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Friday, April 15, 2011

David [name withheld] (Prompt: Profile Poem)

His hubris is such
that he often says
his six-word story is
“God created,
and so must I.”

In everything he does
he tries a creative approach.
While this is not
always successful
(as evidenced by his previous
failed love relationships),
he relies upon
the element of surprise
to compensate for
true talent and competence.

He is most proud
of his second marriage
and how seamlessly
he became a husband
and assumed the paternal role
to Anita’s pre-existing
family.

In his free time
he is a voracious reader
of nonfiction,
with his favorite genres being
show business biographies,
theological treatises
and reference books.

He loves all forms
of music,
and his favorite all-time band
is the New York Dolls.

He started writing
when he was 15,
and while there have been
long periods of inactivity
in the intervening 33 years,
writing is the single
most gratifying work
he’s ever done.

When he writes
he is no longer
overweight or
Mexican or
awkward or
unwanted or
lonesome.

True to his credo,
when he writes
he creates himself,

and it amuses him,
and thankfully,
he amuses easily.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Mr. Secret Keeper (Prompt: Ain't None of My Business)

I’m Mr. Secret Keeper,
and I’ve heard it all,

from the time you went down
on your own fraternity brother
when you were drunk
and tried to tell me it was hazing,

or the abortion
that you pretend
never happened,

or that laptop computer
that your boss still thinks
was stolen out of your office
but is actually hidden
in your apartment
in the bookcase
by your “Employee of the Month”
certificate,

and how you tell all those kids
at the church youth group
to wait until they’re married,
but they don’t know
that you’re really
just a Born Again Virgin.

I didn’t tell about
that Chinese kid
you said you adopted
but you confessed
you purchased,

and I just listened
when you told me
how your prick of a spouse
made you participate in
a threesome with
his meth’d out whore
to “save your marriage.”

I’ve heard it all
and I’ve kept your secrets,  
because I know
in times of my weakness
and failure

I've confessed my secrets
my sins
but I can’t always remember
to whom.

So,
out of mutual cosmic respect
for privacy,
discretion,
and decency,

we’ll not speak of these things
anymore.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Lynda Warren, Ph.D. (Prompt: An Old Relationship)

During our first session
she took copious notes
of everything I said,

I counted fourteen pages.

“How many pages 
do you normally take
on a new client?”

She smiled,
“Four.”

This tall, unpretentious 
woman
with a friendly,
comforting smile

helped me through 
so many of my darkest 
hours.

I often remember 
what she said
about leading
a balanced
and authentic life,
true to her gentle Buddhist
nature.

I still hear her voice,
part-maternal
part-rabbinical
telling me
it’s not about making a 
right or wrong choice, 
but rather 
a skillful choice.

She retired three years ago
and I have stopped looking
for her successor:

there is none worthy.

So, wherever you are
in your peaceful,
verdant 
retirement,

I send you loving thoughts 
prayers
and sincere gratitude

for your wisdom
and compassion

as I changed from 
a thinking machine 
into a feeling person.

Namaste, 
Dr. Warren.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Lies and Me (Prompt: Form Poem- Blitz)

Don’t give me rules
don’t give me lies
lies and secrets
lies and mystery
mystery is good
mystery loves company
company policy
company man
man oh man
man that’s gross
gross me out
gross minus net
net that flounder
net that man
man is the problem
man is the oppressor
oppressor wears a badge
oppressor lacks compassion
compassion is love
compassion is temporary
temporary happiness
temporary substitute
substitute teacher
substitutions are extra
extra extra read all about it
extra papers given away
away with the wind
away with my youth
youth that is forgotten
youth that is despised
despised like a Nazi
despised and spoiled
spoiled child
spoiled milk
milk of human kindness
milk and honey
honey hair
honey in her kiss
kiss her there
kiss her goodnight
goodnight, my love
goodnight and God bless
bless you in all your glory
bless this mess
mess around with me
mess up the bed with me
me minus you is such a lonely ride
me love me some you
you
ride

Monday, April 11, 2011

Maybe Tomorrow (for Sarah) (Prompt: Maybe ____)

Maybe tomorrow
things will look different,

no, they will look different
if only because you’ll be seeing them
with eyeballs that are
one day older.

