At this point of summer, I write alone as I ponder memories alone. If I was the same clueless person from four summers ago, it would be hard to imagine and to take advantage the daily life's finest hours. Sometimes, you have to feel lucky to even walk anywhere with some protection on your feet. We all work to earn. We all learn to receive. Memories may only last with its significance like how I try to compare size of a Northern Pike close to my upper body. (The cover photo was taken around the end of August 2012.)
I present four poems of trimphing the real world with the simpler pleasures towards the end:
1. Steel-Toe
More overtime shifts result
the hours eating up insanity.
You push, crush and grind at the mines.
Leaving dusts everywhere traceable,
the working man lives up and stays tough
like he walks everywhere in steel-toe boots.
He grows hefty branches from his feeding roots.
He supports his family- protective like leather-
his branches does grow money
while his roots settle on a bed of rocks.
A tensed laborer kicks around steel-toe boots.
2. Too Much On Top, Too Little On Bottom
Every morning before the boss comes
Roger races against time.
Hectic hours- minutes of misery-
entitles the working class.
Roger stays low as a dishwasher
while he does the mental math of equal pay.
The boss cannot add up his morals
or subtract the facts with his own opinion.
He lives on top of an improper fraction
while the bottom works for very little.
3. Not Wanting To Wake Up
Body glued to the bed.
Both shoulders planted in the sheets.
I cannot move
within the first few minutes
of my alarm going off.
I sit up more after a loud yawn
over all of that buzzing.
I lay back down
because my pillow is too soft
to even row around.
The comforter restrains me
from a well-made bed
carrying on mornings of comfort.
4. Angling Fight
My arms tan and soak the August sun.
The lake calms the boat finally.
The tip of my rod flexes more
after a few twitches.
I set the hook on the Northern Pike-
tugging by its bottom lip.
Before the drag got tighter,
the fish became a fighter-
only captured by the net.
Holding under its bottom lip,
I let loose my trusty lure.
Celebrating smile, colored wrists
and a slimy left hand attracts
the a glorious catch.