Airplane
Aug. 2, 2005 (age 32)
by Wil C. Fry
Small oval circle is a picture to the rolling Earth below
And air conditioned pressurized cabin feels impatient
She looks, glances, seeing threads of rivers and
Square after sqare of living breathing farmscape
Checks her ticket, and the clock, it's almost time
Head against the glass, she sees the sprawl
The snaking highways all leading to the hub, the city
That's much smaller than her own, but finally the city
And her heart skips a beat, not quite lurching
Into her beautiful throat, not quite stopping
A bump, a wiggle, and the metal beast touches ground
Eyes search the windows of the terminal, back and forth
Grabbing bags and jostling in the aisle
She takes a deep breath. This is it! Here. Now.
He's there, somewhere, or he'd better be
Somewhere past the rumbling loudspeaker
Beyond the souvenir shops and airport food
Again, the eyes scan the crowd
Everyone is waiting, looking
Two of them are nervous
Two of them will meet
And there... is that...?
Yes! That's him
He's smiling
Another deep breath...
And
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Away
June 8, 2005, 22:24 hours (age 32)
drive, drive, drive
sunset fading fast
got to get away
till my troubles pass
run away to yesterday
in my bottled brew
nighttime twinkling stars
fading pictures of you
advertised destinations
in the dust far behind
drive, drive, drive
gotta delete my mind
escape to tomorrow
in the powdered mix
tired of the torment
tired of turning tricks
sprinkle burning cash
and drive, drive, drive
can't get lost but there's
nowhere to arrive
haunting desert memory
aches in splattered soul
i die then come to life
smoking chaotic hole
orange and early sunrise
finds only the will alive
gritting cracking teeth and
drive, drive, drive
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The Evolutionists
Nov. 22, 1989 (age 17)
(This was written as a school assignment.)
The short, fat ‘scientists’, each with a bald head,
they examine the bones of those long dead.
With their beady eyes and chattering ways,
they stare at fossils for endless days.
They assert that a pig’s tooth is really a human bone.
They claim that we’d each be better as a clone.
They fiddle with our genes, trying to better the masses,
while staring out of tunnels with their Coke-bottle glasses.
We listen to them and learn how men
descended from paramecium.
They try to reproduce the effects today,
but the genes won’t change in any way.
When you think you have them trapped in their own logical pen,
they’ll tell you that the laws of science didn’t apply back then.
They say that bacteria soon became fish—
this is something that they can only wish.
And even if the fish washed up on the proverbial sand,
there is no chain of events that would make him a man.
To them, the world is one big blur—if anything was evolved, they were.
The only reason they believe the evolution façade
is so they don’t have to believe in the true God.
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The Scale Looked Strange
Sept. 18, 1996 (age 23)
(On one of those increasingly occurring occasions of happiness.)
The PAIN is gone, a LIGHT is on
I’m wondering what went wrong
Happiness surprised me like a long sweet kiss
My crumbling heart is not used to things like this
Love remains far away — a great price to pay
And I’m not convinced I’ve uncovered the WAY
But the scale looked strange when I tried to weigh my heavy heart
Where did my pesky BURDEN get off to anyway? A new start?
Shouldn’t I be lonely? Or something like that?
the next time I do that idiot smile I think I’ll eat my hat
The BLack hole lost me but I still can’t see
the uncommon thing happening inside of me
Explanations like the SUNSET do fade
My spiritual premiums continue to be unpaid
The StaRs and mOON shine so clear
I enter this interim stage with fear
How long will it last — have I lost touch with the gloomy past?
I think the hard drive must’ve crashed
I’m not programmed for this (It does not compute)
Am I ready for bliss? (What is the TRUTH?)
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Harry
Aug. 21, 1999 (27)
("To: Harry, my dog of many years [1978 to May 14, 1992]")
Whispers of a tired night Where owls are out to play
Stars feebly shining bright And the Happy Hunting Ground
is only a few steps away
I hear him running the buzz of tiny padded
feet slapping the ground so fast that the sounds
run together
And his black eyes are smiling as he watches over
me Knowing my every thought
Angels and friends there may be but none can
feel me and know my pain like him
And the soil breathes a sigh of relief, knowing
that i love it
We were not made for this world
We only visit here for a while I hope my
stay doesn’t hurt too long May I go?
I know some may miss me And some will
lament my plight And some will believe that i
gave up the fight Others will wipe away
tears of grief and say i’ve finally found relief
That i’ve gone on to a better place
Where joy is on my face And pains are finally
erased But they will not know Unless
they also believe and go And follow him
And follow me
To Harry’s Happy Hunting Ground.
