‘Memarie’

Time well spent,
Wading…
Through the fading, icy stream of consciousness
Flowing through me under a stemmed winter sky
Chipping away at the frozen bits of time… 

The frigid air filled my lungs as my feet swung against the jagged frosted feathers along the banks

An idyllic scene    
Amidst a sojourn of silence, 
Roaring as quietly as my favorite mornings

Everything perfectly still…
Including the flurries—somehow suspended against their will to fall 

Traversing an astral plane
The snow deepened as I wandered around,
Marveling at the ground that seemed to preserve every flake that ever fell
Each one proclaiming its uniqueness 
Knowing very well they’d be buried all the same

Under the tall pines 
My leather boots were sinking with every step
Walking over frozen roots 
I started thinking there was something faintly familiar about this path…
The way a half forgotten dream is half remembered 

Entranced,
I slipped further and further into the crystallized obscurity…

In the distance there was a massive white faced mountain nearly hidden amongst the hovering ghostly clouds 
It reminded me of Idaho!
A special place only I’d know was worth the trip

So onward I marched
Towards the wise giant…

Along the way,
I became an omnific traveler 
Building viaducts to connect canyons
Walking on open water to cross lakes
Becoming the moon when I needed light in a dark forest full of shadowy silhouettes…

Navigating by feel,
I remembered my way back… 

After what seemed like years, 
I reached the base of the mountain…

Suddenly the temperature plummeted and the icicles above me were as sharp as swords
Yet somehow the snow began melting at my feet…

Before me stood a mighty glacier, 
Glistening…

Within it a fire, frozen 
Somehow still burning…
Preserved from ever going out
Protected by an arcane path, chosen

Never before had I encountered something so clear to me,
Precious in my private heart

Warmth—

At last…a memory. 

‘Memarie’ (the making of) 

  I’ve never been keen on artists sharing the meaning or intention of a work of art. To me, it robs it of its potential to be interpreted by others. Creativity is fragile, and I’ve always been a fan of letting it be…which is why I’ve always loved the enigmatic style of the artists I admire. Van Morrison, Frank Ocean, and Andre 3000 to name a few. Their music is so ethereal to me…like they’re receiving a signal from elsewhere, channeling the cosmos. I revere the mystery of their artistry and love not knowing exactly what they are getting at. To not know what’s going on behind the curtain enthralls me—it lets the art speak for itself. 
   For the poem, ‘Memarie’, I’m going to be hypocritical about revealing what is behind my curtain. I don’t really know why. I guess I just felt like it was a story worth sharing. Although I might soon regret it and hit delete…
   Lately, I’ve become fascinated with memory and how it works. How sometimes we can recall specific moments from decades ago while other times we can’t remember the title of a movie we saw the day before. Do we consciously grab and hold on to certain memories on purpose? Can we ever truly let go of a memory? Or is everything that ever happened to us alive within us somewhere? So many questions...
   The truth is, until recently, I never knew that memories could resurface without previously remembering the moment itself at all. Like when something pops into your head, discovered in a dream that turns out to have really happened a long time ago. 
   Perhaps certain things are buried so deep within us that we forgot where we stored them and then they get lost in time. Maybe there’s a specific reason we forget things…like our mind is subconsciously protecting us from remembering something. Who knows how it goes…I’ve always been fine with wondering. 
   I like to imagine our memory as a vast, mysterious uninhabited land, covered in snow…comprised of snowflakes representing every moment we’ve ever lived, every experience we’ve ever had. Each flake falling on top of the one before it, equally beautiful and unique. It’s cold enough there to preserve everything, as long as we’re here…an idyllic winter wonderland full of memories that we can trudge through to retrieve and experience at any time. 
   To me, the process of retrieving a memory is somewhat esoteric. It’s specifically personal and cathartic. Whether it’s on purpose or stumbling upon something that reminds us of what happened. To spend time with a memory, good or bad, can be healing. Maybe our subconscious is always secretly at work, gathering parts of our past and reminding us of things when we need it. 
   My inspiration for ‘Memarie’ first occurred in a dream. I was super young, maybe 3 or 4, sitting on a hospital bed. My mother, Marie, was hooked up to machines, looking very pale. She looked at me with her wallowing eyes and her thin frame. She explained that her body wasn’t working anymore…but told me not to get scared if I didn’t see her again because she would never leave me. She promised me…and then she hugged me. I could feel the warmth from her blanket as I hugged her back. I looked over at the door and could see the nurse crying behind the rectangular window light…probably aware of the situation. That’s when I woke up. 
  Deeply moved, I was touched by the dream. I thought about it for some time. Maybe six months or so later, I was having a conversation with my dad about my mom—which is somewhat rare…it’s just not something he speaks of often. He told me the story of when she went to Buffalo to see her oncologist, and wound up getting bad news that she wasn’t going to survive. She requested that I, 3 years old at the time, take a trip out so she could see me one last time. And he explained how I spent hours with her in the room, alone. 
   I couldn’t believe it. What had happened in my dream turned out to be true, and somehow 30 years later it resurfaced. I vaguely remembered it. As painfully sad as it was, I went to sleep that night thinking about it…under my blanket, basking in the warmth of one of the few memories I have of her. Oddly enough, I also thought about the significance of the nurse in the window light. Assuming she was aware of the situation, I wondered if she went on to remember that moment at all, or if she forgot about it the next day. I guess that part of the dream was emblematic of having empathy towards others. Our paths are always crossing and we witness glimpses of other people’s lives. To merely care, if but for a moment, is a healthy part of the human experience. 
   Ultimately, I wanted to express the concept of this deeply buried memory in a poem. My goal was to articulate artistically how it is I traveled to retrieve such a memory. How important it is that we preserve and protect our most precious moments…sometimes hidden so deep within us that we might be lucky enough to find them again. 

