“Plugged In”, ”Coffee – The Intersection of Poetry and Politics”, “As I Look At Your Face”, “Not Quite A Haiku No. 1”

July 31, 2014 at 4:26 am (Uncategorized)
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“Plugged In” by Trevor Witt

Plugged in
To our own little world,
We sit, staring at screens,
Texting and typing and listening to tunes.

Connected with people three thousand miles away,
We cannot hear what people next to us say.
We have reports to write, programs to code,
Time to work and to waste as we grow old.

I have forgotten how to speak to you, Stranger,
Beautiful potential for friendship or danger.
You wonder what or who am I.
And I wonder why am I afraid to try.

Communication from behind a curtain
Has become commonplace.
It seems that it is easier to meet online
Than by reaching out to a human face.

The trend seems to be taking friendships for granted –
At least that is a fault I admit to.
We lose touch for years at a time.
We don’t call or write.
You were on my mind,
But far out of sight.

And we let the years slip by,
Thinking that an online “like” was enough to say “hi”.
It was as much your fault as it was mine,
But I should have unplugged and said what was on my mind.

“Coffee – The Intersection of Poetry and Politics” by Trevor Witt

Coffee is the intersection
of poetry and politics.
of math and the metaphysical.
of love and revolution.
Coffee is the building and the undoing
of societies,
the village mentality and the national consciousness.
of religion,
the sacred texts and holy rituals.
of human interaction,
stuck in our heads and spitting out unfinished thoughts.
Coffee is our calling and our demise,
the intersection of two paths,
an impetus for action,
a stimulant for decision,
the end of stillness.
Coffee is a necessary luxury,
like alcohol,
the freeing of the mind from itself.
the reformation of a spirit
under duress
in order to reach calm,
the intersection of poetry and politics,
pleasure and pain,
the desert heat and a deluge of rain.
Coffee wakes us up,
to our anxiety,
to our hopes and dreams,
and to our insecurities keeping us awake at night.
It is the intersection of stillness and action,
the poetry and politics of the universe.
Coffee is silence, surrounded by sonic booms.
Coffee is the intersection of pen and the blank page,
the fool and the sage,
a piece by Picasso and a doodled sketch by my three year old cousin on a napkin.
Coffee is the intersection of me and you,
waiting to be we,
the intersection of laughter and tears,
separation and union,
poetry and politics.
Coffee is my home.

“As I Look At Your Face” by Trevor Witt

My tears dried up long ago;
No longer do my eyes well up with water.
Your face in my mind reminds me
Of photographs of dead relatives,
Delightful and haunting,
A constant reminder of what once was.

“Not Quite A Haiku No. 1” by Trevor Witt

(We)

Broken minds,
Following broken hearts,
Led by faith.

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“The Wild Flower Blooms”, “Whose Blood?”, “Born Without A Label”

July 24, 2014 at 6:40 am (Uncategorized)
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“The Wild Flower Blooms” by Trevor Witt

The wild flowers grow,
Without human hands,
Without my interference,
Without my pesticide protection.

The wild flowers grow in sunlight,
With the help of the rain,
Without any sprinkler,
Without fertilizer to feed them.

The wild flowers bloom,
In my heart and in yours.

As wild as the lion,
As beautiful as the rose,
The wild flower blooms,
No matter what else grows.

“Whose Blood?” by Trevor Witt

“Whose blood cries out to me?”
Shouted G-d at the angels guarding the Earth.
“Whose blood cries out to me?
Does it belong to peasants or men of great worth?”

The angels, perplexed, and scared as they were,
Replied, “We were not watching, but only singing your praise.
Please forgive us, for we were absent on duty,
We never imagined for this to happen, not since ancient days.”

G-d said, “The blood of Abel cried out to me,
And you think I would not hear,
The blood of all my creatures,
The blood of creations I hold dear?

Is it the blood of the woman killed by a jealous lover?
Or the blood of the man robbed and killed in his shop?
Is it the blood of an elephant killed for his ivory tusks?
Or is it the blood of a woman raped and killed after dusk?

