I'm Confused

We've just met

Yet I open up to you

In a way I've not done before

This feeling is strange

And unexpected,

Though not unwelcome.

I'm quite confused.

By how giddy i feel

When you text me.

By how easily

You make me blush.

I've never felt this way before

And you're to blame.

I'm so confused.

Am I a friend to you?

Or am I more?
Pray Tell?

You say you want to see me

I want to say the same

But I am too afraid.

We've only known each other

Not for a month

Yet I have this feeling

About you.

And I'm confused.

The Things You Missed

Graduation,

Concerts,

Field Shows,

Birthdays.

All-Important events

In their own right

Things I want to share

Things you missed.

You may not realize it,

You may not know it:

When you're not there

It hurts.

I hide it

I don't show it.

You're busy,

You're stresed.

I get that.

But these All-Important things

Are the things you missed.

The Seasons are Changing

Red,

Orange,

Yellow,

leaves starting to fall

they break off the branch,

float gracefully to the ground.

Fall is here.

Soon the trees are bare,

the air crisp

cool.

White crystals float

gingerly down to earth.

Enveloping all in a sheet of white.

The Seasons are Changing.

What Happens Behind The Curtain

Listening to the endless droning,
We’re so bored we have long since gone wacko.
Using his Soprano Sax
Propped on his shoulder like a machine gun,
Taking out the drummers
From across the band,
Dropping like boys playing war games.
The teacher looks up.
They’re sitting innocently in perfect playing position,
Ready to play
At the teacher’s every whim

The teacher looks down at his music,
That’s when the chaos erupted.
Using hand signs, the sax player
Got everyone to turn off their music stand’ lights
He turned on the strobe light
In his cell phone
The party was on

The teacher snapped his head up
Stared at the sax player
Who froze,
Gave a smile,
And a thumbs up
The teacher shook his head
Signed ‘NO’ at him.

This is one mere experience
Of what happens behind the curtain

The Record Player

With the needle on the record
The music starts to play
The popping
The scratching
Adds to the sound.
Makes it sound whole,
Like the Symphony Orchestra playing Stravinsky.

Pink Floyd
Chicago
Van Halen
Don’t sound right with out it.
People think they’re obsolete
They’re old fashioned
I think they’re as cool as the 70’s themselves.

I come home
From a stressful day
Turn on a record
And relax to the sounds of Chicago
Jamming out to ‘25 or 6 to 4’

You can’t help but dance
When you listen to them
They make you ecstatic
What Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious music.

You can’t get that feeling
With a CD
Or an MP3.

Records may not be perfect,
But they’re good enough for me.

The Rink

I step into the rink
A chill hits me
as cold as the arctic tundra.
The bleachers are empty
The only soul in the building
My coach.
Paul Askham,
A British Olympic Athlete.

I sit
Open my skate bag
Revealing my Figure Skates.
With them in hand,
I take the blade covers off
Put my blade guards on.
I slip my skate
On my tights-clad foot.
Using my skate lace pull I synch my skate laces
Starting at the toes of the boot
Methodically moving up
Leaving it a little looser
At the ankle,
I synch the top tight.
I move on to the other skate
Repeating the same process
Having done it so many times
I can’t remember.

I stand up
Bend my knees deep,
Testing the tightness of my skate.
Satisfied
I walk to the boards.
Taking off my blade guards
Setting them on the boards
I step onto the ice
Gliding across,
Stroking,
Skating Crossovers
Around the corners.
The sound of my blades
Cutting into the ice
Fills the rink.
It captivates me.

I start to skate Backwards Crossovers
I step into the circle
And start to spin.
My leg crosses over
My arms tuck in tight,
My Scratch Spin is a work of art.
I step out of the spin gracefully,
Coach Paul claps.
“That was very good,” he says
In his British Accent.
I skate over to him,
And smile.
That was the very first time
I’ve ever executed A perfect Scratch Spin.

In My Own Eyes

It’s light brown in color
Almost tan
The pick guard is a deep brown
A color as dark as night

Six steel strings
Held taut
By six tuning pegs
Mounted securely
On the neck

When you strum your pick
Across the strings
A beautiful sound emanates,
Soft,
Peaceful,
And as hyper as a puppy,
On any given day.

The young man
That is the wielder of this instrument
Knows it,
Knows it well,
Knows the guitar,
Is a master of it.

In my own eyes

We Can't Wait 'Till You Return

You can be goofy

dorky

funny

serious.

You're a kid at heart.

We all know it.

We all love it.

We can't wait 'till you return.

With your sarcasm,

sharp wit,

and jokes.

Just six days now.

We will welcome you with open arms

because

We can't wait 'till you return!

Listening to you speak

and to the songs that you sing.

Thinking of you,

not only on the easy days,

but on the hard ones as well.

Just six days now.

Your games,

your movies,

yoiur coffee,

your guitar.

We miss you

all of you.

Because

We can't wait 'till you return.

six days

or

144 hours

or

8,640 minutes

or

518,400 seconds

What ever way you look at it.

We can't wait 'till you return!