The Marrow

1. The Marrow resides deep within, without affectation or artificiality. 
2. The Marrow is carried by the flow of her ethereal waters. 
3. The Marrow is the zeitgeist of youth, the ageless energy containing truth. 
4. The Marrow holds questions whose answers must be lived. 
5. The Marrow marvels under all of the starry wonder, with wholesome gratitude. 
6. The Marrow lights the fire, reflecting reciprocally the warmth of those who surround it. 
7. The Marrow is abundantly rich with presence. 
8. The Marrow seeks to aspire, ignoring societal pressure to acquire. 
9. The Marrow encompasses an endless open field…and is protected by an impenetrable shield of optimism.
10. The Marrow withholds judgment, and is accepting of all parts and particles of the whole. 
11. The Marrow represents everything pure. 
12. The Marrow is the spiritual embodiment of her greatest cure. 

‘Lake pt.2’

Under the flower moon, he sat and had a chat with himself. As he listened to the crickets sing their tune, the call of the loons echoed off the darkened mountains in the distance. Alone, on an island rock…body covered in leftover dirt and sunblock. Surrounded by water, he saw the lake as a giant mirror, reflecting truth. Brutally honest—showing him his every flaw and mistake. Barefooted and bug bitten, he dipped his toe in the water just to see. To his surprise, he realized that the lake still accepted him, therefore so should he. Equally pure and equally sure of what they are to be. 

‘Buoy’

Before I ever was,
[I] found [myself], floating…
Way back when [I] was just a notion 
In the ocean of [my] mother’s dreams 
Her experiences forming [me],
Her aspirations shaping [me],
Into what [I] would become
Long before a means to a beginning…

Surrounded by the vastness of her water…
Contently drifting,
With no name or direction 
While the waves were gently lifting [me] up and down,
Rhythmically…

Though [my] limbs couldn’t help [me]
In fact,
They weren’t there at all 
Or anywhere…
Long before [I] could swim, 
[I] could float
Anywhere…

Her omnipotent eye 
Carefully watching over [me],
Through the mystical clouds
And the pink and purple swirling sky…

Yet [my] eyes weren’t open or closed
In fact,
They weren’t on [my] face at all 
Or anywhere…
Long before [I] could see,
[I] could trust 
That her sky would guide [me]…
Anywhere…

The clashing and crashing of the white caps collided all around [me],
While the monsters screeched below
The chaotic world [I] didn’t yet know
Was somehow muted…

[My] ears weren’t capable of hearing,
In fact, 
They weren’t on the side of [my] head at all 
Or anywhere…
Long before [I] could hear,
[I] could listen
[My] mother spoke softly—
Not with words,
But with her current…
Quietly taking [me]
Anywhere….

The water was cleansing,
Bathing [me] with her warmth…
Salty from all of her tears and fears of giving her life,
Long before giving [me] mine…
Truly, a divine ocean…

Yet [my] body couldn’t interpret sensation,
[My] skin hadn’t yet formed my exterior
In fact,
[My] body wasn’t there at all
Or anywhere…
Long before [I] could feel,
[I] was touched by her selflessness…

Anywhere she was,
So was [I] 
She was both the endless water and the open sky
Trusting, listening, touching…
So very far from land,
Floating well beyond what [I] could understand…

With no end in sight, 
At least as far as the I can see…
Drifting towards her shore 
Somehow now, 
I can sense that what [I] was waiting for… 
Will always be waiting for me. 

‘Shoeck’

It didn't care
That every other one came in a pair 
This single sock put all of it’s stock in itself 
Hopping along on one foot 
Working twice as hard,
Keeping up it’s guard to protect it’s health
From what? Thought the shoe…
Only the sock knew
But it didn’t tell because it knew the stubborn shoe all too well 
Plus, how could a shoe possibly listen?
Shoes get all the glory
But the true story is that they merely hide what’s really doing the dirty work inside
Sweaty and stinking 
Too much thinking 
For a sock with a ripped hole in it’s soul 
Maybe there’s a reason why socks come in a pair…
Or maybe,
Every other sock is unaware 
That matching is overrated 
That’s what shoes are for…

‘7325 96753’

Maybe I should start living out of my car…
That way, wherever I go I'll never be too far from home
Try to find me without a phone,
Let alone, reception…

I think I just need some space…
Retreat to a place where my imagination sets the precedent
Mind lift my spirit up to the sky 
Where only the birds tweet and fly—
And not the president. 

Don’t worry, 
I'll send messages in a paper airplane
No need to reply. 

Lately I feel myself losing touch, but gaining so much. 
Out of service,
Living with more purpose
Yearning for a true connection 
Password: freedom
No facebook or instagram, 
I don't need em. 

There’s no water in that well—
Can't you tell we're dying of thirst? 

No matter how much you pour,
Half empty or half full
You can't fill up a cup with a gaping hole
No app for that. 

So I’ll go where there's water. 
REAL water. 

I'll build a boat and set sail away from this virtual reality
Far from a fallacy…
No internet explorer to guide me. 

I ask myself…
Am I living with a void?
Am I missing something? 
Maybe an Iphone or android 
Perhaps I’m just paranoid…

I just want to be somewhere 
Where I can’t look up the answer 
And instead I look up and question 
The innocence of not knowing is something AI will never know about 
The art of the perpetual search 
Where wonder and awe are part of my church

Sometimes you gotta push against the pull and leave the rush
I'd rather go somewhere else and wait 
A place where I can be still and meditate
Face to facetime 
With my true selfie. 
The only place google can't help me—
Outcast
Close my eyes, and just feel the real
I'll actually fish for fish!
But that's not the catch…
I won't reel in any artificialness

Social media
Not my style 
Change my status to gone for awhile 
To a place where there's no posing for pictures with forced smiles
Supposing you can capture a moment in a snapshot on snapchat 
Post it for a spectacle 
Judged on likes and not love
Dinner table 
Heads down hoping for a thumbs up 
Connect to the wifi
Plug in to the USB!
The new umbilical cord if you ask me 
Driving around with phones on…lapse in judgment 
I stay in my lane…
But I’m questioning whether I became sane the same day everyone said I’d gone crazy

Maybe…

Are we all just frenetically typing to one another without talking? 
Silent mode…keep walking 
But are we not looking where we are going? 
Anyway, I’m really feeling your vibes....in my pocket. 
I’ll tell you I love you in a text. 
Sometime we can get together just to disconnect.

