Foul Mood Descending a Staircase

In the basement doing laundry,
My mother had no clue,
That her toddler son had turned the lock to the door leading thereto.

I heard footsteps ascend the stairwell—
Methought, “Mom is on her way back!”
But I noticed that the doorknob had begun to jiggle—
Accompanied by a voice in panic:
“Open the door!” my mother yelled,
“Open the door!” I mimicked—

You’ve heard of Nude Descending a Staircase?
Well, my mother was a foul mood descending a staircase,
Trying to find recourse in an unsavory situation.

Outside, a stairway ran alongside the house,
From the cellar to the main story;
Atop the flight was the door that led to the kitchen—
Where I was…and where my mother, also, wanted to be…

So those stairs my mother scaled,
With a swiftness that belied her age—
But ‘twas to no avail;
That door was, too, locked,
And served only to further stoke her rage—

Thus, an even fouler, moodier mood descended another staircase…

Seemingly left with no alternative,
My mother returned to the basement,
A victim of my mischief—
Though I claim I was innocent;
However, that claim would soon be proven ineffective,
As the door miraculously opened upon her final ascent…

…at which point I received the flogging of my young life.

—Kevin B. Waring

Tom and Alicia

She rode on his bike’s handlebars—
They’re as steady as a dangling limb;
Side-to-side she swayed, like a boat on choppy waters,
Moving to an unknown rhythm.

She screamed…

Barely could she distinguish her surroundings;
All she saw was the colours,
Like being inside an abstract painting—
An anachronism in the world of its creator.

There was a chill in the air;
Feeling her shivering, the boy said to his girlfriend,
“Hold on, baby, we’re almost there.”

They were going to a clinic;
Alicia had gashed her leg on the concrete,
And Tom—with his own hoodie—fashioned a tourniquet,
Hoping it’d provide some semblance of relief.

By not wearing his hoodie,
Tom himself could’ve gotten sick—
But to him, continuing to wear it would’ve been a far greater risk.

When they finally arrived,
Tom held the bike upright,
And put Alicia’s arm around his neck;
Gently he picked her up, carried her inside,
His face wrought with fright,
As they approached the front desk—

“M’am, my girlfriend hurt herself—
Please—PLEASE HELP!”

The receptionist called the physician,
And they were told he’d be with them shortly—

Sitting her on his lap, he held her hand,
Rocking her comfortingly,
At which time she said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” replied he;
“You think you’ll have better transportation…
When I’m pregnant with and set to deliver our baby?”

“I hope so!” he laughed. “I’m going to try.”

—Kevin B. Waring

Defending the Vanguard

Fortune,
Your caprice has been decried—
You…have been vilified,
Flouted by those distraught,
Their plaint is having been denied—
Unjustly deprived of their ‘deserved’ lot.

Deserved lot?

From whence comes this haughty mindset?
Who are we to dictate the receipt of our blessings?
It’s like we’ve been hit in the occiput,
And are under the illusion we’re kings and queens—
But we’re not monarchs; we’re but mere subjects,
Whose irreverence is starting to become obscene—
In essence, we’ve become those that jeered and spat…
Upon He that died for our well-being.

And yet, “[W]ell-being is vain”!?
Why? Because, like the moon, it waxes and wanes?
When we say these things,
Virtually, we seek to deterge the cross of its crimson stains—
Ignominiously rejecting our undeserved claim…
Even when drenched by life’s downpours,
We’re only prolonging our misery when we mope & complain.

People lament Fortune,
But instead of saying God’s name,
They invoke her’s;
In the heart is bedded truth;
But cowardice so constricts the vocal cords,
That unto the air enters a more diluted form when spoken—
It’d be unrecognizable if we knew neither our heart,
Nor the sound of our own voice…

God,
Your caprice has been decried—
You…have been vilified,
Flouted by those distraught,
Their plaint is having been denied—
Unjustly deprived of their ‘deserved’ lot.

God knows what is best for us—
The rich and the poor alike,
And to the latter, God sees that you’re in anguish;
He’s not insensitive to your plight;
If you’re floundering in this economic detritus,
Stand upright;
You’ll make yourself easier to notice,
Even if jobs, right now, aren’t rife—
At times life can be insipid…
But it will always sate your appetite.

Stand upright… Withstand, period.

—Kevin B. Waring

Emily's First Day

Today is Emily’s first day of school,
“I am a little nervous,” she admitted—
“What if I break a rule?
Is there one that says where I can and cannot sit?”

But what if there’s a rule against standing!?—
“Mommy will be mad if I get into trouble on the first day,”
She thought, “maybe I’ll sit here till the teacher comes in,
And ask if where I’m sitting is okay…”

“Here comes the teacher!—
Ooh, her dress is so pretty…
On it are a bunch of flowers,
And tiny, fuzzy, smiley-face bees!”

“Good morning, class!” she said happily,
“My name is Ms. Beeber—
And I’m not related to Justin…”
“Now’s your turn to introduce yourselves to me,
So I want you to each find a partner—
Learn as much about each other as you can,
Starting when I count to three…”

“One…”

“Two…”

“Three—GO!!”

Emily asked Ms. Beeber if she’d mind where she sat;
Ms. Beeber replied, “No, not at all,”
And, “The fact that you asked me shows respect—
Now, that, young lady, is commendable.”

