The Moment (February 10, 1990)

The pointy- toed-

shoe-in-my-eye-socket

hangover headache

made its

predictable

return.

The voice:

“How many days

are you gonna do this?”

Shutup.

My stomach felt like

every disease in the world

was inside me

fighting each other

for bragging rights.

7am,

which meant I wouldn’t

get back to normal again

until that afternoon.

The voice:

“Turn over and look out

the window.

Look at the sky.”

People always tried

to point out “nature” to me

which I always hated,

but I was in no condition

to fight.

I turned over

and pulled up the shade

an inch

and I saw it.

No clouds

to give a sense of perspective,

just a clear

blue

infinite

serenity.

It awakened my heart

and I smiled,

and as if on cue,

gossipy birds

sang and chirped.

I laughed

at how

“perfect”

it all seemed.

The voice spoke

one last time:

“OK, now what if

you’re not here

to enjoy this anymore?”

It was a question

too pointed to ignore,

and a moment too beautiful

to throw away.

I lingered in the moment

a few minutes more

before confessing my alcoholism

and changing my life.

(Check out Open Link Night at dversepoets.com)

No Contest

She solves puzzles

and spends hours at the computer,

trying to get high score on Bejeweled or

the perfect triple letter triple word score

in Word Feud,

her mind ever-working

trying to figure out a solution

within the confines

of established rules.

He writes poems

and jokes for future ad libs

trying for the perfect combination

that will pierce the façade

with honesty and laughter,

his mind ever-working

trying to figure out solutions

to problems that

may not even exist.

No contest:

she’s smarter than

he is.

(Linking to dVerse poetry open link night, first time!)

I Can’t Write Small Stones

Perhaps it’s my

argumentative nature

or my verbosity,

but I can’t write

small stones.

Some stones are smooth,

some craggy,

but each one is perfect

because they’re not

the product of

an imperfect

human

hand.

So

I stick with the label

micropoetry,

as it describes both

the genre

and my painfully

modest

talent.

The Unstoppable Rain (Prompt: Unstoppable)

It's taken years
to un-learn
that purposeful alienation
of my self
from my feelings.

Now,
when I see something
unspeakably beautiful,

or feel something
dark and cold
collapsing upon itself
at the core of my being,

or rejoice ecstatically
in those rare moments
of bliss,

I allow the tears
to stream down my cheeks
accompanied by sighs
sobs or
smiles
as the case may be.

Ironically,

I have triumphed
over what was intended to be
the unstoppable power
of male socialization,

with the
unstoppable
rain of
human teardrops.

Box of Dreams (Prompt: Box)

I used to keep a

box of memories

and over time

I kept shifting the contents

from smaller

to larger box.

Once when I was

switching boxes,

I lost my grip

and it fell and broke,

scattering my memories

mementos

anecdotes

across the floor,

like beads

from a busted necklace.

Seeing them all there

the pearls mixed in with the dross,

the voice spoke:

“why are you keeping

everything? 

You can’t even remember why

you wanted to keep it

all.”

So, I picked out

a proper display case

to honor the pearls

and threw out

everything else.

A box of memories

can weight you down,

so now I have a smaller,

lighter box of dreams,

which helps me fly.

“Wow, I Made This?” (prompt: new start poem)

There’s a new start

at the end of each old year.

I need a new start

because I know how

all of my old starts

end,

and if I can’t have a new start

then I want a new middle

and a new

end.

So, I will keep trying

reaching

punching

for something new

something to surprise me,

something to look at and say

“Wow, I made this?”

much like God must’ve felt

after creating

the platypus,

the orgasm,

and the bursting orange horizon

where the sun sinks

dutifully into the

beautiful blue Pacific

everyday.

There’s No Magic (Prompt: Magic)

There’s no magic,

just unknown things

scientists haven’t wrangled into

submission yet,

and until they do

I’ll take my place among the

primitives

who stand in awe of

the perfection of a rose

the tingling of sugar

the impulse to move to music

the massive silent afterglow of orgasm

and I will enjoy them

all the more

for their untamed mystery.