Perhaps we’re caught in a downward spiral
Merely waiting to go viral in a performative world…


Does the end justify the memes??
I’d rather embrace someone,
And see a face light up...
Not a screen 

Friend feeling down I'd rather wipe away their tears with my finger,
Rather than type with it
Or swipe with it

I'll deliver flowers to make you feel better… 
Better yet,
I'll even write you a real letter
No app for that 

The thing is...
The real world is shrinking,
Real people upside down…got me thinking… 
Maybe I’ll never come around 
If that’s the case,
I wonder where I’ll be found…
One things clear, 
Not here. 
Hit the escape key…
I don't need anyone to follow me, 
I prefer the real world 
I won't let this one swallow me. 

‘Lake’ 

With each stroke of his paddle, he stirred the very drink that always quenched his thirst. And the ripples in the water turned into waves, which carried him for days. The clouds passed on the glass-like surface, mountains reflecting, upside down…serving as fountains for him to dive into freely, as Gaia cleansed his spirit. The trees above never judged, as birds shared the sky with the plane passing by…one built by man, the other born to fly over the lake. All, part of the painting…

‘American Conscience, Pt. I’ 

I can hear the spirit of a small town 
In the steel strings of a guitar,
Playing at the local dive bar 
Strumming away, soulfully. 
Old man in the corner, tapping his steel toe boot wholesomely. 
After a long shift hanging sheetrock 
He tries to forget the day.
Sore lower back, but he never did say 
Body broken but his heart filled 
Along with his mug…gripping it with his weathered hand 
Belly full, too
After the laughter and a dozen wings 
With a dozen things to do tomorrow.
But he don’t care—
As he soaks it all in…
He reaches for his bulging leather wallet 
In the back pocket of his Levi’s
Happy to spend his meager, honest earnings…
And he leaves Honey a good tip, always 
For he knows she could use the money 
The funny thing is,
He likes to leave her cash…so she doesn’t get taxed
And she was thrilled and grateful to collect the bills 
The faces of our flawed founding fathers get stuffed in the darkness
As dead as the roads on the drive home.
Which makes me wonder how far we’ve actually come 
A twenty minute drive can seem far for some,
But to her it was just barely down the road…

‘Waves’ 

Blue water,
Blue water.

Someday, if I have a daughter...
I’d name her after my mother, Marie.
She’d carry the waves of the sea...to the shore.
After all,
That’s what waves are for. 

And those waves might even carry her back to me.

Every day,
My daughter would grow...curious.

I’d teach her how to read what I write,
Maybe this would even be her favorite poem…
We’d hold hands in the park and build a fire just before dark.

Blue water,
Blue water. 
Someday,
You might see my daughter. 

She’d inspire me to be the higher me. 

We’d dance along,
And even have a favorite song. 

My daughter would grow up, 
And I would be standing there…
Waving from the shore, 
With my mother, Marie. 
That’s what waves are for…

True reflection.
The waves will always be. 

Clouds slow down. 
Where are you headed? 
Embedded in my dreams…is love.

DUDLEY HEIGHTS

I spent a third of my life here. Time I wouldn’t trade for the world. When a place feels so special for so long it’s very hard to let go of it. I’m getting emotional writing this because I have so much love for you, Dudley…but you’ve seen my tears before. You really became a part of my identity. I will always appreciate the house for the energy it provided me with. It’s been my sanctuary…a place I could always retreat to, and dream freely—and I never felt like the walls judged me for my thoughts, both light and dark. I was constantly surrounded by vibrancy here (literally and figuratively)—each kitchen cabinet is a different color…though I should probably paint them white so my landlord doesn’t wonder what the hell has been going on here for the past decade. Anyway…Dudley, you reside in a rarified atmosphere. One of purity. Minus the mold in the end. But you rocked my world, gently. It’s been both peaceful and wild. All those nights spent dancing, added a little more creak to the hardwood. You taught me how to host, and allowed me to share this space with some of my favorite people - all equally unique and inspiring, teaching me lessons from different chapters of my life. We’ve had some cool folk here. I just feel so lucky. What a spot to reside from 23-33 years old! A bohemian bungalow with a garden and a fire pit. Hiking trails with waterfalls I could walk to. A diner next door. Playing disc golf from light pole to light pole in the tech park down the road. I fell in love with everything. My film, ‘Ingredience’, was even filmed here. That will live on forever…and is a great showcase of it all. An important piece of art that came at a time I really needed it. Together we gave birth to a lot of art. Dudley, you provided me with so much. I became great friends with my neighbor, John. He taught me what it means to be a good neighbor—respecting each other’s space but always offering a helping hand. Doing something for someone else and not calling it a favor—like shoveling a driveway, fixing a lawnmower, or even something as simple as waving and saying “good morning”. You always had sweet ways of making me feel less lonely, Dudley. I also lived here for a year with a woman I loved. Kalei was a wonderful, and lovely person to share this home with. She taught me so much…like how to curate a living space and cook something besides breakfast for dinner. I cherished that chapter, even though it was hard for me to share. I’m trying to be honest with you, Dudley…before I leave. You are perfectly imperfect. But I preferred you that way. You ain’t no cookie cutter, that’s for sure. I agree, we did fix each other up over the years. In the end, I can finally accept that I’m moving on though. Out to the country for some fresh air! Bought a humble abode in Valley Falls, about thirty minutes away from you. A creek in the backyard and a log cabin on some acreage. A farm down the road. I plan on painting the walls a funky green - and building a fire pit creekside. Looking forward to it. One last hug. So glad I was yours for a while. Take care of the next guy, Dudley! I’ll always love you. Thank you.

p.s. I left you a roach in the office. 

‘Sips’

What’s in this beer? 
Some hops and wheat…
Making it a little bitter or sweet 
Hazy, maybe
Perhaps it’s much more clear—

That the container contains something else…
Something you can’t taste. 
Too often we waste the true flavor. 

You see,
A lot can occur within the blurr of a single glass
As we laugh and savor the sips…
The tap flows while the moments pass

A pint of potential 
A conversation with a stranger 
Poured and bored, together—
A few ounces later
You might know them just a bit better

The commonality is there 
You never know what you have in common until you share—
Open energy

Through the chatter 
We find that the stories we exchange matter 
Enhanced by the contents of a drink…
A social lubricant that makes you think
About the power of a happy hour 

All people are equal 
With a glass half full 

Before its empty, 
Let’s cheers—
To Man’s creation 
That is, 
The duration of a beer.

