Vincent Lowry's Blog, page 9
July 20, 2012
For Another
Those feelings that you hold
So close to your heart,
Those emotions that you rarely
Share with the outside world,
I want you to save it for another.
A time will come when those
Secrets are meant to pour from your lips
And into to soul of your partner,
But we both know it's not for me.
There was once a moment I thought differently
And tried my best to unlock your true self,
But my key was not a match,
And your silence let me know.
So fuel the fire that burns inside
And find that key that opens everything
You hold dear, everything you cherish,
And let my shadow dissolve with the rest.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
So close to your heart,
Those emotions that you rarely
Share with the outside world,
I want you to save it for another.
A time will come when those
Secrets are meant to pour from your lips
And into to soul of your partner,
But we both know it's not for me.
There was once a moment I thought differently
And tried my best to unlock your true self,
But my key was not a match,
And your silence let me know.
So fuel the fire that burns inside
And find that key that opens everything
You hold dear, everything you cherish,
And let my shadow dissolve with the rest.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
July 19, 2012
What You're Looking For
I know what you're looking for isn't here,
So I'll open the door and let evening
Call you out to the highway of chased dreams.
This house will only hold you back,
So may the memories that follow you
Be kind and not burden your journey
Like a chain locked to its eternal ball.
Find the goals that evaded the ones who loved you,
The treasures that were never unearthed,
The happiness that was always on the horizon.
Be the proof so many young eyes need to
See in this forgotten town,
The example held high at schools,
Whispered in the playgrounds,
Idolized in endless tales.
Here is my heart.
Take it and when you return,
Show me only that you gave yours to others.
So I'll open the door and let evening
Call you out to the highway of chased dreams.
This house will only hold you back,
So may the memories that follow you
Be kind and not burden your journey
Like a chain locked to its eternal ball.
Find the goals that evaded the ones who loved you,
The treasures that were never unearthed,
The happiness that was always on the horizon.
Be the proof so many young eyes need to
See in this forgotten town,
The example held high at schools,
Whispered in the playgrounds,
Idolized in endless tales.
Here is my heart.
Take it and when you return,
Show me only that you gave yours to others.
July 16, 2012
Pacific Ghost
If I take the highway west
To where the Pacific becomes the dead-end
And the sun stares at me from its watery bed
I shall find her face again,
Eyes painted a deep brown
Like some Rembrandt canvas displaced from the light,
Hair flicking in my face without touch.
The ships will skirt along the horizon
And the kids will befriend the waves,
But I will be consumed with a ghost,
Unaware of the activity spilling from the upturned hours.
An ice cream vendor will move on
Upon seeing my vacant gaze
And the eyes that say this man
Is lost at sea despite having no boat.
I will then follow my girl
To the pier
And join lovers who haven't lost.
There the sun will slip
Under its covers
And the moon will shine through my bride.
Will she grant me a kiss?
To where the Pacific becomes the dead-end
And the sun stares at me from its watery bed
I shall find her face again,
Eyes painted a deep brown
Like some Rembrandt canvas displaced from the light,
Hair flicking in my face without touch.
The ships will skirt along the horizon
And the kids will befriend the waves,
But I will be consumed with a ghost,
Unaware of the activity spilling from the upturned hours.
An ice cream vendor will move on
Upon seeing my vacant gaze
And the eyes that say this man
Is lost at sea despite having no boat.
I will then follow my girl
To the pier
And join lovers who haven't lost.
There the sun will slip
Under its covers
And the moon will shine through my bride.
Will she grant me a kiss?
The Nazi War Criminal
I read on the news today
That a 97-year-old Nazi commander
Was finally caught while living
Comfortably in Budapest.
Laszlo Csatary was his name.
When I first saw the story
My initial instinct,
After the glory I’m sure most people felt
Upon hearing his capture,
Was: God, these madmen are still alive?
I started to ponder all the events
He had lived through.
WWI and Germany’s defeat.
WWII and his participation
In ending so many innocent lives.
The rise of Elvis Presley,
Close to the time Laszlo was sentenced
In absentia to death in a Czech court.
Beatlemania, right in the heart
Of the Civil Rights Movement.
Humanity’s walk on the moon,
Presumably while Laszlo was in
Hiding in Canada.
The birth of Yoda and the Jedi.
The vote for Reagan,
The Challenger splitting into pieces,
And Berlin Wall falling into its own fragments.
