Yucca Eulogy

Yucca Eulogy

Pointed, stiff and narrow, saw-like edges
Evergreen its clusters, never fading
With stems like wood and scaly wedges
Upon the windy desert floor, shading
The night lizard from the sun’s rays
Arms spreading like the biblical Joshua
A mantis prays,
                In the yucca of Chihuahua
Northern flickers excavate pervading

Nest holes into fibrous trunks, abodes
Built on speculation, temporary bird homes
Prickly dry houses shroud Sonoran toads
Where the preying snake slithers and roams
And the yucca moth moves from plant to plant
Like Peter Pan looking for lost children
And the fire ant
              Builds a massive pyramid in barren
Hardpan, paying homage to the queen’s new home

Termites, a construction cleanup crew
Consume fallen branches and trunks
Bell-shaped desert blooms, with blue
Hues radiate from the Columbian Monk’s
Soft petals as nightfall gently blankets the floor
And a nocturnal symphony begins to play
The Scorpion’s Score
               As night critters swing and sway
And day critters sleep in their desert bunks

As the music plays on the barren sand, man
Plays in a different band, a new incursion
Tourists, swarm like locusts in moving vans
From winter lands on holiday excursions
To buy a piece of paradise, a desert home
For ma and pa, a warm place to call their own.
From whispering domes
                 The Yucca cries, sighs and groans;
Disappears like Blackfeet, bisons and Persians

              

            
                
                  

Teaching Keeps Me Out of My Head

Teaching Keeps Me Out of My Head

The children keep me out
Of my own scrambled head.
I feed their inquiries
Like a human birdfeeder
Tossing day old breadcrumbs
To pigeons from a park bench.
Myself mislaid, set aside
I merrily saunter
Through the rows of desks
Thinking only of small eyes
Peering like perched parrots
Waiting for my wisdom.
Today we learn that lunes
Is Monday, martes is
Tuesday, Wednesday is
miercoles, and that I
The teacher talk funny
Spanish. We discover
That Jorge’s brother
Was caught under the fence
By la migra in San Ysidro.
The children laugh and call
Him mojado, or wetback.
This prompts more stories
And further laughter. Tales
Of daring deeds enhanced
By the exagerations of elders
Delight and saddens.The day
Ends , the children leave
And I return to my head.

Chapbook Cover

Here is a copy of the cover for my new chapbook of poems:

Outside

Outside


Outside of this thing called “self” other things
Exist. Planes fly and birds have wings.
After the flood, Bourbon Street still sings
While in the park the boy’s Frisbee zings.

Outside of this thing called “self” other places
Be. Baghdad bombers with covered faces,
Afghan mullahs wagering on camel races
And phony UN food bank thefts, disgraces

Outside of this thing called “self” another side
Is. College hoopsters play for school pride
Wartime discontent spreads far and wide
As the numbers tally of those who’ve died

Outside of this thing called “self” other lives
Call. Away from bad husbands or evil wives
Or bad debts or children with raised hives
Begging for licenses to kill and drive

Outside of this thing called “self”, this thing
Called “I”, there are other songs to sing
Other poems to write, new verses to bring
Renewal, life, and hope to the hoards begging.

Freedom of Speech

Freedom of Speech

One does not have to be right.
We do not need to take a blood oath
To a scowling jury in a courtroom, swearing.
We only have to let the bright crystal in our eyes
Show what it shows
Say what comes to mind, truth, and we will be set free.
For now, life continues
For now the stars and the bright facets of the moon
Are shining over the mountains,
Over the deserts and the blue seas,
The forests and the rivers.
For now, the bald eagles, high in the atmosphere
Are soaring once again.
Whatever we say, no matter how bizarre,
The truth offers itself to close examination
Comes back to us like the eagles, free and resilient-
Again and again, signifying our choice
In the freedom of speech.

Cheers

Cheers

Your brew
The poison scourge,
the evil monster

   Defiles innocence
   Dethrones reason
   Destroys homes
   Creates misery
   Promotes poverty
   Topples the righteous

My brew
The Christmas cheer
A gentleman’s blessing

   Oils conversation
   Cements fellowship
   Makes the heart sing
   The lips laugh
   Puts spring in my step
   Magnifies joy
   Forgets tragedies
   Heartbreaks, sorrows
   The sale of which
   Fills treasuries
   Provides care
   For our
   Crippled, blind;

   Aged, infirm
   Deaf, dumb:
   Builds highways,
   Hospitals, schools.

        CHEERS!!

