Manhattan

This city, reckless and spinning out of control, with lights reminiscent of Christmas trees past.
As I step out my door; I am assaulted with life, This energy that surrounds me creates a high that can't last.

Still there is something so soothing swimming in this sea of anonymity.
As if this stage has been set with stand-in's who don't know me.

Kings and paupers rub elbows en route to their various destinations in cattle cars more populated then some European nations.

I am a thief stealing time to soak it all in. Every building I pass a window to this city's soul.
As made evident to the masses down below, looking up at the "corner office thugs" with their hearts as dark as coal.

Every nation is represented; every culture pours in to be tested.
While the tenements grow thicker with their dreams that are wasted.

However, light reflects beautifully off these canyon walls of industry, and every street I pass dulls this blade of nostalgic misery.

I never felt more peaceful than in this city of noise; I have never felt more confident than when surrounded by her poise.

written by- Aaron Gabrielsen

Overcast Reflections on Bristol Bay

The wind was pushing 30 knots from the east. That is never a pleasant reality when on a small boat bobbing just off the Bearing Sea. To the west lay the emerald ocean of tundra that meanders it's way quietly to the dramatic power of snow capped mountains, which stand as silent guardians to us mere mortals below. However this is difficult to see, as the wind sends the frigid, salt water waves crashing over our boat and directly into my face.
As I flex every muscle and tendon in my body to pull the net writhing with salmon over the stern of the boat, out of their safety and into ours, my mind for some reason wanders on this overcast Alaskan day. Off in the distant past; I see a young man like myself, working on a ship in weather not too unlike today. The pain in his face tells a story of his life.

In another instant, my mind is traveling over a rocky plateau in Wyoming on a blustery and cold autumn afternoon. I see a trail of hand carts and tears as bloody feet and hands push towards the repose only god and honest toil can give one's soul.

Next I see my grandfathers eyes as he leads a team of horses through a hot and dusty field, he wonders if this will be a better year for him, his family and crops. Yet, comfort like dew springs forth in the sweat of his brow knowing that god accepts his sacrifice.

There is a spiritual purity in the hard work of hands whether it be on land, mountain, or sea.

I am worried sometimes that this connection is lost in the desert of technology.
                  

written by- Aaron Gabrielsen