While You Were Gone (Prompt: While You Were Gone)

First, I tried reading that book

you got me last month

but kept getting distracted

by the sheer overwhelming 

silence.

Then I decided to make sure

everything in the kitchen

put away

and the floors were swept

so you wouldn’t have to do it

when you got home.

I watched TV for five minutes

and since there was no one

to comment on it with,

I shut it off.

After that,

I ate the rest of the cookies

in broad daylight

not having to sneak them

because you were here.

Finally, I laid on the bed

and I smelled your hair

on the pillow,

closed my eyes

and daydreamed.

While you were gone

I just waited for you

to come back.

Against the Odds (Prompt: Against All Odds)

Against the odds

I still watch falling objects

and secretly wish

they stay suspended

in midflight

and imagine dinosaurs

climbing over the mountain range

as I stand watching

in rapt awe

and sheer terror.

Against the odds

I sit at the piano

and hope that my fingers fall

into a beautiful random

melody,

and peck at the keyboard

praying for an idea

I haven’t had

a thousand times before.

Against the odds

a tiny flapping bird

takes on the endless sky

trying to make its way home,

as all living things

resist the weight of gravity

and reach ever

higher and higher

to the Sun.

Against the odds

every morning

a former atheist

puts both

the Mogen David

and the Cross

around his neck

and remembers

he is both

an agent for the Christ

and a temple for

his Jewish soul.

Against the odds,

I believe

and love

and persevere.

November 29, 2002 (Prompt: Day and Evening)

The yacht could only hold

50 people,

so it was a necessarily

small affair.

We told everyone

to be there at 3:45,

as we were sailing at 4 sharp.

Predictably,

we didn’t leave the dock

‘til 4:09.

Minutes before sunset,

my deceased father arrived

in the form of a

rainbow in the distance

and blessed the ceremony.

I looked at

the assembly of faces

some representing my past,

and some representing my future,

with the calm confidence

that comes from knowing

the wisdom of one’s decision.

Then,

my new family came down the aisle,

one by one

until she took her place

beside me.

We listened

we assented

we kissed

we laughed

we ate

we danced

and as evening draped

the Newport Harbor,

Christmas lights twinkled

their silent code of cheer

and good fortune,

inaugurating

the best time of my life.

Playwright Story (Prompt: ______ Story)

I wanted to be a playwright,

as I fancied myself a modest god

who would make these players

do my bidding,

live out my revenge fantasies.

I aimed for

verisimilitude,

the illusion that it was

just like real life.

I wrote scenes of dialogue

and action

and characters

who all sounded like me,

but as a sheltered 16 year old,

I didn’t have enough material

to work with.

I’d create scenes,

situations,

snappy patter,

but I could never write

a proper end of a play,

and they would each limp

to their eventual final curtain.

Three years and

five plays later

I gave it up,

and went back to writing

songs

poems

jokes

temporary literary ephemera,

and I still watch

with palpable envy

and awe

when a writer pulls it all together

and finishes the story.

Now,

when I write “poetry”

when I am done with an idea

it just ends,

and I go on

to the next thing

just like real life.

Tribute to Myself (Prompt: tribute)

On days like these

when every step is a misstep

and every word is misspoken,

I feel completely

misunderstood and unappreciated

and I think it perfectly

reasonable to pay tribute to

myself,

as no one else knows

the trouble I’ve seen

and tried to fix

and eventually gave up on.

It veers closely to self-pity

but in essence,

I congratulate myself

on not diving into drink

or otherwise deserting,

shrinking from this fight.

I just recognize that

today I have lost,

but with a dollop of grace

I’ll be given another shot,

perhaps to endure

masterfully enough

so that I’ll have it

in my heart

to look beyond myself

and my collection

of impossible, miserable

personal

puzzles.

