Category: MG (Page 2 of 11)

My Son (A Poem)

April 5, 2019 / Tom

I watch him walk away,
That son of mine,
A piece of me much younger,
Now getting older,
Causing me to count my remaining years.

Memories of your first breaths,
Arms and legs flailing in disarray,
A mind and heart born so innocent,
Life poured out of me as you held me by my finger,
It filled your hand back then.

Recalling your first steps,
That smile, that laugh,
Some things that have never changed,
My boy, how fast the time flew by,
In an instant life has changed direction.

And your first words,
Your personality flowing joy and laughter,
You made me laugh right from the beginning,
So much of me there is to see in you,
I struggle to keep you from repeating the mistakes of your father.

The swish of a diaper
Now replaced by the sounds of sneakers on the floor,
The sweet sounds of baby talk,
Now conversations of a young man speaking his truth
To the older version of himself.

The once-soft skin laden with baby jiggles,
Now becoming strong in the burden of a larger frame,
Context notwithstanding, what a powerful soul you are,
You want to grow up so fast,
I beg you to please slow yourself down.

For one day you may be me,
Watching the best part of you walking away,
Heading towards his own destiny,
And you will hope,
That he takes the best parts with him.

For now, I will watch you head in your own direction,
A tear flowing down my face
Toward my heart, a heart filled with love,
For you are, and always will be, my son,
And I am, and always will be, your dad.

To Find You (A Poem)

April 4, 2019 / Tom

The fish has never said to the sea,
“How is it that I exist with you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You within me, me within you?”

The cardinal has never said to the sky,
“How is it that I embrace you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You surrounding me, me inhaling you?”

Like this, my soul has never said to you,
“How is it that I have found you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You loving me, me loving you?”

We know the answer, you and I,
We wrote it on our page long ago,
Before the first breaths of our infancy,
In a journal left for us at Heaven’s door.

We used to meander about some desert plains,
The salty taste of a kiss an oasis unto itself,
We used to gather wildflowers at the base of a great mountain,
Dancing in the fragrance until the Moon touched our skin.

We used to gaze from the seat of a high summit,
Dreaming of the sea,
We used to bathe in the depths of love’s great ocean,
Talking about one day climbing that mountain over there.

Things we’ve done before this lifetime,
And things we’ve seen since the day we first drew breath,
Have carved steps in the stone to take us to those great heights,
And have taught us to swim in the pool of life, where we have found each other again.

May I never again question the beauty of what we are,
And may you soon not fear the handholds and footholds
In the rockface that gets you to me,
For we were born to know the truth, to live the truth, to be the truth.

For I know now what I knew way back then,
That should I not awaken to kiss your lips again,
I have lived, and will live again,
To find you.

The Window

April 2, 2019 / Tom

There is a window that exists between my dreamscapes and the perceived realities of my mind. Here, the vivid tales of wonder that exist mesh with the certainty of the way things are and I experience both the delight of flight and the disappointment of being stuck on the ground. The transition needs to be complete, and I often find myself wishing to remain kissing the clouds instead of rolling off my bed on to the floor beside me.

On one side of the window, I can hear you tapping on the glass, your voice melodically calling for me. As I sleep I can feel you near, and I move to touch you. The sun within me burns in its brightest hue as I search for your flesh, but on the other side of the window I realize that space is empty. I call out your name, and on one side of the window I can hear your reply while on the other I can only hear the echo of my own pleading. On one side of the window I see the awe in your eyes as the mountains illuminate in an early morning lavender, while on the other I watch the gift alone. On one side of the window I can feel your grip tighten on my hand and your head fall to my shoulder in delight, on the other side my hand remains empty and I can only feel your presence in my heart.

If given a choice between which side of the window to remain I would always choose the side that you are on. I would break the glass and tear away the walls that surround it just to get to you. I would ask the gods to banish any wall between us. I would see the fear of truth turned to dust before our eyes, and watch as the divine winds of love swept our landscape clean.

For now, I have little choice. Soon, your tapping will silenced and your voice will fade. My feet will hit the floor and my day of reality will begin. As the darkness in my space gives way to the morning sun I will again whisper your name, awaiting the certain silence that will follow. It is the way of a warrior accustomed to his solitude who is also seeking its end. I will surrender to the moments when I am on this side of the window while hoping for those moments when I can peer through the window and feel your hand again.