In the time it took to ask her question,
Everyone found a partner but Emily—
Well, all but one—
And he…looked differently…

The contrast of their features was stark—
So much so that not one similarity could Emily find;
His skin color was so dark,
It looked as though he’d just emerged from a coal mine,
And Emily moved backwards,
As though from the moment she was trying to resign…

She exhorted, “What’s wrong with him!?”
Ms. Beeber has seen this all before,
And on behalf of the children, it’s not for lack of gaum,
For some situations children just can’t be prepared for.

This was one of them…

“Before our bodies are made,” she began,
“Our spirits are made first:
A body is white when its spirit is finished under the sun;
And black when finished under a sky of perse…”

“In other words,” she clarified, “the color of a body
Is determined by the time of day its spirit is made.”

With this new perspective,
Emily looked back at her classmate;
Still somewhat apprehensive,
Unsure of how they could relate…
But she knew the similarities begin where the spirit lives,
That with an open mind, anything can eventuate.

Ms. Beeber suggested they go last,
Since everybody else was ready;
The earlier information was still being processed,
As Emily struggled to find the words to say—
All while her classmate sat, looking suspicious,
As though to her apprehension he was privy—
Yet—mostly for the sake of promptness—
She sat next to him, finally,
“Why did you take so long to sit?” at which time he asked,
“It’s n—,” she stammered, “it’s not you…it’s me…”

—Kevin B. Waring

Success

Just keep on trying, it just ain’t happened yet,
These goals you hope to achieve—
Rarely is success met at the onset,
And unlocking it takes more than a special set of keys…

And what, exactly, is success?
For it isn’t tangible, per se,
Is it measured by how we perceive others to see us,
Along with our opinion of ourselves at the end of each day?—
If this is the case,
Surely pride & vanity have a role to play.

And society, too—
The pressure they put on young children!
Whether from the media or their own milieu,
They’re constantly put under the scrutinizing lens…
Taught not to have a point of view,
And to shift continuously with the cultural winds.

Our children don’t deserve this treatment,
Having so many thoughts penetrate their mind—
Before them many an ideal we present,
Hoping they live up to a certain paradigm—
It’s time that we become better parents,
For a properly raised child will find himself in time.

We…try to teach success,
And pave the path thereto;
But its meaning need be reassessed,
Redefined by minds anew—
It’s not a popularity contest,
Nor is it driving a Mercedes or BMW;
It isn’t conveyed by elaborate dress,
Or being in the percentile of the top two—
No; success is measurable happiness…
And the only one who should do the measuring… is you

Success is what you make it, the pride you have in yourself and your work…

—Kevin B. Waring

The Barrio!

These gormless parents,
Letting their kids run around with no shoes on,
Someone please call Social Services,
Before they step on the shards from the broken bottle of Heineken!

One mom is upstairs,
Manically putting makeup on her face,
She needs to get her priorities in order,
Before she ends up with kid numero diez.

At the bottom of the stairwell,
A boy tinkers with his iPhone,
I guess with all the drugs he sells,
There’s plenty more expensive things he owns.

Every night the little girl next door sings,
She can hit every note on the register;
After each song, though, she can be heard weeping…
Because in her heart she believes she can’t go any further.

In the early morn,
Before the moon and sun platoon,
There’s talking—words spoken that I cannot discern,
And the sound of music blaring: BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

This place is far from photogenic,
The street is always strewn with debris,
It’s an eyesore that can make one sick,
And it reflects badly upon me.

But there’s a store nearby,
So I always eat,
And though the latest gadgets I can’t afford to buy,
I still fancy myself quite the geek!

Though I’m a geek, I’m, first, a guy,
And though some of these girls look summery,
I don’t want no children calling me “daddy”.

- Kevin B. Waring

Fight or Flight

The house was irreparably damaged,
It was impossible, even, to walk on the floor,
There was seemingly nothing left to salvage,
Our possessions were reduced to casualties of war...


I wanted retribution -
For our way of life had just been disseised;
What'd taken years to build was gone in a matter of seconds,
And no consolation could take away that grief.


We heard yelling in the distance,
As the ground beneath us began to rumble,
I thought to myself, "Now - this is my chance!"
Starting in the direction of the battle.


But before I could leave,
I heard an earnest voice cry out to me:
"Don't leave us - possibly bereaved -
Just to add your blood to the brood of enmity."


She continued, "Another home we could easily erect,
But you, my love, I cannot resurrect...
You could go and get your retribution,
Only to return to a home still in ruin -
It's not worth it - I say, reverse the face of your direction."


And like a subordinate to his superior,
I duly honored her ukase,
Turning round to her,
Into the open arms of an embrace -
I realized then I couldn't jeopardize my future,
Even more so when I felt my children tightly hugging my waist.


Our raw outpouring was interrupted by a salvo,
And we all knew that we had to go,
So we fossicked for non-perishable goods in the debris -
Anything that would sustain us for the impending journey,
Fighting back tears of sorrow while loading up the buggy...


Away we went with the pieces that remained,
Headed a million miles north...
Not to return ever again.




- Kevin B. Waring




"The end marks a new beginning"

Cool Collapse

To make it through another day—
O, What a blessing!
Having spent it making exchequer,
From consciousness I find myself slowly departing…
The animals frolic, kicking up embrowned spray,
With twilight, obscuring the view from my porch swing—
Sweet air cafunés,
Day’s final sigh was released,
The sound was like an angel breathing,
Taking mine away…
And away…and away…and away, I dream…


- Kevin B. Waring