  

A Haibun for Richard

A Haibun for Richard

Richard avoids responsibilities; he is childish and needs to grow up. He lives in his head rather than the real world, wants success to just happen to him, focuses on his fantasies more than reality, believes he deserves to have whatever he wants. His life lacks direction, never knows what to do next, does dumb things frequently, gets drunk everyday, he’s a lazy slacker, does the minimum to get by, and does things without thinking. He does not feel that he has any reason to accomplish anything, and tends to ignore or put off problems. He believes fun is the most important thing in life, and most people think he is crazy. He forgets scheduled appointments, lives more in the past than in the future, and gets attention through lies and ridiculous stories.

Peter Pan
Absolute faith is
Having wings

Afraid

Afraid

A stowaway on the ship of life
   She fears independence
         Afraid of finding herself
                In a lifeboat
                      Alone at sea
                           Fending for herself
                                Struggling to survive
                                      In a hostile world
  

Fabulous Realities

Fabulous Realities

On the bus stop bench, a
Young mother suckling her babe
Beneath a Borden milk sign
Depicting Elsie the cow;

A news photo of a catholic priest
Blessing small children, as they
Depart on the loop the loop ride
At Michael‘s Neverland Ranch;

A 350 pound woman in shorts
At the ticket booth, with her
120 pound lover buying
Lighter- Than- Air Festival passes;

Snow on my windshield as
I leave home to play golf
At my favorite course
On the 4th of July;

Two lovers, naked in the sand
Grappling like mud wrestlers;
Oblivious to the hundreds of
Beachgoers strolling the boardwalk.

Hope

Hope

The Rain comes down today, like beads
Threaded on a string; it soaks the lawn
Preparing the ground for young seeds

A pool of light greets the new dawn
Awakens hibernating season
As birds move north and bears yawn

As if it were some sort of treason
Interrupted from deep slumber
Pelted by raindrops without reason

Bumbling, they stumble and lumber
From dark dens, treetops, frozen wood
Like pale zombies who disencumber

From restraint in search of fresh food;
New life, sustenance of spring shoots
They partake, and find it feels good

Springtime arrives on hopeful roots!

Captain's View- a Reading

Captains View

Captain’s View

Now, as the boat sails again
Its motion soothes the air,
And from the Captain’s chair
I stare into the sea
While sailors hoist the main.
The vee of naval fleet
A formation of birds
A breath of ocean mist
All, I see from my perch.
Then a vast blue sheet
And the sky without words
Full on my face, I smell
The fragrance of the foam;
Feel the bulge of sea swell
Compass set far from home
Glassy water we search
Due west to island shore.
Night falls, we pitch and lurch
Throughout a rainy swirl
Seabirds toss in the storm
Ride turbulent wave form
Like a fast tilt-a-whirl.
Bowed, the storm jib flaps
Steadies the sturdy boat
Land-ho! The bos’un claps.
From Captain’s chair, I gloat.

The Dark

The Dark
I must learn to find my way in the dark
Learn to be alone
Loneliness is not the worst thing
Self-pity is worse

Learn to be alone with
The comfort of thoughts, dreams, ideals
Self-pity is worse than loneliness
Write your world with wise words

The comfort of thoughts, dreams, ideals
Fills the heart's emptiness
Write your world with wise words
Sing your sorrow in song, verse, metaphor

Fill the heart's emptiness with
Lofty contemplation
Sing your sorrow in verse, song, metaphor
Touch other's grief with love

Lofty contemplation of pure thoughts
Chiseled from the rocks of your own remorse
Touches other's grief with love
Learn to find your way in the dark.

The R Word

The “R” Word

a man can smell trouble when his girl
wants to discuss the “relationship”

an idiotic idea says the brain, instinct-
ively. Never use that word. Marriage,

romance, partnership, living arrangement-
yes; relationship-never. Sooner be tortured

by terrorists, or sat on by a fat diva farting
high notes at the Met than use the “R” word

which is a hissing asp wound around Cleopatra’s
neck and wrists to wrangle weird words

in front of the fire, sipping Merlot and brooding.
when the “R’ thing is about to implode upon itself

more fun is always the answer. Stop grieving,
   Ride the Farris wheel,
     Take a brisk walk,
        Dance,
           Read Bukowski,
              Sail to Hawaii:
Most importantly, take off your clothes
Forget your woes, have more fun!