Is it the blood of women who died in childbirth?
Or is it the blood of men who died at war?
Is it the blood of the Sunnis or the Shiites?
The blood of monotheists or of those who came before?”

The angels, ashamed of not keeping watch,
Grew sad and guilty and soon began to cry,
“Oh G-d, most magnificent, most gracious on high,
Please forgive us.  Do you not see the tears bleeding from our eyes?”

…

Meanwhile, on Earth a baby was born and later peed in the doctor’s face.
G-d saw and heard this and laughed and rolled around in heaven,
“Dear angels, do not despair, for though there is much pain,
There is also joy and laughter, and I have smiled again.

Though I chastised you for falling asleep at the helm,
I am aware of all the blood spilled in my realm.

All is known to me, all is heard, and all is seen.
My anger is because you do not know this.”

“Born Without A Label” by Trevor Witt

I was born without a label,
No name tattooed upon my heart,
No country stamped upon my foot.

I was born without a label,
No religion tied to me at birth.

I was born without a label,
As is every creature on Earth.

I knew that I was human,
Because other people told me so,
But I knew that I was half-animal,
As I watched the speedy cheetahs go.

I knew that I was special,
Because I thought differently from everyone else,
But I knew that I was the same,
Because my shit stinks as everyone’s excrement smells.

I was born without a label,
Filled with blood and bile.
I was born without a label,
Only a mind filled with guile.
I was born without a tribe,
Without a language of my own,
I was born without a label,
But into one I have grown.

I was born a baby,
And will die a man.
But I am only an amalgamation of matter,
I may be buried or turn into ashes in a can.

My soul you cannot possess,
My heart you cannot chain down,
For a label-less dream,
Flies far above the ground.

And so my spirit wanders,
And hovers around my sorrow,

And so my spirit stills itself,
Still in splendid love of the beauty of tomorrow.

Born without a label,
Dead without a face,
Love lives on,
Without a physical trace.

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“The Muse”, “Too Exhausted To Sleep”, “Sometimes”, “Giving Up Nothing”

July 17, 2014 at 2:42 am (Uncategorized)
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“The Muse” by Trevor Witt

Beyond the trumpet,
Behind the violin,
There is a muse,
A beautiful manifestation of the divine,
Inspiring heart beats and causing tears to spring forth,
Like rain in the moonlight,
Underneath the stars of dreams.

The piano strokes her,
The violin sings to her,
The trumpet seeks to to impress her,
And the lyricist endeavors to reach into her soul,
But nothing comes close to conveying the true beauty of the muse.

For her soul encapsulates all of existence,
Her simplicity demystifies all complexities,
And, after you meet, you become someone different,
Neither more or less than you were before,
But infinitesimal and infinite at the same time.

And you are returned to the Source.

“Too Exhausted To Sleep” by Trevor Witt

I am getting a headache,
Caused by a lack of sleep,
Too much coffee,
Not enough coffee,
Self-doubt,
And politics –

A headache like no other,
Followed by pains in my ankles,
From running too much,
Working on my feet for eight hours a day,
And standing too still in the meantime,
Waiting for my fate to greet me and wake me up.

I am too damn tired to care,
But I cannot sleep,
I cannot give in,
Give in to that voice,
Which says that I am helpless,
That you are helpless, that we are helpless,
I am too tired to care whether this leads me to stress,
Whether this leads to ulcers or sleepless nights or headaches.

I am too damn tired to care
About the pain I feel by feeling.
Numbness is too painful,
Numbness is a quick death, but a slow life,
A life where nothing brings joy, where all is sorrow,
A life where everything is given up but the past,
Numbness is believing nothing will change today or tomorrow.

I am too exhausted to sleep.
This dissonance must be resolved.
We all need harmony.

“Sometimes” by Trevor Witt

Sometimes, nothing lines up.
You are running late,
To pick up your friend,
For the party,
Which you found out about last minute,
And then you get a phone call,
You are needed at work early in the morning tomorrow.

The party will have to wait.