‘Session 27’

We appeal the past, until it evaporates 
stardust. 
Bursting rebirth for propagation of 
exponential evolution…yet to come. 
Here now, 
An inception of the place we retreat to, smoothly—safely 
Always landing softly. 
Recognizing our follies as we stumble.
Doing our best to remain humble.
Mistakes comprise shadowless silhouettes…
By design,
We only see the outline…
Might we find the mindless mind,
The one that wanders and winds. 
A bottomless container filled with endless seeds of questions yet to sprout. 
Pretending to have answers that we foolishly shout…
The preservation of wonder—
Beautiful people with no idea of semblance. 
Able to think under the same sun…
The great dissolution of ego—
Surely, born to die. 

‘Shelf Life’

Mr. Coffee Mug! 
Mr. Coffee Mug. 
I don't need you. 
But you need me. 
To pick you up.
Every morning!

Don't worry,
I'll always be there until I'm not.
Straight up—
Fresh out the pot. 
No artificial sweetener. 
Waking up everyday is sweet as it is!

Mr. Coffee mug,
You need me.
To fill you up.
About halfway. 

Mug half full. 

You don't wake me up. 
You warm me up—there's a difference. 

It has to do with comfort.
Or something of that nature. 
Speaking of—
I hope you're comfortable on the shelf. 

I forgot to mention—
I bought you some company!
Damn right I did.
Sup Bowlman!

Neighbors make for good company.

You'll both be there until you're not. 
Mr. Coffee Mug and Bowlman,
You're all that I've got. 

Together, away from the strife. 
I think I might prefer the shelf life…
May we not break. 

‘Friend Ship’

Sometimes I like to blast off…
Alone, 
In a friend ship…
Necessary that I take it for a rip,
By myself…
To the middle of nowhere—
Which sure feels like somewhere, to me. 
Out there I see…different people—
Who I was, who I am, and who I still can be. 
I sift through so many memories and experiences…
Gratitude is the celestial latitude, 
Of all that I know. 
Every time I go
I come back, happy. 
Surrounded by friendship…

‘34’

I can be!
I can be me. 
I can be as you never left me,
I can be free. 
Free as can be—
Living, loving…
All because of you,
Sweet mother, Marie ❤

'Zigglets' 

Seems like yesterday…
I remember back when lil earl was the hottest girl in town 
She drove us all around the mountains,
As we drank from the fountains of our youth— 
Both seeking our truth 
Friends navigating the bumps and bends in the road
Zealous spirits sold on the stories told in the pages
While living our own ageless ages 
Cognizant of the maze
Stretching time like summer days
Remembering the ways we came from…
And here we are, still.
Thirsty for ziggs 
Enjoying the thrill of it all—
Nostalgia, ultra 

‘Forever, a Poem’

When I die, 
I wonder what I’ll become? 
If anything at all
Nothing big
Perhaps something small…
Like a dot under a question mark…
A spark of wonder
The force of thunder behind a hunch—
Lightning striking a curious collective bunch. 
Humbly whispering the answer in the smoke…

When I die…
Maybe I’ll become the little blue spot in the sky, 
That you really needed to see amongst the cumulus clouds.
In between the monotonous days
You might find these rays of hope…

When I die…
Maybe I’ll turn into the red light
That stopped you just in time to think
Lasting long enough for an idea to be born—
Forming a dream!
You’ll know it’s me
Because you won’t be waiting for the light to turn green—
You’ll just go…

Or maybe when I die... 
I’ll just become a stone
Firmly settled in the soil, perfectly content
A stationary observer of all those who roam...

Perhaps it’ll turn out to be nothing at all...
And I won’t become anything—
Nothing big or small
Just a soul that once was.
If that is the case—
Consider this my home
And all that matters
Is that I'm right here...
Forever, a poem.

GRAM

She was a child’s dream grandmother, and a maternal light that shined on all of us, with unconditional love and patience. Gram resided in a rarified atmosphere…one of purity. She had an effortless presence that was wise yet humble, strong yet gentle. Funny. Witty. Sweet. Gram was a lot of fun to hang out with. She cherished her time with everyone….and always made you feel special and your words feel important. Indeed, a soul sincere. 

The thing I’ll remember most about Gram was her unique ability to revel in the small, seemingly insignificant everyday happenings. Life’s simple pleasures were treasures for her to discover. She would delight over an average slice of pizza, or rave about the beauty of a drive through Schenectady. That energy was so infectious. I’d like to think the Mooney’s are like that because of her. It’s something you can’t fake. Gram truly was gracious. 

Perhaps her greatest legacy was her family. Cultivating seven children into the wonderful adults they are today. And being so present in the lives of her grandchildren. Honestly, the Mooney’s are the most genuine people I’ve ever encountered. And I get to call them family. 

Throughout Gram’s life, her unwavering strength in the face of very grim circumstances at times, inspired us all. Whenever we are in the face of something hard, we should think of her softness. Whenever we find ourselves lost, we should think of her welcoming us into her home. What’s gone is not lost if you know where to find it...the memories we all had with Gram are solid objects that we can take out and hold whenever we need them. That is something I believe, and that is the faith she taught me.  


I’ll always remember her telling me every time I was about to embark on a journey or face a challenge...she’d say, “Do good.” She didn’t mean do well. She meant, do good in this world. And that is what she did...she was our superhero who flew under the radar.  From leaving a stack of seven pb&js on the table before work, to reminding all of us of family birthdays, or simply saving newspaper clippings that reminder her of one of us. She was so selfless and thoughtful. 


One of the last conversations I had with Gram occurred when she was admitted at St. Peter’s hospital. We spoke at length about what a beautiful family she grew and all the great times her and I had together….and I told her how much I loved her. And she looked at me with her big blue angelic eyes, and said “Jay I love you too. I’ve lived a great life…” And she meant it.  For someone to say that at the end of their life, and actually mean it...And to accept the end with dignity and equanimity. To me, that is a life well-lived. That is my Grandma. 