River Balm

River Balm

My thoughts drift towards the Rogue
The tranquil river of my dreams
A respite from the desert heat
An escape from a jumble of lunacy

The tranquil river of my dreams
Teems with wild fish
An escape from a jumble of lunacy
Lightens the tainted heaviness

Teeming with wild fish
The rippling rapids smile
Lighten the tainted heaviness
Purify the mind’s currents

The rippling rapids smile
Drain the angst of skewed living
Purify the mind’s currents
Comfort the troubled being

Drain the angst of skewed living
Bestow serenity to the soul
My thoughts drift towards the Rogue
The tranquil river of my dreams

FuzzyFruit Reading

Grandma, a Tribute Reading

Fuzzy Fruit

      A Fruit’s Tale

Keilor says that most poems are
Like condoms on the beach-
Evidence that somebody

Was once there,
Had an experience
Of little interest

To the passerby
Quickly washed away
With the receding surf

Obscure without a tale
Indigestible by you and me
A fuzzy foreign fruit

Kiwi for koalas with
Green and black core
Juicy but frightening

Familiar fruit with a
Creative bias sticks
In the eye as a thorn

Floats In the memory
Like mint leaves in
Kentucky fine bourbon

Sweet and Sour.

        

Cookouts Reading

Sound Bites

Sound Bites

Something is filling me, something
Like the sound of a mother
Calling her lost child
A chilling, worried sound

Men of my age
Learn to listen carefully
To the pitch of sounds filling the air
Foghorn warnings at sea

At night, lying in bed
They hear them
Creaking like an abandoned ship’s hull
Swaying on a coral reef

And deep in slumber
They listen again
To the boy’s voice begging his father
To toss the ball one more time

And the father’s gentle reply
That a storm is on the dark horizon
Disappoints and terminates the dream
While sirens scream outside the window

They hear them
Through the chest, like drumbeats
On the Bataan Death March,
Every beat closer to the end of the line.

They hear them in the ear; in the air
Voices of dead fathers and grandfathers
Resonate through nature’s audio system
The grass, the trees, the sky, the blood.

The Picture on My Wall

The Picture on My Wall

I often write about the picture on my wall
Black and white, as of a bygone age,
Its golden frame accentuates it all
A fine border surrounds a life’s page
Holding a large fish she sweetly smiles
Russet, curly locks ring her angelic face
A daddy’s girl, she pleases and beguiles;
Needy, her world an imaginary place

She greets my days as I arise
Without her I’d soon be forever lost
I need her lips and smiling eyes
To signal how my ship has tossed
To tell me when I’ve strayed the course
To sit me upright, with no remorse

Grandma, a Tribute

Grandma, A tribute

Grandma Briscoe, whom I loved so much
I wonder what brilliant star, of many
May have illuminated your gentle touch
Still felt, as years have flown and any
Remnant that remains in my happy heart
A seed, which has grown within my memory,
A kernel of love where goodness must start

Always on my shoulder your cheerful smile
To guide decision, division or grief
From beyond the grave you still beguile
And to all your children you share belief,
A testament to the kindness of your being-
Your love, has forever led my soul to seeing.

This Be the verse by Phillip Larkin

Just wanted to share a poem by Phillip Larkin that I find amusing:

This Be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

The Apartment

The Apartment

You like being at my place, and breathing freely
As in open spaces. You wouldn’t want it otherwise.
You escape from normal caged- in life.

You have your own spa, to soak away
The mud they fling at you. The grey table
Your private space to spread your puzzles

And re-assemble broken pieces
Of the morning’s shattering. Our
Small salads, anthologies of communion

Connect minds and hearts, the kitchen
Our place of laughter and sustenance
Where you concoct strange greens

As we flesh out the enigmas that
Pester our daily existences,
As friends are supposed to do,

In my apartment you become
The golden-framed girl with
The fish- smiling, happy, content.

A Box of Poems

Along side the tissues and chocolates
On my nightstand is a box of poems
Waiting to be, uh, uh, eaten? Nose wipes?
Lord only knows what to do with these
Useless things! Maybe I’ll fold’ em
And fly’ em like loose paper kites
Swirling in warm tradewinds and land’em
On seven continents for love letters.
Perhaps I’ll bottle each one and release it
In the outgoing tide, to ride the waves
Like lost surfboards heading to sea
To be found by indigenous beachcombers
Longing for human traces to color a
Drab existence. Or better yet, they can stay
By my bed, so that my dreams
Can grab a word or two of passion
As the long nights fade.