Then there would be the Internet,
A Tuesday on September 11th,
And a kid named Zuckerberg
Whose site would connect the world.
Perhaps it’s this last event that strikes
Me as the most chilling.
Did Laszlo set up a secret Facebook profile?
Maybe he used the picture of a sunflower
And went under the name John Smith.
And if so, did people befriend him?
Send him happy birthday wall notes?
“Like” his weekly or daily posts?
Offer him the life thousands of his victims should have had?
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
That a 97-year-old Nazi commander
Was finally caught while living
Comfortably in Budapest.
Laszlo Csatary was his name.
When I first saw the story
My initial instinct,
After the glory I’m sure most people felt
Upon hearing his capture,
Was: God, these madmen are still alive?
I started to ponder all the events
He had lived through.
WWI and Germany’s defeat.
WWII and his participation
In ending so many innocent lives.
The rise of Elvis Presley,
Close to the time Laszlo was sentenced
In absentia to death in a Czech court.
Beatlemania, right in the heart
Of the Civil Rights Movement.
Humanity’s walk on the moon,
Presumably while Laszlo was in
Hiding in Canada.
The birth of Yoda and the Jedi.
The vote for Reagan,
The Challenger splitting into pieces,
And Berlin Wall falling into its own fragments.
Then there would be the Internet,
A Tuesday on September 11th,
And a kid named Zuckerberg
Whose site would connect the world.
Perhaps it’s this last event that strikes
Me as the most chilling.
Did Laszlo set up a secret Facebook profile?
Maybe he used the picture of a sunflower
And went under the name John Smith.
And if so, did people befriend him?
Send him happy birthday wall notes?
“Like” his weekly or daily posts?
Offer him the life thousands of his victims should have had?
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
July 14, 2012
The Lost Story
Today I bought a computer
And was using a nifty feature called dictation
To continue writing a short story
That I'd been working on for two days.
How efficient I thought
Watching the words unfold before my eyes
Without my fingers tapping the keypad.
All I had to do was think,
Move my lips when the sentences formed in my mind
And the computer would do the tedious task
Of stitching together the letters
While checking the grammar and spelling.
In fact it was sometime while
I was marveling at the beauty
Of this new technology
And I hit save and found out
That a technical glitch on my Gmail account
Prevented the draft from saving.
And to my dismay
Not only did the draft not save
It was somehow deleted.
Every letter.
Every word.
Every sentence.
Goodbye to my short story.
I shall never see you again,
And I know this to be true
As I talk to my computer
Once again to do the tedious task
Of stitching the letters for this poem.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
And was using a nifty feature called dictation
To continue writing a short story
That I'd been working on for two days.
How efficient I thought
Watching the words unfold before my eyes
Without my fingers tapping the keypad.
All I had to do was think,
Move my lips when the sentences formed in my mind
And the computer would do the tedious task
Of stitching together the letters
While checking the grammar and spelling.
In fact it was sometime while
I was marveling at the beauty
Of this new technology
And I hit save and found out
That a technical glitch on my Gmail account
Prevented the draft from saving.
And to my dismay
Not only did the draft not save
It was somehow deleted.
Every letter.
Every word.
Every sentence.
Goodbye to my short story.
I shall never see you again,
And I know this to be true
As I talk to my computer
Once again to do the tedious task
Of stitching the letters for this poem.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
July 2, 2012
Poem - Music's Wings
It’s impossible to fathom
How I could be in this
Swelling city one moment—
The cars stacked together
Beyond the eye’s gaze,
The buildings standing
Shoulder to shoulder in a battalion
Of concrete and glass—
And the next moment
I’m transported to an open field
Of my youth
Where Sandhill Crane
Soar in V’s and W’s
And knee-high grass
Sways with the wind’s
Gentle hand.
On music’s wings,
I peer down and spot
The ditch that hides
Crawdads and toads,
The double plank bridge
That bows under the weight
Of my bike,
The tumbleweeds that roll
West into infinity.
I fly with the crane,
Migrating to some lost land
I once had such a firm
Grip on,
To a time I once thought
I owned.
A half sun rests on the horizon,
Spilling gold into the sky,
Summoning yet another call
For the desert stars
That shall soon shine in its void.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
How I could be in this
Swelling city one moment—
The cars stacked together
Beyond the eye’s gaze,
The buildings standing
Shoulder to shoulder in a battalion
Of concrete and glass—
And the next moment
I’m transported to an open field
Of my youth
Where Sandhill Crane
Soar in V’s and W’s
And knee-high grass
Sways with the wind’s
Gentle hand.
