The Heart Never Rests

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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 Simple Beauty

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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The Chair Outside Your Door

In my dream
I sit in a chair outside your door
Waiting for you to appear
The anticipation is unbearable

Minutes turn to hours
The hours turn to days
And still I sit and wait
As I stare at the door

I wonder what I will say
Will the words even flow
Are words even necessary
We have already said so much

When our eyes meet for the first time
How will it make us feel
I think we would both remain silent
Both afraid to speak first words

I wonder about the first hug
Would it be gentle or ever so tight
How long would it last
Would I ever be able to let go

With that first touch
Would my skin tingle
How nervous would I be
And would you be as well

I imagine a gentle first kiss
Would my heart be able to function
Would I dare close my eyes
And miss a moment of your beauty

I imagine you in the chair beside me
All alone, sitting in silence
Holding your hand in mine
No words would be needed

Yet, I sit all alone
In a chair outside your door
And even though just a dream
It fills my heart with peace

vic damico © 2010

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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She Sits In The Window


It may just be a fluke
Or maybe my imagination
I choose to think differently
Not believing in coincidence

Every single morning
Opening my eyes to a new day
I look to my bedroom window
And there she sits in all her beauty

A Monarch butterfly greets me
It sits there seeming to look at me
Always as I sit up in the bed
She flutters away into the distance

The first time I saw her
I just took in her beauty
The second time seemed odd
Yet I welcomed the sight

It has become a daily occurrence
I anticipate the next morning
She has become how I start each day
And she has yet to let me down

And what beauty she brings to me
Mostly blue and black with gold injected
She seems to intentionally stay still
So I can focus on her beauty

I go to sleep with her on my mind
And I dream of her through the night
Wishing my sleep to pass quickly
So I can awaken to her presence

The morning comes again
I open my eyes and smile
She has once again graced me
By sitting still in my window

And as usual I sit up in bed
She slowly flutters away
As if she is checking on me
To see if I safely survived the night

I have since come to believe
She is not merely a butterfly
No, that is just how she appears
She is an angel sent each morning

To show me the light of the day

vic damico © 2010

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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The Closet Door

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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I arrived at work at just a few minutes before 8 o'clock a.m. as always, never had I been late in the eleven years I had worked at the small motel just outside of Chicago.  My duties were always the same; I was set in my ways, and I knew what had to be done.  The rooms had to be cleaned, and I was the one who had the pleasure of cleaning them.  There were thirty rooms numbered from 101 to 130, and they were always cleaned in order, obviously those occupied changed the order depending on the wishes of the occupant.  Seeing that I was ahead of schedule with my morning duties, I decided to take a little break.  Room 112 was my home, had been for the last four years.  My room was unique with its layout as compared to all of the other rooms.  It was on the east corner, and it had been designed as a residence for the manager originally.  The current manager has a home in the city, so luckily for me, the room was available.
 
I open the door, and walked into the room.  This was actually more of a suite, having a separate living room, a bedroom, a fully functional kitchen, and of course a bathroom.  It also had features that only were revealed to me, and they had nothing to do with the motel, itself.  At one time, this room scared the hell out of me, and more than once I thought of leaving because of what I had personally witnessed.  Things happen in this room, strange things, and quite often.  It started with the very first night that I stayed in the room, and it has continued, and progressed since that night.  That first night, as I lay in bed, I heard voices in the night, and not distant voices, but coming from within the room.  I could hear a man and a woman, and they were arguing.  What they were saying was not clear, but the anger was obvious.  It went on for what seems like hours, and then I heard what sounded like a gunshot, and it would always remain silent for the rest of the night after that.  This was not a one time occurrence; it happened every single night thereafter.   I never told anyone about my experience, nor would I ever.  Why should I?  No one would believe me, anyway, so why subject myself to the ridicule and doubt I would surely face with that revelation?  No, this was my secret, and it would remain that way for now. 