Sometimes, everything goes wrong.
You are running late for work,
For your shift which started at six in the morning,
And your boss forgot batteries for the camera,
Which you were supposed to remember if he forgot.
So you have to go back to the office,
And the people you are supposed to videotape will have to wait.
They will not be happy.

Sometimes, you get stuck in traffic,
And you have to wait for hours in order to get ten miles.

But other times,
Providence favors you.

The party was broken up by the police,
And several party goers were arrested for dealing drugs,
The witnesses were all kept for hours to give detailed testimonies.

Sometimes, you catch a break.

The clients were not prepared for the shoot,
And requested that you postpone it until the afternoon.

Sometimes, you don’t know how lucky you are.

You missed being part of the traffic accident ten miles ahead of you,
Because you left twenty minutes later than you intended to.

Sometimes…

“Giving Up Nothing” by Trevor Witt

Throwing up while on the toilet,
With a throbbing headache pounding my brain,
Chills throughout my body,
As my stomach attempts to expel the toxins,
This is what I am giving up.

Waking up in the hospital,
After hitting my head,
Unable to remember it,
And unaware of how I got there,
That was the worst part.
This is what I am giving up.

Using a friend,
Or being used,
Frivolous, joyous encounters,
Facilitated by that relaxation,
Which comes with inebriation,
My crutch I use to decompress,
That is what I am giving up.

I want to be able to wake up without headaches.
I want to be able to remember every mistake I make.
I want to learn to walk with my lover without crutches.

I am giving up nothing,
And it feels good.

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“Suck It Up”, “Radical, Revolutionary Love”, “Skipping Stones On A Lake”

July 6, 2014 at 2:58 am (Uncategorized)
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“Suck It Up” by Trevor Witt

Suck it up.
So you are twenty seven years old,
With a college degree,
And a couple years of work experience.
What does that make you?
Special?

Suck it up.
You think that the world was made for you?
Do you think the world owes you anything?
What have you done for the world?
Are you G-d? Are you the Higgs-boson particle?

Suck it up.
So you are intelligent.
Does that mean you should not have to work hard?
So you work hard.
Does that mean that everything should be yours?

So it is not fair.
Who told you life would be fair?

Suck it up.

If you have to,
Scrub toilets,
Mop floors,
Lay bricks.

Suck it up

Says the one sitting
In the driver’s seat
On top of the mountain
On the sidelines
On the couch
Watching television.

If wealth redistribution is the only way
To address inequality today
Because home prices are inflated
And credit card and student debt rises unabated
Then let the record reflect that it was you who stated

Suck it up.

“Radical, Revolutionary Love” by Trevor Witt

Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Has never been tried before,
Not in the context of war.
No one dares to see the enemy’s face,
The only desire is to make them vanish without a trace.

Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Sounds like a dream of the naive,
But only that dream can save us from ourselves.
Pain blinds us all,
It builds a mental wall.
Though I can see walls going up all around me,
I can see over them, through them, from up in my tree.

When you see only the enemy,
I see my friend from Arabic class.
When you see a war for self defense,
I ask, “how long will this defensive operation last?”
When you see an Israeli soldier,
I see my friends Idan and Jason with a heavy burden to shoulder.
When you see a Palestinian militant,
I see my friends whose families have lost their homes and lived in tents.
When you see a label,
I see a face, a family, scars and smiles, hopes and dreams.

Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Tells us prisoners are not so different from you and me,
Criminals because they acted on thoughts we all think.
Radical, revolutionary,
Love,
Challenges us to see the humanity in our enemy.

“Skipping Stones On A Lake” by Trevor Witt

Memories,
Like skipping stones on a lake,
Create so much joy
By making ripples,
Ripples in the water of my mind,
Fading over time,
As their effects are not forgotten,
But diminish as they cross the lake.

Sunny days and sunsets
Spent skipping stones
With you by the lake
Forsake me in the present,
As only the ripples remain.

Walking through the farmers’ markets on Wednesdays,
Visiting you at work at the dry cleaners,
Buying you dinner because you hadn’t eaten all day,
Playing baseball at the park with you and my brother,
Confessing my love for you when drunk at the frat party.

All these ripples fade,
As the lake returns to its placid form.

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