On music’s wings,
I peer down and spot
The ditch that hides
Crawdads and toads,
The double plank bridge
That bows under the weight
Of my bike,
The tumbleweeds that roll
West into infinity.
I fly with the crane,
Migrating to some lost land
I once had such a firm
Grip on,
To a time I once thought
I owned.
A half sun rests on the horizon,
Spilling gold into the sky,
Summoning yet another call
For the desert stars
That shall soon shine in its void.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
June 14, 2012
Date 1: Will the Real Gina Please Stand Up?
(True stories from the dating trenches.)
Her name is Gina. Her stats, as listed on the online dating site called Plenty of Fish, are as follows: 25-years-old, 5'4", Caucasian, brunette, slender. I've been exchanging emails with her for the past two weeks, and tonight marks our first face-to-face get together. I've arranged to pick her up at her apartment in Central LA and take her to a nice restaurant in Santa Monica, a four star Italian hotspot on Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade. With the reservations set, and just a few minutes to go before I call Gina to come downstairs to meet me at my car, I'm feeling good about our date. It's going to be an excellent night.
I slow to a stop beside Gina's apartment and park my Escape. I fish out my cell from my pants pocket (new jeans I had purchased just for tonight) and check the time. 6:23. It's a little too early to call my date downstairs, so I exit my car to enjoy the spectacular Southern California evening weather.
It doesn't take long before I start to think about all ways this date could play out. I first envision the positive outcomes: enraptured in conversation, laughing throughout much of our dinner, getting a drink or two at some nearby bar, closing the night with a little bit of romance. My heart races at this last thought. I don't expect to get far on a first date, but a kiss or two or three...
Next come the negative possibilities, slapping me in the face like a friend waking me from a daydream: boring chit-chat, terrible food at a crowded and overpriced restaurant, a rejected drink proposal that I've made to try to salvage the night. No meeting of the lips on this one. I'd be lucky to even have her link her arm with mine to escort her back to my car.
6:31. Time to place that call.
"Gina? Hello? You there?"
Someone has picked up on her end, but the reception is terrible. Why do we use these damn cell phones if they never work half of the time?
"Vince?"
"Yes. Hi. I'm downstairs now. Come when you are ready."
"Okay. Brilliant. Be down in a sec."
The line goes dead. She has a British accent, something I wasn't expecting even though we've sent enough messages to fill a small journal. Never once had she mentioned she was from England.
I would soon find out she had more than one secret up her sleeve.
I wait for another ten minutes (it's never just a second), then spot a woman checking her cell near a second entrance to the complex that I had not previously seen.
"Gina?"
She turns. Surprise number two hits me.
"Hi, Vince! There you are."
We exchange hugs.
I'm wondering if I should call off the date right now. I seriously consider bluntly calling her out on her lie, turning around, and jumping in my car before the string of negative possibilities has time to go into full effect.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except four words: "My car's this way."
~~~
As I drive west down a traffic free I-10 (one of the few pleasant outcomes so far), we talk about all the things we hadn't written about online. I mention that her neighborhood is serene and unlike most that I've seen in LA. She tells me that she likes it, but might consider moving to another part of the city to save money. It's something of a wonder how I'm able to carry out a conversation and drive, while my mind swirls around the one elephant in room: This is not Gina!
The girl next to me has all the same basic stats that I read about online, but her face is very different from the one I had seen in the three pictures she had posted. The same is true for her hair and skin tone.
I want to blurt out the truth to this impostor, but two factors keep my mouth sealed. The first is the possibility that I could be wrong. Pictures can be easily altered--magazines do it all the time--and maybe what I saw was some sort of airbrushed glamour work on Gina's head. I would look like a jerk if I said she looked much prettier in her pictures.
The second reason is I still want to enjoy the evening and the possibility that the date could end up going well despite this initial hitch. I didn't want to be shallow and call off the night on looks alone. If she fesses up to her lie, then I could likely get over the image I had built in my mind during the last several weeks of communicating with her and accept the new Gina.
Maybe we could have a little romance after all.
"Have you tried this restaurant before?" Gina asks me as I park my car in a structure near 3rd Street Promenade.
"No. I found it online. It had about a dozen good reviews, so I figured it was better than Chucky Cheese tonight."
