What Am I Thankful For?

Yesterday I did a thing about what it means to be thankful for something and how, as we grow up, that thankfulness shifts and evolves (or should anyway) into something that’s a bit more in line with the given definition–but today I just want to stop and say what I’m thankful for, because as much as I can talk about thankfulness, it doesn’t mean boo if I’m not actually speaking to anything. (more…)

Wait…So “Thanks” Isn’t $50 Off a New Laptop?

There was a time in my life where my Christmas list was done in August, where the measurement of my end of the year enjoyment was based upon what I received and what was done for me, and music, lights, fall spirits and winter chills were ancillary, inconsequential, to the gifts to come.  And while it isn’t Christmas yet (regardless of what the radio and Target says), if I were still a kid, it would be by now–it would have been since about three months ago. (more…)

Aside

Poem: His Hands in His Pockets

I twiddle that twig we plucked from the tree line,

but I’d sew it on again, the leaves I plucked too,

if the forest would give you back to me.

Do you remember the trees? Remember the birds?

Oh, you loved their song. You so sweetly sang it back to them

when you were alone–but I could hear you as if you were

next to me.

And they miss you; they miss your song–

one bird sits beside me. He sits on that one branch,

his hands in his pockets–silent, searching–

and waits.

Side Note: Why The Harbored and Homesick

So my girlfriend recently has been underway building up a photography blog (which is wonderful and you should check it out: here), and amidst all of the photoshoots and planning and editing and what not, she took the time to explain where the name for her blog came from, which in turn inspired me to do the same. (more…)

Aside

Poem: A Space for Nothing

In the window

of the little toy shop

sits a space for

nothing.

 

The children

play with one toy

and drop it for another,

running here, jumping there–

jumping, jumping–

but only the parents look at the

nothing.

 

The mom and dad listen

to a yesterday’s whisper wrapped

around their tightly wound,

newly woven belt loops.

 

She sees her first doll,

worn and faded, and played with.

He sees his old army men,

the ones the dog got a hold of.

They stare at the nothing,

at the toys of their youth,

while the children

make noises behind them.