Freestyle lines while driving through Gettysburg on Memorial Day Sunday…
— Read on michaelvitaly.com/2019/05/26/freestyle-lines-while-driving-through-gettysburg-on-memorial-day-sunday/
Driving through Gettysburg
To the north of me the rain clouds gather
And the storm is headed this way,
But the sun shines over Gettysburg.
The darkening gray turned black clouds
start to swirl and envelop the sky,
And the road is a gray bubbling saucer
Where puffs of smoke exude.
The skies over Gettysburg peel open a layer of sadness that embraces these hallowed fields,
Where celeste skies reveal puffs of cirrus white feathers,
With sunshine for ink like clouds rewriting history.
I think on the men, women, and slaves that fought to keep this country beating,
To keep its heart pounding,
They gave so much of themselves,
An unlikely transfusion,
Transcendent Moment in this young country’s fettered past.
And so much of what divided this country
still divides this country now.
What shared experiences,
What shared cultural tendencies,
What shared endeavors, adventures, proclivities
Do we as Americans possess?
What do we share besides the earth which we take for granted, the skies which we rebel against in our heights for lofty glory,
Mother nature who we depend on but don’t ever thank,
What makes us?
What makes us so unique, what makes us so different, what makes us so much better or worse than any other person on this earth?
What is it that truly defines us, not as a citizen of the world but a human being as well?
Gingko standing tall in the heat of the morning light,
premonitions falling ‘round when you meet the thing that’s right.
And the thing that feels so good is different than what you should,
or what you would, or what you could if the timing were only good.
The thing that calls you forth from moments of blasé,
demigod-like struggles between you and what they say
is worth pursuing when it could be your undoing,
what you feel inside your heart that never quite backs down,
from the passion that you seek, when you’re measured pound for pound.
For when your soul is tested and you feel like giving in,
there’s the little voice inside you that will always wanna win.
The voice that doesn’t even know, how to drive or how to thrive, but the voice when given purpose is what makes you most alive.
So take care of curiosity, and your sense of play,
do not lose your sense of wonder, and don’t listen to what they say.
Reach out to those who love you, and you better love them back,
we all need one another and that’s a secret fact.
So as these darling buds appear to pop and buzz and flutter,
let their resilience meet our own brilliance,
and let our hearts join together to help out one another.
May this Springtime bring us new rhymes,
as we first climb,
to the top of our own mountains.
Let us see the cordillera, la cadena en la frontera,
as we raise our own bandera, and dance in our own manera,
but never losing sight, of the loneliness of night,
when there’s no one left to turn to, and you don’t know what to do,
when there’s trouble on your mind, or the mounting stress of time,
when there’s peace you cannot find, and you’re anything but fine.
Dig deep and stand tall, don’t forget to write and call,
the friends you have collected in times of happiness,
are ones that become tested when your life becomes a mess.
Look inside and ask yourself, “Am I a light for someone else?”
Who do others turn to when they need a helping hand?
Can they even turn to me when their push turns to demand?
So as this morning sight takes a hold of my delight,
my prayers are with those whose world is full of fright.
May they know the blood inside them is not one to run and hide when
there’s a hitch in the plan or a fork in the road,
may we all learn to rest, in the peak of all the stress,
and preserve under duress, live to love and measure less.
May we see these ancient trees and worry a little less,
to know nature all around us knows the key to happiness.
Build roots and stay strong, live life and stretch long,
keep the flow of dance and song inside, it’s not wrong.
Keep playing and take the time to enjoy all the climb,
because you aren’t the only mountain on this stretch of borrowed time.
Shine when you can, in truth and happy wonder,
and look outside yourself when you feel that life’s a blunder,
not to point the blame at others,
but to think if I had my druthers,
I would have it this way and that way, and not any other.
Keep the hope alive, for a Spring when you can thrive,
keep the hope alive, for a Spring when you can thrive.
Keep the hope alive, for a Spring where you will thrive,
keep the hope alive, for a Spring where you will thrive.
Yet some trees are fully blooming
These green buds are justly moving
With a spearheaded beginning.
My eyes are soothed and start their grinning.
Crocuses and daffodils
Are piercing through the sun kissed hills.
While sunshine on my window sills
Warms my face, my heart is filled.
As I enjoy these throes of Spring
These leaves appear like golden wings,
All fuzzy with anticipation,
While I buzz in supplication.
I have drunk all April showers
And have felt my rooted hours,
Let me open like these flowers
Unafraid of all my powers.
