalds. This poem was also placed on The Curator. By the way, the reason I publish poems on This Blinding Light that have already been published on the Curator is because I don’t have room there to write my thought on the poem, but here I do.

For They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness


They are sweeping it away now:
The tiny specks of stones
The skin broken from the asphalt
And all the dust that fell from
The sky for months now.


I saw a grandmother
This morning, sweeping,
and two boys,
That old man by the High School;
the one holding the stop sign and the traffic:
He too will likely lay those down 
Trading them for a broom and a dust pan.


The gristles scrape at the cement. 
Goodbye, the people say, Speaking and extending
through the gristles and their gritted teeth. 
they grunt in exertion drawing away the anamnesis:
the eternity of the small days,
the deja-vu of black branches,
the fingerprints of the icicles,
The claw marks left by the plows,
And all of the unutterable words.
To these, they say goodbye.


2
And thus, we too, must sweep away the remembrance:
the dispassionate agonies,
the emptiness,
leave dormancy behind,
And the inscape of inclement brittle spirits,
We too must cleave from our insufficient prayers,
That rose and returned
again and again
Finally melting
as the last snow melts in April.


3
For they have escaped the weight of darkness.


In Pennsylvania the winter is fickle when deciding to end. People look at their weather apps and predict that the snow that fell the week prior was the final snow, but then another storm brings another inch and the snow plows leave their sheds once again to scrape it away. There is no sound iconic like that of a snow plow screaming and rumbling down a street throwing thick streams of snow, dirt, and pebbles onto the sidewalks. And really, the sound of the snow plows is a terrifying and impatient sound especially in April. This coldness should have ended by now.

Winter is done only when the snow banks melt away completely. All that remains after the melting are small heaps of pebbles and dust that clutter the sidewalks and edges of the roads. The snow plows threw them here. These heaps must be cleaned away. They remind us of winter, and winter is dead now. They remind us of the dark months, but those are behind us.

Go into the small towns in Pennsylvania during early April and you will see people sweeping up the last remains of winter. Perhaps, another snow storm could fall because Winter is fickle. But maybe not. Not this late in April.

Part 1 of the poem speaks on the people sweeping away the dirt and pebbles as if to sweep away the memories of a winter that lasted too long. I remember that winter, the winter I wrote this poem. In my memories, the winter overstayed. I was relieved to finally see some people with some hope, some faith that winter was finally done.

Part 2 and 3 applies the idea of sweeping as a metaphor to my personal life. That winter was harder for me. There were transitions, and changes that were uncomfortable. Part of the darkness of that winter was failure on my part to be the best human I could be. In the same way that these people swept away the winter, I desired to sweep my winter away. And I could. I could sweep it away; I could escape that weight of darkness.

This applies to all of us, because we all go through difficult periods and at the end of those, what do we do? At the end of our darknesses there always remains sign or a consequence. Little heaps of pebble that remind us of what has just occurred in our life.

And I say, sweep them up.

Did those prayers not work for you this winter? Sweep them away and come back with a new request. Did boredom haunt you? Were the skies too grey? Were your desires mishandled and crushed? Was rest evasive? Did silence overwhelm you? Then find a delightful noise and rest in your sweeping. The Winter is done now, and you have escaped the weight of darkness.

PS. The title is not my own. It comes from an album of the venerable Olafur Arnalds. Do you not know who Olafur Arnalds is? Well let me introduce you to his music. All of his music is fantastic! My recent favorite of his would be his latest album “Re:member“, but I would recommend all of his music to you. Ease yourself into him start with the wonderful and simple sounds of “Living Room Songs” then work towards “The Chopin Project” or For “Now I am Winter”. The album I return to time and time again is “…And They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness”. There is a similarity of tone that the album has to this poem.

The Gentle Art of Killing Sheep

No, really. That is the title of this blog post as well as the title of a poem. I would like to explain why this title is as is. Now remember that in the last blog post I said that not all of these blogs may make sense. I am a poet, not a logician and while logic can help every human understand simple things, logic still doesn’t make life fair or explain why the powers in heaven do what they do.

Take Job for example. He’s a good man. He does what is right, he offers sacrifices, he raises a thick quiver of arrows (family), has a wife he loves, but more importantly he is very rich as a result of his obedience to God. Satan, that spirit of dark thoughts, observes Job’s success then enters God’s presence to complain about what he believes is Job’s pretentious and hollow attitude towards God.

“Job only loves you because you bless him with material wealth.” the devil says with a quivering, accusing finger.

God, as any good, loving and logical God would do, listens to the Devils garbage arguments/rhetoric and allows the Devil to destroy every area of Jobs success: wealth, family, and health. Its awful really. Too awful to describe or imagine. Go read Job to refresh anew the nuances of this tragedy. Job’s faith is strong enough, however, and he endures suffering and pain like a champ with a just a speck of complaint. (chapter 3)

The complaint was for Job to ask God why. Why was he born? Why was he, a righteous man, down-trodden by God? Why live? This misery is too great. Apparently asking why is the wrong question because God never answers but in return asks Job many questions that had nothing to do with Jobs current situation. (chapters 38-41) Questions like ” where were you when I made the earth?” or “Do you understand movements of the stars and seas?” or ” Animals! Do you even get why they do what they do and how they survive?”.

