Tag Archives: working through issues

Game Day Conundrum: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

Packers versus Seahawks: a Fan's ConundrumThe question is not/
which outfit I shall wear/
on Super Bowl Sunday/
in Arizona.

Which garb will make me/
sweat the most
under the blazing
Phoenix sun.

Which team will have
my heart
and my throat,
and that, loudly,
the first Super February day.

That Super choice will be made
by forces far outside
my control:
Legion of Boom versus
The Receivers.
Wilson’s legs versus
Aaron’s calf.
Clay + AJ versus
The Line.
Beast Mode versus
his heir apparent.
The exuberant Peter Pan boy-man verses
“Hide Your Mic, Mike!”
Green and Gold versus
“I can’t even name those colors!”,
Lambeau Loud versus
The CLink Quake.

No, that Super choice will be made
by the two warrior groups,
two Sundays prior,
and whoever is there,
that garb shall I wear,
loving both,
cheering for them
(because the Pats
and Luck
suck.
“You mad, Bro?”)

But the question,
the conundrum,
the true choice,
is much more difficult,
poignant,
heart-felt,
painful:
The NFC Championship looms tomorrow.

One team is my birthright.
Generations
of Lake Michigan water fed.
Proclaimed on my license plate frame,
I am an NFL Owner.

A folk hero full back leaves
the “S” off his name.
My father and grandfather
attended the Ice Bowl.
My dad met Nitschke.
My mother met Lambeau.
I call my father
after every score.

I cheered for them
in the Snow Bowl.
I have Brett’s autograph.
My daughter threatened a “12”
who swiped my cheesehead
during the “Fail Mary” game,
the same cheesehead which rolls
when my top is down,
up I-15.
The Packers are my legacy.

The other team,
adopted,
is infused in my blood.
How could I help it?
I was drinking Cascade clear water
for more than 25 years,
proudly waving my 12 flag,
having my number retired,
watching my children grow up
in the Evergreen State,
Largent 80 and
Alexander 37
jersey clad,
sneaking across the street
to watch the games
at friends’ houses
on restricted Sabbath Days
(did we make a mistake?),
in the bar yelling “BEAST MODE! GRAB IT!”
5 yards before the
back leap into the end zone,
writing a defense of
the LOB,
“LOB BABY!”
and RS 25
defense,
wearing a ‘Hawks/Sounders minion hat,
knowing I’m a 12.

What garb will I wear?
Who will I show for?
The choice is clear.
I know where my heart is.
But, underneath,
my second team will
be repped.
Because, no matter the outcome,
I win.

Update after the Seahawks pulled off an incredible come-from-behind overtime win

The voice of experience
has taught me otherwise, now:
When your team is way ahead,
and implodes at the end
to loose,
you feel bad.
Sick.
Like you got kicked in the stomach.
And it will take phone calls
to your kids,
and a video
of your friends celebrating
to make you feel
a
little
better.
But,
no matter what,
you can hate
the Patriots.
GO HAWKS!

Do I Dare Expose Moi? Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

Do I dare expose me?
Do I dare
open up the soft,
white,
flabby,
pocked underbelly
of my past
to those I’m trying
to get to know?
To those who want to believe
the best about me?
To those who don’t know
this part,
Jean Valjean-ish,
24601,
about me?

Will they turn
and reject me,
my stupidity,
the pain I caused?
Do I hide?

Or do I enter the courthouse
and scream out
who I am
and what I did
and what I’m trying to
repent of,
throwing myself
on the mercy
of the court,
the jury of
Facebook peers?

Do I dare?

Opening Up Her Box Of Pain: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse

Today
I found her box
of pain.

Not knowing
it even existed,
I opened it,
read her words,
and drifted back
10 years.

Even before she knew,
or I knew,
or we knew
the end
was near,
there was sorrow,
hurt,
pain.

Only this time,
it wasn’t mine.
It was hers.
Words screaming
on the screen,
loudly,
yet in her soft,
patient,
“I can take it all”
voice.

There was passion
and problems
and pain
and fear
and hurt
and anger
and loneliness
I never knew
she carried.

Reading
opened up
all the things
I didn’t know,
or hadn’t cared
to see.

Her vision:
She saw me
clutching the side
of our bed,
lonely,
back to her,
but I never saw
her fear,
her wondering,
her begging,
her confused yearning
what to do
so I wouldn’t yell,
or be angry,
or threaten to leave,
or emotionally
hurt
her
who I should have
been protecting
and loving.

Like a drug
of pain
I couldn’t stop
feeling,
I kept reading,
and reading,
and piling on
the “whys”
and
the “why nots”
and
the cruelty
I never knew
was me.

She piled it on,
words on
words,
more
and more,
but it wasn’t
about hurting me.
It was about
how
to protect
herself.
How
to keep herself
from fading away.
From dying.
From loneliness.
From nothingness.

In her words
were reflected
and broken mirrored
so many
similar stories
I’ve heard
for years,
from others,
about the pain
women felt
from abusive men,
from cheaters,
from liars,
from narcissistic
self-righteous
SOBs
they’d escaped from.

Hearing the pained stories,
these pig-men were creatures
who have disgusted me,
who have enraged me,
who have made me sick.

Selfish men who hurt women
they’d vowed to protect,
left them cold
and vulnerable
and unsafe
and desolate
and alone
and scared
and lonely.

Are they blind?
How could someone
do such things
and call himself
a man?

How could someone
be such a thing
and call himself
a human?
Much less
a Christian?
Much less a righteous
Priesthood holder?

WWJD?
Not that!
Disgusting!

File > Open.
Now I stand,
looking in her box
of pain,
words black
on pale blue,
reading what she’s gone through,
probing her thoughts,
sneaking into her mind,
knowing what she’s going through.

My stomach churns
more than it ever has
for anyone else’s story.
More than it ever did
as I’ve held others
and comforted them
and said
“That’s in the past”
and
“That’s disgusting.
I’m sorry that happened
to you.
It shouldn’t have,”
and asked
“I don’t know
how someone could do that.”

But it did happen.
And someone could do that.
Only this time,
I’m not hearing about it.
I’m reading about it
in an old family folder
dot doc
from an old
blue light
hard drive I’d rescued
for the photos
and the good memories
I thought I’d find.

Not knowing
I’d find this
memory,
words lining
her box of pain.

Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?

Am I still?

I’m sick
and sickened
as I read about
the man
she knew.
The pig-thing
clutching to his side
of the bed,
clutching to
his side
of the story,
clutching blindly,
blind to the hurt
he dished out.

He makes me sick.

Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?

Am I still?

I’m ready to puke
on my shoes,
and take my son’s nine iron
to my knee caps
and punch
myself out.