Sorry

will start posting again soon. been tied up and just plain lazy. Will have some new work up by next week.

Peices of the Past

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I walk with the utmost serenity

Towards an act of finality

But also a new beginning

An age of reason

My steps become slower

As I near my destination

My walk is more deliberate

And tense

I approach the misty shoreline

And remove my coat and shirt

The cold digs angrily into my skin

Nestling among my pores

Like little beads of ice

I feel them and enjoy the pain of it

I then remove from my pocket

A small item on a necklace

And a heavy ancient hammer

It is nearing dusk

And everything is obscured by a heavy fog

which hides the opposite lake shore

I feel as if the whole universe is behind the fog

Waiting for me

As I stand at the gateway

I hold it up and look at it

The fog makes a photo worthy backdrop

I stare at it as the thoughts reel through my head

And then I place it on the rock at my feet

I continue to gaze, and then, because I know I must, I kneel

Silently, slowly, I raise the hammer up

Then let it fall

It embodies my feeling, thoughts and emotions

My soul and life

As it falls downward toward the small wooden object

Which smashes to bits on the rock

I take the remnants of the object

And toss them to the sea

Pieces of a past

A wooden Crucifix

Turmoil

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This should probably be split into two poems. Oh well.

Turmoil

I am tired, sad, depressed

unable to decide my path

So much, yet so little to live for

What to do

She is beautiful

Yet a strain on my sanity

She said yes but I am not happy

I never do enough for her, with her

My time is tight

And though I want her, I want to leave her

Back to my old life which seems so carefree

How can I say it softly

We have done so little

I have not even had a chance with her

I’ve already had enough

In solitude I speak

Hiding behind a poem

writing not acting like I know I should

Trying to fix myself, my pain

The mask of happiness with which I stroll

Only working eases the load

keeping busy

Forgetting her

Forgetting us

I cook and lift and hoe

distracted from a harsh reality

Why complicate what could be so simple?

My childhood decided by men in suits

Behind closed doors

over the course of history

We must clap to the rhythm of their

Bureaucratic song

I try to change it

To escape

To interrupt them with my trumpet blaring

A tune not often played before

I play my heart out as loud as I can

But my trumpet is made of copper

And theirs of solid gold

Theirs rings above mine so still I must clap

The gold is deceitful

Like all gold, a fools gold

The children say

“we must have one too!

It is pretty and shines new”

My copper is ugly

No one cares for the tune that it plays

No matter how beautiful

Suspence

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THE

EVERLASTING

WINTER

By Seth Lesondak

A road stretches for miles

Always in winter

Snow fills the surroundings

Thickly, quickly falling

A figure waits in shadow

Hidden by the snow

And a heavy overcoat

He is unseen but for the closest observer

Of the night

I walk slowly, with heavy but muffled steps. The snow is thick, illuminated strangely by the orange streetlights. My hands are cold but I ignore them. I wait and wait some more. Maybe the night will not yield, but I still must see, for I am still hungry, my energy low.

The snow thickens with my approval. The thicker, the better, for the snow is my cover, and without it I am much to visible. The night is almost spent, though my senses tell me that my wait will end before the sun raises.

* * * * * * * *

The couple were tired, worn out from their spring break in New York. The flood of relatives and celebration had been exhausting. Mary dozed quietly in the passenger seat, while her husband, Lenny, drove into the night his eyes drooping lower with every passing minute. The radio softly played Thelonius Monk. Lenny’s vision was beginning to blur from fatigue. The radio was softly lulling him to sleep, pulling him away from the road. He began to lose control, his senses dulling. And then all Lenny saw were drifting clouds on a sunny summer day.

* * * * * * * *

Finally, my wait is over. The helpless victim is gliding through the snow drifts. The snow is powdery and very cold, so it does not inhibit his progress. The cars exhaust pipe is melting a stream of snow into water, which instantly freezes, leaving little ice puddles behind it. It is but fifty yard away from me and closing. I stand up and hold out my thumb in a standard hitchhiking signal. Their time is up.

* * * * * * * *

Mary awoke to the sound of static on the radio. Her husband looked dazed, bleary eyed and confused. As she looked out the darkened window, Mary saw why. They had stumbled into a winter wonderland, which was rather odd considering that it was springtime. The snow was swirling viciously, shooting out of the dark at the car windows. The car was moving slowly, obviously through a snow drift. Though confused, Lenny drives on.

