Early Morning Air

My breath
Dances in the air
Like a spirit freed
Of all bodily ties
And dissipates
Into the atmosphere

A dance for morning
Like the fleeting frost
Around the temples of my father




I feel like a stranger
Surrounded by staring
Glaring eyes
Which judge beyond judgement
The choices I’ve made
And the person I’ve become
But then again…

Isn’t that family?

The Death of My American Dream

Miss the days
When you didn’t just love me
But were in love with me

Miss the passion
The excitement
The feeling
Of your eyes on me alone

Cant remember the last time
You embraced me when I felt
That spark from you
Not just from me

And I know that some day
It may come back
But for right now
I miss it

Our time
The twin bed
No money
But each other

Now nothing….

Empty kisses in listless rooms
Too strange to call warm
Too distant to call home
And I miss the old days

When you loved me
And were in love with me

Miss it
I miss us
I miss intimacy

6 Minutes

Boos echo off a faceted, vaulted ceiling. The screams from hundreds bounce to different areas of the arena, a confusing cacophony of sound full of cheers and jeers. The athletes work, they strive, they toil, they desire…

They crumble…

The mat is a completely different world compared to the one you and I live in. Six minutes of struggle, six minutes of fighting, six minutes…

Seems like a short time but it is an eternity on the mat.

Tears flow, children cry…remember that…children. None of these boys are over 18, fresh faced youths in a world which has shrunken from six billion people and endless space to two people and 40 ft. The lights of the arena burn down like a never-setting sun, constantly bursting with fluorescent omniscience.

There is a senior on mat 1, someone who’s entire school career has led to this moment. Twelve years of toil, morning and evening practices, self-induced starvation, injury…practice at club after practice at school. The process never ends; for twelve years all he has thought about was this moment…

The two individuals shake hands, the whistle sounds, and in six minutes it is over…twelve years down to this six minutes…but it isn’t six.

It is two and a half and the kid across from him rolls just right and nails his shoulders to the mat.

That is how dreams are destroyed. Like a scientist who quickly discovers that the disease he has been studying has been cured, the wrestler’s career is over.

No second chance, no more seasons, no more anything. It is over…

The coach says some kind words, thanks him for the chance to coach, but the man doesn’t hear him, doesn’t care.

He has transformed into that man you now see. That individual who, when everything he has worked for comes to fruition, has failed. In that instant, he shakes his opponent’s hand, turns to face his coaches and grows up years in the few steps it takes to walk off the last mat of his high school career.

We can learn a lot from the sport of wrestling. Dedication, determination, confidence, comraderie, modesty…


Life lessons to carry us through. Talk to an aging wrestler about the sport and you will see that desire to compete reignite in his eyes. It stays with you, it works for you, your life emerges as something other than what it once was. All because of six minutes.