Applauding

I first saw

Burt Bacharach

in Laughlin, Arizona

in one of those tacky

riverfront casinos,

where he was playing

a one-nighter

in between

his popular years.

He led the orchestra

like a basketball coach,

viscerally and impatiently,

bringing many moments

from the soundtrack

of my Southern California

existence

to life.

Leaving the theatre

I passed a small,

ivy covered enclosure.

It sounded,

smelled like

an afterparty.

Through a missing slat

in the chain link fence

I saw him,

surrounded by

a multigenerational retinue:

he was trim,

stylishly grey,

approachably shorter

and everything

I wanted

to be

when I used to dream

I would grow up

to be

my own version

of him.

I stood there

and started

applauding,

just applauding,

and I kept applauding

in that steady, insistent way

that cut

through all conversation,

until I caught his attention.

He looked at me

and all I could say

was

“Thank you.

It was the thrill of a lifetime

seeing you tonight.”

He smiled,

tipped his head

and mouthed

“thank you”

and went back

to his conversation,

and I moved on,

thankful

that for a second

I made him smile,

scant repayment

for a lifetime of

beautiful music.

[Posted for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and sing your song.]

Print Me Out

Print me out
and hold me in
your tender hand
because even though
I was made on
a computer
I was born of a person
and his soul
is embedded
between the blank space
and the letters.

Print me out
and carry me
in your back pocket
as you climb high into
your secret tree
where you write
your poetry and
daydream ‘til dusk
and then
when you come home
unfold me
and set me beside
your bowl of soup
to remind you
that I am here.

Print me out
and fold me
into an airplane
and send me sailing
to a bored classmate
across the room.

Print me out
and tack me up
with a magnet
on your refrigerator
and when you’re
reaching for the milk
tomorrow morning
know that I have
been here
waiting for you.

Print me out
to remind yourself
that I am more than
just paper and words,
I am real.

I am flesh and bone
sadness and glory,
but when you read me
I am no longer alone.

Print me out
and save my life.

[Posted for #Meetingthebar at www.dversepoets.com - my pals in verse out in the universe]

Like This, Like That

That tiny red-breasted bird
that bounces and skips

through the sky,

too quick to catch,

she is the lesson.

Marvel at her,

enjoy her

superhuman acrobatics,

envy her grace

and beauty,

because she is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

In the moment

pressed against

your lover’s skin,

do not plan

the next move,

but savor the moment,

inhale the scent

of her neck,

because she is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

As you drift away

into your cool, dark

slumber

before surrendering,

forgive everyone

and everything,

and give thanks

for every little

detail,

and as you ask

for another day,

do so humbly

because there are

so many more

who need tending

and a share

of the good fortune

we’ve been given

because it is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight - at www.dversepoets.com - you'll not find a better bunch o' poems on the internet.]

Humility Haiku

Keep yourself humble.
Pride still goes before a fall.
If you don't, God will.

[A quick shot for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where I go to feel loved on the internet.]

Tersely

She got up
and said

“It’s not working.”

I laid there
in naked humiliation

and she left,

taking with her
three years
of my life

and her vibrator.

[Posted for MamaZen's challenge at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2013/05/words-count-with-mama-zen.html]

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!]