4-7-2019 - The Space Between Poetry, is often defined by two singular elements - rhythm, and rhyme. The rhymes elongates, the sense of space, accessorizing the poem, with style and grace, giving it structure, and tying loose ends, creating a format for making fast friends. The words flow together, in a sensible manner, ebbing and flowing, like the tide, the schema adjusting to fit the demeanor, of the subject in the poet’s mind’s eye. But, as we have come to know in the modern age of poetry, rhyme does not reign supreme. Structure only serves as a springboard, and can hamper and hinder the more wholehearted of endeavors, when it becomes the focus of a poem. It is the rhythm that gives the poem substance, creates an evocative stage for the poet to express themselves on a level unparalleled. It is the space, between, the words, that provides inflection, reflection, even redirection, to a new train of thought previously undescribed. A constant flow of emotion, momentarily broken up by an unexpected pause, serves to define what the poet feels is important, and to create a level of understanding between them and their audience. Both rhythm, and rhyme, have a place in a poem. as do the plethora of other poetic devices. Let no one tell you, that your poetry is found lacking, because it does not include the comfortable embrace of matching sounds. Let no one tell you, that your poetry isn’t really a poem, because it lacks structure. Let your poem soar, flying free on the wings of your inspiration, to bridge, the space, between.

6-13-2019 - Identity One of the strongest memories I have of my first elementary school was that of hiding in a corner of the gym, taunted for the unfamiliar syllables that I had unintentionally attempted to cram down my classmates throats. You see, when a pale kid from the south side of Lowell opens his mouth and foreign sounds come out, he becomes somewhat of an enigma, an anomaly, simply - different. He may look no different than George, or Patrick, or James, play ball the same way Steve, or Sam does, but when the teacher stumbles over his name during roll call, eventually he is designated as an object of scorn. It was almost a relief when, my first summer playing baseball, the assistant coach, an old Italian man, decided to nickname me “Rico”. I no longer had to cling to a name that had been dragged through muddy playgrounds and stuffed under dusty bleachers, I was free from the oppression of the soft ‘k’ and unvoiced ‘v’ that had painted a target on my back. I had earned the name Rico, emulating the shortstop heavy hitting legend that came to the coach’s mind when I stepped up to the plate or fielded the ball. I made it my own. It was when I went to college, left my hometown, which, by the way, prides itself on its diversity, that I realised that I had been stripped of my ethnicity. “Rico” was a construct to simplify my existence, optimized for palatability, easily rolling off of undeveloped tongues. My name embodies my heritage, it was chosen, by a priest halfway across the world when I was born. The crisp ‘R,’ delicate ‘k,’ and unvoiced ‘v’ are trademarks of the language of my culture. I am musician, a leader, and a mentor. I am the firstborn son of my family, the eldest, the trailblazer. The two syllables that so many stumble over embody who I am, and have become a link to my heritage, a piece of history that I cherish each time it is spoken. I no longer hide behind a flimsy shield of assimilation. I AM "Rikhav."

8-26-2019 - Who We Are (Extended) We are of a time long past, Where words not spoken were understood, Where slight movements and quick gestures spoke volumes, so the mind was free to think. And our hearts to feel, for when we put our heart into our work, it becomes stronger, forged in the fires of our passion, engraved into the very being of those who would embrace our words. We are of a similar make, our minds think alike, while syrupy honey and bitter lemon, flow from our mouths, and our eyes burn with an occasional feverish light. This light, blaze's brighter than any LED bulb, burns hotter than the heat of a thousand suns, threatens to both comfort and consume those who let it envelop them. For some this flame is born of the inspiration of a moment, for others the experience of a lifetime, but all come together to throw off the shackles of the stiff, cold society that binds them to its will We are not of this time, this age lies before us, a homeless man in a drunken stupor, a world that hears no children's cries. In a word, it is dark, a deathly downward spiral , a descent into a grave situation deeper than any hollow crypt. In south America, the world's greatest rainforest burns, in a raging inferno, its ashy remains serving as a monument to the greed and vindictiveness of the upper echelons of humanity We have transcended, you and I, to join a group, of more similar minds. Minds more simple, hearts more complex, while they beat an even rhythm, a tattoo, within our chests. And when the drum beats, and the horn sounds, we rise up, to take arms against this sea of troubles, armed not with rifles, but with pens, spraying those who oppose us, not with deathly metal, but with words, which, freed from our minds constraints, flow forth to take flight, on the wings of change This group is an ancient trust, a bank of knowledge, a hold of lust, for intelligence procreates, discord and distrust, where emotion mediates, the harmonic crust. That, is /who, we, are.../

10-25-2019 - The Mill City Speaks These walls can speak. Their creaking tells an echoing story, myriad of lifetimes blending together. I, am a myriad of lifetimes blending together. My floorboards have borne the weight of thousands of steps, my shingled roof sheltered many a weary mind from the stormy skies of the changing seasons. My walls have held memories hung in burnished frames, glinting in the light that flows through my windows. Brand new, I stood, sparkling waters churning beneath and beside my foundation, steel beams piercing my many floors, surrounded by brick and mortar. The echoing song was yet unsung, the air still clear of wool unspun, unweathered hands from farms afar, had come to spin and weave the yarn. So I stood strong, through wind, rain and snow, I held back the elements, sheltering the precious industry that kept me full, churning out precious bolts that would be sold far and wide. I was relentless, no weeping maid could stop my gears from turning, no crushed bones or shredded skin could bar my path of industrial progress. But then the river ran black, decades of industrial pollutants marred the once sparkling water that caressed my sides, investors moved on in search of more fruitful opportunities. I was left barren and empty, gathering dust in the once bustling rows of steel machinery. An eerie silence prevailed where the constant din of shuttles crashing against looms reigned supreme. For decades I lay quiet, an empty shell, a husk of the unfettered explosion of activity I once was. My walls began to crumble, my windows, which once gathered wisps of fabric instead grew gossamer webs. I waited for my inevitable decay and demise. Over time, the people returned. My sturdy frame still held, my weathered floorboards creaked but stood firm. I took on new life, provided a revolving door for opportunity again. I am a home, sheltering the growth and development of the old and young alike. I am an office, housing piles of paperwork, whirring disks and glowing screens. I am a practice space and performance hall, a place where creativity shines brighter than any star in the clear night sky. I am safety, seclusion, comfort and grace. I am strength and resilience, built with mortar and glaze. There are memories woven in my pillars and beams, but when you listen, the creaking are just stories now freed.