I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and seated myself at my desk in the living room.  Startled, but not surprised, I saw a note on the right hand side of my desk.  It said simply, "Emily, I have to work late, tonight, so I will not be home until about 11:00.  Love, Michael"  This still scares me.  I have no idea as to who Emily or Michael are, but this same note appears every Monday on my desk.  I crumbled up the note, threw it in the trash can beside the desk, but I know next Monday, I will have to do it again.
After a while, I decided I had better get back to work, so I did just that. My next room to clean was 114, the one directly beside my room.  I had been cleaning for about ten minutes when I began to hear banging on the wall coming from my room.  After the long list of unusual activity I had witnessed over the last four years, I really did not pay much attention.  Or, at least I didn't until I heard glass break.  I wondered if someone else had heard this, or if I could just add it to the sounds that were usually exclusive to my ears.  I dropped what I was doing and opened the door and peered into the hallway to see if anyone was there.  The hall was completely empty, and at that moment, I was unsure as to whether to feel relief that no one had heard the sound, or to feel fear knowing I would have to investigate the sound on my own.  Either way, I knew what I must now do, and I was a little anxious about looking into my room.  I walked into the hall, and stood in front of my door and just stared at the numbers for a moment.  It reminded me of a story the original owner had told me about the room.  You see, my room had not existed when the motel was first built.  It was a storage area where all of the linens, cleaning supplies, etc. had been stored.  There had been a basement just below the room where the boiler had been kept which was the source of heat for the building.  There had been many problems with the system, and it was finally replaced.  The basement was filled in with dirt, and the storage area was remodeled to become what is now my room.  Very few people knew of these facts; besides, who would care other than the owner, the manager and myself? 

I placed my key into the lock on my door, slowly turned it, and then removed the key.  I grabbed the door knob, and in one motion, turned the knob and swung open the door.  The living room seemed completely normal.  Everything is just as I had left it.  I walked to my bedroom door and looked into the room.  Over the years, I have become accustomed to finding little surprises when I would enter my room, but what was before me took it to a new level.  The mattress on my bed had been flipped over into the middle of the floor.  The drawers in my night stand and my dresser had been removed and the contents were scattered everywhere.  All of my pictures have been removed from the wall and thrown across the room, breaking into pieces.  I walked into the bathroom, and just stood there staring in shock at what was before me.  The mirror above the sink was smashed, leaving glass all over the room.  That must have been the sound that I had heard while cleaning room 114.  There were tiles broken up and removed, exposing the wooden floor below.  Several planks had been pulled up and you could see the ground below.  My heart was racing, and I began to panic.  What bothered me most was the fact that I knew I must now come forward and explain some of the things that have happened in the past, in addition to having to explain what happened to my room.  This will not be easy to explain, and no one is going to believe me.
I decided that it would be best to just wait until the end of the day to reveal my secret to the manager, the police, and whoever else needed to know of the bizarre activities that were only known to me.  In my present frame of mind, I just did not feel I could handle the situation right now.  So, I went about my cleaning, going from room to room, constantly thinking of what happened earlier that day.  I did not want to have to explain what literally could not be explained.  I finished my work, and rather than go to my room, decided I needed a drink.  I jumped into the car and drove across town just to get away from the area.

