The Crying, Brown Bear

He kept me company

every Sunday

when I dragged myself

into the empty computer lab

in graduate school.

It was lonely work

crunching all them numbers

chasing my thesis,

but his plaintive

beautiful voice

sang to me

like a lost brown bear,

crying in the black night 

trying to find

his mate.

He wrung poignancy

out of every lyric

and when he played piano

it sounded like it had

a million keys

and was 30 feet long.

When I finally got the chance

to meet him

the following year,

he was as genteel and kind

as he was tall and dazzling

in his sharp blue blazer

and his sequined captain’s hat,

and my only regret

is that I shook his hand,

suppressing my instinct

to hug him.

(Written for Dverse Poets Open Link Night )

My Best Friend’s Best Friend (Prompt: Friend of a Friend)

On Facebook

I see all the friends

of my friends.

They all look great.

Wonderful, glorious times

with gleaming movie star smiles.

They do not look incomplete.

They do not look melancholic.

Smiling happy people

reveling in their college memories,

with that same REM soundtrack.

Summoning my imagination,

I try hard,

squinting,

to picture myself among them.

Too fat.

Not brown enough and

not white enough.

Hopelessly uncool smile.

Too square to party.

I haven't forgotten the sting

of exclusion,

of betrayal,

so I became

my own best friend,

and sensing his loneliness

I am also

my own best friend’s

best friend.

Hibernating

It is a quiet,

sullen

sour grape of a month.

Jealous that it’s sandwiched

between the showbiz spectacle

of Christmastime

and the sexy pink orgy

of Valentine’s Day,

January is the

“get your tax forms ready” month,

the “sober up from your holiday bacchanal

and pay those

‘I don’t care,

Christmas comes

but once a year’” bills.

And this January

was the 12^th time

my father’s birthday

passed without his embrace.

January

finds me hibernating,

in my bed,

at my desk,

in my heart,

storing up my energy

for brighter,

more verdant days

that I am almost certain

are on the way.

(Posted as part of Open Link Night http://dversepoets.com/2012/01/24/open-link-night-week-28/ )

A Fatherly Perspective

My brothers in Christ

tell me of the lost souls

who have not accepted

and will be separated from the Father,

damned for Eternity.

I realize that is

a brotherly perspective.

In many human families,

children vie for the loving attention

and protective embrace of the father,

thinking

if they do the right things

if they say the right things,

they will be favored.

Since becoming a father

I can report that

and each of my children has

betrayed me

disappointed me

and saddened my heart with their actions,

some intentional,

some incidental.

However,

I do not

and I cannot

love them any the less for their

shortcomings

ignorance

or meaningless noisy rebellion,

and I welcome their return

even if it takes

years.

I realize this is

a fatherly perspective,

and this is very good news

indeed.

Her Empty Bedroom

Her empty bedroom

as silent as my heart

when I think of

her unexplained,

abrupt

departure.


(Written for the http://dversepoets.com/ January 20, 2012)

I’m Just Being Honest (prompt: Cruelty)

Look at the fat

dripping like fleshy syrup

off that gross stack

of pancakes

he calls a torso.

He had the nerve

to put a tattoo

on those arms?

Like trying to draw

the Mona Lisa

on a drinking straw.

And when

he gets his guitar out

and tries to sing,

he thinks adding vibrato

to his warbling voice

will make it soulful.

It doesn’t.

His nose

has the width of his old man’s

and the length of his mom’s,

and I won’t even mention

the wart on the left side.

Don’t be fooled.

He might sound

authoritative,

but if you

question him hard enough

he’ll cower

and back down,

assuming that he’s wrong.

Worst of all,

he writes this pseudo-poetry,

wrapping his fear and insecurity

into trite monologues

and foists them upon

an unsuspecting internet.

I’m not trying to sound cruel,

I’m just being honest

and trying to anticipate

the criticisms that are

inevitably headed my way.

So,

now that I’ve exposed

my weak spots,

I trust you won’t use them

again me,

for to do so

would be cruel

indeed.

This Passionate Communion

I bring the delicacy

to my lips

and breathe in its

presence,

the hint of steam
and the scent

immediately swimming

in my bloodstream,

finding my heart

and rocketing

its adrenaline magic

throughout

my body.