Imagine the pursuit of self-discovery, while preserving the wonderment of naturality - culminating in a dream-led celebration of individuality; Ingredience.

VARNO

It’s hard to describe exactly who Joe Varno was to me. It’s almost like there’s not a word in the dictionary unique enough to do our bond justice. In my book, Joe falls into his own, perfectly imperfect box. More than a friend, he was someone I especially revered. I looked up to him as a mentor and equally appreciated his quirky persona. On the surface, Joe was painting contractor who worked hard just to get by...but in reality he was a part time guardian angel/part time cartoon character. He both amazed and amused me. In his dirty white painter pants and vibrant blue American little league coaching shirt, Joe dressed every day as a superhero who flew under the radar. Unaware of his impact, he lived each day with profound simplicity and the type of exuberance that is both infectious and rare. Joe was a storyteller who would always make you smile as he loved to chat with people, and often started each story with his signature city slicker phrase, “Let me tell you somethin!”. He had a great sense of humor and a charming wit about him that was hard not to like. Lastly, and most importantly I think, Joe Varno was a volunteer baseball coach who dedicated countless hours of working with underserved youth. This is how I met him…and this is where Joe shined the brightest - in spite of the harsh blight that often trickled into the ballpark. He cared about all the kids at American little league, and protected them the best he could. I learned more from Joe about working with kids than I did going to college to be a teacher. He and I would often play good cop/bad cop. I would play the ‘good’ cop - only because it was easier, and Joe played the ‘bad’ cop and handled everything so effortlessly, usually after a long day of painting. He ran the show because he knew how to get through to those kids better than anybody. Before Joe and I crossed paths, it was Joe coaching on his own for years...alone, with no one watching. That is who Joe Varno was. Something tells me that wherever he is now, he’s still doing his thing. A man who put the character in character, Joe was as authentic as they come, and will always reside in my heart full of memories. He was a guiding light for me...

I’m wondering how we see the darkness...Is it the beginning of light? Or can it be the mark of something obscured? We don’t dare run. Instead, should we embrace the obscurity? Perhaps the answer is somewhere in between nothing and everything. Why should we fear?  
 

‘Lost and Found’

I no longer want to save the world.
If I want to help
I need to save myself. 
I call out but no one answers... 
Anyone?
Is anyone out there? 
I have no choice but to stare in the mirror. 

Growing old 
Feeling less and less bold. 
Still just a lost boy in...neverland. 
Always either flying or falling
And I’ll never land—
Until I reach my mother. 
Is she in the ground or up in the sky? 
I wonder as I wander.
Can't seem to find my way
Anybody got a light?
I need to dig much deeper without scratching the surface. 
Lately I’ve been questioning my purpose—
Pushing past the limits of my design.  
My skin has thickened too quickly
Seems like everyones got angles but me.
Living in a world of angles,
Dreaming of a world with angels
Caught somewhere in between. 
Under my feet, 
I feel the earthquake 
Who's real and what's fake?
Maybe I'm too different for this world 
Too down to mars 
From where I stand I can still see the stars. 
But do they recognize me?

Thirty years later 
I still wonder what love means. 
A lucid dream with blurred lines 
Somehow I…forgot mine. 
Yet I hear this voice 
It reminds me of hers! 
Director…
Direct HER attention. 
Waiting for action but nothing happens.
The son can only cast 
A shadow…

Why was my first memory, her last? 
The thing I always walk past feels more tangible than a memory…


Through the echoes, it was the void that replied…


Living in a dream that I can always remember to a T...
Which is the only difference between there and here.

You see, that's when everything in my reflection became clear. 
The transcendent connection between mother and child
Offers no promise of immortality. 
Only proof of our uniqueness as human beings!
Proof that love resides inside. 

And what's gone is not lost— 
If you know where to find it.
So when I looked in the mirror
I saw my mothers eyes.
Every time I wake up...
She sees her sonrise. 

Dear friend,
Is it enough that I thought of you today? 
Even though I didn’t find the words to say, “Hello…”

‘Comfort Zone’ 

Is this it?
Is this really where I'm supposed to sit?
I thought for a while. 
For almost too long.... 
When does comfortable become...too comfortable?
I guess it's when you sit in the same place for so long...looking out the window...watching the leaves grow annd change, while you don't. 
And eventually you lose the desire to use your legs anymore...kind of like a—

Chair!
I'll always remember you sitting there...
Dreaming of what we could become.
Collecting dust in the afternoon sun.
Staring at the door knob,
The glare from the window catches my eye.


Barely open, I'll never forgive myself if I don't try to slip through the crack...
I have to leave before it slams shut! 


I see too much potential out there...
Not to get out and experience life on the other side.  
Where the grass is greener than the carpet beneath you—
And the fall breeze beats the ceiling fan above you...which has been spinning in place for...so long chair. 
But it's not going anywhere....


I guess I can relate. 


My feet were falling asleep, making it harder and harder to stand. 
Day after day with a blank stare and an empty hand taking a nap on your arm rest...


Quite the trap!
So perhaps...I'll keep it short.


It's been real.
Real stagnant.


At the end of the day your cushion becomes a comfort zone for complacency...
Making it so easy to settle, and sit down. 
Easy to conform...and become lost and never found.  




Just like all that change in my pocket that could've been...
That unfinished to do list, written in pen.
Too often they fall victim to your cushion.


But I can only sit 
for...so long chair. 


This world just has too much to offer...
Besides a 9-5 job...
A house with a pool, a two car garage, a wife...
The well and good life!
The American Facade.  


You see, a straight line from A to B is too short for me. 


I prefer the zig zag path to everywhere,
Where my only job is to connect the dots wherever I go. 
Always ascending, I'll never plateau....on the other side. 


Call me a crazy boy, but I'm not a lazy boy like you are. 


Then again...
I could just grow old with you,
Always doing what I was told to do, 
Sitting in my forties telling stories to these kids about chasing their dreams...pretending like I know what that means...while wishing that I ran faster after mine. 


My feet would grow roots...coming home from work, planted in the same chair kicking off the same old boots. 


You've tried to convince me that there's always tomorrow.
I guess I've been killing time...
My biggest fear is that you're the accomplice! 
Supporting me, yet holding me back from everything I'm trying to accomplish...
And you have been for...so long chair. 


