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

<!– @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

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

<!– @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

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

<!– @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

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. 

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.

A Shady Wonder

one of my first poems. 

A Shady Wonder

By Seth Lesondak

 

Its bark is rough like fresh dried brick,

carrying the natural,

beautiful ruggedness of a nature trail.

It is a giant octopus,

tentacles swaying,

squirting green leafy ink.

It is a miner, tunneling underground

where I cannot see.

Does it serve me a purpose?

What can I say?

I sit in its shade.

rowing poem

I am a rower myself, and for lack of something better to do, i wrote a short poem on rowing.

 hope you enjoy.

Rowing

By Seth Lesondak

 

I sit up at the catch,

poised to spring,

packed with potential energy.

Then my legs shoot back,

followed by my torso,

then arms.

I take a quick breath

while the boat sweeps forward,

then return to the catch:

Arms, body, legs

ready to begin again.

 

Gravestones: a short story

this is a short kindof essay story thing. Its partially true, but not totally. still, it sounds pretty good read aloud.

To Walk Through the Gravestones

By Seth Lesondak

 

            Last year I was a pallbearer at my great grandfather’s funeral. It feels like an eternity has gone by since then. Now, my family and I go to visit the cemetery where my great grandfather and grandmother lie in eternal sleep. I like to leave my family and walk alone through the immense tombs. The air is misty with drizzle and the sky a heartbreaking grey. My eyes glance over the names on the headstones. Most of them are Eastern European, like “Bedrick.” The stones in this cemetery are old and dramatic, towering over me like hundreds of gateway arches. The names there are transcribed in a calligraphic Blackletter font that conveys both something fanciful and primitive. I imagine what the people were like who lie under these stones. My great grandfather was a ballroom dancer. As I think this, I see his stone. My family is not rich and thus his marker is small, very distinct against its background of eight foot tall tombstones. I sit with my back to it.

            As I look into the mist, I can see only three headstones. The rest have been swallowed by the ever thickening fog. It feels quiet here, but not silent. It is as if each deceased person whispers their life story to the rare passerby. I can remember back many years to my great grandmother’s funeral. The weather was similar, just more rain and less mist. There I had tossed flowers on the casket after it was lowered into the grave.

            Now I stand and take the cell phone from my pocket to check the time. I still have a good half an hour before I must meet up with my family. I realize how truly alone I am. Even if society discovered a cure for cancer, or someone invented the ultimate fuel efficient car, I would not know it. Here at the graveyard, there is no technology but for the silent phone in my pocket. There are barely any people. It feels like the whole universe consists only of the whispering dead, the towering tombstones and me.      

Chimp Poem

here is a sweet little poem i put together that i somehow got to ryhme:

Chimpanzee

By Seth Lesondak

I wave at the humans who stroll by my cage

Who roil and boil with bottled up rage

Relaxed, I am, in my sunbeam filled room

Till my friend gets pissed off and starts to go boom

This cage you see, doesn’t have lots of space

Our great chimpy talents just all go to waste

It’s sad because we’ll still have no freedom

We’ll just have to wait for our big chance at treedom