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.]

Public Service Poem #4: Expression

Every human creation

is an expression

of desire and will.

They can be

lifesaving vaccines,

jazz masterpieces,

kugel recipes,

beloved fables,

or they can be

pathological ideologies,

child pornography,

homemade dirty bombs,

Auschwitz.

So, I return to

the basic operating principle:

if it doesn’t make you

a better human being,

then stop it,

and find what will

make you

a better human being.

Better human beings

create better expressions

of desire and will.

I hope this

helped.

Easy for Paul to Say

They play house

in their $45 a day

rented motel room

off the desert freeway
every weekend

and think that

it’s Love,

but since she fell

in Love

(and bed)

with him

I haven’t seen

much of her

lately.

She never admits

that’s where she goes,

but it’s a small town

and a quick drive-by

provides (qu)easy

confirmation.

I remain helplessly

at a distant,

not knowing

what to do.

I only know

what not to do:

I don’t tell her

to stop seeing

him.

I don’t tell her

he’s just using

her young and

pliable body.

I don’t even tell her

how hurt I am.

I know it wouldn’t

make a difference.

I try remember

1 Corinthians 13

where it says

“love is patient,

love is kind,

love does not demand

its own way”

and that’s easy

for Paul to say,

he didn’t have a daughter

who spent her weekends

at the Motel 6 in Rubidoux

with someone who

makes her pay

for the room

(so said

the mislaid receipt).

My anger flattens out

into profound

despair

when I consider

that maybe

my daughter and I

don’t love each other

so much right now.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight - at dversepoets.com - a wonderful place to find other poets]

This Soul of Mine

It was here

when my brain got here,

greeting me

when I became

a sentient human.

It soars with eagles,

sings daybreak epiphanies,

and moans low and sorrowful

in funerals.

Even when I didn’t believe,

it has always been here,

as invisible and necessary

as air.

Inside this Gentile body

my Jewish soul stirs,

as it always has

since before

the Buddha,

the Christ,

Abraham and Moses.

This soul is simultaneously

under the seas

and above the clouds,

speaking every

foreign tongue

perfectly.

Since my soul

is not my body,

it does not delight in pleasure

nor does it recoil in pain:

it cannot

be bribed with Heaven

or threatened with Hell.

I do not

have this soul,

but rather

this soul has me,

and if it belongs

to anyone,

it belongs

in The Embrace

so encompassing

and profound

that

thankfully,

I cannot tell

where this soul ends

and God begins.

Sunday Haiku

I don't want to write,
neither do I want to think,
keeping the Sabbath.

Silence

Silence,
rarest of all elements,
begs to be honored,

but it has
no ringtone,
no buzzer,
no notification wav file,

so
we must
seek it.

[Written in Soupy Sales format, in 25 words or less.]

Everyone’s a Critic

“I don’t judge a book by its cover,
but I do judge poems
by their length,
and  yours are far longer
than your talent
warrants.

I don’t have the time
or the inclination
to plumb the depths
of your tortured psyche,
so rather than
typing out
your therapy sessions
with ragged line breaks,

entertain my ass.

And
can’t you
expand your range
of topics?

Let’s see:
your penis,
Christian hypocrisy,
the death of your father,
Anita (who nurses said penis),
your secret wish to be a bird,
your struggles with
narcissism
masquerading as altruism,
blah de
blah de
blah.

I keep reading,
giving you
chance after chance
to change your ways,
but you persist
in writing
whatever it is
you call this dreck.

I don’t know why
your blog is titled
I Hate Poetry.

You don’t even know
what Poetry is.”

Death Came

Death came

and was ready to pluck

another bloom,

but She saw that I was

overwhelmed,

entangled

with tentacled tasks,

crying daughters,

numbers that wouldn’t

reconcile.

I saw Her

out of the corner of my eye,

but immediately turned back

to the problems

at hand.

I remembered

all these details

during my evening shower,

wondering if Death

had taken pity upon me,

or if I had scared her

away

for now.

The Big Reset (For KC, Rachel and Sarah)

No one escapes
The Big Reset.

Everyday we arise
and take our places
on the field of play,

running and falling,
laughing and flailing,
completely caught up
in the game.

Then,
a whistle blows
and you are called
off the field,
without regard to
your performance,
or how close you are
until you score again.

It doesn’t matter.

Death always
hangs around
claiming his
inevitable,
anonymous victories,

but when it’s someone
important to you,

then you have to
sit out the game,
watch others play,
laugh,
and score points

and all you get to do
is cry,
grieve and
learn
a new way to be.

It usually only lasts
a season,
but there’s no specific rule
about the length
of a season,
so it can be a month
(probably not),
a year
(if you’re lucky),
or longer
(most likely).

The death
of a loved one
is like taking a leg
off a chair -
you can still
sit,
but you’ll have to find
a new way to do it,

a new balance.

Mexicality FAQ

I am an American
of Mexican descent.

My family didn’t come
to this country,
this country came to us;
we were your hosts.

“No, actually,
the Native Americans
were here first.”

Well, we were
the product of
Spanish conquistadores
conquistadoring
the indigenous peoples.

“So, you’re actually European?”

Ask President Obama
since he’s half White,
which parent he claims?

“But you don’t look
Mexican.”

Thanks,
is that supposed to be
a compliment?

“Great, you can be
our translator!”

No, I only know about
50 words of Spanish,
and while that may qualify
you as being bilingual,
it brands me as
pathetic traitor to my culture
by Mexicans
from Mexico.

“So, were your parents
born here?”

Where, planet Earth?
Yes, specifically
in California and Colorado.

“So, do you celebrate
Cinco de Mayo?”

No, because I’m not
Mexican,
see first question.

“I admire Mexican culture
because they are
so family-oriented.”

Yes, we all come
from families,
and many of us practice
responsible birth control,
and haven’t brought
any children
into this world,
like myself and my brothers
Danny and Paul,
all three of us
college-educated
by the way.

“So you’re probably
for illegal immigration,
or some kind of amnesty.”

Sure,
but to be fair,
make it
retroactive to 1492.

“Why are you
so angry
about your Mexicality?”

I’m sorry,
I’m just tired.

Time for me to curl up
against a lone smooth cactus,
pull the brim of my sombrero
down over my eyes,
and take my siesta.

[This poem was inspired by the Cinco de Mayo display for Corona beer found in my local Southern California grocery story-pictured above.  If you weren't lucky enough to be born Mexican, here's your chance!  Posted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com - my favorite site for poets!]