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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

Pop's Massive Heart

Tomorrow he’ll be
gone six years

that’s 6 Christmases
and 6 birthdays.

I can hardly remember
his voice
and his lyrical
mispronunciation.

he was unpretentious
but he wouldn’t
even use that word

he’d just say that
he didn’t want to
put on airs.

I used to be a little
embarrassed for him –
he was so at ease
with himself
that he didn’t realize
his shirts were too
tight
and his walk
was too bouncy.

He didn’t know that
he wasn’t cool
and I know he didn’t care
as he loved me and my mom
and my brothers.

He put everyone before
himself
and never expected
any credit
any commendation

there was never a trace
of martyrdom in
his duty.

I think he just saw
how so many people
just talked a big game
but never really
lived up to their word.

His words were small
his actions were constant
his heart was massive

and I guess that’s why
his heart attack was
massive as well

he wasn’t perfect
but he came damned close

and he was mine,
my Pop.

Booze (Feb. 9 2005)

Perhaps I thought
I needed you

to fill in all the
unexplored
parts of my
youth

to fill out my resume
and give my avocation
a credible status.

I saw Bukowski
booze it
and Dorothy Parker
and they were
masterful,

but I wasn't them
and the booze became
my monster
in short order,

and at the same time
I couldn't subordinate
my mad frantic
creation of self
to anyone or
anything

and just as quickly
as I picked it up
I put it down,

determined to be
never again
in its moribund
embrace,

and I lived a life
with pain and heartache
and betrayal and lies and gluttony
and death wishes
but I still came out alive
and sober

now I do not
see that destruction as
romantic or attractive

but the love affair
was necessary then

now
it'd be silly and posturing.

So as I glide into
my 15th year
of sobriety

I am quietly
thankful
for every day,

every smile
every moment of gratitude

as I hear my wife's laughter
and my children's reliance on
Pop-O

I see how the road
stretched

and that booze has no place here

besides a drunk poet is
such a cliche

I still have pain
loss
anger
longing
unfilled wishes
envy

but they are mine
and I refuse
to drown them.

Creepy Splendor

I’m not a fiction writer
so everything comes
from the truth within.

If my thoughts stray
to strange evil places
should I follow them
or rein them in?

I can picture anything
and everything
like an algebra problem
of objects and images.

I can place myself in
the center of wickedness
in the degrading abyss
in the filth
as though it was all academic,

but I refuse to keep
my mind as controlled
as the Old Testament
would require.

God is always
making everything new
so why not God’s nature
and commandments?

So if the thoughts come
briskly,
undisciplined
depraved
or naïve,
should I be damned?

The world is forever new
and my thoughts are forever new
and if I squelch them

then I kill any chance of
future new dreams
ahead,
and I need my thoughts
my dreams and wishes

for to deny them
in all their creepy splendor
is to deny myself.

[POsted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, my favorite poetry site!]

Rain and Water

Water water everywhere
and it just kept
coming.

It was too short for
a biblical epic
but just enough
for a tsunami.

So much immediate
death,
impossible to grieve
can’t imagine the
force

and the waves
brought the mudslides
and trapped the beautifully
naive people
in their luxurious
castles of clay.

I want to work up
a tear for them,
but they are too
faraway and besides
they lived in
privileged communities

until now.

But the rain
took a young woman
pregnant with child
and swept them
away,

the rain and water
indifferent and unforgiving
dragged them along
and into the
abyss.

Almost contritely
the rains finally stopped
but it was too
late.

Dan lost his wife
and unborn daughter
and I cannot help
but imagine his own
private tearful tsunami
sitting in his house
surrounded by their memory,

trying to find a way
to live with
rain and water
for the rest of his life.

Selfish

eating what I want
when I want it

and buying bigger clothes
and not being too concerned about it

this is my life
just me
this chicken quesadilla
and the song piped
through the Del Taco

I'll think of nothing
or no one else

just me and
my happiness
and melted cheddar cheese
and loose fitting pants
and a pen that glides
over lots of
luxurious blank pages
just waiting for

me.