Jacob Diehm's Blog, page 3

America The Not So Beautiful

We used to share the same ideals.

You used to feel the way I feel.

When you spoke you made life surreal.

Little did I know what secrets you were able to conceal.

You did not care how many lies you told.

Every lie told made you ever more bold.

But deep down your heart is truly cold.

Your lies dug into me and wouldn’t let me go.

You would scream words called democracy.

But you were only taught me the hypocrisy.

Your tracks left trails of anarchy.

You’re a tyrant, an example of an evil monarchy.

You tell me what I can and can’t eat.

More and more freedoms you try to delete.

Every day my life feels less complete.

I struggle to survive unable to compete.

Everyday you tell me I can no longer smoke.

More and more of our rights invoked.

You squeeze me till I’m broke.

Everything you say seems to be a joke.

You send men away with only bulletproof vest.

But they come home with shrapnel in their chests.

They do what they’re told with no protest.

It’s obvious you care less.

The survivors come home with memories,

Of their brothers and kids killed by I.E.D.’s

Insurance doesn’t cover P.T.S.D.

So how can’t they pay for these hospital fees.

So here’s how I truly feel.

America.

I no longer love you.

The Box

I’m standing inside a square wooden box; but you know this, cause you put me here. You built every wall with your simplistic ideals. You know the ones, you told me I was ugly. You said I was strange. The way I repulsed you when you looked at me. Your hatred, cause I did not fit into what you called the norm.

Your lack of understanding, has dubbed me as an animal. I grow angry inside this box. In that anger, I close my fists and pound till my knuckles bleed, my bones break. Now, you call me violent and unfit for society, I just want to be free.

The walls are cracking everywhere. So you lean against it to hold me inside. You want me there, so you don’t have to think about me. I make you afraid, cause the simple ones always fear the unknown. Your weak, and I am brave.

These walls are crumbling. I peer out at you through the holes and cracks. Your eyes grow wide with fear. Mine ripe with determination. You can’t keep me in here. I am too big for this box. I am too big for this world.

Therefore, I’m finally free. You retreat and shiver. I approach and you fold. I’m a monster about to destroy everything that is you. So you think. I raise my bloody fist at you. Your eyes close waiting and anticipating your demise. But, it does not come. You forgot one thing, I am human and I’m not like you. Your eyes open, my bloody fist inches from you. I raise my middle finger and disappear.

The Cold Mountain

In my younger years, my father used to take us hiking in the mountains of the Adirondacks. To this day, I can’t remember the name of that mountain. But I remember that dreadful Friday night all too clearly. I was about thirteen and my sister Heidi was eleven. We left our home in central New York late, and it was a three and a half hour drive. My grandparent had been already up there in their Winnebago.

When we arrive, my dad was hurrying us along, cause we were behind schedule. He threw on his flannel coat, and helped me put on my florescent backpack. I always had to carry the pots and pans in my pack. So as you walked up the mountain all you heard was a cling, and clang, and occasional thump when you jumped a fallen tree or small stream. The packs always reminded me that gravity existed, cause of the weight of the packs. Pots, pans, food, sleeping bag, and that foam pad that was supposed to make the ground feel softer when you lie down to sleep. They never did work, cause no matter where you rested your head, there had been always that one rock or root that poked you in the back while you tried to sleep.

In my blue jeans, my favorite red T-shirt, and my brand new hiking boots, we marched up the hill. For me, the race began. I had to be the first person where ever we went. First to the top. First to the lean-to. I liked to be alone in these times. I would be way ahead of everyone else, cause then, I can fall into a world of imagination. Sometimes, I was a world famous hunter hunting some mysterious beast, a trophy. Other times, I was in the military, hunting bad men from evil countries. My walking stick was my rifle. Sometimes, it was a sword. The sounds of the pots in my pack were my armor clinging as I hiked the mountain to slay a dragon. It all depended on what fantasy world I was in that moment. I love it. There, I could be anything I wanted to be.

When you travel along the path, you would find hikers coming down. Back then, I didn’t see it. But I do now. When people come down from the top, they have a distinctive smile. Their faces glow. I realize now, it’s the smile of success. We climbed and we conquered. A small victory in hardships of life.

Mid-afternoon, we reached the first lean-to. I was first, of course. This was another wonderful moment of my past. To take off that heavy pack, and feel light as a feather. It made you feel you could lift yourself off the ground and fly. I would spread my angel wings and take off as fast as I could. The air would press against my face and then burst right through the clouds.

It was relatively a nice day to this point. A mild breezy day around high fifties to mid sixties. We snacked on trail mix and candy bars, then we were on our way to the next lean-to where we would camp the night.

An hour later, the temperature dropped rapidly. I had to stop and put my jacket on. My father must have been worried cause it was starting to get dark and everyone was keeping up with me. Then it started to rain. My father and his friend Alan, who was much older than him discussed options. We decided to keep going and try to make it to the final lean-to.

Soon it was dark, really dark. The remaining sunlight was blocked by the thick foliage of trees. We had to use our flashlights to see. We had to search for the trail markers constantly. The rain was seeping into our inner clothes. The night was darker. Soon, we no longer could find the trail markers.

Our wet outfits from the day’s hike made us cold, and now we were lost. We decided to camp where we were. We made our tents and it took a good while to start a fire. Wet branches and the constant barrage of rain made it tiresome situation. Finally, a fire to heat out bodies. My father pulled off many miracle fires in our hiking adventures. This was his shining moment.

That night, the temperature dropped further. My sister lying next to me woke my father and I from slumber. She was shivering. So was I for that matter. My father put my sister and I in the same sleeping bag and he cuddled up to us and threw the other sleeping bag over the top of all us. I felt sorry for poor Alan he was in his own tent alone.

It was harder to go to sleep from that point. My sister was making shivering noises and trying to turn it into music. It became annoying. Finally, I fell back to sleep.

The next morning we awoke, still cold as ever. Alan’s voice called out to us from outside our tent. “Hey Jon, are you guys alright?”

“A little cold, but we are fine. How about yourself?” My father asked.

“Well, Jon, I think my tent done for.”

“What do you mean?” My father inquired.

We opened our tent and step outside. There must have been eight inches of snow on the ground. Alan tent poles had snapped in half. His yellow tent sat there, crushed and buried under the snow. The decision was simple. We packed everything up and started our descend. We weren’t prepared for this. Down the hill we marched till we rediscovered the mountain trail. I once again lead the trip down, no longer fantasizing of that big trophy or slaying of dragons. I marched down the hill defeated. Defeated and cold. My sister in tears, my father now carrying her pack and his. Slipping and sliding down, we climbed. We prayed for hot food and a warm house. Our weekend excursion was ended early.

Finally, at the bottom of the mountain. My sister now crying her heart out, her rubber boots half way off, we reached the bottom. As I step out of the woods, my grandfather was waiting at the bottom with the Winnebago. He was a sight for sore eyes. He took a picture with his camera which we still have today. All of us looking exhausted, wet and cold. My sister’s boots barely on her feet. My father carrying two packs and Alan looked beat up from the cold night.

My grandfather saved us that day from that cold mountain. My grandmother prepared hot cocoa and delicious soup. We do not have the smile and a glow of victory, but we have one memorable night. The night on the cold mountain.