Su estilo y imaginación,
aparecen en la conversación
de impresionantes románticos
sangrado de las guerras cuánticos,
sobreviviendo entre épocas
de diplomáticas y déspotas.
El asunto de la memoria
sobre la pista de desintegración,
se constituye a participación
de la humanidad pendiente
y la naturaleza persistente.
Con que podemos ayudar al Gran
Orden de las cosas que ya están?
Con nuestros manos tan inútiles
como líneas tan delgadas para
pintar al cielo tan inmenso. Ah?
Ojalá podemos aguantar al lío
tan opresivo y ilusorio,
a un día bailar con el viento del
invierno sin cuita, sólo saber
que ya vendrá la primavera
tan dulce. Ya vendrá el verano de dolor.
Pues bailamos sin duda que aumenta la vida.
Y pintamos con óleos prestados.
Si no en realidad, solo en la imaginación.
Pero anda, ya vaya, que haces aquí?
Bueno vayamos juntos hasta allá.
Vayamos juntos hasta allá.
Through the strains of these veins, water did flow.
Nutrient-rich from root through trunk to tip.
For generations did this Ginkgo owe
None but itself a yearning chance to rip
Through Earth’s sullen view and stand above land,
And yet selflessly did its downturned leaves
Provide a curtain-like home to the ant,
A haven where songs of the birds could weave
Wise ancient tales of unwavering tunes.
Those selfsame leaves dance and shimmer like jewels,
Fluttering freely across many moons,
Bearing witness to all systems of rules.
I rub these veins, asking with my fingers,
“When we’re all gone, what is left, that lingers?”
Looking at this world through the eyes of others,
I prefer to lose myself in the in between
to gain for myself what I may glean.
Alone no more but quivering with life,
The sun so strong through clouds resplendent,
into your eyes deeper I delve
only to skim only the surface.
What collects on the surface is muck,
green from the air and yellowed from sun,
blossoms of youthful spring
and obfuscation around the edges
you are but lines and shapes and times of day.
Rectangles like bodies of work
at work and at play.
Lilac whispers in coming summer breezes,
while dusk coos me quiet.
The water never is still,
and always full of life.
Living for others is the all.
Where I stand and peer into “now”
I’m pressed by space beyond me –
far off, unreachable distances –
and I only move on
Claude Monet (French, 1840–1926)
1914-26. Oil on canvas, three panels,
Each 6′ 6 3/4″ x 13′ 11 1/4″ (200 x 424.8 cm),
overall 6′ 6 3/4″ x 41′ 10 3/8″ (200 x 1276 cm).
To a poet stranger I’ve never met,
I wish you peace and joy and clarity,
Through the many miles that lay between us,
Of mountains, rivers, and neighbor cities,
I wish you peace of heart and peace of mind,
For the doors to one’s imagination
Are unlocked by an open heart and mind;
I wish you joy to see the pain in life
As lessons for the strength that you possess;
I wish you clarity in thoughts and acts
To be your best and never second guess.
I wish upon the million stars above,
In faith for sure I call upon them now,
“Take my message through this day’s fog to you,
You, oh poet stranger, I’ve never met!”
Through a veil against the coming day,
bare tree limbs protrude from the smoky white.
Lifeless trees stand yet reach out for the sky.
Some stubborn brown leaves like skeletons hang
to little limbs caught in night’s caresses.
The sky seems tired of being so high,
so throughout the night she must have fallen
to the earth where she remains entangled,
still here — her laced crown and diadem
do keep my thoughts to stolen nights with you.
Like a shroud keeping out the day, you stay
Near to my heart, and envelop my limbs
with heat from your tender sweet caresses.
I remain like the stubborn leaf, a shell
of my former self, soaking in your sky.
The white chalk blocks
The wicked electric blue,
The molten orange beneath
And the entrance of you.
I had to offer two beers
In peace when you walked in.
I also threw more wood on the fire.
Two rather skinny pieces as kindling along the sides of the already steady log cabin.
And one long quartered piece besides a small hunk of a mistake,
A split of a split diagonally sliced.
So I looked down at the fire once more,
And saw only shapes and colors and times of day,
And that scarf I picked up
— chartreuse —
The night of our only date.
Someone had left that scarf
A party or two before
And I assumed ownership of it the following morning.
The morning after when I recalled your leaving —
after my rather lascivious display.
I would’ve liked to have been able to tell you how much I enjoyed our date,
But we don’t talk anymore
And I’m too ashamed to say anything
And see only colors.
The white chalk blocks,
The wicked electric blue,
The molten orange beneath
And the fire’s hottest hues.