Like Magic (for Anita)

Like magic
the sun went down
and when it came back up,
the world was changed.

Like magic
he went from affluent bachelor
to husband-stepfather
with the utterance
of a few words.

Like magic
thirteen years whiz by,
faster than memory
can capture.

Life is sweeter
and richer than ever imagined,
and as I stand in the middle
of all this wondrous,
miraculous happenstance,

I know it wasn't
accomplished
by magic,

for there is no secret
to reveal,

only love.

Thankfulness, a list from Moskowitz

Dear Colorful Ones:

Smarty Fireblossom
Mama Super Zen
Angie Inspired
Shadorma Girl Paula W
Difficult Degreed Amy Jo
In The Corner of My Eye Mary
Brudberg, wherever he is
Di Domino
Kimolisa
De Whimsy Gizmo
Sue the Laundry Goddess
Candy Bug
Clairey Love
Writing Outta the Mary Bachs
and Joanna the Tenth Muse,

it's easy to feel
invisible
in this virtual world.

Thanks for seeing me,
reading me,
writing me back.

Thanks seems so small
when your words feel so big,
and on many days
are the best part of being me.

So,
anyways,
thanks one and all.

I hope you know
how much your reflection
means to me.

Amen and
onward.

Vanity

With a fierce determination,
these architects plan
and sculpt
and build
their bodies
into monuments
of self-discipline
and sheer will power.

They are temples
worthy of awe
and admiration,
but some display
their weakness
as peacock feathers.

Those who graffiti
their bodies
until they've no more
skin left uninked,
display the worst
kind of weakness:

vanity.

Today's High: 81

Rust in the trees,
turkey shopping
in short pants,
Thanksgiving
In Moreno Valley.

Brown Privilege

I can arrange
to be around people
of my own race
most of the time,
whether I
want it or not.

I can avoid spending time
with people whom I was trained
to mistrust,
mostly because
I’m unwelcome there.

I can go shopping alone
most of the time
at la carniceria,
la panaderia,
or any of the price-point,
mini-mall variety stores
pretty well assured
I won’t be followed
or harassed.

I can turn on the tv
or read the front page
of the newspaper,
and see people
of my race widely represented,
mostly in stories about
illegal immigration,
narco-trafficking,
and quinceaneras .

I can be pretty sure
of having my voice heard
in a group where
I am the only member
of my race,
as long as I am
amusing and
non-threatening.

I can do well
in a challenging situation
without being called
a credit to my race,
although I have been called
“one of the good ones.”

I can worry about racism
perpetrated against
white people
without being seen
as self-interested or
self-seeking.

I can take a job
that I am overqualified for
with an affirmative action
employer without
my co-workers suspecting
I got the job
because of my race.

I can be late to a meeting
of MECHA
or La Raza
without my lateness
reflecting on my race.

I will feel
welcomed and “normal”
in the usual walks of public life,
institutional and social,
provided I know my place
and stay there.

Naked Body Insight

Self-delusion
is self-defeating:

there's no such thing
as secret eating.

The Queen of QVC

The parcels arrive daily,
like seaweed and shells
from the tide.

She keeps calling,
buying,
collecting,
gifting and re-gifting.

She’s hates if someone
calls her a hoarder,
and can’t understand
why she was prescribed
an antidepressant.

When I visit
there’s no place to sit,
and it resembles less
the home I grew up in
and more a packaging
and shipping depot.

In a rare moment
of lucidity and candor,
she confessed
she’s trying to find the
perfect gift
to give so people
would like her.

Digging further,
she knows
she’s trying to find
the perfect gift,
and I ask her
what’s the one thing
she wants.

I already know
the answer,
and she sobs
and I just sit there
unable to do
anything about
my father’s death.

Micropoetry Microaggression (a haiku)

Micropoetry:
I'm still outside, looking in:
microaggression.

The Only Golden Time

I play these records
until the grooves
are etched deep
in my soul.

They remind me
of growing up,
when Christmas was
the only golden time,
the only magic time
of the year.

