I tell you they missed it. They missed it all. . .
Kids today have no idea what music is. Even my generation was light on the subject. We were a little late, but at least we were there for the tail end of its magic. At least we knew what it meant to walk into a record store and feel lost in a sea of albums and choices. Whatever the choice or taste in music may have been, at least we had these choices. We had rows of albums and genres. Meanwhile, kids today have no idea what it feels like to scrape up whatever money they have and walk to a record store.
They hardly have a CD collection anymore, let alone understand what Continue reading
Author Archives: bennyk1972
A Letter
It is early and I am awake now. I have been for quite some time. I’m alive to see another sunset and watching the sky as it brightens slowly in different shades. The trees here are pretty now. The winds are certainly colder and the warm weather deck furniture that sits on my back porch has retired for the season and will hibernate in my cellar until next spring. I have been hearing the geese fly overhead. I like seeing them fly over in their V-shaped pattern. The fall is certainly here. The scenery changes each day and this suits me just fine
The caretakers of Old Wesley Chapel came by to secure the grounds and cut the grass one final time around the graves in the small cemetery. Old Wesley Chapel is diagonally across the road. I agree there Continue reading
Busses, Dreams, and Other Means of Transportation:
Do you believe in dreams?
I do . . .
They say our dreams only last a few seconds. I have read that research shows dreams can last anywhere between 5 seconds and 45 minutes. I have read that a few seconds in a dream, to us, can translate to an hour, an afternoon, or an entire day.
I once dreamt that I spent an afternoon with The Old Man. I was young in my dream. I assume I was the age when I saw The Old Man for the last time. Then again, I am often young in my dreams.
It was winter in this dream. I was dressed warmly and sitting in the backseat of my Father’s two-tone, black and gray, Dodge pickup truck with a cap on the back. The truck was exactly as I remembered it. Black on the upper half and silver below it. The maroon interior was the same, the long steel gear-shift with the black ball atop, and the dashboard, the radio, the heat and air conditioning switches all looked the same.
It was clear to me that The Old Man was Continue reading
Institution Prose
I tell you this, you do not understand victory
until you are sat in a room with a group of kids,
all of them mad and starving to escape,
each one with a unique story
all of them lost and each one sick of life,the system,
and sick of the surroundings,
sick of the world they find themselves in.
and sick of the fact
that the only brief intermission of ease
is the momentary high that comes with drugs or alcohol.
I say you can’t know victory until you sit in this group,
institutionalized with Continue reading
For The Boys
I know who they were then and I know who they are now. I was one of them and together, we were the wild ones of the town. We were only kids at the time, with the emphasis on the word, “Kids,” being confused and angry—we were young and willful. I know what we were and how others saw us. We were the opposite side of the good kids in lunchroom crowd. We were the kids with the long hair, ripped jeans, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, stuffed in the pocket of a denim jacket or a leather jacket. We were part of a tragic fashion, beautiful in our own way and aggressive—mad to the touch but wonderful and curiously eager, yearning to feel the rush of something better than simple complacency of a spoon-fed life.
I was amongst Continue reading
From The Daddy Diaires
As a dad, there are sounds that I will always remember. These sounds are simple. These are the sounds of my daughter laughing and sometimes crying. They are the sounds a child makes while running through the lawn sprinkler and screaming happily in a high-pitched scream. My daughter has certainly made a few of these sounds. Over the years, I’ve collected them like tiny pieces of memorabilia.
I hold them close so that one day, whenever my little girl grows up and heads off into the world and the last thing she thinks about is her dad, I will have a collection of memories—and when I need to, I can Continue reading
feeling it . . .
I spent decades running as fast as I could, only to stop one day and find that no matter where I went nor how fast I ran, I could never hide from me nor could I ever outrun myself.
I ran for decades and for this very reason—I never wanted to feel the feelings that come with life on life’s terms. I never wanted to feel pain or understand desperation. I tried to turn this off to the best of my ability.
For decades, I tried to be numb—I wanted to be callous and tough. I wanted to be impenetrable and unaffected.
Instead, I was only hiding from Continue reading
About Beauty
This is a piece about beauty . . .
I was driving upstate and heading northwest to a destination far beyond the reaches of the city or suburban life.
Tall tree-covered mountains were on either side of the road. My windows were opened to allow the air to filter through and give me a taste of that early autumn breeze.
It is drives like this that cause me to change my definitions and descriptions of beauty.
I drove passed farmlands and pastures. I went across Continue reading
A Personal Ramble
This is nothing more than a personal ramble.
In fairness, I am not sure what you (the reader) will picture or what you will imagine if you decide to follow along. I’m not sure if this will even make sense to anyone else but me. Still, a ramble is a ramble and this is just that—a ramble .
I am driving up to see two of my most special friends this morning. Had it not been for them and others like them when we all lived together on The Farm, I would not be the man I am now. Had it not Continue reading
Poem From A Son
“Take this,” she said to him—an old woman
sitting in her favorite chair, upstairs,
living in a house built by the man she loved,
in a room where life happened
and memories were built.
She was a mother above all things,
loving and caring,
and she handed him a white silken scarf
which had been folded carefully.
“This belonged to your father,” she said,
a wife, a widow in mourning. Continue reading