I think I need some fresh air.


Even if that means leaving my house, quitting my job, getting off of my couch... 
And out of my comfort zone.  


I had to ask myself...
Am I living here or just spending the nights?


That's when I decided you just weren't my type... 
Don't get me wrong, I think you're really nice...


But after awhile that smile will fade.
And the window will close and so will the shades. 
No matter how safe and comfortable it may be...I can't grow in a dark room. 
I need...cultivation. 


Turns out, a living room is the furthest thing from...living. 


So while the windows still open, I think I'll stand.  
Reach out my hand for the doorknob. 
But not before I take one look back and 
say—
So long chair!
I would feel bad except, you’ve got legs but choose not to use them. 
At least the ceiling fan attempts to move. 
Anyway...I know where you'll be at the end of the day....
Average is always something to fall back on. 

Trip ramble 

Little boy, lonely. 
Lost boy, lucky. 
Sitting on the moon. 
(Don’t be blue)
Fishing for light—
Before the day is done,
Catch the sun. 

‘Parking spot’ 


I know just where to find my favorite parking spot—
In a big, empty parking lot. 


Equally far away as I am close
From where, I don’t know...
And I don’t really care. 


This place makes me feel less cluttered
My eyes don’t feel shuttered yet they’re closed. 


As I roll down the window,
The breeze greets my hand 
Ny fingers are spread as freedom glides through them 



I think I’ll just sit here for a while and smile to myself. 


Maybe I’ll think of something 
And maybe I won’t 


Either way,
I like when nothing feels like everything
And I don’t need to be anywhere—
Or anyone for that matter. 


Cogitation with no obligation.
Who are we when we’re stripped of obligation? 
In the rearview I see a clear view of myself.


I’m quite alright with going nowhere for now. 
Being here is just fine
I’ll rest my spine and spend my time,
Loafing…


I’m not lonely
My chamber makes for good company


I put my hand on the wheel
Finger on the feel
But I don’t need to move…
I’ll linger here a little longer…

The receptors were receiving a stronger, healthier signal.


I can go wherever I want 


For now,
I’m happy to be stationary.
Revel in my own sanctuary 
I claim this parking lot 
Where I proclaim 
That the only parking spot, 
Is here. 

‘Faith in the water’


As a kid, my grandfather picked me up every day after kindergarten...


Trying to get closer to what he was missing
My grandfather would take me fishing, at Buckingham pond. 


It was therapy for the both of us. 
He wondered as I wandered. 


Humming along the shore. 


As I waited for him to bait my hook
I would curiously look out to the water.


Surely there was something worth catching, I thought. 


Something great! 
Maybe even something bigger than me. 


Why else would fisherman wait...for so long? 


And be so patient.
Persistent. 
Cast after cast. 
Each one with equal faith. 


There must be something under there...but at the time I couldn’t see. 


Blinded with naivety.


And so was my grandfather. 


All of that wisdom
And years of casting
Even he couldn’t say for sure. 


We’d sit quietly for hours
That is, always after we dropped off flowers at her grave. 

Fishing to me,
Is about being brave. 


I couldn’t help but think about where she went. 
(Time well spent)
Day after day, as my grandfather and I made our way over to the pond. 


Sometimes the rain
Would attempt to deter us
Yet through the pain, 
We’d still fish.  


After hundreds and hundreds of casts. 
I finally asked...
Grandpa, what’s in the water? 


He told me, 
To find out, you just have to keep casting. 


Today I find myself asking the same question, 
What is in the water? 


Cloudy eyes
I think he hoped he’d catch his daughter—
My mother, Marie. 


But all these years later, I still can only see...the surface.


All I can do is cast with purpose—
Knowing that there is no certitude
Though that’s not the catch...


Maybe...the water is murky for a reason.  
Maybe the water is murky for a reason. 


Because if you could see to the bottom, everyone would fish. 


So my only wish is that we all catch what we pray for. 
Something we cannot see. 
Yet deep down,
We hope is there. 


So I think I’ll keep casting...
With everlasting faith in the water.

‘Jar of Pennies’


Maybe our elders are onto something...


Old people, that is. 


They just move so...SLOW.


Caught behind them in traffic or in a narrow hallway
Young people are so eager to zoom by.


What if there’s something to that? 


What if the reason they take their time, 
Isn’t because their joints are stiff and their bones weak


But instead because their spirits and minds are pennies wiser
And they’ve come to realize that the key to life is...
To move slow.


So that way, 
You notice the little things that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise - in a rush. 
Or with young, fast-moving legs 
Pushing the pedal to the metal...eager to be the first one to stop at a red light. 


I both envy and admire my grandma’s knack for noticing.

Life's simple pleasures were treasures for her to discover...
She pointed out the bird’s nest full of robin’s eggs out front,
And the butterfly basking in the sun,
Balancing on a blade of grass...
Stuff I normally just would’ve walked past. 
Like the fresh, beautiful new paint job of the front porch down the street...
And the electric stars shining above us on a brisk winter night... 
And of course,
The lucky penny on the ground—that she always stops and picks up 
Always heads up. 


While the kids walk by 
Heads down
Glued to their phones. 


My grandma has an entire jar of pennies on her shelf. 
Each of which were found on the ground—
Only a marvel to those moving...slow. 


Adding up to a lot of luck over a lot of years. 
My grandma is not like my peers...
Who trip over their own two feet sprinting to the front of the grocery line. 
Worried about time, nickels and dimes 
While pennies fall out of their pockets.




I mean...maybe it’s not a coincidence that my grandma is both old AND slow. 


Maybe our elders all know—
The secret to living. 


And they just haven’t told us yet. 
Because it’s such an obvious secret. 
That is, to notice the little things. 
Like a penny...or a 4 year old grandson 
With his head up 
Looking at his grandma with wide eyes


Maybe a lack of speed is in fact a gift
Earned only with time and patience. 


Which is why my goal in life
Is to collect pennies (heads up) 
So I can get lucky enough 
To grow old enough...
To move slow. 

