The Benches......

They destroyed the benches yesterday.
The ones under the big flamboyant tree
Where we etched our names with knives
And pledged eternal, unconditional allegiance.
Seems like a lifetime ago since we liked each other
When, like opposites, we attracted to features
Unlike our respective own. When in the company of you,
Me felt complete and whole, because we filled the holes
In each other, left by previous lovers.

I remember the sunlight kissing your skin so perfectly,
Like the leaves of that tree were arranged so that
One day you could sit in that spot, 
Head tilted to the side; slightly
And it would appear that their sole purpose 
Was to diffuse the light,
So perfect-like and lay it on your cheek, just right. 

The benches where, as you read loudly, I laid my head in your lap
Looking up into the vastness of the wide open blue
As if staring into the infinity our future appeared to be; then,
And if only for a second, the blink of an eye,
I caught a glimpse of us, in some far off time,
Me, still hopelessly orbiting you, and you me, 
For sheer gravity. 

And in those moments, 
With all the sunlight, shade and company
That we could ever need
We let go and fell head-over-heels
Face first, without the slightest care of bruising.
Without the worry of breaking bones or hearts
Not caring how fragile or brittle either were.
Untamed and unbridled, to love and believe.
And the memories will live on,
Even though the benches are gone.

And I hope to God you remember like I do,
Because....

They destroyed OUR benches yesterday
The ones under the big flamboyant tree
Where we etched our names with knives!
......And I wonder, what ever became of US?

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Better....

If These Words Reach You,
Know That Broken Hearts Need Be Healed,
That No Bitterness Linger Nor Hatred Be Herein Spread.
For Unbridled Tongues Speak Abundantly More When
Motivated By Folly, And Lead Us Into Paths We'd Rather Not Taken.

While I Hope Happiness Follows You
Know That The Stitches That Remain And These Words Alone
Are But Testament To The Time We Shared.
And That The Fleeting Seconds Spent In Cathectic Lust;
Accreted Daily,
Are Burnt Upon The Mind Of This Broken Man;
Left In My Stead,
And Etched Upon This Stony Heart,
Frigid, For The Ravagings Of Infatuation And Its Counterparts.

This Picture, Once A Mirror,
Is Now, But A Distant Memory,
A Way Point, Showing What Better Is
How Better Looks, How Better Feels
And Where Better, Is!
Even Moments Of Sheer Glee
Appear Dim, When Compared.
I have Been There, It Be What It Be,
I Know What It Feels Like, What It Tastes Like;
And Less Than Better Simply Cannot Suffice!!!

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Let's start with James Patterson.....

When I don't feel like writing, I search for distraction. Whether I find it in a delightful conversation with a beautiful young lady or in the sanctuary of my room watching a Sixers game or an episode of one of the numerous TV series that I follow, I find that it all brings me back to one place. It causes me, in a round-about way to revert to a state in which I can think. The proverbial light bulb in my head can be triggered by that slightest inspiring stimulus. The one thing I wish is that my reluctance to write at any one particular time, may provoke me to read a book.

I used to be an avid reader in my younger days, having learned the skill ahead of most of my fellow schoolmates. My mother was a teacher and maybe that had something to do with it, or maybe I had inherited some of the brilliance that I would later go on to hear her friends and colleagues rave about. I read everything in sight, literature books, science books, even books with words too big for me to fully comprehend at that age.

With prepubescent maturity came the interests in other things. I fell in love with the game of basketball and sacrificed much of my reading time to playing the game and watching NBA games. I did, however, always seem to make time to read right before I fell asleep, maybe half an hour each night. This practice was frowned upon by my parents, although I,then, failed to understand how it affected them. With repeated discouragement of this, I soon gave it up altogether and my reading habits have suffered since then.

To this day, I've struggled to read; extensively. I've written poems that others deem worthy of much praise and have received much adoration for my command of the skill. I have written stories that surprised my teachers at various points throughout my academic career simply because they couldn't believe that I wrote it. But I have struggled to read even books that were necessary to my curricula. I even passed English Lit without actually reading the books.

Recently I tried audio books which work well but seem to be solely for entertainment purposes, since if u get to thinking about a particular word or the use of it for too long you may miss something. They did inspire me to read though, a bit anyway. So I bought a James Patterson novel (I think he's brilliant), the first novel I've ever bought for myself......Let's see how that goes!!!

My Father's Son....

I once said that I didn't know my father. The thought returns every-so often and wrecks me. It wrecks me because I grew up with my dad and the context in which the question was asked related to not having known who your father at all; more like never having seen him than not knowing him as a person.

When I think about it, I was right. Maybe not to have said that I didn't know who he was but the fact is I never understood him, at least not since I was a very young boy. My entire adolescence was spent hating him for being everything I never wanted to be. But life is full of ironies and it afforded me the good fortune to peer into his life for a bit and walk in his shoes.

What I garnered from a couple months of intense work, the kind he used to do, is that I seriously doubt I could have done it nearly as long as he did. I lost about 10 lbs in the sweltering heat, surveying at different elevations, all the while calculating angles, horizontal and slope distances and driving myself and the rest of my crew to and from the locations.

All the while I watched my father, a hollow shell of the man he used to be, seem to slowly continue to lose his place in this world. The place he has occupied for the past twenty-odd years, that he had dedicated his life to securing, is slowly slipping away from him despite his desperate, sometimes angry and insensitive, attempts to hold on to it. As a victim of diabetes-related visual deterioration, his dimming world appears to frighten him more than he'll ever let on.

I found my father there though in all of that and I've learned to love the man, my pubescent dislike for him removed, even for the things that I still hate about him. I have found the "him" in me and in as much as some of my actions and attitudes upset me and I see a need to change them, the reasons for them are obvious.

I am my father's son! I've never been more proud to say that.