The Cranberry Blogs

Things I love:
The 1990s
Punk Rock
The Ocean
Long Drives
Flannel Shirts
Whisky on Rocks
The Boston Bruins
Old White Lincolns
12-Stringed Guitars
Impressionist Paintings
Modernist Literature
Irish Folk Music
Scally Caps
Anything With Will Ferrel
Anything with Billy Zane
Marky Mark Wahlberg
My Family and Friends
Spelling, "Aardvark"
All Things New England
Those ducks that are in Massell pond

Flockprinter by Buddy Wakefield

My Giant Saint Everything
Buddy Wakefield

There were days I wanted out.
But then You would go and do things
like dive into the Vancouver ocean,
big brilliant cliché poem that You are,
water rolling off Your back
as You swam toward a sunset 
that hung like a sacred recipe painted 
all the way around Your holy head.

And then there were the ways You caught me
moving back into my cave where the wheels turn,
same wheels that drove You off.
I should have told You 
before talking in terms of Forever
that any given day wears me out and works me sour,
that there are nights when the sky is so clear 
I stand obnoxious underneath it 
begging for the stars to shoot at me 
just so I can feel at Home.

What’s left of You now is a shrine 
built from the pieces I kept of Your presence,
Your incredible stretch of presence.
It sits in Our room like a sandpiper 
cross-legged and crying,
remembering the night we met 
and the day You left, and the Light
shifting in between.
By the side of it stands a picture of the poem where I promised,
“You will never have another lonely holiday.”

The words “I Promise” and “Forever” 
begged me not to use them
but sometimes I don’t listen to God,
so You can imagine how much it hurt
to let Your last birthday pass 
with no word. August 3rd.
You weren’t the only one comin’ up lonesome.

Listen, if I had to make a list 
of everything everywhere
- and I mean everything… everywhere -
the very last to-do on that infinite list of
every – single – thing – would be – to hurt You,
so I need You to know 
that in an attempt to keep my promise 
I did write a letter to You on Your birthday. 

It was covered in stickers of flock-printed stars,
choir claps, and a bonfire of buttercups stuck in the air, 
but when I finally drew enough courage 
to send You all the Love in the World
my hand snapped off in the mailbox 
from clenching.

It was returned to me with a gospelstitch, a hope stamp 
and a note etched into the palm I had to pry open
with the pressure of pitching doves 
reminding me 
we agreed to let each other go.

There is a point when tears don’t work 
to wash things away anymore. 
Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.
I miss You so much some days
that I beg for the airplane to crash
with just enough time in the freefall
for scribbling “I Love You” across my chest. 
That way – when they find my burning breast plate –
they will tell You how the very last thing I did with my life
was call out Your name.

A. R. L.

I know You’re momma didn’t raise no sissy,
so it’s best if I believe 
that You’ve bounced back and been born again,
but in the bottom left corner of dreams 
in the dark spot 
where it gets windy and hollow
I can still see you flailing,
eating knuckle cake,
full torque and tender,
heart pounding from being pulled under,
feet bleeding from bracing for endings,
tongue dying to curse Forever 
because promises murder us backwards
when people like me don’t keep them.

And sure, we all deserve absolution,
but especially You. You and Faith,
You’ve got the same hungerpunch,
same song
still rising off the watertrain running through the laws
of a moon dead set on daylight 
digging marbles from the trees
in a Love not scared to make no sense
and monkey enough to see
the same devastating reason for living this life
My Giant 

I promise You
these words have buckled my lips 
so far back to the beginning 
that I am now allowed only
so from my snap-chested heart spraying 
fully flying
sending out the birds:

Today I stop believing in words.
Today all my visions converted to blurs 
like the night We saw the Light 
and I could not shut up 
but I swear I was feelin’ silence.

Alyssa Monks

Alyssa Monks is an American painter born in 1977 in Ridgewood, New Jersey, who specializes in hyperrealism. She began oil painting as a child and earned her M.F.A from the New York Academy of Art in 2001. She uses filters such as glass, vinyl, water, and steam to distort the body of her subjects placed in shallow spaces, most often bathing or pushing against the glass window.

Via Zilla

(Source: leslieseuffert, via leslieseuffert)


baby baby i’ll be good to you

If you are perpetuating one-sided arguments on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, then I just wanted to make sure you know that you are the reason that there will never be peace.

Subban & Rask

(Source: hockeytard, via bosstownsports)

Greatest Hits

(Source: candylandboogeyman, via norocmate)