Forlorn can be the mind who finds such great love in dreams that he wishes for them in his waking moments. Weakened can be the heart beating to find slumber as its way of dancing in the light of love. Yet strong is the warrior who can live his life to see his dreams born on the other side of the window, who can strive for summits that exist on the other side of the wall. Her voice is so worth it. The promise of his touch will see him through. The desire of a soul reborn to find its other half will not allow obstacles of the mind to stand in its way. He sees that now, and hope she sees it too.

The Face of Love

March 26, 2019 / Tom

Painful was the voice of childhood as it screamed from his entrails.

Commitment is like a knife whose blade is sharp and whose point cuts deeply. Treat it with care, avoid it when necessary. When unavoidable, keep the blade at a distance, and never run with the knife unsheathed.

Afraid was the voice of manhood as it echoed in the caverns of his mind.

Fear has shredded you like a hungry bear seeking food after a winter’s slumber. Approach it knowing its nature is never to injure, but in its hunger the frenzy devours whatever it must to survive.

Hopeful is the voice of love cascading through the waterfalls of his soul.

Remember that hand tightly, yet tenderly, holding your own? Remember her eyes as they lovingly turned your walls of stone to dust? Forget what you’ve seen before her. Forget what has hurt you. Discard those weapons you’ve used to keep the heart of love at a distance. Invite that divine serenity into your encampment, and see what words will spring from that union.

A man without his voices can feel lost for the moment. A man ignoring all that he once believed kept him safe trembles in the face of the vanishing-yet-false security. He simply seeks to dive into those eyes and feel that hand again. He feels lost yet not forgotten, afraid yet filled with courage, needy yet secure in his own space. Confusion tells the tale of some wondrous, pending transformation. It is now, in this light, that his shell can become a most dangerous place. He just wants to be warmed in her arms, yet he feels bitter cold at the height of a beautiful Spring morn.

The onslaught continues.

Loud is the voice of memory, shaking both the flesh and the heart of a warrior who’s left his sword and shield out beyond the gates of his Thermopylae. He feels naked, unarmed and unprotected as he faces the hoards of his despair, the very beasts who are sure to trample him in the mud beneath his feet.

His dreams pierce like a spear pressed firmly against his chest, a crimson teardrop runs freely down his skin. The ground is fertile with such tears, and there he has found a willow tree whose branches caress his heart as the winds shred the last veil adorning his tired soul. Love is the sweetest refreshment, yet his chalice has been blown to where the Sun shall kiss the Sea, that place where the sand cleanses his feet and the waves are poisonous to his lips. Still, he would gulp the ocean dry to have both her cup and his wine on the same table, in the same place they both call home.

The demons advance, and he reaches for his sword. He’s left it back there, beyond the gates. He reaches for his shield, and remembers his sword leans up against it. In their absence he will face the hoards with no means of offense or defense. Fists clenched and with a will wavering yet strong, he braces for battle. In a moment of insecurity he closes his eyes to die with a vision of his choosing. There, in the darkness of his final fear, glimmers a beaming image imprinted somewhere beyond his grasp. On the clouds of heaven he sees her, the image of his beloved smiling with eyes that changed everything. He is ready to surrender and meet her there, somewhere beyond the walls of eternity where all angels go to rest.

Suddenly, the ground once shaking calms. The sound of the hoards pouring from unmoored ships just beyond the breaking waves goes silent. The air once choked with dust from the hooves and feet of suffering, settles. All that is left standing is a man, alone in the sand, tears spilling down his face cleansing the dirt from his skin. Naked, alone, yet clothed in the truest togetherness he has ever known, the man has seen something he was certain few have ever seen before.

He has seen the Face of Love.

Though others would torment him in his smile, smile he would. Though others would not understand the depth of his soul, he would bathe in the deepest parts he could find. Though others would not seek the wounds that led him toward the smile saw during his moment of surrender, he has blessed every scar. The willow tree that had sprouted despite the salts of his despair knew something even he did not. The willow knew his depth, his healing, and the blessing of his smile. In return he just wanted her near, a blessed reflection of the truth he had spent a lifetime uncovering; the embodiment of the promise made through him at the moment of his conception.

“Please, come back,” he said to the image flying East as it rose to greet him.

“I will,” came the reply.

“Now…” his voice trailing off in the absence of a will to demand anything of her.

Silence.

He closed his eyes tightly again, praying for a return to the beauty that saw the weaponless man victorious in battle. There she was, as if she was standing before him, teasing him in the darkness with a light he wanted to be eternal. His tears flowed when she smiled and the thirst returned as he bent to kiss her. He was there, wherever she was, home. They were there, wherever they stood together, safe at last.

