Joseph Kreydt

Tag: poetry

  • Goodbye Hello

    Goodbyes hurt.

    I must admit there is beauty in that. The hurt tells me I have a heart, and that I loved. It tells me to connect and stay. These are nice things to say to someone. Still, I’d rather not say goodbye.

    But there are so many goodbyes in this world that we have lost our sense of place. We no longer place flowers on the graves of our kin. Where are they, anyway? They’re not here. They’re in the place we left. Instead, we tithe and sacrifice and build digital monuments to the god of travel. We fly for him. We say goodbye for him. But not all of us. Some of us stay home. Some of us tend the gardens. Some of us keep watch. I prefer place. I like to stay.

    And if you’re the same, I say, hello.

  • BEEP

    Loneliness means
    Grocery shopping —
    Seeing the incredible colors
    And shapes and tastes
    Lining bright aisles
    Late at night;
    BEEP.
    Wondering at this wonder
    Available in every town
    Across America —
    Alone.

  • Cling

    I sat down with her.

    "Can you separate from me?"

    She started to peel herself away,
    But she didn’t.

    She wanted to,
    And she didn’t.

    "I think you want to,
    But you’re clinging.
    You can separate
    If you want."

    She clung.

    I smiled.

    My depression clung.

    And I realized she
    Was exactly what
    I desperately wanted,

    Someone to stay,
    Someone to cling.

  • Sometimes You Just Hurt

    Sometimes you just hurt.
    You wake up feeling beat up,
    And then you hear they’re choosing her.

    They’re choosing her,
    The one you loved so much,
    Who did not want you to exist.

    She didn’t want you to exist,
    But no one saw the hate she gave,
    So they chose her and so she wins.

    You want to hate her for that.
    You clench and grimace and cringe,
    But all you can muster is pain,

    And maybe that was her hate too.
    It wasn’t hate of you.
    It was just some other pain.

    Still, you want to hate her for it,
    But you don’t because you understand.
    You’ve done the same to others as she’s done to you.

    So you try to forgive her for it,
    But you don’t because you can’t.
    Maybe yesterday, but not today.

    And you carry all of this
    Without a friend to walk beside
    Because they all chose her.

    They all chose her,
    And the clock keeps moving forward,
    And you’ve got to get to work.

    So you do what you do sometimes,
    You just hurt.

  • Adoration, Wednesday Night

    On My Knees, In Adoration Wednesday Night

    Show me a miracle,
    One I don’t have to believe,
    One I can see.

    I want to know.
    Then I promise I’ll follow
    Wherever you lead.

    I know I’m not blessed.
    I know I’m not happy.

    I know I am aching
    For something I need.

    I see the pooling blood.
    But I can’t figure out
    What is making me bleed.

    I know this: I am lonely.
    I am lonely, please,
    Come close to me.

    Show me a miracle,
    One I can see.
    Show me a miracle.

    At the End of Adoration Wednesday Night

    After showing him this mess of mud,
    This man who bled water and sweated blood,
    I had no will to leave,

    And so I clung, like a child, on my knees,
    Until I recalled something,
    From where I do not know.

    It said, "I will be with you,
    Whatever happens, trust me.
    Go."

  • The Man Who Just Sat Down

    The man who just sat down,
    You smiled at him.

    He did not smile back.
    He’s a large man.

    You might have been offended
    By his lack of courtesy,
    But you’re wiser now.
    You’ve received the grace of pain.

    And so instead of taking offense,
    You wonder if his age and size
    Have amounted to a painful walk
    That felt, to him, like a marathon.

    And then you see his knee,
    The scar down the middle,
    The oceanic swelling.

    It wasn’t that he didn’t smile,
    This man who just sat down.
    It was that he couldn’t smile.

  • The Curious Groundhog

    Where I live, there are lots of groundhogs. I see them all the time, but not during winter. Last spring, as the world was finally coming back to life, I saw one who also saw me. This poem came to me then. Happy Groundhog’s Day!

    Most of the trees and shrubs
    Have begun to bud.
    As I walked past a field
    Of last year's grass and frozen mud

    I saw a groundhog waddle toward
    The bank beside me.
    He ducked behind a culvert pipe
    But didn't crawl beneath.