To: Me
From: Mom

I awoke, wrapped in a woolen blanket laying next to a small, cozy campfire. In a daze, I looked up and noticed the stars flanked by nebulas. Stars just as electric as they were close. Celestial. There was a sliver of moon, the last piece of pie in the sky, more than enough to fill me up. Its light illuminated a lake, which was about 20 feet from where I stood, barefoot. Lilly pads were scattered across the water, glowing, floating in the darkness.
I felt…warm inside—but not from the fire. It was a tranquil feeling, one of equanimity. I could hear my heartbeat echoing off the trees around me. Slow and steady. Pulsating. Mighty tall pines, whispering secrets to each other as the breeze whistled through their needles, musically. The crickets served as symphony strings while the frogs added rhythm. Harmonious.
Where was I?
Everything looked faintly familiar. The way a half-forgotten dream is half-remembered. It reminded me of a similar sublime experience I’ve had, but I couldn’t quite peg it. It didn’t matter. Nothing did besides the moment. Proximity was irrelevant. I was somewhere I had dreamed of. Maybe it was just that, I thought. Another dream. After all, I don’t remember how I got here.
I walked along the shore and into the mystic, until I felt sand under my toes. I looked down and saw a set of footprints. Naturally, I decided to follow them. They led me to an opening where the fog parted. I stood in front of a long wooden dock extending out into the lake about 30 feet. At the end of it was a woman with strawberry blonde hair. She was wearing a beautiful white gown, angelic, beaming in the moonlight with her feet in the water.
My heart pounded as it got quiet.
She looked like…she was waiting for me.
Entranced, I walked slowly out to the end of the dock. Oddly enough it never creaked.
As I reached her, she turned to me with the warmest smile.
It was—
“Hello, my son.”
My Mom.
Lost and found. All of those years, wondering while wandering under those very stars.
I hugged her with everything I had, the way she taught me to.
After the embrace, we sat beside one another on the dock’s edge, feet in the water.
Overwhelmed, I went to cry in her arms…but nothing came out.
“There are no more tears to cry, Jason. They’re all in here.” She said as she nodded to the lake in front of us.
“I’ve been waiting here for you since the day I left, and I’ve watched this lake fill up with your tears. I knew that when it was full, you’d meet me here.”
I looked down at the water, in awe. With clarity of vision and soul, I gazed at my true reflection for the very first time. I saw much more than myself.
“I’ve missed you so much, Mom.”

She looked me in the eyes and smiled. “I’ve missed you too, sweetie.”
Purity at last. Love fulfilled.
“Is this a dream? Because I…just don’t want it to end.”
“No, honey, it isn’t a dream this time.”
“Wow. So this is…heaven?”
“Well, this is what we call The Void.”
“The Void?”
“You see, my son, every single person who’s ever stepped foot on earth has lived with some sort of void. Whether it was something lost or never had. The void is a special place, waiting to be found. When we arrive here, we are made whole.”
“So…God…”
“Is that a question or a statement?” She asked laughing a little bit. The same laugh I had heard in my most favorite dreams.
“I guess…it’s a statement.”
“Jason. God exists both infinitely outward and infinitely inward. Living, breathing, in the millions of stars that make up our universe, as well as the millions of atoms that make up our body. God resides deep, deep down in all of us…so close, yet so far beyond the reach of human comprehension.”
“Wow. Perfectly untouchable.”
She put her arm around my shoulders.
“Yet touchable in every way.”
As I gazed out in the distance, I could see a family of swans gracefully gliding across the glass-like water. But they weren’t white, they were neon purple. Then I saw a fish swim by my feet right beneath the surface, a beaming fluorescent rainbow, colors I had never experienced before.
I pinched myself hard on my arm until it hurt.
“Still wondering if you’re dreaming, huh?” She nudged me and pointed to the bruise it left.
“This is…amazing, Mom. I can’t believe it’s all…happening.”
“Well, actually, it’s only happening because you believed it could.”
“I don’t know what to say. This is…a lot to process. I’m just so grateful for this moment. For everything, really.”
“Gratitude is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It was created uniquely for only human beings to express and accept.”
I breathed deeply. “Thank you so much, Mom, for giving me life…and for sacrificing yours.”
“And I want to thank you, Jason.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“For keeping me alive. In your heart. In your thoughts. You never let my light die, no matter how dark some of the nights were. You took the time to talk to me, not knowing if I was there. You were so brave.”
“Well, I was only brave because you were.”
She didn’t say anything. When I looked over I saw a tear running down her cheek. Rather than wiping it, I let it fall in the lake and watched it ripple all the way until I couldn’t see where the waves stopped.
After a minute or so, she spoke.
“The ripple effect. It’s about making an impact, however big or small. That way, the waves ripple on and echo throughout eternity.”
“That’s amazing. But eternity…is there really such a thing?”
“Of course. Our bodies travel through time. They age, and always die…but they’re more or less our vehicles to get us from world to world. Our spirit and soul are the passengers. They stay perpetually frozen. Endlessly present. Eternal.”
“That’s powerful, Mom.”
I suddenly felt all of my muscles relax. It was so reassuring and comforting to know that we all live on…here.
She continued, and I listened intently.
“It’s also something we can’t possibly comprehend on Earth. The truth about time and space. Otherwise it wouldn’t work.”
“What wouldn’t work?”
“Life on Earth. As you know, it’s so very precious, but there must be a ceiling to our understanding of it. As brilliant as the human brain is, it is designed to run on somewhat of a governor, if you will.”
“I’m not sure I follow…”
“Our mind is a dynamic force, but it’s like gravity. It keeps us grounded while also holding us back. As humans, we’ve gone to space but we always end up back on the ground. Our minds don’t allow us to stray far from what we know on Earth. It’s not until we pass away that our spirits set us free to fly as we become…transcendent, free from limitations.”
“Wow…that’s a great concept.”
“But it’s the truth, Jason. And you know what, a lot of us spend our entire time on Earth trying to be perfect. Seeking to find every answer. Trying to avoid making mistakes. But if people would just understand the limits of our design…that we are imperfect creatures, designed purposefully to be flawed…I think we’d all be better for it.”
“I agree. And that actually reminds me of something I wrote in my journal…”
“Well, let’s hear it!”

—A man tries, knowing that he is imperfect…that is God’s perfection.