36 Hours..

March 21, 2019 / Tom

In 36 hours
Hands meant to touch,
Will be reunited.

Words now unsaid,
Will grace the hearts of lovers.

Lips left dry by time and space,
Will have their thirst ended in a moment.

Hearts left weeks to dream,
Will embrace the sweetest of returns.

Minds left to wonder through technology,
Will again find simplicity in love’s togetherness.

In 36 hours
Things will go back to how they were meant to be,
And flames will be united on a single candle.

The Spring winds will blow,
And truth will be uncovered in absent desert sands.

The bright Sun will rise,
And warm their flesh together.

The stories will be told,
As their words bleed on the canvas of their lives.

In 36 hours.

That’s all it takes.

Forsaking the hours past since their last kiss,

Ending the torment created by the empty space
In their nook.

36 hours.

Let it be,
That my life continues for at least that long.
That my breaths get me to that space.
That my heart beats strong toward such a destiny.
A simple prayer from a complex man.

36 hours.
36 days.
36 years.

Fovever.

Ask and you shall receive…

March 15, 2019 / Tom

There are moments for writers when words escape them. For this writer, those moments are often tied to feelings of disconnect when the soul and mind just need a break from the mundane side of life. When those moments come, I dive into solitude and seek aloneness like it is my long-lost friend. That dive into solitude takes me into the depths of my inner self, and what I find there often shakes me to the core of my being. It’s just the way it is, and has been, for this pilgrim in the pilgrimage of his lifetime.

And thus it’s been. The disconnect from the outer world serves to reconnect me to my inner world. It’s a time when the student and master unite into one voice and I find I am often talking to myself in the abyss, responding to echoes and creating more as I float in between stillness and chaos. Finally, the stillness comes and I venture into it until that moment when I wish to leave it again.

It’s been that way for me the last few days. I’ve written a bit. I’m working on a novel called “Because, Love” as well as a few other projects that fit my mind’s need for abstraction and bend in the creative road I walk. That writing, however, has not come as easily as it usually does, and I’ve had to take the unusual step of forcing myself to create instead of simply translating the flow I can easily tap. It bothers me, to some extent, because I find few things as rewarding as writing and even fewer things as awesome as that connection I have with the creative source. When I am in it, the world looks very different for me.

This morning I awoke early as usual, and my focus instantly went to the empty space where the creative energy usually is. I sighed a bit, and decided I’d just spend a little more time meditating by using up the space I use for writing. In meditation, I felt myself asking for connection to the creative source that I’ve been missing. There seemed nothing in response, just stillness, so I moved on by exploring the connection I feel to my beloved and her family, to those mountains shielding my western flank, to the sea way out east, and to my children. I could feel the mountains kissing my feet, the sea spraying my skin with bliss, the smiles of my children and the touch of my beloved. It’s an overwhelming feeling if I am honest, and sometimes that feeling pushes me deeper into stillness.

Meditation over, I did the fatherly duties that requirement my attention in the weekday mornings and took a look at Facebook to pass some time. A friend had responded to a post with the song Rocky Mountain High by John Denver. I love that song (he knows that), and given the depth of connection I was coming from it resounded incredibly.

I hopped in the shower with a John Denver playlist ready to boom through my speaker. It started with Take Me Home, Country Roads and then went to Annie’s Song.

Having come off an intense meditation filled with loving connection that fed both my mind and my heart, Annie’s Song hit the mark. Soon tears mixed with the droplets of my man-made waterfall. I leaned against the wall with my hand, allowing the warm water to flow down my nakedness as I released whatever it was blocking me from creative flow. I never sobbed, never sighed as it wasn’t that type of release. Instead, my body stood upright as I turned my face into the spray, symbolically washing myself of restraint.

Then, the words just began to flow. They were unstoppable forces of nature that came at me like a flash flood. I immediately felt that oft-present flow of creativity return, reminding me of the omnipresence of love and the deep connection I feel in it. I am a lover, after all, and even though I’ve never sold my sword I don’t brandish it much anymore. I feel so much stronger in love than I do in battle.

The Universe obviously works on a schedule not always in line with mine. The Universe will always conspire to help me achieve my goal, but not always on my time frame or in the way I expect it to. Instead, it comes in its own time in its own way, always having my best interest at heart. I guess the lesson is that if one just gets out of the way and stops trying to speed things up or slow them down, the conspiracy of Universe and heart will provide a long-lasting and enjoyable moment.