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These Are The Things
Sept. 30, 1999 (age 27)
I want to find a piece of gold, stubbing my toe in the sand
I want to see the Eiffel Tower, and climb it by hand
I want to fly around the world, and see all I can see
I want to live in a cave, and then live up in a tree
These are the things I want to do
I want to walk naked on a warm summer’s night, then run
Into the ocean’s water, and drift till rises the Sun
I want to ride bareback across the wide and open plains
I want to climb highest mountain, though the cold bring me pains
These are the things I want to do
I want to stand on the airless, sandy soil of the Moon
I want to drink whiskey with cowboys in a wild saloon
I want to dig to the center of the Earth, find what’s there
I want to hang glide off a mountain, and breathe the clean air
These are the things I want to do
I want to see visions that no man has seen before
I want to sell my soul, be filthy rich, and even more
I want to be the Emperor that all the peasants laud
I want to raise my voice, and wake the deafened ear of God
These are the things I want to do
I want to write the book that ev’ryone will buy and read
I want to follow the leader, and then I want to lead
I want to see the Loch Ness monster, on a foggy day
I want to blow up the world, and then I want to pray
These are only some of the things I want to do
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Insomnia II
Dec. 21, 1999 (age 27)
Hunched over this spiral notebook tightly, I write
Wondering when Death will take his next bite
Of my soul
I’m withered, I’m worn, and still not whole
Wrapped in warm blankets, I cringe and toss and turn
One moment, I shiver; the next, I burn
With feverish heat
And I keep hitting the wall with my feet
I try to breathe much slower
To bring my heartbeat lower
But there is always something on my mind
I think and think, but I just can’t find
That peaceful place which puts a smile on my face
Instead, I consider my disgrace
My fall
The decisions that cost me my all
I watch the horridly inexpensive shows that are aired at night
And think to myself, “It’s just not right.”
Finally, I again turn on the light
And continue to write
Write
Write
Someday, somewhere, someone will wish me a good night
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We’re The Ones
March 18, 2000 (age 27)
Down the street there’s a guy who will sell you whatever you want
The kind of stuff that will put your head in outer space
And your body on a roller coaster in Florida
And your soul on the ocean floor
We call him the scum of society
But we’re the ones buying
Next door there’s a girl who will sell you whatever you want
The kind of stuff that your wife wouldn’t do in a million years
And she doesn’t care if you cuddle afterward
Or whether you clean up around the house
We call her a criminal
But we’re the ones buying
At the record store you can buy any kind of music you want
The kind of stuff that you wouldn’t let your kids listen to
They say they kill cops and each other
And they use every word in the book
We call them vile and demented
But we’re the ones buying
Uptown at the stadium you can watch your favorite gladiators
The kind of people that your kids idolize
The ones that do drugs, commit crimes
And play as dirty as they can
We say they’re not worth their salaries
But we’re the ones buying
Up at the capital there are those who will say whatever you want
The kind of stuff that the polls say will help them win
They’ll lower your taxes and clean up your streets
Then make your kids smarter and your doctors cheaper
We know they’re lying vermin
But we’re the ones voting
So isn’t about time we shut our fucking mouths about everyone else’s problems
Especially since it’s our own weaknesses that create them
And looked in our own backyards?
And cleaned the underside of our own friggin’ toilets?
We’re not too happy with our lives
But we’re the ones living them
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A Nomad, As Always (The Saga)
(This is the closest Wil ever came to writing an autobiographical poem.)
Sept. 11, 2000 (age 27)
An era comes to a close, in my meaningless little world
It lasted too long, everyone knows
This time, I’m not drifting; I made a decision
All on my own
Instead of letting the winds blow me where they will
It’s time to get my fill of another place
Stepping further from the confusion
Fighting off the elusive delusions
Somehow, I evaded the illusion
This time
I won’t be drifting, all on my own
Floating with the winding currents of life, fate, time
The niche I have carved here — for myself — on this shore
Is not satisfactory or stimulating
Anymore
So I’ll move, a nomad as always
This time, picking my path, and enjoying the trip, all on my own
Leaving behind some more memories that will fade
The journal entries that seem so fresh will one day seem strange
And far away from where I will be then
I know I’ll read them with moistened eyes
As I remembered when, as I remember
This time, when I moved on, made a decision, all on my own
Lord, help my ailing mind to capture these last moments
These last few days that remain
And tuck them away, somewhere safe
These places, these times we’ve had
They’re a part of me now, they’ve made me who I am
Or will be
This time, as I step forward, all on my own
I hope I don’t regret it, leaving all I’ve known
Maybe it’s time to prove that I’m grown
Going along for the ride, there’s no one by my side
This time, leaving it all behind
Squinting as I struggle to forecast the future
Will I be alone?
I’ll have these poems, these stories, these journals, these memories
The same questions as before
I’ve studied, but still don’t know any more
Than I did before
Thinking about the last five years, I’m not sore
Things could have been worse, I suppose (Only Heaven knows)
And every thorn has its rose, even this one
This time, I pick my poison, all on my own
These legs were made for walking, so open the gate
I still sense that Death is stalking
But I’ll face my fate
This time, looking before I leap, all on my own
And, all along, I knew I’d have to go back home
But you can rest, your mind assured
That this questioner will always allow his mind to roam
When you count it all, I’ve left a lot behind
At one time or another
But it’s all still here, in my mind
The soft rains and crashing waves and warm sun
Of the volcanic island, where I became someone
The busy streets, strange tongue, the shorter people there
On an island nation, where we had the only blond hair
The mountainous church, boyhood friends and soccer fields
The sprawling house, my fast and furry best friend, my grandfather
That first job, girlfriends and school friends
Cozy college, greasy jobs, tiny rooms, and so many fads
And, Oh, the times we had!
And I’ve walked on, outward
From bad habits, dead rabbits
The little harmless plastic bags, filled with powdered death
This time, I’m walking away from all the rest
All on my own
Blurry photographs in my hands
Remind me of where I’ve been
Maybe it’s my eyes that are blurry, not the film
And maybe I shouldn’t be so overwhelmed
This time, forging ahead, counting the scales I’ve shed
All on my own
The lovemaking of marital bliss becomes
The fetus growing and listening becomes
The infant cradled in loving arms becomes
The toddler stumbling and laughing becomes
The child learning and playing becomes
The adolescent seeking independence becomes
The young adult looking for love and safe haven becomes
The grown man paying his bills and wishing it would all go away
Becomes this man, sitting here, decision made
Just wanting a seat in the shade
All on my own
Well, we’ve lost our faith in many things
Haven’t we?
Love and Heaven and angels with wings
And there, on the corner, an old man plays and sings
His pitiful music rising up into the sky
And, just like me, his lyrics asking “Why?”
Some of us just learned the hard way
That life wasn’t stable in any way
This time
It’s about time
To settle down and figure it out again
All on my own
Again
We thank you for all the help you’ve been giving
And for standing near, in this life we’re living
But if I stay here too long, the roots will go too deep
I never sowed a seed
Because I knew I wouldn’t be here to reap
It’s a good thing I know the landmarks by now
This time
Walking a clearly blazed trail
All on my own
(If this is boring, just remember, I didn’t write it for you
I’ve got to make it all the way through.)
I learned the hard way that selfishness will bring me down
And I learned that selfishness is why I’m still around
This time
Doing it for myself
All on my own
Never put down your kickstand
Don’t shift into “park”
Don’t put the trailer up on blocks
Never get too attached to this man
Don’t sleep in the dark
And when I leave, don’t be shocked
This time
You knew I was made for moving
All on my own
An era comes to a close
In my introspective little world
It lasted too long
As we all know
This time
I’m not drifting
I made a decision
All on my own
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How I Wish That I Could Paint
Oct. 29, 2000 (age 28)
How I wish that I could paint
the shape of each cloud in the sky;
And how to shade each rounded wisp
as they lazily float by.
I wish I knew which hue would show
the depth of eternal blue
That hangs overhead each day I walk
in the country to see the view.
Yes, I yearn to brush the strokes,
to somehow record what I see:
The golds and reds of each falling leaf,
the greens of the moss on the tree.
Browns and grays would be the rocks
upon which stand the saints.
Then silver and gold for a sun-setted lake;
O! How I wish I could paint!
And I’ve seen it done,
so I know it can be done!
But I just don’t know how.
So for now I’ll run;
through these golden fields I’ll run,
And just enjoy what I see right now!
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Seminole Sunday
March 25, 2001 (age 28)
Angel’s feet and broken down buildings
Indian ghosts and crumbling bricks
Alongside this paved cattle trail
Look around and see
The solitude
Of each and every individual
We’re decades away from the Steel Empires
Smiling faces and rotting wood
Smoking cars and potholed streets
That are empty on Sunday
Look inside and see
The solitude
Of every minute of my life