I get a smile, but no laugh. Not good. I cannot help but feel like she should be the one telling me jokes to ease the tension. I immediately decide to hold off on the comedy.
As we enter the restaurant and take our seats, I begin to ponder how I can best broach the subject of her online profile without being rude about it. Should I wait to ask her the truth, or do it right away so we can enjoy our dinner without the question nagging at me?
I decide to choose the middle road--to do it after our appetizer.
"Everything looks so delicious, doesn't it?" Gina says to me, her wide eyes absorbing the menu selections.
"Yes, it does."
It's the truth. The food passing me smells great. And the atmosphere of the restaurant feels even better--cozy, warm, quiet. It reminds me why I spend the time and energy going on dates in the first place. I love the feeling of going out with a woman when it's done right. It's one of life's true pleasures.
"Have you decided on a wine, Sir?" our waiter asks upon returning to our table.
"Umm... Sure... Two glasses of pino grigio, please," I tell him.
I smile at Gina. She smiles back.
I return my attention to the menu as the waiter nods and heads off.
Just tell me the truth without my asking, I think.
That's all you need to do, Gina.
~~
The fried calamari is splendid, the wine (now half consumed) is remarkable, and our dinner conversation is going rather well in terms of first dates. With our entrees due in a matter of minutes, everything is going as planned.
Everything except for my one contingency.
It's a big deal to me because if there are secrets right from day one (especially big secrets), then there are likely to be communication issues later in the relationship. This has been my experience with past girlfriends. Honesty is key. Without it, neither couple knows exactly where they stand with each other, and that always leads to disaster.
"So Plenty of Fish is something else" I say, finally dipping my toes in the pond I've been circling. I still have no idea how I'm going to phrase what I'm going to say next, but I figure the words will come together as I start the subject. "What do you think about the site?"
Gina, still chewing, covers her mouth and nods her head. She swallows.
"It's okay. It's sort of weird, I guess. Meeting people online."
Tell me about it, I think, watching her gaze shift a little.
It's time!
"So...that was a really cute picture of you with that baby. The one on your profile. Who was that kid you were holding?"
I've managed to surprise myself with this approach. It's perfect. If she simply tells me the name of the baby, then that's another lie stacked on top of the whopper she's currently sitting on. If she does that, I swear I will get up right then and...
"Well, that wasn't really me in that picture," Gina says, blushing. "That was actually my cousin. She had used some of my pictures in her profile and I wanted to get back at her for doing it."
"So all three of those photos?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"All her. I know I shouldn't have done it, but she was such a bastard for doing it to me. I wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine, you know?"
I don't know. It doesn't make sense to me one bit how posting pictures of her cousin on her profile is supposed to be some sort of revenge tactic for what was done to her. It sounds like more bullshit. I always apply the simple answer, and here it's very clear: her cousin was more attractive. Using it would increase the emails to her portfolio and increase the chances of her going on dates. It worked with me, and I'm certain it worked on several other guys.
"So how do you like Plenty of Fish?" she quickly asks.
No appology, I note. That would have been nice since she's trying to use another lie to cover her first one. While I feel the need to end the date right now, a part of me holds back. I'm no saint, but abruptly ending the evening right now just seems wrong. Perhaps just as wrong as posting a picture of Brad Pitt on my profile to draw the ladies.
I carry on as best I can, finishing the dinner, then desert, then driving her back to her apartment. As I park the car, I know the night is a dud and simply settle for giving her a friendly hug and saying goodbye. The moon is out, casting a pale glow on the street in front of me. I stay long enough to make sure she's safely in the complex, then pull my car back into drive.
I roll down my driver's side window to feel the crisp evening air cool my face.
It feels nice.
I love Southern California during the fall.
~~~
(C) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
Her name is Gina. Her stats, as listed on the online dating site called Plenty of Fish, are as follows: 25-years-old, 5'4", Caucasian, brunette, slender. I've been exchanging emails with her for the past two weeks, and tonight marks our first face-to-face get together. I've arranged to pick her up at her apartment in Central LA and take her to a nice restaurant in Santa Monica, a four star Italian hotspot on Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade. With the reservations set, and just a few minutes to go before I call Gina to come downstairs to meet me at my car, I'm feeling good about our date. It's going to be an excellent night.
I slow to a stop beside Gina's apartment and park my Escape. I fish out my cell from my pants pocket (new jeans I had purchased just for tonight) and check the time. 6:23. It's a little too early to call my date downstairs, so I exit my car to enjoy the spectacular Southern California evening weather.