“Ahh…that’s very beautiful! Trying is one of the most under appreciated human qualities. It’s so simple, but so profoundly important. How we all try – everyday in some way. We try to be good mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers. We go to work and try, and contribute to the greater good without even realizing it. A lot of us try in spite of very grim circumstances. You are a born thinker, Jason. Just like me.”
“I’m so proud to be like you, Mom…but thinking can make life very complex.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, because I’ve always wondered why about a lot of things. I grapple with the universe, with God, over tragic happenings and harsh realities. Like war, hate, and innocent people dying. If God is perfect…then why do these things happen?”
“Well…I know this might be hard to understand now, but while life on Earth sometimes seems unfair, nothing happens at random. Dominoes must fall a very specific way in order for life to continue and maintain a balance. There is a plan. But there must be a balance of good and evil, love and hate, darkness and light. Just enough to make us want to stay, but more importantly, enough to make us believe in something greater. Does that make sense?”
“I think so. I just don’t understand why everything and everyone can’t be good.”
“That’s a noble concern, but God makes no mistakes. The alternative is a world where compassion is never tested. A world in which we never wonder or never question our faith. A world…in which we are all…the same.”
I thought long and hard about that. It was sensical, and an explanation I could live with.
“That wouldn’t work, though, would it, Mom? A world where everything and everyone were good. We’d have no purpose if that were the case. No gratitude. No love. And eventually we’d have no reason to…try.”
“Exactly…and there would be no need for art, or music, or literature. The only original expression of human emotion.”
“I never thought of everything being so…perfectly imperfect. It all comes down to trusting the dots, doesn’t it?”
“The dots? Ahhh, yes. The dots. Trust immensely that the dots do connect, just like the stars. Trust in your path. There is only one way from there to here….and it’s not in a straight line. That’d be too short. It’s more of a zig zag path.”
Suddenly an object caught my attention. Floating towards me was a leaf. I bent over and carefully picked it up out of the water. In a silver glow read the words:

If light can be born in darkness, then we have no reason to fear the night.
– Mom

“How did that [happen]…”
She smirked and we both laughed as I held the leaf up to the moonlight. Then I put it in my pocket.
“Mom, I had so many dreams of you. So many visions of something like this. I had conversations with what I thought just might be the wind. But when I really got quiet, when I really listened closely, I could hear you.”
“That makes me so happy. I’m so proud of who you are, Jason.”
“Can I ask you something, Mom?”
“Of course, anything.”
“Why did you have to leave so soon?”

“Well, I left because it was my time.”
“But it was too soon! I lived so much of my life lost without you!” I said, raising my voice and immediately regretting it.
“It’s okay to be angry. But I want you to understand…if I hadn’t left when I did, things would have been much different.”
“Yeah, things would have been much better.”
“Actually, that’s not the case. You see, if I didn’t leave when I did, you wouldn’t have become who you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t have had the same appreciation for living. That exuberance people have come to love about you. You wouldn’t have had your perspective or your creativity. You wouldn’t have helped all of those kids at the ballpark. You would have grown up…never having grown. Jason, I left because you needed to become you…without me.”
I looked around at everything. The mighty pines stood shimmering, standing tall and sturdy. The stillness and serenity of the lake, those ripples, still traveling. The electric stars lighting up the black sky.
Yeah…the cosmos was speaking to me, loud and clear.
Then, out of nowhere, a golden butterfly swooped down, gracefully landing on my lap; calm and regal.
“Jason, let me show you something. Come with me.”
She took me by the hand and we just took off with the wind. My feet lifted out of the water and we soared, together. Hundreds of golden butterflies flew out of my chest while I was in the air. My Mom just smiled as she flew. I didn’t ever want to land.
When we finally did, we were back by the fire I initially woke up next to. Only this time there was a group of about a dozen boys sitting around it. They looked young. I’d say between 6 and 12 years old. All different, each looking at my Mom as if she was theirs.
“Boys, this is my son, Jason.”
I looked around at the circle of wide-eyed kids.
Then a voice.
“She talks about you all the time! Can you sign my baseball glove?!”
I was humbled. I walked over to the young boy, who handed me an old dusty catchers mitt.
“Of course, my man. What’s your name?”
“Harry.”
“That was my grandpa’s name!” I looked over at my Mom as she was wearing a grin.
I signed my name, along with this message…
– Harry, the dream catcher
I gave him a high five and then went around to everyone, slapping their hands. They had the brightest smiles. Ear to ear.
When things settled down, my Mom got everyone’s attention.
“Everyone get comfortable and take a seat around the fire. We are going to show Jason how it’s done!”
“How what’s done?”
“This is our poetry night. Everyone shares a poem around the fire, and then we discuss it.”
“Wow, this is great!” I can’t wait to hear what you all wrote!”
Then, I nudged my Mom, and spoke in a softer voice so that the boys didn’t hear me.
“So, who are these kids?”
“These…are your brothers. Boys who passed away far too young. You see, Jason, God decided that they needed me more than you did. So I was called upon to be their mother, in The Void.”
I just started crying. Weeping without restraint.
That’s when I woke up, next to a campfire.
Tears fresh on my cheeks, I looked around and realized where I was. I was on one of my many camping trips, all by myself on an island.
It was a dream. It just seemed so real though. I learned more about my purpose in that hour or so than I had in my entire life.
If only it were real.
Then I remember pinching myself. The bruise! I got nervous to check to see if it was actually there. I almost didn’t because I didn’t want to know the truth. But then I lifted up my sleeve and…my arm was bruise-less. No mark. Nothing.
But that didn’t mean that it didn’t happen. After all, I remembered everything. It was a transcendent experience. It was the first conversation I had with my Mom as an adult.
The night was getting late. I was cleaning my bowl on the shore when I looked up at the stars. They seemed so far away compared to what I had witnessed in my dream. I shined a light in the water and the fish were brownish green. If only I could experience those colors again, I thought.
I walked back to the fire and took one last gaze at the flame. I was grateful.
With a bowl of water, I put out the fire and headed to bed. As I crawled into my tent, I heard a crinkling sound coming from my pants pocket. When I reached in, I felt…a leaf.

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