“What’s going on?” Mary asked. Her husband glanced at her.

“No idea,” Lenny replied. “I think I fell asleep at the wheel, and then I woke up to this.” He glanced out the window. “Thank god we weren’t killed is all I can say. I have no idea where we are though. Or why its snowing in may.” They both continued to stare out the window. Orange street lights were lighting their path, though mostly they just give an aura of orange to the snow. And then a shadow appeared among the haze, blurry, outlined in a mass of falling orange snow.

“What’s that?” Mary asked, leaning forward. The figure grew clearer. It was a man, tall and burly, hidden by a large overcoat, wool pants, giant boots, gloves, and a scarf and hat that obscured all but his eyes. His was still mostly in shadow, but obviously holding out his thumb.

“He’s a hitchhiker,” Lenny replied his voice strained with confusion, “but what’s he doing out here?”

“No idea. Pull over though. The poor guy must be freezing.” Lenny pulled the car to a stop in front of the man.

* * * * * * * *

The prey are hooked. Now all I must do is lure them in. The car pulls to a stop in front of me. They role their window down, but I ignore it and step into the back.

“Take to Hemmingway. Its about 6 miles north of here.” I try to make my voice as humane as possible. I do not want to worry them yet. Not until the car is moving.

And then the man says to me, “Sure thing. We kind of stumbled across this place by accident. Where are we exactly?”

“We are very close,” I reply softly. He does not press me.

* * * * * * * *

The hitchhiker was beginning to make Lenny nervous. His eyes would flicker back in forth. Even though the car interior was warm, the man would not take off his coat. He never talked. Sometimes, when he glanced in the rear view mirror Lenny would have sworn that the man was leaning toward him, like a beggar asking for spare change. Something smelled odd as well. Like cinnamon sort of, or nutmeg. It was making Lenny worry.

* * * * * * * *

Now is my time. The man is getting suspicious, worried. I cannot let it continue. I watch the mirror, waiting for a slot of time where his eyes are not on me. And then it is time. I lean forward, pulling the knife from beneath my coat. I shove the knife quickly into his back, clamping my hand over his mouth. The hand is not necessary. His death is to quick to allow for a scream. I glance at the woman. She is still asleep. I will deal with her a little later. Quietly, I move the body to the back seat and take the wheel. I swerve the car around. My senses tell me that I am only three miles away from the church. Knowing that it is no longer necessary for me to hide myself, I unwrap my scarf and pull of my hat. Then I turn my attention to the road.

* * * * * * * *

Mary woke up from her second nap of the night with her head lulling toward the window. The snow was still falling thickly, making it hard to see out. With a groan, she turned her head toward Lenny. But Lenny was not there. Instead, the grinning head of a snowman turned to face her. He was made of snow, but with bits of facial flesh hanging off of his head. He had eyes like a humans. They were piercing her. She tried to scream, but a snowy hand clamped over her mouth. The snowman produced a chunk of snow from nowhere and stuffed it into her mouth. Then he took some more and shoved it into her nose. She tried to gasp but instead inhaled snow. She was choking, flailing her arm. Again she tried to scream but it only made the situation worse. She was losing her sight, her eyes were dimming. She struggled some more but the snowman was pinning her arms to the seat. She remembered a time when she was a child that she had tried to swallow a spoonful of cinnamon. It had stuck to her throat and made it hard to breath. This was a million times worse. And then all she could see were shapes. Then she jerked and lay still.

* * * * * * * *

I lay the bodies down in the church. Its door is ripped of its hinges and a gaping hole in the wall behind the alter reveals a junkyard of cars, mostly covered in snow. I am hungry so I go to select a body. The new ones must mature for at least a month before they are ready for eating. After I am done, I look toward the horizon. The sun is just starting to rise. My timing is perfect. I lay down down below a pew and melt into state of sleep.

Hope

By Seth Lesondak

How can one be happy,

when people die every day

from hunger or war,

when starving and neglected animals

cry out for the love they have never gotten?

One is happy because there is hope.

The hope that is put there by pantry volunteers,

peace corps workers and SPCA rescuers,

religion

and the child that nurses a sick animal back to health.

They give us hope because they are the army

that is fighting for a better future. 