God finally finishes wrenching on Job’s brain, stands back, dusts off his hips, and walks away with out explaining why Job had to endure losing everything to begin with. Job didn’t resent God, in fact his peace and faith were strengthened though the tragedy and after-words he regained all that he lost plus more. My point is that logic states that 1+1 is 2, but logic doesn’t explain why 1+1 is 2 and much less explain who God is. Logic never accounts for why 1+1 = 0 sometimes. Why do humans, who honor God, still endure terrible curcumstances in their life? Maybe human logic is not meant to grasp God and why terrible things happen.

I digress slightly and we haven’t even gotten to the gentle art of killing sheep. Read this poem. Oh and by they way, this poem was videoed and uploaded to The Curator which is a blog I help edit and for which I provide photographs.

The Gentle Art of Killing Sheep

To fall is to understand,
Because falling entails death
or worse, severe pain,
Dependent, of course, on how far you
Have plunged from the grace of clinging.

Imagine then, climbing a white painted steeple
towards the morning sun.
There, beneath the shadows of the church
lie the grey sheep, content,
troubled only by tiny silent storm
that break upon their souls as they graze the dew.

And thus you fall in a sudden manner, 
Your hair and limbs screaming in the fray,
Back, down to the ground
that bears death
In her bosom of stone.

But when you have climbed too far,
your hand does not grasp as it should have
Or your foot fumbles beneath you


Yet,
A mere half breath before 
The supple earth
Should Crush your spine 
And spirit;

In some providential and oddly 
cruel interjection,
you light upon a ewe instead;
and no storms shall break upon
her soul no more.

3
Christ is like that sheep.
You grunt and roll off his crushed, broken body
Surprised that death was not present
to understand your falling with you. 

So you grunt, dust your hips
and wonder, and understand
the gentle art killing sheep.

Approach this poem like a story. The first stanza is very important to the whole of the poem because the first stanza is a thesis that introduces and sums up the whole of the poem. To put it into simple language the first stanza acknowledges that falling brings understanding. If you fall you will hurt yourself. It is best to stay on your feet. If you fall from too high of a location, you will die! It is therefor best to not fall from very high places but to cling tightly to whatever is at hand. Children would not be alive any more if they had never fallen off a chair or couch and felt the pain of falling and understood that if they climb they must hold on tightly or feel pain or even die. Falling is understanding. Its logical.

The rest of the poem explains the thesis by telling a story. Imagine you are climbing a steeple for any good reason. Below you is the stony ground and a flock of sheep grazing in the shadow of the steeple. When you reach a certain point, for some reason, you miss your foot hold and suddenly you are falling back down to the ground screaming and understanding that you have climbed too far, you have slipped and now you will die.

But you land on a sheep instead. The ewe dies, and you live.

And if that was not enough of a plot twist ….. Christ is like that sheep! Yes! Just as you were saved physically from death by falling on a sheep, in the same way the Lamb of God saved your soul by positioning himself on a cross for you, taking the full weight of your sin. You landed on God with a black, devastating heaviness and killed him. He dies, you live. Amen.

What does killing sheep have to do with Job and logic and why is it all a gentle art? Often it seems that people force the subject of the existence of pain as evidence that God is not good or that he does not exist. It seems illogical that a good God allows pain. I understand. It does seems that way.

But people also never stand back in wonder of how illogical love is. The greatest example of love is the advent of Christ. Yet, for God to die for us, he had to endure pain. God understood what it meant to fall. For Christ to be born assumed that an all-knowing God would understand that his birth would cause his eventual suffering and death at the hands of His humans. God understood what was involved in creating humans with free will. They could choose to hate him, blame him, spit on him, crucify him etc. But God loves us despite this.

This doesn’t make sense does it? If God is illogical for allowing evil, then he is just as illogical for loving despite that evil that he allows. I suppose you could attack this question from a different perspective: If God is evil ( because he allows evil things to happen) then how could a an evil God allow love to exist?

You could say that Job fell and that he felt keenly the pain of that falling. When he asked God why he fell, God didn’t answer because the falling nor the resulting pain mattered much. Life is not fair to any of us. Why should we assume that God must provide answers for why He allowed a terrible thing to happen? We don’t need the why. After tragedy, what mattered most is that God was still good and that God had always loved Job despite any evil. God’s unanswerable questions were meant to enlighten Job and proved just how wonderful He is. This isn’t logical, but I can sympathize with why Job felt at peace even though his question was never answered.

Is a terrible circumstance burning a hole in your life?

The gentle art, in all tragedies, is finding peace and gratefulness towards God.