It doesn't take long before I start to think about all ways this date could play out. I first envision the positive outcomes: enraptured in conversation, laughing throughout much of our dinner, getting a drink or two at some nearby bar, closing the night with a little bit of romance. My heart races at this last thought. I don't expect to get far on a first date, but a kiss or two or three...
Next come the negative possibilities, slapping me in the face like a friend waking me from a daydream: boring chit-chat, terrible food at a crowded and overpriced restaurant, a rejected drink proposal that I've made to try to salvage the night. No meeting of the lips on this one. I'd be lucky to even have her link her arm with mine to escort her back to my car.
6:31. Time to place that call.
"Gina? Hello? You there?"
Someone has picked up on her end, but the reception is terrible. Why do we use these damn cell phones if they never work half of the time?
"Vince?"
"Yes. Hi. I'm downstairs now. Come when you are ready."
"Okay. Brilliant. Be down in a sec."
The line goes dead. She has a British accent, something I wasn't expecting even though we've sent enough messages to fill a small journal. Never once had she mentioned she was from England.
I would soon find out she had more than one secret up her sleeve.
I wait for another ten minutes (it's never just a second), then spot a woman checking her cell near a second entrance to the complex that I had not previously seen.
"Gina?"
She turns. Surprise number two hits me.
"Hi, Vince! There you are."
We exchange hugs.
I'm wondering if I should call off the date right now. I seriously consider bluntly calling her out on her lie, turning around, and jumping in my car before the string of negative possibilities has time to go into full effect.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except four words: "My car's this way."
~~~
As I drive west down a traffic free I-10 (one of the few pleasant outcomes so far), we talk about all the things we hadn't written about online. I mention that her neighborhood is serene and unlike most that I've seen in LA. She tells me that she likes it, but might consider moving to another part of the city to save money. It's something of a wonder how I'm able to carry out a conversation and drive, while my mind swirls around the one elephant in room: This is not Gina!
The girl next to me has all the same basic stats that I read about online, but her face is very different from the one I had seen in the three pictures she had posted. The same is true for her hair and skin tone.
I want to blurt out the truth to this impostor, but two factors keep my mouth sealed. The first is the possibility that I could be wrong. Pictures can be easily altered--magazines do it all the time--and maybe what I saw was some sort of airbrushed glamour work on Gina's head. I would look like a jerk if I said she looked much prettier in her pictures.
The second reason is I still want to enjoy the evening and the possibility that the date could end up going well despite this initial hitch. I didn't want to be shallow and call off the night on looks alone. If she fesses up to her lie, then I could likely get over the image I had built in my mind during the last several weeks of communicating with her and accept the new Gina.
Maybe we could have a little romance after all.
"Have you tried this restaurant before?" Gina asks me as I park my car in a structure near 3rd Street Promenade.
"No. I found it online. It had about a dozen good reviews, so I figured it was better than Chucky Cheese tonight."
I get a smile, but no laugh. Not good. I cannot help but feel like she should be the one telling me jokes to ease the tension. I immediately decide to hold off on the comedy.
As we enter the restaurant and take our seats, I begin to ponder how I can best broach the subject of her online profile without being rude about it. Should I wait to ask her the truth, or do it right away so we can enjoy our dinner without the question nagging at me?
I decide to choose the middle road--to do it after our appetizer.
"Everything looks so delicious, doesn't it?" Gina says to me, her wide eyes absorbing the menu selections.
"Yes, it does."
It's the truth. The food passing me smells great. And the atmosphere of the restaurant feels even better--cozy, warm, quiet. It reminds me why I spend the time and energy going on dates in the first place. I love the feeling of going out with a woman when it's done right. It's one of life's true pleasures.
"Have you decided on a wine, Sir?" our waiter asks upon returning to our table.
"Umm... Sure... Two glasses of pino grigio, please," I tell him.
I smile at Gina. She smiles back.
I return my attention to the menu as the waiter nods and heads off.
Just tell me the truth without my asking, I think.
That's all you need to do, Gina.
~~
The fried calamari is splendid, the wine (now half consumed) is remarkable, and our dinner conversation is going rather well in terms of first dates. With our entrees due in a matter of minutes, everything is going as planned.
Everything except for my one contingency.