Maybe tomorrow
everyone you thought
was ignoring you
will come around
slapping you
on the back asking
“where’ve you been?”

Maybe tomorrow
whatever dark mood
that’s intruded upon you
will instantly vanish
because of 
something as simple
and random as
the dog dancing wildly
when you come home,
or a freshly baked
chocolate chip and M&M cookie,
or your favorite
song playing on the radio.

Sometimes
when you’re feeling
low and blue,
and it feels like nothing
will ever change,

remember this:

the only thing we can
predict in this world
is change!

The darkness won’t last forever,
it’ll change too.

Until then,
be good to yourself,
take care of yourself

and if you have to,
sneak away to a private place

and give yourself a
big ,
long
hug

until I can give you one
myself.

Love, Pop-o

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Discipline (Prompt: Never Again Poem)

It was a typical spring afternoon
in 1977
and my younger brother and I
were bickering 
the way teenage brothers do,
the way fathers hate.

Some fathers spent all day
listening to other peoples’
bickering and sniping,
and my father must’ve had
a particularly crappy day
because it was the same 
picking and bitching 
we always did
but this time,

Pop snapped.

He wasn’t huge,
but he was fierce
and pained
like a Chihuahua with
a tortured pitbull psyche.

He roared into our room,
I don’t remember 
what he said
but within a second
I was in the middle of a
violent fantasia
of screaming and
veins pulsing
and his thick belt
coming down on me
again and again,
sheets of black leather pain
against my forearms
me cowering in
the corner of the couch.

Before he could get to my
younger brother
my mother interceded,
she protected him.

I don’t remember how
I got to the bathroom,
but I locked myself in there,

wondering how would I hide
or worse, explain
the bright pink welts
now forming on my arms
to the kids at school the next day.

Sitting there on the toilet
gasping and sucking in for breath,

I remember thinking
through my boiling tears

“I don’t care what I have to do,
how I have to be,
but he will never ever
hit me again”

and he never did,

and that was my first lesson
in self-discipline.

Saturday, April 09, 2011

8:57 (Prompt: Time is Title)


Tonight at 8:57
on the stage at
the Pechanga Casino
in Temecula, California

Tony Bennett
launched into
“The Way You Look Tonight”

and immediately
we were taken back
to that first moment
when our friendship
shifted into
something eternal.

Heavenly Father,
thank you for the wondrous
gift of music,
for the sweetness
of shared memories

and, of course,
for Tony Bennett.

Friday, April 08, 2011

Communion (Prompt: Celebration Poem)

My favorite moment
of the celebration
is the communion.

With lights lowered
and only the sound of
a solo piano

I begin
my silent prayer
in Hebrew
“Baruch Hashem”
and soon am lost
in an sea
of exhales
and petitions

but I never feel
that I am
asking for too much.

Unexpectedly,
I feel safe.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Can You Imagine That? (Prompt: What If Poem)

Can you picture him
without his tumbleweed hair,
his aging, overweight torso
and the gray purple bags
under his eyes?

If you could strip him
of his inferiority complex
and make him
taller
thinner and
whiter,
wouldn’t that be
something?

Could you picture a world
where he was loved
and accepted
for who he was
and not for what
he brought?

Dig if you will
a picture
of him
completely at peace
and content in his
own skin.

And what if he didn’t
have the gnawing
relentless need
to always entertain
or serve someone
because
otherwise he felt like
he didn’t deserve
to be there?

Can you imagine that?

Well, neither can I,

and so I write.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Don’t Tell Me, Show Me (Don’t ___, ___ Poem)


I only call myself
a writer
on the days that
I write.

The only commodity
of any value
are these precious

days

and how you spend them
is the most profound
challenge.

So, don’t tell me
you’re going to write
the Great American Novel
if you didn’t do it today.

Don’t tell me
you’re going to live
in peace and harmony
and then flip off
some driver who couldn’t
read your mind.