These days,
I often see my parents,
and my heart aches
because in my memory
they are together,
not separated
by an early passing.

"...through the years
we all will be together, 
if the fates allow..."

These days,
we have our own
private tradition,
and I live to fulfill it
every Christmas Eve,
and I look forward to it
because it is
the single best
moment of the year.

Everything after that
is just a
thankful exhale.

Allen Toussaint (1938-2015)

Dipped in elegance,
funky grace from your left hand,
infinite encore.

The Weight (for Sarah)

When The Weight returns
just nod,
but don't try
to make friends.

He doesn't hate you,
but he sure ain't your friend,
and he especially loves
kicking down
your lovingly built
sand castles,
while sitting on your chest
making breaking difficult.

No one knows why
The Weight
chooses who it chooses,
but it's clear
it's tragically random.

I'll try to distract you
from it,
and even though
I'll probably fail
miserably,
I'm here,
and I love you,

and as best as we can,
we'll get through this
together,

eyes forward,
waiting out
The Weight.

Squint

Don't get
too comfortable
because everything
changes
all the time.

Everyday has
its own problems,
so don't feel like
you must
solve them all
upon awakening.

Don't forget about
the sweetness
In the breeze,
the music
in the flowers,
the kindness
In the small animals.

Hope is always
hiding in plain sight.

Just squint,
And you'll see it.

Which One?

If I tell someone
"I believe in God,"

and they reply
"Which one?"

then I know
if I am talking with

someone holy
or merely
religious.

The Strongest Fragile Person

Her injury didn’t happen
on a battlefield,
but rather in an unsecured,
off-site Army barracks,
with a poorly locking door
that she reported
immediately upon notice.

They did nothing.

She would have to replay
the memory of
her rape at knifepoint
everyday for a year
(that’s how it felt),
until the matter was
closed.

She wasn’t offered
psychological counseling
at the time;
it was 1968.

She quickly married,
and her husband’s only advice
was to try and forget it.

When I met her in 1994,
she was the strongest fragile person
I ever met.

Eventually,
she received treatment for
her PTSD,
and a partial medical disability
from the Veteran’s Administration.

That assault
cost her so many things,
including our love,
and Teresa,
I’m sorry
I couldn’t help more.

When you can’t see
the injury,
it’s hard to know
how deep is the wound.

Kiss Me

Kiss me
like a fall leaf kisses the earth
like the sea strokes the sand
like a misty November moon.

Kiss me
like a quiet cup of coffee
like a poem you’d forgotten
like an Eric Clapton solo.

Kiss me
like a rose pressed in a yearbook
like Thai tom yum soup
like an eternal haunting melody.

Kiss me
like its déjà vu
in the emergency room
before we jump.

Kiss me
before I drift to slumber
like the first time
like it’s the last time.

Thankfully

I wish I knew
what brings her
rotting, pathetic soul
to my door.

She is sick, ravaged
and promises nothing
good.

She is a bony hag,
splotched skin,
mottled hair,
decaying smile
offering me
a blow job
for a hit.

Still, in the right light
or a bored moment,
I recall

her empty company.
insincere embrace,
loving facade.

I hear
her voice,
a coo stifling
mocking
laughter,

and,
thankfully,
I close
the door on her.

How I Became a Racist in 1973

Imagine my confusion
when my fourth-grade teacher
kept correcting the way I
pronounced my cousin’s name.

Mr. Brown (ironically named)
confidently proclaimed:
“Roza Linh-deh”
and I countered with
“Rosa Leen-dah,”
which is how I heard it
my entire life.

We did this two-step
for about a minute
until I realized
he was getting mad,
and I didn’t want
to cause trouble
because my Mexican father
would have no problem
belt-whipping me
if he found out I disobeyed
the teacher.

I pretended to struggle,
pronouncing her name
in his blanched,
sterile way,

and then finally
it came, stumbling out
“Roza Linh-deh,”
and I faked smiled
as though I were proud
to have mastered
this deficiency.