It's a big deal to me because if there are secrets right from day one (especially big secrets), then there are likely to be communication issues later in the relationship. This has been my experience with past girlfriends. Honesty is key. Without it, neither couple knows exactly where they stand with each other, and that always leads to disaster.
"So Plenty of Fish is something else" I say, finally dipping my toes in the pond I've been circling. I still have no idea how I'm going to phrase what I'm going to say next, but I figure the words will come together as I start the subject. "What do you think about the site?"
Gina, still chewing, covers her mouth and nods her head. She swallows.
"It's okay. It's sort of weird, I guess. Meeting people online."
Tell me about it, I think, watching her gaze shift a little.
It's time!
"So...that was a really cute picture of you with that baby. The one on your profile. Who was that kid you were holding?"
I've managed to surprise myself with this approach. It's perfect. If she simply tells me the name of the baby, then that's another lie stacked on top of the whopper she's currently sitting on. If she does that, I swear I will get up right then and...
"Well, that wasn't really me in that picture," Gina says, blushing. "That was actually my cousin. She had used some of my pictures in her profile and I wanted to get back at her for doing it."
"So all three of those photos?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"All her. I know I shouldn't have done it, but she was such a bastard for doing it to me. I wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine, you know?"
I don't know. It doesn't make sense to me one bit how posting pictures of her cousin on her profile is supposed to be some sort of revenge tactic for what was done to her. It sounds like more bullshit. I always apply the simple answer, and here it's very clear: her cousin was more attractive. Using it would increase the emails to her portfolio and increase the chances of her going on dates. It worked with me, and I'm certain it worked on several other guys.
"So how do you like Plenty of Fish?" she quickly asks.
No appology, I note. That would have been nice since she's trying to use another lie to cover her first one. While I feel the need to end the date right now, a part of me holds back. I'm no saint, but abruptly ending the evening right now just seems wrong. Perhaps just as wrong as posting a picture of Brad Pitt on my profile to draw the ladies.
I carry on as best I can, finishing the dinner, then desert, then driving her back to her apartment. As I park the car, I know the night is a dud and simply settle for giving her a friendly hug and saying goodbye. The moon is out, casting a pale glow on the street in front of me. I stay long enough to make sure she's safely in the complex, then pull my car back into drive.
I roll down my driver's side window to feel the crisp evening air cool my face.
It feels nice.
I love Southern California during the fall.
~~~
(C) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
May 31, 2012
Gift Your Love
Do not concern yourself with
What you will get back.
Reach inside and find
The love you were meant to
Wrap in a perfect bow and take joy
In seeing others open it.
Know that it lights their soul
On the pit of all nights.
It shades their heart
On the fury of all days.
Witness the smiles you receive,
The laughter that floods your ears,
And take pride that hate, jealousy, sorrow, and pain are buried
Under all that torn decorative paper.
(C) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
What you will get back.
Reach inside and find
The love you were meant to
Wrap in a perfect bow and take joy
In seeing others open it.
Know that it lights their soul
On the pit of all nights.
It shades their heart
On the fury of all days.
Witness the smiles you receive,
The laughter that floods your ears,
And take pride that hate, jealousy, sorrow, and pain are buried
Under all that torn decorative paper.
(C) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
May 21, 2012
Life's Journey
Life's journey has no end.
It just becomes a different road.
-VL
It just becomes a different road.
-VL
May 18, 2012
Family of Six
The first room is closest to mine
And it usually has one parent,
But it used to have two.
The next room is down the hallway,
Past cabinets holding
Supplies, photo albums, holiday decorations.
It too is empty
With weights sinking into the carpet
And karate trophies kicking on shelves.
The next door down was often closed
When I wanted to enter it most.
But now it's open and walking in doesn't hold
The same excitement it once did.
Light pours through glass
And spills onto an untouched bed.
The final room holds silence inside the closet,
Stillness beside the dresser,
And the last member of a family of six.
I hear the air conditioning turn on.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
And it usually has one parent,
But it used to have two.
The next room is down the hallway,
Past cabinets holding
Supplies, photo albums, holiday decorations.
It too is empty
With weights sinking into the carpet
And karate trophies kicking on shelves.
The next door down was often closed
When I wanted to enter it most.
But now it's open and walking in doesn't hold
The same excitement it once did.
Light pours through glass
And spills onto an untouched bed.
The final room holds silence inside the closet,
Stillness beside the dresser,
And the last member of a family of six.
I hear the air conditioning turn on.
(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry
