Conner Houghtaling
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School Year: 2015-2016
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Patrons of a Broken Age
The concept of Patriotism is always one I found odd--
You brave men and women stood tall and still
Like chess pieces on a war-stricken checkerboard
Being picked up and placed,
Without a single concern for your bright
Brown eyes, or your tight-laden
Neatly-folded collars.
Officers looked at your names through
Eyeglasses with lenses crafted from
Budget charts and casualty reports.
Yet I don't blame them, for my curiosity falls
Onto you, the Unsung...The Valiant.
The ones who held their country above their own
Personal beliefs;
And cared not for what you had given up,
In the name of what could have been.
Today we honor you, the ones who
Left themselves behind when they pulled the trigger.
Today we mourn the ones who hesitated to do so.
Today we celebrate those who still stand tall.
And today, we lay aside what we take for
Granted, and carry on in hope and remembrance.
War is not what I feel, when I look at the dusty
Black and white Polaroids of your determined faces,
But willingness.
You brave men and women stood tall and still
Like chess pieces on a war-stricken checkerboard
Being picked up and placed,
Without a single concern for your bright
Brown eyes, or your tight-laden
Neatly-folded collars.
Officers looked at your names through
Eyeglasses with lenses crafted from
Budget charts and casualty reports.
Yet I don't blame them, for my curiosity falls
Onto you, the Unsung...The Valiant.
The ones who held their country above their own
Personal beliefs;
And cared not for what you had given up,
In the name of what could have been.
Today we honor you, the ones who
Left themselves behind when they pulled the trigger.
Today we mourn the ones who hesitated to do so.
Today we celebrate those who still stand tall.
And today, we lay aside what we take for
Granted, and carry on in hope and remembrance.
War is not what I feel, when I look at the dusty
Black and white Polaroids of your determined faces,
But willingness.
Untitled
Ambition is said to be the fall of many a man,
But here I sit where I feel safest.
Legs bent at 45 Degrees and newspaper in hand,
Reading of trivialities and encasing myself in
Prison bars made of Times New Roman and column.
And as I retract my legs, and unbend the chair,
I hear the beautifully piercing hallowed scream of
And aluminum kettle, excited and wonderful,
Not a scream in agony but a whoop, a holler, a victory.
I pour my resolve into my favorite porcelain mug,
And from a small cardboard box I pull my sanctity
And with it, follows my faith as I mix the two together.
I open the drawer to my left, removing a small
Silver spoon, untarnished and well-kept, and
Stir my resolve and my sanctity and my faith as
The scarlet seas of joy ripple and turn and excite
Me with the most delicate of graces.
Back in my seat, I smell apples and cinnamon
And I watch the shackles of daily life un-clench,
Leaving bruises on my ankles but I do not care,
For all bruises heal and all wounds are nothing
But superficial and irrelevant, for I will always be
Breathing and smiling and wondering, the sun shines on.
I sip.
I smile.
And, the world around me slows, shifts, and degrades
Into a nothingness so absolute and tranquil that
I am indulged in a sense of security and prosperity,
A sense of ambition, and hope.
And even yet I know that all moments come to pass,
I still revel and stick my defiant nose and smell the
Outspoken and aromatic vapor.
I kiss the skies with blushed lips, and I
Stir the murky beauty with a passionate longing
But here I sit where I feel safest.
Legs bent at 45 Degrees and newspaper in hand,
Reading of trivialities and encasing myself in
Prison bars made of Times New Roman and column.
And as I retract my legs, and unbend the chair,
I hear the beautifully piercing hallowed scream of
And aluminum kettle, excited and wonderful,
Not a scream in agony but a whoop, a holler, a victory.
I pour my resolve into my favorite porcelain mug,
And from a small cardboard box I pull my sanctity
And with it, follows my faith as I mix the two together.
I open the drawer to my left, removing a small
Silver spoon, untarnished and well-kept, and
Stir my resolve and my sanctity and my faith as
The scarlet seas of joy ripple and turn and excite
Me with the most delicate of graces.
Back in my seat, I smell apples and cinnamon
And I watch the shackles of daily life un-clench,
Leaving bruises on my ankles but I do not care,
For all bruises heal and all wounds are nothing
But superficial and irrelevant, for I will always be
Breathing and smiling and wondering, the sun shines on.
I sip.
I smile.
And, the world around me slows, shifts, and degrades
Into a nothingness so absolute and tranquil that
I am indulged in a sense of security and prosperity,
A sense of ambition, and hope.
And even yet I know that all moments come to pass,
I still revel and stick my defiant nose and smell the
Outspoken and aromatic vapor.
I kiss the skies with blushed lips, and I
Stir the murky beauty with a passionate longing
Sitting Inside of an Opened Cage
Freedom is a fickle concept--
Lack of it makes one strive for more,
And in abundance it creates cause for violence,
War deceit, hatred...
Almost like we as a human race are standing in front of
A door, and behind that door is the realization
That we have total control of the lands we plant our
Feet on, but we keep that door closed as a
Sign of respect and courtesy to the Earth
And to each-other,
So we limit ourselves and call it 'freedom,'
But I sit atop this building,
Staring at the tilt-shifted cars below--
I realize that limits aren't a bad thing,
Because we will continue to breathe through
Our noses, and absent-mindedly ride our
Bikes down long, winding highways.
Because we are human.
And humanity is as fickle a concept as freedom is,
So I will stop staring at cars,
And maybe go visit a coffee shop,
Chat somebody up.
Live a little.
Lack of it makes one strive for more,
And in abundance it creates cause for violence,
War deceit, hatred...
Almost like we as a human race are standing in front of
A door, and behind that door is the realization
That we have total control of the lands we plant our
Feet on, but we keep that door closed as a
Sign of respect and courtesy to the Earth
And to each-other,
So we limit ourselves and call it 'freedom,'
But I sit atop this building,
Staring at the tilt-shifted cars below--
I realize that limits aren't a bad thing,
Because we will continue to breathe through
Our noses, and absent-mindedly ride our
Bikes down long, winding highways.
Because we are human.
And humanity is as fickle a concept as freedom is,
So I will stop staring at cars,
And maybe go visit a coffee shop,
Chat somebody up.
Live a little.
Youth
The sunlight frames your silhouette
With a certain grace, and as I watch from
The balcony of Room 221 in the Chicago Flats,
I notice your stoic face, stuck down into a magazine--
And it feels like this moment could last forever.
Or like I was watching a scene ripped straight from a
Romantic comedy, which makes me smile undoubtedly.
But as all things do, the moment passes and I find myself
Alone with only my memories bouncing off of the
Hardwood floors and tearing through the ragged blue carpet.
I walk aimlessly, thinking up scenarios and idealities
About this strangely wonderful life that I glimpsed in to,
And I sigh whilst sunlight blinds me and frames my pale body--
Ignorant to s small pair of brown eyes staring back at me.
With a certain grace, and as I watch from
The balcony of Room 221 in the Chicago Flats,
I notice your stoic face, stuck down into a magazine--
And it feels like this moment could last forever.
Or like I was watching a scene ripped straight from a
Romantic comedy, which makes me smile undoubtedly.
But as all things do, the moment passes and I find myself
Alone with only my memories bouncing off of the
Hardwood floors and tearing through the ragged blue carpet.
I walk aimlessly, thinking up scenarios and idealities
About this strangely wonderful life that I glimpsed in to,
And I sigh whilst sunlight blinds me and frames my pale body--
Ignorant to s small pair of brown eyes staring back at me.