Don’t tell me
you believe in Jesus
if you still aren’t
loving your enemies.

Don’t tell me what you believe,
show me what you’ve done.

Words are nice,
but actions are necessary

and if you don’t believe me
ask the next
hungry, homeless person
you see

“would you rather
I pray for you
or feed you?”

The Intellectual’s Secret (Prompt:Silly Poem)


I did not take up the title
of The Intellectual
until my mentor
at the university
lauded me as such.

I studied long and hard,
collected all the necessary
books,
cultivated the
learned perspectives
on matters
diverse and far-reaching,

graduating from
a mere bookworm,
an outcast egghead,
to The Intellectual.

As the academician,
I learned to
converse confidently
with the cognoscenti
of every milieu,
and when unsure
of my abilities
I can fake it
passably .

But, just as every
person casts a shadow,
every persona has
its secret,
and here is mine,

it is atavistic,
speciesistic
and certainly not
politically correct:

watching videos of
chimpanzees
wearing formal wear
smoking cigars
or zooming around
on rollerskates

will always
make me giddy
with laughter.

Monday, April 04, 2011

Night Clerk (Prompt:Poem about a Type of Person)

Dale always worked
the Wednesday night shift
at the Gold Star Motor Lodge
off the freeway
close to her house.

He was old enough
to comb his hair into
a perfect Brylcreem part,
and he wore
an anachronistic red bow tie.

He looked as kind as a pastor
and as conservative
as an accountant.

Every Wednesday at 6pm
I’d check in
and there was Dale,

“Good evening, Mr. Moskowitz.
You need a single?”

Smiling,
I’d nod, trying not to be embarrassed.

He’d run my credit card.
I’d pretend to check my phone,
and avoid eye contact
if there were
other waiting for their rooms.

Handing me the key
he’d direct me to my room,
even though it was
the same one
I rented every Wednesday.

At 9pm
when she had to go back to her family,
I’d walk her back to her car and then
swing by the office to turn in my key,
love-tipsy and swaggering.

Dale would look up from his
crossword puzzle, smiling
like this was the first time.

“Checking out, sir?”
Again, I nodded.

“Well, we hope you’ll come back
and stay with us again.”

Perfect.
Friendly, but not familiar.

He must’ve seen my kind
a hundred times a month,

but he had enough
discretion and honor
for the two of us,

which was perfect
seeing as I had none myself.

Sunday, April 03, 2011

The World Without Me (Prompt: What Would The World be Like Without You)

The world without me
is a less painful place,
with fewer sharp words spoken
and it is certainly
less cluttered with
my literary children,
orphaned and unclaimed
in faded boxes in the closet.

It moves smoother
without my insistence
at gumming up the works
with my nagging questions
that seem argumentative.

There are fewer
home baked cookies
but more pieces of pizza
for everyone else.

There are fewer ideas
that could only come from
my mix of history,
heartache and
dreams,

and the most beautiful woman
in the world
spends her life
with someone
who probably looks like a
better match
for her,

but isn’t.

Saturday, April 02, 2011

Postcard from The Prodigal Son (Prompt: Postcard Poem)

Dear older brother,

You were right. It wasn’t as good
as I thought it was going to be.
Nothing ever is, I guess.

I’ve run out of money
and I’m living behind someone’s barn.
I steal scraps from what they feed
their animals to eat.

Is Dad still mad at me?
Do you think I could come home?
Can you speak to him on my behalf? Please?

Remind him that
everyone makes mistakes.
I hope I see you again,

love, me

Friday, April 01, 2011

The Hottest Day of the Year (Prompt: How You Got Here)

Conceived in December 1962,
I often wonder what song was playing
when I was humped into existence.
Was it “Telstar”,
“Big Girls Don’t Cry”
or maybe “Mashed Potato Time?”

As second-born,
I was supposed to be a girl,
so right out of the chute
I either
surprised or disappointed-
take your pick.