An Abandoned Factory

A Factory Of Life

By Seth Lesondak

A boy rides his bike past an abandoned factory

Its windows smashed

The door hangs by a solitary screw

Shards of beer bottles litter the front lawn

what ugliness, what filth,what sadness

A reminder of war and hard financial times

……………………………….

Behind an abandoned factory

Vines take in the sun

Bright yellow daffodils sprout from mossy soil

Like a phoenix rising from its ashes

Prairie grasses lighten to beige with with the passing of summer

What beauty, what life, what silence

A reminder of natures loving presence

…………………………………….

Inspired by a painting by Elizabeth Steinhoff

Away

I will be unable to post any new work on this site for a week, since I am taking a vacation to Isle Royale in the upper peninsula. Still, it is always good to appreciate what is already here so please, have a look at my poetry and stories from the past and I will see you next monday.

What a light

What a Light, What a Life

By Seth Lesondak

I sit on my velvety brown couch

The cat gazes at me

Her eyes reflecting the dim lamplight

That illuminates the room

A saxophone swings

Dying the air a dark, sad blue

And bringing back precious memories

Of Chicago on starry nights

What a light

What a life

a funny little story

Stuck in Traffic

By Seth Lesondak

Da5id didn’t particularly like the “Cleveland creative writing class.” His teacher, Mr. Eduardo, always lectured them in a strong Latino accent that none of the white kids could understand. Today was no exception. All Da5id caught of Mr. Eduardo’s lecture was: “Por escrito neccesito bueno punctuation. malo punctuation makes for malo escrito!” before he started to drift off, staring at, but not seeing, the obscene carvings in his desk.

          An hour later, thirty-two exhausted students formed a queue at the door.

          “Excelente work my students. You were all muy bueno chicos today. Hurry along to your next classe now and see you mañana!” said Mr. Eduardo. He stepped over an extension cord and flung open the door. A kid named Derek ran blindly out of it. Everybody else screamed. Derek had smashed into a car and died. There were not supposed to be cars in school, or trees, or roads for that matter. He quickly vanished from sight.

          “Dude,” shouted Da5id, “why the crap are we on a highway!?”

          “Yo no sey,” replied Mr. Eduardo, “But I think we can figure it out if we pay attention to the details!”

          “Dude, shut up,” responded Da5id.

          “No, De Verdad! Primera, we can assume that we are in some kind of vehículo, because we are moving, no? Segunda, we can assume that some idiot with muy poco brains pick up our mobile clase and put it on his vehículo, no? Which means we were all cleverly kidnapped by a burro, no?”

          “Oh,” said a nonplussed Da5id, “So now what we do?”

          “We must try to get free of course. The question is not que but como!”

          “Howsabout we’ all rock this classroom so it darn fall off the back of this heres truck,” said some kid named Steve Stevie Stephen Stevenson or SSSS. “Whatsabout y’all say to that thar idear huh?”

          “That is bueno idea SSSS! Let’s start rocking. Correr a la izquierda!” shouted Mr. Eduardo and everybody ran to the left. “And now to the dereche!” and everybody ran to the right. And on it went, left to right, right to left. After about fifteen minutes, the plan finally worked. Everybody toppled over off of the moving vehicle along with tons and tons of books, paper, pencils, pens and other random classroom crap.  

 

A personal essay

Beauty in a Small Place

My family has always kept me in close connection with nature; I enjoy nature to its fullest because of this. I take time to go for walks, to boat, and to go to the park. I raise animals, and work on a farm. Nature is my greatest and most open connection to the world.

            I started exploring the natural world at age three, with a ski trip to northern Wisconsin. It has become a tradition of family and friends since then and we still go today. We have become good friends with the owner of the cabin at which we stay, and I am a regular violin player at her small café. I appreciate that my first trip into wilderness happened to be the Wisconsin kind, full of brittle pine, ice and lots and lots of powdered sugar snow.

            Another outdoor tradition with my family and friends has been the annual trip to the Porcupine Mountains in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It is a backpacking trip into the most untouched place of the Great Lake states. This place brings forth its beauty in the form of old growth forest and stunning sunsets that color the sky over the Lake Superior shoreline a dazzling series of pinks, purples and reds.

             Today, I took a trip to the shore of Lake Wingra. I made sure to take the time to look around and appreciate my surroundings. Still, I find it incredible that there could be such raw and untouched nature in such a small place as Madison, Wisconsin.