    He waited 'til I passed beside him —
    Peaking like he wondered what
    This thing that moves so high above,
    And with so strange a strut,

    Might be or do or be and do,
    Or how he smells or how he sounds —
    And then, when I could see his face,
    He swiftly climbed beneath the ground

    Into a hole where, I assume,
    He has a blanket and a book,
    And having gathered vegetables,
    He hums as he begins to cook.

  • A Poem About a Hope

    The following is a poem I wrote very recently, based on a very true event. It’s most-likely unfinished, but I wanted to share it anyway. Merry Christmas!

    I walked over the hill, at dark,
    Past the willow by the frozen pond,
    Then slowed my gait and steeled my gaze
    ‘Cause something caught my eye beyond.

    Make it newfound love, this thing I sense,
    Or a run-in with a few old friends,
    Or at least an angel singing songs, I prayed,
    And prophesying better days.

    Finally, the lamplight bent just right,
    So I could see the sad, and sadly funny, sight.
    A goose stood upright on the ice
    Alone, there in the dark of night.

    I walked as close as I could get,
    And saw the goose was frozen stiff,
    Unmoving,
    Motionless as a monolith.

    Afraid the ice would not support my weight,
    I recommenced along the normal way,
    But the goose was frozen in my foremost thoughts.
    I ruminated, thinking of the poor bird’s fray.

    Webbed feet frozen to the icy pond,
    He must have flailed his wings and yanked.
    But, in the end, instead of freezing contorted
    Like a scared, pathetic, dying thing,
    He stood up nobly like a king,
    And gave his life into a marble work
    Of Michelangelic beauty–quiet, strong, strange.

    I went back out in the light of the next day.
    The weather’d turned and a thaw’d begun.
    The pond was still half-frozen,
    But the lonesome, solid goose was gone.
    And where he’d stood, my hope had sprung.

  • Pondering

    We ponder less these days, filled with so much to ponder. Urged incessantly to scroll down or click next, to turn pages and tick boxes. How about reading a poem and staying with it a while?

    Here’s one of my favorites by one of my favorites:

    If anyone asks you how the perfect satisfaction of all our sexual wanting will look, lift your face and say,

    Like this.

    When someone mentions the gracefulness of the night sky, climb up on the roof and dance and say,

    Like this.

    If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is, or what “God’s fragrance” means, lean your head toward him or her. Keep your face there close.

    Like this.

    When someone quotes the old poetic image about clouds gradually uncovering the moon, slowly loosen knot by knot the strings of your robe.

    Like this.

    If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead, don’t try to explain the miracle. Kiss me on the lips.

    Like this. Like this.

    When someone asks what it means to “die for love,” point here.

    If someone asks how tall I am, frown and measure with your fingers the space between the creases on your forehead.

    This tall.

    The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns. When someone doesn’t believe that, walk back into my house.

    Like this.

    When lovers moan, they’re telling our story.

    Like this.

    I am a sky where spirits live. Stare into this deepening blue, while the breeze says a secret.

    Like this.

    When someone asks what there is to do, light the candle in his hand.

    Like this.

    How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

    Huuuuu.

    How did Jacob’s sight return?

    Huuuu.

    A little wind cleans the eyes.

    Like this.

    When Shams comes back from Tabriz, he’ll put just his head around the edge of the door to surprise us

    Like this.

    Rumi

  • My Contribution to Journalism

    There’s a lot of journalism about the dark things. That’s important because we can’t be whole until we integrate what is in our shadows and we can’t integrate what is in our shadows until they are illuminated.

    But I have something else to report. This can be my contribution to journalism.

    There are beautiful walkways cloaked in fresh air. And as the sun sets, the clouds have turned pink and purple and orange at the same time. And there’s a sycamore tree that has seen more sameness than I ever will. And two fawns are having a bedtime snack in a field. And the air is cool, but not enough for a sweater. And the moon is half, and the color of half and half.

    Broadcasting from just north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I’m Joseph Kreydt. To all the dark places and to all the light, good night.