He smiled,
genuinely oblivious
to my ruse.

It was one
of the few lessons
I remember from
grammar school.

Pat's Worst Season

November through March
Is Pat's worst season.

It's nothing but anniversaries
and holidays
and commemorations
of days passed,
days before her mate,
my father,
died.

When the hurt
is this big
there is nothing
bigger
that will take away
the pain.

So I went smaller,
and brought her Trini,
the cast off I found
in the Jack in the Box
parking lot.

Trini can't take away
the pain,
carry on a conversation,
or even watch tv,

but Trini can love
and be loved,
and can be embraced
if needed, when crying,

and I know
she carries
something divine
in her,
and I trust that will
find its way
and comfort the wounds
in my mother's heart.

Sleep, A Plea

Sleep,
wrap yourself up
in the sweet narcosis
of letting go.

When you awaken
I’ll be right here
and we’ll pick those apples,
paint the kitchen,
and do all the other things
we never have the time
to finish
because we’re too tired.

Just sleep now
and everything will seem better:
every worry, diminished,
every sadness, lightened.

Sleep is just
what we need,
so don’t let me wake you
as I slip in at your side
and take your hand
and follow you
into dreamland.

An Old-Fashioned Judas Day

"Remember, people,
it’s not about
who has the fanciest
Betrayal Cakes
or whose Lights of Regret
flash on and off
to the updated versions
of the traditional
hate-spew carols.

The shops may start
hanging effigies
earlier and earlier
each year,
but neither are they
the reason
for the
Judas season.

And it’s certainly
not about which kids
get the latest, flashiest
Judas Day toys.

No, we must remember
those who sacrificed
themselves
so that we survivors
would band together
in hate
against a common enemy.

Remember
Lord Benedict Arnold,
Saints Julius and Ethel Rosenberg,
and of course
Mohammed Atta and the
18 other al-Qaeda martyrs,
who gave of themselves
so that we could have
glorious unification
in their self-destructive
aftermath.

This year,
let’s try to remember
what Judas Day
is really about."

[Written for Real Toads Out of Standard prompts at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/11/out-of-standard-remember-remember.html .  Thanks, Isadore.]

Tranquility

Tranquility
is the moment just born
and the moment just died
and the understanding
that these are the same
moment.

Tranquility
is the breath drawn in
and the breathe sailing out
and the knowledge
that they are
the same breath.

Tranquility
is remembering
there is no You,
no Me,
no Other,
but rather,
there is one
continuous
existence,
infinite and forgiving,
and once
this is known,
all that remains
left to do
is smile.

[Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Tranquility,  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2015/11/poets-united-midweek-motif-tranquility.html ]

United/Untied

We are united by blood,
untied by skin.

We are united by country,
untied by party.

We are united in Christ,
untied by denomination.

We are united in wedlock,
untied by death.

We are united in cooperation,
united in competition.

We are united by attraction,
untied by distraction.

We are united in each other's eyes,
we are untied looking past each other.

We are united at good luck
We are untied by bad breaks.

Surrender

Surrender
to the rhythm
of your beating heart.

Do not do.
Do not act.
Do not react.

Just be,
and surrender
to whatever
fate or God or luck
may bring you.

Our misery is caused
by fighting that which is
bigger than all our
wishes and dreams,

so
stop fighting.

Surrender
to the sweetness of sunrise,

to the soothing random song
of the birds outside,

to the warmth of the sun,

because you
didn’t cause these,

because they are
what you need.

March 2, 1999

I slept soundly,
head sunk into
a cool, feathered pillow.

The morning sun,
soft and bright
gently roused me,
bestowing upon me
the sweet blessing
of disorientation.

Nothing stuck in my mind,
I just enjoyed the warmth
and softness of my father's bed,
not remembering why
I was there.

In an instance,
I remembered,
and it obliterated my peace,
and nothing was ever
the same.

So, I got up,
summoning all my strength
and praying with every exhale,

the morning after
my father died
from a heart attack.