I am brought out

of the gray silence

into a fresh new dimension,

a secret garden,

and I am unashamed

at my gluttony,

but that naked vulnerability

I share with only you,

liberates me

and I unravel

like a morning glory,

petals unfolding

to catch every bit

of life from above.

I cannot,

nay, will not

stop this

passionate

communion.

You are here

bringing me life

and my response

is ravenous

and messy

and unrestrained;

I never feel more alive.

Now, bring that canister

of aerosol frosting over here

and let’s tear the roof

off this sucker. 

(Written for the http://dversepoets.com/ Open Link Night, January 17, 2012)

Sparrow

In the parking lot

of the big box pet store,

a lone brown sparrow

flits and hops,

a displaced sprite

in search of

the discarded French fry,

cellophane with a smear

of something edible remaining,

a stray sunflower seed.

She is too consumed

with her tenuous survival

to notice all the people

returning to their cars,

with bags of overpriced kibble

for their kept,

chosen animals.

She doesn’t know any better

and perhaps that’s why she

looks happy:

she doesn’t know envy.

Protocol

Serious meeting

confidence shattered

not by miscreant ringtone

but an uncontrollable

coughing

fit.

The Moment (February 10, 1990)

The pointy- toed-

shoe-in-my-eye-socket

hangover headache

made its

predictable

return.

The voice:

“How many days

are you gonna do this?”

Shutup.

My stomach felt like

every disease in the world

was inside me

fighting each other

for bragging rights.

7am,

which meant I wouldn’t

get back to normal again

until that afternoon.

The voice:

“Turn over and look out

the window.

Look at the sky.”

People always tried

to point out “nature” to me

which I always hated,

but I was in no condition

to fight.

I turned over

and pulled up the shade

an inch

and I saw it.

No clouds

to give a sense of perspective,

just a clear

blue

infinite

serenity.

It awakened my heart

and I smiled,

and as if on cue,

gossipy birds

sang and chirped.

I laughed

at how

“perfect”

it all seemed.

The voice spoke

one last time:

“OK, now what if

you’re not here

to enjoy this anymore?”

It was a question

too pointed to ignore,

and a moment too beautiful

to throw away.

I lingered in the moment

a few minutes more

before confessing my alcoholism

and changing my life.

(Check out Open Link Night at dversepoets.com)

No Contest

She solves puzzles

and spends hours at the computer,

trying to get high score on Bejeweled or

the perfect triple letter triple word score

in Word Feud,

her mind ever-working

trying to figure out a solution

within the confines

of established rules.

He writes poems

and jokes for future ad libs

trying for the perfect combination

that will pierce the façade

with honesty and laughter,

his mind ever-working

trying to figure out solutions

to problems that

may not even exist.

No contest:

she’s smarter than

he is.

(Linking to dVerse poetry open link night, first time!)

I Can’t Write Small Stones

Perhaps it’s my

argumentative nature

or my verbosity,

but I can’t write

small stones.

Some stones are smooth,

some craggy,

but each one is perfect

because they’re not

the product of

an imperfect

human

hand.

So

I stick with the label

micropoetry,

as it describes both

the genre

and my painfully

modest

talent.

The Unstoppable Rain (Prompt: Unstoppable)

It's taken years
to un-learn
that purposeful alienation
of my self
from my feelings.

Now,
when I see something
unspeakably beautiful,

or feel something
dark and cold
collapsing upon itself
at the core of my being,

or rejoice ecstatically
in those rare moments
of bliss,

I allow the tears
to stream down my cheeks
accompanied by sighs
sobs or
smiles
as the case may be.

Ironically,

I have triumphed
over what was intended to be
the unstoppable power
of male socialization,

with the
unstoppable
rain of
human teardrops.

Box of Dreams (Prompt: Box)

I used to keep a

box of memories

and over time

I kept shifting the contents

from smaller

to larger box.

Once when I was

switching boxes,

I lost my grip

and it fell and broke,

scattering my memories

mementos

anecdotes

across the floor,

like beads

from a busted necklace.

Seeing them all there

the pearls mixed in with the dross,

the voice spoke:

“why are you keeping

everything? 

You can’t even remember why

you wanted to keep it

all.”

So, I picked out

a proper display case

to honor the pearls

and threw out

everything else.

A box of memories

can weight you down,

so now I have a smaller,

lighter box of dreams,

which helps me fly.