Reruns (Prompt: Good Old Days)

Growing up,

life wasn’t abusive or neglectful,

but it was staid, Spartan

and security minded.

My parents were too busy

trying not to lose their status

in the lower middle class

that there was rarely

time for laughter,

time for joy.

I don’t look back and see

the good old days.

I see reruns,

mostly sitcoms.

All I was allowed

to do was watch TV,

so I did.

I even learned to read

by matching the synopsis

to what was on

in the TV.

Now I use

DVR technology to watch

shows I saw as a kid

and I recite the scripts,

perfect in memory and intonation,

I even know the rhythm

of the laugh tracks.

To this day,

some of my fondest memories

are found in episodes of

“All in the Family”

“Sanford and Son”

“Green Acres”

“The Honeymooners”

and better than family

they will all

outlive me.

You Can’t Have Everything (prompt: comsumption)

“Limitless movies on demand”

“this ereader can store a million books”

“all you can eat for one low price”

“unlimited broadband access on your smart phone”

“access to our 8 million song music library”

all I can think is

you can’t have everything,

where would you put it?

Seen and Unseen (Prompt: Gather)

If I gather

all my good deeds

seen and unseen,

then subtract

the sum of

all my bad deeds

seen and unseen

and total it up,

and then stand it

next to one man

hanging on a cross,

no matter how

I size it up,

I’m not worthy,

but still

I’m welcomed in,

so

I give thanks.

Traveling Light (Prompt: Travel)

I’m traveling light

through this shared illusion

because thinking

I need to bring anything

is also an illusion.

If I put on certain records

and open that box with the

scented letters,

I am taken to yesterday.

When I see little babies

laughing, safe and adored

with softly wrinkled grown-ups

I travel to tomorrow.

When I have the

Chicken Cashew Nut from

the Royal Thai in Riverside

I travel to Heaven’s kitchen.

When I write

that rare combination

of perfect thought and feeling

I travel to places

previously unknown

sometimes wondrous,

sometimes scary.

So, I travel light.

All I need to pack

is my brain.

The Lime (Prompt: Fruit Poem)

Lime sits

in lemon’s shadow,

smaller, darker

maybe even a little unfriendly.

Rarely the centerpiece,

often,

an afterthought.

Usually relegated

to being sliced in half

and squeezed over

the star of the dinner show.

But then,

take a bite

and she sizzles with cool zing

makes the mouth water

and brings out something

exquisite,

hitherto unk—

ach –

I just drooled

onto my keyboard.

Whenever I Hear Julie London Sing “I’d Like You for Christmas”

Whenever I hear Julie London sing

“I’d Like You for Christmas”

I am instantly transported

to that doleful yearning

before you were mine.

Once I heard her

I needed to know

what it would feel like

to slow dance

to this song

with you

in front of the fireplace

on Christmas Eve

in our very own home,

in our very own life.

Now,

more than a decade later,

her whispered plea

still causes me to catch my breath,

close my eyes,

thank God

for this answered prayer,

and wait for the

next Christmas Eve

to slow dance this

with you.

The Best Advice Ever (Prompt: Best Ever Poem)

Scanlon,

the obese TV writing instructor

who insisted upon being addressed

as “Dr.”and then didn’t return

the manuscript I sent him

which was my final grade in the course,

gave me the best advice I ever got:

I don’t even recall

the exact question,

but I always remember

the answer.

With admirable passion

and eloquence,

he exploded

“Bullshit!

Don’t be

a second-best someone else!

Be the first-best You!”

I still

quote

him.

The God that Made the Platypus (Prompt: Suspicious)

I’m not sure

what I have to offer you

but it  must be something

for you to

say love me.

I will not believe you

until I convince myself

of my lovability,

for surely,

I cannot be worthy

of love

just because I exist.

So I trust that

the God that made

the platypus,

flatulent giggling,

and other

mysterious,

silly

phenomena

loves me too

because in my own

strange, confused way

I think

I must amuse Him.