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.

Her Steve Voice

I don't need to ask anymore
when my wife takes the cordless phone upstairs
(like I'm going to listen in)
in our one-room loft apartment
she turns the TV up loud
as if that could distract me
more than the sound of
her Steve Voice.

Full of giggles and curves and
gushing acquiescence,
I recognize it
that used to be her
Buddah Voice,
the voice when we first were in love
when she had a crush on me
before I became her husband
her promise around her finger
her conjugal banality

and it slowly, deliberately
steps and grinds its heel
into my heart
because there is more electricity lately
in the Steve Voice
than the Buddah Voice,

and I won't mention anything
and I'll rehearse my indifference
(if I inquire too much I'm presumed jealous
if I inquire too little I'm presumed condoning this)

so I practice
with long even breaths
repeating my mantra
the only thing that keeps me sane:

I trust my wife.
I trust my wife.
I trust my wife.

Ring

However educated I will become
I am still simple
because there is always someone who is
better educated than I,

it's relative.

However beautiful I will become
I am still plain
because there is always someone who is
more beautiful than I,

it's relative.

However sensitive I will become
I am still a dullard
because there is always someone
who is able to feel more deeply than I

it's relative.

But I control one aspect:
however thin I become
I will remain thin
because there are diuretics
and appetite suppressants
and laxatives
and organic vomiting
so that no one will ever be
thinner than I.

No one on television
no one in magazines
no one in the world
thinner than I.

It almost has a ring to it

anorexia
anorexia
anorexia nervosa.