Author: Aaron

My name is Aaron. My dad told me he put the double A's out there so I wouldn't get a "B" on my report card. Conjure up a Redd Foxx voice: "Boy! What's this B-shit?! I didn't name you Aaron to get no B's! A-A ron!" I was born in 1974. I'm glad I can't remember the 70's. The clothing, the architecture, the music, I think everything about the 70's sucks. The 80's and 90's, that's where it was at. I've been called a "survivor", but everyone here is a survivor until we're not. Life is about winning some battles, but in the end, we all lose the war. It's not all battle and war either, but you get my point. I was born in Detroit and I've been drifting north and west, but I still haven't escaped the confines of the "rusty mitten". Michigan has it's plusses and minuses, but ultimately, I haven't escaped its gravity. I'm relatively new to the Word Press thing, but I've enjoyed collecting poems, thoughts and experiences in one place and I thank you for stopping by. Sincerely, A-A ron.

Power Postures

The burden of guilt
Is making me wilt.
Won’t someone please
Hand me a quilt?
That is built

From forgiveness and kindness.
That doesn’t turn a blindness
To the mistakes I’ve made
That are now behind us.

But gives us some space
To turn and face
The pitfalls and pratfalls
Of the human race.

I want to be a better man.
And I will if I can.
Release this crushing weight,
Please let me stand.

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Sympathy for 9/11

Black smoke tells the tale
Of that which should not burn.
Voices and sirens wail,
Melting steel fails.
A fulcrum forever turned.

Fluttering in the midnight breeze,
The “Have you seen me?”
Tacked to the plywood board.
Hope against hope,
A loved one will be found,
And held and loved once more.

Faces show sympathy:
A double edged sword.
Strips away identities,
Victim, and nothing more.

Years follow with nothing wrought.
Blood and tears spent, still nothing bought.
After all these many wars fought,
Our children still not taught,
Understanding and some sympathy.

Chicken Wings

We’re all trying to up our game.
The only constant here is change.
No one wants to stay the same.
Be the best chicken on your free range.

I have the key to the lock on my chain.
But still resigned to my own fate.
Here on the range I will remain.
With clipped wings that won’t elevate.

Berkey Boy

My alpha, why hang your head?
Why do these waters flow?
You know much more than me,
But in this, I seem to know.

Many times we’ve run together,
Beneath a full moon.
In the still of the winter
Or in the warmth of a June.

On trail together, forever, you and I.
Alpha, please don’t hurt.
Alpha, please don’t cry.

Just like the moon: everything is wax and wane,
Loss and gain,
Good bye and hello again
(and this is just the same).

The breath I took for granted,
Now drawn at such a cost.
All feels heavy to me,
But everything’s not lost.

The love we shared together,
Is just like this heavy air.
You have to pull it toward you,
But it exists everywhere.

And it’s love I take with me
Into the great unknown.
Alpha please don’t cry.
You never roam alone.

 

The River

She loves like a wild river,
That you know you’ll never tame.
A taker and a giver
And never twice the same.

A fresh drink she could deliver,
A thirsty soul that rasps and burns.
So you seek out your river,
Despite her twists and turns.

Sojourn to find a dusty bed,
Parched and cracked, when drawing near.
Or perhaps, there instead,
A delta of salty tears.

And you’ll add yours – recalling your first swim.
The water was cool
To an enamored fool,
And you dove straight in.

Reclaimed

Chuck’s clapboard, country store.
Closed up, is no more.
The barn where he stored his hay:
Fallen down and hauled away.

His vibrant dreams can now be found,
In bits and pieces on the ground.
Nothing ever stays the same,
Winds blow, dunes flow,
Sands ooze,
Reclaimed.