Author Archives: Pasquale

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Gift of Tears

Written in the spring of 2021. An intense side effect of my meditation practice has been involuntary bouts of crying. These instances occur while walking, sitting, or in conversation. It’ll find me anywhere from the Costco checkout line to the neighborhood’s forest. During one of these waves of emotion I sat down and wrote this out. I don’t know what this experience is, but it has been a signpost for a permanent shift in consciousness. I don’t edit my work because others may value lines that I don’t later on. I do have favorites from this work though and I’ve put them in bold. These words still stay with me a year later.

Gift of Tears the is-ness of now non-existence of fears

Gift of Tears, Gift of Tears, being center here to here

Gift of Tears, love of form, I was, now, and will be the storm

Gift of Tears the love for a child to pass the torch of being here for a while

Gift of Tears love from weeping finally my ego sleeping

Gift of Tears you’re here again I see you in the eyes of friends

Gift of Tears the love for strangers blissfully submit to dangers

Gift of Tears the songs of birds always labeled but never heard

Gift of Tears the grace of pain welcomed and never taken for granted again

Gift of Tears true satori the way the light shines off concrete is never boring

Gift of Tears a public display of true transcendence behind love and dismay

Gift of Tears I am a mountain infinitely ordered from drop to fountain

Gift of Tears being so profound it finds me when I’m not around

Gift of Tears, breath at work, my inner kingdom, my inner church

Airport Suffering

An old notebook writing sometime in 2018

Looking ahead I wonder

If my whole world will be filled with thunder

Is the storm something I’ll travel through

Or like a bridge I’ll go under

Will my whole world be filled with thunder?

Or will I escape my mind and feel the wonder

Because the storm brings rain and rain brings growth

In the downpour will I lose my hope

Is silent solace something I’ll find?

Or will the sound of thunder empty my mind

Are the rocks too slick for me to climb

Or is progress something I’ll have in time

Is the sound of thunder just in my head

Course as sand, heavy as lead

Lightning flashes white and red

Bringing bolts of bright blue fire to my bed

Strong enough to kill me dead

The sound of thunder in my head

With the western winds the storm will pass

Will I break down run out of gas

Look to the future clear as glass

Or will the thunder sound like trumpets brass

Clearer skies in sleep I’ve found

I bask in silence when it’s around

The rain is gone and I hate to swelter

But in my slumber I find shelter

Like ice in fire it would melt

Just like my sleep the calm I felt

The sound of thunder in my head

Loud enough to kill you dead

Reconciliation

An old notebook writing sometime in 2017

I’m truly unsure of my reaction

The equal and opposite has caused so much traction

I can’t seem to find the right words to say

I’m not sure if I’ve gone the right way

The more that I think the more I am wrong

The more days go on, I’ve been thinking too long

I have anger and hate

Confusion and fear

Reasons why I know I don’t need to be here

And by here I mean to dwell in the past

Thoughts constantly fleeting first and the last

Do I care about you or the others involved?

A problem that isn’t considered or solved

Do I want them to know that I am a victim

And that your side of the story shouldn’t afflict them

Am I more concerned with their perception of me

Or the ashes left by the burned bridges of we

An “I Am” Poem

An old writing assignment from 2017

I am carbon based and made of stars

I wonder what lies beyond this life of ours

I hear the wind the songs of birds

I see the world that is not heard

I want to change the way things are

I am not the first nor the last

I pretend I don’t have struggle in my past

I feel a force from far away

I touch things that are not here to stay

I worry mindless throughout the day

I cry when things don’t go my way

I am carbon based and made of stars

I understand I still know little about this life of ours

I say I love the life I live

I dream about what the future gives

I try to think before I speak

I hope to live strong but truly meek

I am carbon based and made of stars

Carrying Comparison

The faucet doesn’t sound like the river

“You’re good at math. Your sister’s good at writing.”

She was dyslexic and I didn’t have any trauma

“You’re good with science. She’s great with language.”

No wonder her words cut so deep

No wonder I knew how to sharpen knives

“If only they hadn’t changed the curriculum in first grade”

Regret rested heavily on her brow

Like a bowling ball on a wet trampoline

She always indulged in the past

Like one more piece of dark chocolate from the drawer

below the medicine cabinet

–

Elementary reading was difficult, I was behind

Spelling, right clicked red lines

“Good readers are good writers! You need to read more.”

I couldn’t even finish The Battle of the Labyrinth

Ironic

–

I was so excited to choose Shakespeare

The neck ruffles of my costume tickled

Like the laughter of the classroom

Sonnet 18 aloud from memory

A stifling vulnerability drowned my cheeks

An unrecognized transformation

Poetry, romance writing lilting lines

–

“I hope she doesn’t look at this”

So I wrote in the dark

and hid it opened under my bedside

I resisted my prophetic authority

Like Mordred in I Am Mordred

I wrote The Park Ranger

“You didn’t write this. Really? No, I don’t believe you”

For the first time I didn’t believe her either

The Park Ranger

Written for an “Honors English” class in the spring of 2016.

There once was a kind Park Ranger

He lived for thrill and danger

In the Appalachian wilderness he roamed

And the skills of the forests he honed

He liked to fish and hike

And sometimes road his mountain bike

His job was to protect the forest’s creatures

And preserve earth’s natural features

If tourists or outdoorsmen found themselves lost

The Ranger would save them at no extra cost

Like a bear the burley ranger stood

He walked one hundred miles a day, or at least said that he could

Wondering, wandering, and whistling like the wind

In the strongest of storms his faith wouldn’t bend

The Park Ranger loved the earth on which he walked

And you could tell by the way that he talked

Purple Notebook

I visit my notebook at just the right time

It’s purple color filled with sentiment

Pages stained black, red and blue

Scribbles and words

Drawings and pictures

A foreshadowing to one’s own self

How did I know?

Sound’s Shadow

If photons were to light as gas was to sound and shadows required to see what’s around than the body of wind pushing song through the trees is just like its shade casting cool summer scenes

If style arms were to needles as trunks were to canopies and observers required to hear such a breeze than has the play of the wind been recorded before awaiting a needle to find grooves in its score?

Question’s View

Tired legs rest on rocky perches

The warmth from the stone soothing and firm

Vast is the view encompassed by the horizon

Subtle is the breeze finding it’s way through ones hair

Mountains and valleys carved effortlessly by time

The sky so clear ones eyes shudder as the light pours in

Full breaths arise mutually with psithurism

One must ask themselves