However
I did make my Dad happy
on the day I was born:

it turned out to be
the hottest day of the year
and I made it possible
for my working class parents
to spend the day
in a nice
air-conditioned hospital.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

The Welcome Speech


Just sit there
you’re new here, so listen up

I don’t awaken easily
and I hate staying awake

if you must ask questions
make sure they’re well thought out

don’t waste my time
and keep your hands off my stuff

remember
there’s just two of us in this cell

and the guards
are down the hall and sometimes deaf

don’t ask why I’m here
and I won’t ask why you’re here

and when I get up
I get to use the toilet first

I’ve been here
longer than you’ve been alive

so don’t think
you’re the boss in here

in the other world
you might’ve been some badass

but in my world
you’re just the new fish

I’m holding back
more hate than you’ll ever feel

so don’t get in my way
and I’ll treat you more fair than most

and if you’re smart
don’t let me see you cry

I really hate
people who can still cry.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Do That


In the 11th grade
he wanted to be loved
or invisible
but he was stuck
somewhere in between.

He failed another
algebra II test
and stood there
in the stairwell
as the flood of students
rushed around him.

He dreaded his fate:
“Pop’s going to be mad.
He’ll think I’m a bum.
How am I ever going
to get anywhere in life?
And what the hell’s
the square root
of -1?”

A disembodied voice
came up from behind:
“Don’t worry about that.
That’s not who you are,
a numbers guy.
You’re a writer.”

It was Erica.
They were just friends
as she was too tall
to be anything else.
She must’ve seen his grade.

“I remember that poem
you showed me.
You’re a writer.
Do that.”

Continuing down the stairs
she passed by
and out of sight
unaware of the fire
she’d lit.

Right there
he rearranged everything
in his life
and set out to be a writer.

He wrote
plays
songs
jokes
poems
screenplays
articles
love letters

and it comforted wounds
preserved victories
reified dreams
and it gave him
a place in this world.

So,
Erica Falk
if you Googled
your name,
and found this poem

please know

David says
“Thank you.”

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Mysterious Spanish Blanket


Among my earliest memories
is the sound of your voice
and even though I didn’t know
what you were saying
I understood.

It was the tone
of your voice:
whiskey brown
soft and aged,
every bit of its character
hard-earned.

Lost in your warm
all-consuming
fleshy embrace,
love spoke volumes.

You raised my father
and everyone else
on sopas abondigas and care,
simple banquets
where the cuisine wasn't elegant
but it was regal
and opulent with laughter and comfort.

Though I was top student
in my high school Spanish class
I still spoke as a
halting, awkward immigrant
when visiting your home
in East Los Angeles
but I always understood.

In the years of my absence
I held on to your gift:
love interwoven in that
mysterious Spanish blanket
you wrapped around me.

You had stories to tell me
but in the ten years
since your repatriation to Heaven
the silence is more poignant.

Grandma Trini,
I rarely understood
your words
but your voice
transcended
translation.

Monday, July 18, 2005

Rachel


Rachel
came into my life
with softly suspicious eyes

Sadly
I was only there
for the last moments
of her girlhood
because
in the blink
of an eye
she stretched out
and her soul
deepened

and I now see her
curiously
peering into adult
ponds
and sneaking in her
toe

but just when
I think she is
growing out of
my grasp

she quietly
reverts
temporarily
to the unsure
faun on the frozen lake
and
she curls up on
her
Pop-O

and she silently
drapes herself
over my shoulders
quietly
resting

knowing that
I don’t require her
to be
sophisticated
trendy or grown-up

she knows
she can be
quiet and uncertain
or even goofy
and that I will
take care of
things

for now.

The next time I
blink she’ll be
all grown up

too smart and
pretty for her own
good
with a heart
still growing

but I never fear
losing her
for she is deep in
my soul

at 11
she is already
one of the finest
people I will ever
know

and with that
bright yellow hair
and friendly wide
smile
and soft kind eyes

she will eclipse
even the sun.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Talking Suits


It's a game
rigged against us
and the owners of the game
take pains
to look like players
rather than manipulators

as they stand before
the televised world
accepting nominations
and making pronouncements
the rest of us watch
detached
as if their promises
are scripted
and we care
even less than these puppets

vote for me
I'll help you
don't vote for the other guy
he'll only hurt you

how can I believe
either one of these talking suits

especially when I
don't even own a suit myself?

