Tools

These words,

differ little

from the crayon butts

that scribbled something

indecipherable,

the photographs

that tried

freezing reality,

the keys

that rose and fell

in stumbling arpeggios,

the scratch

of the strings

on my $20 guitar

when I was 13.

They were just

the tools

I had at the moment

to help

capture the parade,

and maybe

understand

that which may be

a cosmic

absurd joke

after all.

Still

while I love my tools,

I cannot forget

that after all

the songs,

poems, cartoons,

jokes,

my life is more than

these things.

My life is to be

a vessel

bringing

understanding,

compassion,

the overflowing chesed

from above

through me

out in all directions,

infinitely.

When I remember this

perspective,

I am properly

humbled

and happily accept

that I am a tool.

[For #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.com - my favorite place for poetry on the internet.]

Come the Flowers

From the cold

and dark season

every year

come the flowers.

I envy their

uncontested beauty,

their grandeur and attitude,

as they bloom

without restrain

or shame,

knowing they are

the most beautiful

in the world

for a time.

Those with

provocative splashes of

orange,

reds and purples

excite me most,

with full curves

and unrestrained,

mysterious

allure.

They attract every

living thing,

especially

monsters with

huge nostrils,

who want to possess,

consume,

and inadvertently

kill them.

Worship them

from afar,

and love them

on their own terms,

as the proof

of Divinity

that they are.

Emptying

I am emptying
myself

of all things comprising
myself

in an attempt to
be the most perfect
servant,

but I’ll never know
if I reach it

because
by then
I would have lost,
I should have lost

my name,
my personal pronouns,
myself.

On Some Nights

He kisses her
goodnight
and on some nights
she kisses back.

He always tries
a second kiss,
to gauge her interest.

Most nights
her eyes are tired
and glazed over,

and he feels like he’s
kissing a dummy,

but more likely
it’s the
other way around.

Cigar Meditation

I lean back
in the chair,

and light a cigar,

feeling a kinship

to my Spanish-speaking abuelito

and Groucho Marx.

Sucking in the smoke,

a joy, exotic and ephemeral,

like an amorphous nipple,

I let it slither out,

amusing myself

with its heavenward

curling gray path.

I take a sip

from the tumbler

of apple cider vinegar

and honey

over ice cubes

pretending it is a cocktail,

because even though

it too, is an acquired taste,

it doesn’t provide

the liberating

slippery feeling

of real booze.

I inhale,

then put the smoke down.

I sip,

then let the honegar slide slowly down.

I ponder the

future destination

of the sun

as it sinks

predictably

and dispassionately

over countless stories

that I’ll hear someday,

maybe.

This ritual

forces me to slow down,

to remember

that some things

remain unchangeable

and to accept them

as they are,

or waste your time trying.

I learned early on

you can’t smoke

a cigar quickly,

but then again,

why would you?

New Masters (a sijo)

We buy the smartphones, unaware we are buying new masters.

The app store tempts our vanity with personalization.

Soon, we all are narcissists, looking in our handheld mirrors.

[Written for #formforall at dversepoets.com - a poetry lovefest online!]

Simple (Gracia, 1983)

1983 was

a simpler time,

and our love

was simple.

There were

no needless

complications.

No sex

(we were both

too scared),

we knew

we couldn’t

handle that.

Sitting with her

in the shade

at Hillcrest Park

on that May afternoon

was enough,

leaning on each other,

gazing at

an ever-receding

horizon.

Her laughter,

her chestnut brown hair

in the breeze,

her full, deep gaze

were all I needed.

It went by

so quickly.

Just as leaves

don’t fight

to stay

on their branches,

we didn’t fight

our inevitable

parting.

I think about her

every Spring,

thankful

that even our goodbye

was simple.

I’m sure

she wouldn’t

recognize me

today.

She knew me

before all the drama,

all the unnecessary

damage,

before all the

complications.

She loved me

when my heart was

simple.

The Voice

I first heard the Voice

as it transported

my mother out of her

unfulfilling, suburban agenda,

lifting her above

the detritus,

to dream the

impossible, often necessary

dreams

that true gifts

truly inspire.

For a glided season

he entertained the world,

smiling on cue,

pelvis swiveling,

hitting every note,

raking in riches,

his prodigious talent

the stuff of legends,

susceptible to

inevitable caricature.

As the love of the masses

waned,

he toiled on,

near obscurity,

to some,

an artistic pariah,

but the true believers

knew he was

biding his time.

Decades passed

and he outlived his critics,

naysayers silent

as he assumed the throne

with long-denied grace.

His crown

is now a shock of white,

and he possesses the wisdom

of a life lived hard,

sometimes even squandered,

and he rules

with the passion of David

and the wisdom of Solomon,

holding scales

balancing praise and blame.

If you came late

to his kingdom,

just bow your head

and join me

as I listen to him

preach and prophesy

from the tower of Song.

[Posted for #openlinknight at dversepoets.com - come along and surf a poetry wave!]

The Longest Wait

Time brings

everything

at the same

steady pace,

as if life

were on a conveyer belt,

and I could see

10 am Saturday,

Pop’s memorial service

off in the distance,

sitting there,

just a day past his

viewing,

which I also

didn’t want.

It was

the longest wait

between his death

on Monday

until Saturday,

mostly because

I didn’t know

how it was

going to feel.

Eventually

Thursday,

Friday, then

Saturday came,

and before I knew it

the tributes were made,

the body was buried

and everyone was back

at my Mom’s house.

It too, had passed

right on by,

just like so

much of life

if you’re not

watching closely.

Now,

that his death is

years down

the conveyer belt,

I still miss him

and have the occasional,

merciful dream of him,

and understand

that I am now

only fourteen years into

the longest wait.

The Prodigal Son's Father Speaks

My prodigal son
fears I won't
forgive his sins.

His brother thinks
I don't
see his sacrifice.

My favorite son
cares about
how I feel.

[written in Soupy Sales format - 25 words or less]

Suicide Squirrel Haiku

Squirrel by the road
Jumps into path of my car,
I swerve, he lives. Yay!

Dandelion Day

Everything I experience
plants a seed,

and I let time,
rain and sunshine,
fresh air

work their predictable
magic.

Some days
I am surprised
with overflowing,
abundant bouquets,

and some days,
I only see
fresh weeds,

and some days
there is no change,
nothing to harvest.

Judging by this
poem,

it’s a dandelion day.

Click (Never Forget)

Click.

Look at all those bodies

in that pile,

they’re practically skeletons,

and watch this-

they just bulldoze them

into a giant grave,

those goddamned Nazis.

Click.

Watch when Ruby

steps in

to shoot Oswald.

Back up,

now freeze it -

look at that face.

Click.

This is video

of the last helicopters

leaving Saigon,

look at how they’re

holding on

trying to fly out of there.

Click.

You remember this one:

the famous video

of the second plane

hitting the Twin Towers,

and now listen 

to the panic.

Click.

This is Hurricane Katrina,

look at that poor guy

in a rowboat

with his handmade sign.

Click.

And this is

from last summer

in Aurora, Colorado.

Click.

And there’s

Hurricane Sandy.

Click.

And the

Sandy Hook massacre.

Click

And the Boston marathon.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I don’t have all these

sites bookmarked for

some perverse thrill.

I keep them

so I will

never forget.

Yeah, I know,

I sound desensitized,

but I’m not:

I’m just overwhelmed.

[Posted for #meetingthebar at http://dversepoets.com/2013/04/18/meeting-the-bar-the-unfathomable/ - come along and mourn with me.]