Today, for me, the Universe used a friend, my loved ones, and a song to give me what I wanted. It certainly didn’t come in the way I expected, but it did come. It certainly didn’t meet my schedule, but it did arrive. All I had to do was get out of the way.

Peace.

Parting is (Not) Such Sweet Sorrow

March 12, 2019 / Tom

“Soon, I will begin another countdown to our next encounter. I will do my job, and do it well while trying not to get lost in the fact that I will not be eating dinner next to her. I will not be watching television while hearing her lightly breathe as she’s lost in slumber. I will not find that hug around the corner, or that kiss just waiting at the other end of a sentence.”

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Parting is (Not) Such Sweet Sorrow

A Single Strand of Hair

March 2, 2019 / Tom

What can be gleamed,
From a single strand of hair?
From its tip,
An umbilical cut neatly from stories of the past,
Leads the eye slowly
To a root
Imbedded in the mind of wondrous possibility.

Follow its line
The river of desire as it flows downward.
Like a waterfall of passion
That flows down the curves of her back
Toward some place of remarkable destiny.
A man’s mind can wonder in that vision,
His heart betrothed to the one who calls his name.

Seek that thread,
Like your heart’s string pulling you in its effervescence
The pools of truth washing you clean of distant thought.
A man will know what he must do,
Even if the mind sets to other directions,
He can always return to the thread of his fantasy.

What can be gleamed,
From a single strand of hair?
Attached to love’s great promise everything can be known,
Everything can be seen if one just opens his eyes
He can know love if he just opens his heart
She can know the warmth if she just opens her mind
Before she tosses her head back, and gone is the single strand of hair.

© 2019 Tom Grasso All Rights Reserved

We Know

February 23, 2019 / Tom

She holds my hand
And I am instantly alive.
She strengthens what is strong,
Inspires me to heal what has cracked,
Collecting pieces of me I’ve left strewn about the field.

Voices say,
“Distance will never work
The continent between is your enemy.”

But they don’t know us.
They don’t know,
That as I swim in the pool of her eyes
That I have found a place that I wish to bathe forever.

The voices can’t feel
The sprinkle of moonlight that flows across my skin
When she touches me.

They can’t feel
How what was once uncertain seems so sure
How the sand becomes stone
How the mist of sea crashing across the stones
Becomes an ocean once again
In the moment when my ears hear her voice.

They can’t see
How my soul dances just at the very thought of her.
They can’t hear the music within me
That calls her name.
They can’t feel the spirit within me
Rise tall and fly high above the plains
Just for a chance to feel her arms around my waist
And her head on my chest.

Lover’s know
The certainty of this truth
For we pity those
Who have never felt God’s head
Nestled tightly against their shoulder
As Her fingers draw love poems on their skin.

Or felt the spirit of truth
Wash over them like a summer rain.

So while they say
“It can’t work”
We who love not from a place just of body or mind
But from a place they, and sometimes we,
Cannot understand,
We know differently.

We know a truth
That guides us through fire
Sees us survive the storms
Has us reach a summit
And a shore
That lovers would call Destiny.

Lovers know a truth.
We follow a star that sometimes only we can see.
Float in a breeze sometimes only we can feel.
Die a million deaths just to be alive the moment that we meet.
For what is never certain for many,
Cannot be more sure
For us.

Our Language

February 21, 2019 / Tom

I once saw the radiance
Born from once-again,
Alive in what I have never-known,
Until that moment when your light burst through the clouds
Holding me tightly in your array,
Speaking to me slowly in ways I could not understand.

Love demanded I learn your language,
And set me free from my ignorance,
Embracing poems and prose I wanted to comprehend,
Patience, I am no doctor, I reply,
Slow, I am falling and have no wings slow my tumble,
Love, Yes! And I begin to understand.

If I meet the ground
There will be no softness in the landing,
I’d rather fly and kiss the clouds with you,
Glide above the thunder and the lightning,
Tickle your soul with the Light from up above,
Taste you in the droplets of moonlight all around.

My mind knows the truth of my crashing,
The burning ground, debris scattered for all to see,
Yet here, I see a flower sprouting through the ashes,
Its fragrance overcomes the acrid smoke that’s in the air,
Like that moment when you touched my heart,
Made cracks in the armor that kept me ignorant,
Now filled with gold flowing from your fingertips,
I hold you close, we now see the clouds far below.

Now, we create a language all our own,
Foreign to some but known as truth within our souls,
Take my hand as I take yours,
Walk with me across the bridges
And ridges
Of the time we have remaining.

For I love you, and now I understand.