Lies and Me (Prompt: Form Poem- Blitz)

Don’t give me rules

don’t give me lies

lies and secrets

lies and mystery

mystery is good

mystery loves company

company policy

company man

man oh man

man that’s gross

gross me out

gross minus net

net that flounder

net that man

man is the problem

man is the oppressor

oppressor wears a badge

oppressor lacks compassion

compassion is love

compassion is temporary

temporary happiness

temporary substitute

substitute teacher

substitutions are extra

extra extra read all about it

extra papers given away

away with the wind

away with my youth

youth that is forgotten

youth that is despised

despised like a Nazi

despised and spoiled

spoiled child

spoiled milk

milk of human kindness

milk and honey

honey hair

honey in her kiss

kiss her there

kiss her goodnight

goodnight, my love

goodnight and God bless

bless you in all your glory

bless this mess

mess around with me

mess up the bed with me

me minus you is such a lonely ride

me love me some you

you

ride

Maybe Tomorrow (for Sarah) (Prompt: Maybe ____)

Maybe tomorrow

things will look different,

no, they will look different

if only because you’ll be seeing them

with eyeballs that are

one day older.

Maybe tomorrow

everyone you thought

was ignoring you

will come around

slapping you

on the back asking

“where’ve you been?”

Maybe tomorrow

whatever dark mood

that’s intruded upon you

will instantly vanish

because of 

something as simple

and random as

the dog dancing wildly

when you come home,

or a freshly baked

chocolate chip and M&M cookie,

or your favorite

song playing on the radio.

Sometimes

when you’re feeling

low and blue,

and it feels like nothing

will ever change,

remember this:

the only thing we can

predict in this world

is change!

The darkness won’t last forever,

it’ll change too.

Until then,

be good to yourself,

take care of yourself

and if you have to,

sneak away to a private place

and give yourself a

big ,

long

hug

until I can give you one

myself.

Love, Pop-o

Discipline (Prompt: Never Again Poem)

It was a typical spring afternoon

in 1977

and my younger brother and I

were bickering 

the way teenage brothers do,

the way fathers hate.

Some fathers spent all day

listening to other peoples’

bickering and sniping,

and my father must’ve had

a particularly crappy day

because it was the same 

picking and bitching 

we always did

but this time,

Pop snapped.

He wasn’t huge,

but he was fierce

and pained

like a Chihuahua with

a tortured pitbull psyche.

He roared into our room,

I don’t remember 

what he said

but within a second

I was in the middle of a

violent fantasia

of screaming and

veins pulsing

and his thick belt

coming down on me

again and again,

sheets of black leather pain

against my forearms

me cowering in

the corner of the couch.

Before he could get to my

younger brother

my mother interceded,

she protected him.

I don’t remember how

I got to the bathroom,

but I locked myself in there,

wondering how would I hide

or worse, explain

the bright pink welts

now forming on my arms

to the kids at school the next day.

Sitting there on the toilet

gasping and sucking in for breath,

I remember thinking

through my boiling tears

“I don’t care what I have to do,

how I have to be,

but he will never ever

hit me again”

and he never did,

and that was my first lesson

in self-discipline.

8:57 (Prompt: Time is Title)

Tonight at 8:57

on the stage at

the Pechanga Casino

in Temecula, California

Tony Bennett

launched into

“The Way You Look Tonight”

and immediately

we were taken back

to that first moment

when our friendship

shifted into

something eternal.

Heavenly Father,

thank you for the wondrous

gift of music,

for the sweetness

of shared memories

and, of course,

for Tony Bennett.

Communion (Prompt: Celebration Poem)

My favorite moment
of the celebration
is the communion.

With lights lowered
and only the sound of
a solo piano

I begin
my silent prayer
in Hebrew
“Baruch Hashem”
and soon am lost
in an sea
of exhales
and petitions

but I never feel
that I am
asking for too much.

Unexpectedly,
I feel safe.

Can You Imagine That? (Prompt: What If Poem)

Can you picture him

without his tumbleweed hair,

his aging, overweight torso

and the gray purple bags

under his eyes?

If you could strip him

of his inferiority complex

and make him

taller

thinner and

whiter,

wouldn’t that be

something?

Could you picture a world

where he was loved

and accepted

for who he was

and not for what

he brought?

Dig if you will

a picture

of him

completely at peace

and content in his

own skin.

And what if he didn’t

have the gnawing

relentless need

to always entertain

or serve someone

because

otherwise he felt like

he didn’t deserve

to be there?

Can you imagine that?

Well, neither can I,

and so I write.

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