There was a small bar just off the road, and at this point, if they sold alcohol, it was good enough for me.  I parked the car, and walked inside and took a table in the corner.  The waitress immediately came to my table, introduced herself and asked for my order.  I ordered a scotch and water, hesitated a second, and then told her to make it a double.  In a matter of seconds, she was back with my drink; I told her to start me a tab, and to bring me another drink in about five minutes.  She just smiled, and said no problem as she walked away.  The scotch burned as it went down, but at the same time was refreshing.  I sat the glass down, and fumbled to get my cigarettes out of my shirt pocket and lit one. 
About three drinks later, I felt a little more relaxed but could not stop thinking about the condition of my room.  I had just dismissed the small unexplainable experiences I had encountered within the room, but this is not something that can just be tossed aside.  I was a little startled when I looked up and saw a man standing before me.  He called me by name and asked if he could have a seat.  I told him that I was not really in the mood to talk, and asked him to leave.  He then told me that he had been the manager of the motel before I started working there, and that he needed to talk to me.  I felt frustrated and confused at the same time, but told him to be seated.  He proceeded to tell me something that from the beginning demanded my full attention.  His first words were to tell me that he knew what I was seeing and hearing.  With that statement, alone, I felt like my heart was going to come through my chest.
"What do you mean, you know what I am seeing and hearing?"  I asked in an almost angered voice. 
"Just listen to what I have to say, and you will understand what I mean." He answered.  He motioned for the waitress and told her to bring us another drink. 
He then began his story.  "Ok, you need to listen to my whole story without interruption or I will never finish.  When I was managing the motel, I worked unusual hours since my only help was an assistant manager that worked from 8:00 P.M. until 6:00 the next morning.  My wife became frustrated because of my hours and we were always fighting about it.  That drove me away and made me work more hours just to avoid the conflict.  She had more than once accused me of seeing someone else, and eventually, it happened.  I began having an affair with a woman who would stay at the motel about once a month.  My wife had reached the point that she simply did not trust me, even though she had never found any evidence of me being disloyal to her.  I remember on Monday morning, I left her a note stating that I had to work late, knowing my friend was going to be in town that night." 
He paused, and took a sip of his drink, and sat the glass back on the table.  He glanced at me to see if he still had my attention.  I think it was obvious to him that I was listening.  He proceeded to tell me his story.
"I saw my friend that night, and did not get home until almost midnight.  My wife was furious.  She started screaming at me the moment I walked into the door.  She kept on and kept on until I snapped.  In one motion, I opened the middle drawer of my desk, removed my 38 special, and shot her in the head.  She fell to the floor, never to wake up, and I simply watched as she died right before my eyes." 
I interrupted him, stood up, and told him he needed to leave and told him that I should go to the police with what he is telling me. 
He immediately responded.  "Let me finish, then you can tell the police anything you wish, but it will do no good.  There is nothing they, or anyone else can do to me."
"Ok, you have five minutes." I told him as I sat back in my chair.
He continued. "I wrapped her body in sheets and took her back to the motel.  I parked on the side of the building so no one would notice me.  I then took her body into the storage room, which we know is now your room.  I sat for hours planning my next move, and finally knew exactly what would happen.  I took the body into the basement and placed it into the freezer.  Now, here is where my brilliance come into play.  That damned boiler had been nothing but trouble for the last two years.  I made plans to replace it with a central air unit, and the owner agreed because of all the money he had been spending on the old boiler.  Since nothing was in the basement, except for the boiler, lots of pipes, and my wife, I had the basement filled with dirt, after making it clear that it was more of a hazard than anything else.  That is when we renovated the storage area and that is how the room you use now came into existence.  Her body is just below your bathroom, and will remain there forever.  And just for the record, I just needed to tell someone.  I have been the only one who knows about this until just now."
Without saying anything else, the man stood and walked away from the table and out the door.  I just sat there shaking from fear and disbelief of what I had just been told.

I did not know what to do, so I just decided to go home and think about how I would deal with this.  I got home, and stood in front of my door, silent and motionless, not really wanting to go inside.  Finally, I unlocked the door and walked in.  I immediately walked into the bedroom, and what I saw scared me to the point that I dropped to my knees in my weakened state.  The room was completely normal.  The bed was back as it should be, the drawers and their contents all in place, and even the broken pictures were back on the wall in perfect condition.  I was almost too frightened to walk into the bathroom, but finally summoned the courage to do so.  The bathroom was the same...The mirror was in one piece on the wall, and the floor was just as it should be.  My pulse was out of control, and sweat was pouring from my body.  There is no way I can ever say anything about what has happened.  In reality, there is nothing to tell.  In my weakened condition, I plopped down on the bed and just shook with fear.  I never went to sleep; I just lay there staring at the ceiling thinking about what had transpired that day.  That morning, I was sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee, and a thought suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks.  I realized that for the first time in four years, I had not heard the voices during the night.  Maybe, it was finally over.