The Beginning is now

Who said again that every long journey begins with a small step? I never enjoyed beginning things. Beginnings are always so bleak with unfulfilled expectancy. I am one of those people who has a good idea, then as I over-analyse said idea over a period of several days or weeks, the brightness dims until I find myself in a certain darkness wondering why I ever thought that idea would work to begin with. I am a slow mover, and an even slower shaker. But I can move and shake none the less. If you are reading this, it means you are now slowly jolted back and forth by my decision to begin something new. But what that really means is that my over-analyzing self has not caught up to me yet, causing me to turn away.

Welcome, stranger, to this Blog titled “That Blinding Light”.

Should I explain the title? When I asked my mother what she thought of the title, she said that with such a title, I should dedicate my blog to the holiness of God. The title is most certainly an allusion to the passage in Acts where Saul, the persecutor, on his way to Damascus is struck to the earth with the sudden, brilliant heaviness of God and what was left of Saul then? Blindness. A holy and awful blindness.

“So, you should dedicate it to God.” she says, “Because God is just so Holy. Get off the fence and do at least that for him.”

But the story of Saul, the persecutor was not the primary inspiration for the title. The real inspiration grew from this comprehension that light can either blind or illuminate. And I like that thought. Light can be a dangerous, but light is still all the more beautiful for its various properties of illumination, color and warmth. If and when I die, I hope the lighting is nice when they lower me into the earth. I know its morbid, but I love light. So then, even in the blindness of death I want light to be there.

We have this saying in American English ( I say “American” because I have no inkling whether Britons use this idiom) that describes us humans when we are caught in a moment and our real intentions or fears are illuminated as we stare into a blinding light of truth. “Like a deer caught in the headlights” is how it goes. But the variation of this phrase I appreciate more removes the deer part – which then makes the phrase simply as “caught in the headlights” – to further illustrate the understanding of both total illumination and utter blindness. God is that light to me. That beautiful light. That beautiful, blinding light. I am caught and held fast to the earth by a light that penetrates past my darkest understandings into the inner sanctum of my soul.

The direction I see this blog going is as a philosophical narrative on poetry interlaced with photography. These are two art forms that I love and actively pursue. I also hope to upload several blog posts that just talk about random things, like my life and whether or not I like cookies which I do. On a deeper note, there are similarities to writing poetry, pursuing photography and finding a relationship with God. All of them involve being in tune with some energy or feeling outside of yourself that invariably influences you to do something, act a certain way or obey a certain law. Will my blog always make sense? I suppose that will be debatable.

Well this is the beginning of it all. I stand back from this blog post the same way a painter stands back from a freshly painted room. His hands are on his hips and his back is bent slightly to relieve the bones and muscles from the pressures of bending over. I stand back now and let you read this poem. Its about gulls. Sea gulls.

So read it. Then I will explain it and then, you will be done reading my first blog post.


From the height of a thousand windows, 
the gulls see the city as silent. 

The cars are silent, the people who 
sit in them, are unheard. The sirens,

screeching brakes, salt powder, 
rising smoke wisps, the bridges’ creaking,

even this does not penetrate the stillness 
where the gulls raise. 

The sun reflected from the 
grey roofs is also silent and the gulls

turn there, reflected themselves. From the 
height of thousand towers of concrete 

and glass, the city is silent. and only 
the gulls have a voice, “Boston,” they say,

“Boston.” Again and again, that
one word repeated like the trite phrase the beggars

use to find money. Fall on me, gulls, 
like a semi-holy spirit. Fall on me, you uncouth 

cousin of the dove, you piggish sister 
of the eagle and owl. Fall on me 

you mongering widows of the air, 
you black eyed beasts with feathers that sing,

white and brilliant above the city.
Fall on me, and give me what I desire. 

This poem sprung from the desire for privacy and silence. I am an introvert at heart and these two things are like water and air to me. Both are extremely valuable and necessary. I am attending a college in Boston and I room with three other wonderful gentlemen who also participate in my academic solidarity, in other words, they go to my same college. The unfortunate part of this all begins where I must interact with other humans constantly at my college then return to my dorm where three men are waiting to be informed of the menial details of my day. Do not read this wrongly. I hold nothing against them, or against simple dialogue. But sometimes privacy seems to be intangible and unattainable and silence itself seems to be swallowed by cacophony. I don’t find peace or release in speaking. I find those in silence.

Which is where the gulls come in. I look at them and envy them for the silence and privacy their wings provide. They can merely lift themselves until the city is a speckling of lights spread over a river that flows into the sea. Yes, my language at them is very bitter. I want them to fall on me and give me what I desire. Silence and privacy. They have it all, the gulls do. I envy them.

I don’t want to be a sea gull physically. That would defeat the purpose of my human existence. If God wanted my to be a bird he would have made me as one. Instead he made me a human who is blinded and illuminated at the same time by the utter beauty of the earth, and by the holiness of God.