Monday, June 20, 2005

The Problem with Some Christians


The problem with some Christians
is that they want
to follow Jesus
without doing what He did.

They have not studied
the Hebrew Bible
because they forgot
Jesus never read
the New Testament.

Some cannot even agree
on which translation of
ten commandments
to follow
much less
the 613 mitzvot
they are supposed to keep.

They idolize
the writings of Paul
a different Jewish iconoclast
who lowered the bar
in the name of
The Great Commission.

Their response to
Pharisaic ritualism
is to have no rituals
at all.

The problem with some Christians
is they forget
their savior is a Jew.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Made In Your Image


Your eyes see it all,

all my darkness
and despair.

I cannot fathom your
estimation
but I hold on
to the slim belief
that you understand;

are you immune
from the human
frailties and weaknesses?

I hope you are.

I hope you see us
the way they teach
us how we’re supposed
to see you,

abstract, perfect
unknowable
all-loving.

Perhaps it is so
but if we are made in your
image
then I gotta figure
I share your weaknesses

you long for love
you long for comfort
you long for rest.

If we’re all made in your image
do you spend all
your time
comparing and judging?

I hope you find better ways
to spend all that time

and if you are
collecting everything
on some great
cosmic security camera

you’ll note that I
haven’t helped the poor lately
or observed the Sabbath
or even called my brother

but I did smell a rose
and quietly marveled

as I’m sure you must do
from time to time.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

How Moskowitz was Born


When I picked up
the writer’s pencil at 16
it was really the birth
of something new in
me

so I’d picture
the eventual credits
flashing on the screen
“Teleplay by …”
“Written by…”
with my given name
and after a while
I realized how my name
looked so incongruous
against the backdrop of
Mary Richard’s Minneapolis
or the exterior bar shot that
preceded every episode of
“Cheers”

When I was 19
I wrote a play and
my theatre instructor –
an aging actor who chain smoked
and had flakes
of dryed Brylcreem in his hair-
told me that if I was going
to write a play called
“Illegal Alien” and
use my given surname
that it was going to
prejudice people.

Seems like he made that
decision without even reading
the play.

The name I was born with
so beautiful
so ill-fitting
and unglamorous and real

would condemn me to writing
about bilingualism
affirmative action
the barrio
immigracion

and I figured that
was just about as much
pigeonholing
as I could stomach

and I took a good hard
look at myself

I saw a fat belly
attached to dancing eyes and a
darting mind still
wrapped in guilt and obligation
and ethnic sounds like
“kh” and
“oy” and
“ai”

and I knew of the nirvana
samsara
the logic of law
the comfort of
one God
with one entity

and I liked the name
because it embodied East
and West and Middle East

and it wasn’t clear if it
was male or female
and it was such a strange
mélange

that no one could dare
to presume correctly
to guess my
age
ethnicity
gender
religion

all the categories
that put us apart
from one another
were laid to rest
when I anointed myself

in mechanical pencil and
ink as

Buddah Moskowitz

Monday, April 04, 2005

The Flowers


The flowers come out
every spring
almost surprising me
with their bounty
their beauty and
endless variety,

almost like they
hid and conspired
to look even more
exciting.

God lets these
blooms stay dormant
and covered by snows and rains,

then defiantly
they spring forth
and the breath of
every living being
is stolen by the
dazzling splash
of vitality and their
necessity.

Nothing can ever anticipate
them and I suspect
they don’t even
know their power.

The birds sing
coaxing out their prodigious
pageantry

and the graceless
beasts
see them and
brutishly want to
consume them

and I look upon them
with awe
for they are like music,

the tangible evidence of
the intangibly divine
the drive in my heart
the speed in my soul,

they connect me to that
sweet
transcendent
hum

and all I can do
is admire as I
pass by

knowing that
even though I
will never be as beautiful

happily
I am surrounded
by them.