The next day, I was talking to the owner of the motel, and during the conversation I mentioned the man who was at one time the manager.   He told me a little about his working with him, but did not say too much.  He also told me that his name was Michael Ellington.  I asked him if he knew where he was now.  The owner proceeded to tell me that he had died three years ago.

vic damico  Â©  2010   

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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Open Your Eyes

If you look
You can see the moon
As is glows in the night
Lighting the path before you




If you look
You can see the children
You can witness their smiles
And see their innocence




If you look
You can see the wind
Grassy fields flow like ocean waves
And cools the air around you



If you look
You can see the ocean
The reflection of the light
Carried by the endless waves



If you look
You can see couples in love
Walking hand in hand
Never wanting to let go



If you look
You can see fields of flowers
Every color in the rainbow
They are everywhere



If you look
You can see the rain
As it gently falls from the sky
Feeding earth's landscape



If you look
You can see the sky
Painted with a blue color
With clouds dancing about



If you look
You can see the sunrise
As it removes the darkness
And warms our very souls



We are surrounded by beauty
It is there, always has been
If you ever feel sad or empty
You can see these glorious visions

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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What It's like

There are children who are crying right now
They are hungry and will not eat tonight
In the cabinet above the stove is liquor
And there is plenty of beer in the refrigerator

They may go to school tomorrow, or not
It will happen if their parents get up in time
Their grades are far below passing levels
Parents are far too busy to be concerned

There are those who have no home
Living in the streets with little hope
Some have chosen to remain this way
Others are mentally unable to function

Drugs are sold on street corners
Some are sold right next door to you
Earning an income until they are caught
Then we will pay for their corrupt behavior

There are those who are trying so hard
But their upbringing has not provided tools
They live as they can, no fault of their own
Without earlier guidance, completely unprepared

Even without a job, you need money
Survival based on antisocial behavior
Grab your gun, let's go to the liquor store
That is not a typical financial plan

Today we have children having children
Sex without consequences or even thought
They know there is an answer to pregnancy
To many, it is simply an easy way out

Abusive relationships
Addictions
Child abuse
Theft
Murder
Robbery
Dealing drugs
Stalkers

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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If Only I Could

I have no special powers
Not able to perform magic
But I made a small list
Of what I would do if only I could

When you awaken each morning
 You could look at the window
 And be greeted by butterflies...
Coffee would be ready, waiting for you
 When you first walk into the kitchen...
 And the breakfast of your choice
 Would be on the table by the window...
It would always be sunny outside;
 No rain during the day...
The temperature would be set
 By your personal understanding
 Of what is perfect for you...
Your garden would be fruitful all year long
 Replenishing all you take from it
 By the beginning of the next day...
Flowers of all varieties
 And every color in the rainbow
 Would always be around you
 Where ever you may go...
In your back yard would be a pond
A place for your afternoon dip
It would be heated and cooled
 According to your wishes...
There would always be a mild wind blowing
 To cool you
 And to give you a sense of comfort...
In a spot under a special tree in your yard
 You would always find it set up for a picnic
 With the favorite foods of your choice
 Sitting there waiting just for you...
And yes, this would be
An additional meeting place
 For your butterflies...

As night falls
 your world would change again...

At any point, you could walk into your yard
 Look straight up, and always see a full moon...
It would always follow you
 Lighting your path
 As you move through the night...
A beautiful spotted white owl
 Would be perched in every tree
 They would speak to you as you pass...
The stars above you would always
 Be the brightest in the sky...

And then it would be bedtime...

Your bed would consist of feathers
 From the wings of angels
 So soft, and with the smell of heaven within them...
As you climb into your bed
 And pull the covers over you
 The rains would come
 And sing you to sleep...
But just before sleep comes
 You would feel me kiss you so gently...
And that kiss would protect you
 And comfort you for the rest of the night...

And your dreams would be filled with all that makes you happy...

If Only I Could...



 

VIC DAMICO © 2010

Tags: Poetry, Poems, Writing, Vic Damico

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