Cookouts

Cookouts

At first, I didn’t care about the chatter
     The neighbors made
Each outing that we attended was fatter
Than previous cookouts by the cool glade
And talk of war came and went in small spurts
Like bleeding cuts before clotting takes place
I casually listened through a beer-fog haze
As genteel hostesses served desserts-
Cakes iced with crystallized glace
Separate iceberg towers, a floating maze

      Of sweet and tart
Like a soldier’s final goodbye before
Leaving; tears wrenching the sad, sad heart.
A mother’s sorrow as she ponders war
How different these outings have become
Since the time that we first gathered-
Like wakes, celebrations of sadness
With friends hearing death’s distant war drum;
Anxious gatherings, times to console the lost herd
And listen as the wind howls with madness,

     Bleakly portends
Intractable, agonizing dull pain
A sentence indeterminate, without end
A thunderstorm’s dark deluge of rain.
As moms whisper fears and dads banter pride
Of sons that serve, the apples of their eyes
War stories trail through the barbecue’s smoke
Of uncles, granddads, battles of those who’ve died
For freedom’s sake; revealed death tells no lies
As dying coals turn to ash and memories evoke

     New memories
Fresh stories, newly messaged internet chat
From computer-savvy soldiers in armories
The children, new-age warriors in combat
Tied by digital umbilical cords
Speak of roadside bombs, maiming and death
Instant home messages of love and fear
The cookout conversation in the orchards
Of the cool glade, murmurs beneath the breath
As kinfolk pray and shed silent, soft tears

     Small watersheds
Ridges of love, separate the rivers
Of care between these kin and the blind heads
Of state; delineate takers from givers
Highly seasoned, the lamb roasts over the spit
Waiting for the hungry wolves to satiate
Near the flames of the flickering campfire
Like suicide bombers gorging holy writ
From fiery mosques as Imams castigate
The desecration of golden dome spire

     Our mutters pause
As frail soldiers join the somber picnic fray
Limbless heroes haunted by war’s cause
Pale amputees silence our deep dismay
Their condition immutable, fixed
Awkward small talk unties our tongues
Opens our hearts, prompts forced smiles
From grieving mothers, emotions mixed
Like Bloody Marys soaking blurry sons
Stupor dulls the senses and the guiles

     New news arrives
Along morning- flickered television screens
Like Kurdish ponies in view at sunrise
Peering over Zagros craggy scenes.
Cruel Baghdad carnage befalls the masses
Who worship in ancient holy shrines
Echoing” allahu akbar” God is Great!
Chest-pounding protesters riding asses
Who’d sell their souls for two thin dimes
Spew “Death to America”, while full of hate

     Fox News reports
Fresh causalities casually, as if
The passing of an acquaintance exports
The same as the death of a young soldier
Imploded on hostile roads by terrorist’s bombs,
Vaporized in thin air, meshing nightmare
With reality. Benumbed tears wet the cookout fire
Rising smoke etches faces through the palm fronds
Images of small children swirl in the air-
Heavenly spirits soaring above a funeral pyre

     They remind us
As flag-draped coffins remind us
To shrivel when politicians make a fuss
With highfaluting words to inflame the lust
Of meaningless passion, for commerce sake,
When good old boys in prayer breakfasts prompt
Pre-emptive strikes to” root em” out of hiding
With bunker busters to” make em shake and bake”
Like dancing rag heads whose lives we pre-empt;
When genteel women with broken spirits arise

     In concerto
One voice, a voice of peace, of war
A voice echoing like a defeated Roberto
Duran,“No mas, No mas”, No more, No more,
The mother’s doleful cries heard by the score
Across the land, in cities great and small
As smoke from protest charcoal- fires sear
The loins of a Crawford Texas beef carnivore
I thirst for bygone days, but above all
Our children see the light of a new year






    

Testimonial

Testimonial  

   Octogenarian
Frail, you make lists to remind
Of things for which you’re grateful
    Life’s random acts
Conjured through Alzheimer’s fog
You forgive your enemies

   Misplace the lists
Forget whom you’ve forgiven
Even the face across the table
   Your only daughter
A younger image of yourself
Upbeat, full of life, a star

    A fallen oak tree
Branches become ashes, burn
Brightly in dying embers
   Your flame swiftly fades
Like honored soldiers gone
Before, the cannons will soon fire

War is Not a One Man Band

War is Not a One Man Band

”From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered-We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother”…Shakespeare


Backs pressed to the four winds, eyes heavenward
Boots on the ground, brave warriors boldly defend
Each other’s blood, each other’s loyal hearts
     A band of brothers

Passionate to live, willing to die for you and I;
Precious blood spills on ancient Baghdad roads
On Death’s highway, Balad, Baqubah, Mosul
     A band of brothers

An army’s family, bold men and women
Die for freedom’s cry, liberate the masses
Sacrificial lambs on Islam’s altar
     A band of brothers

America’s children, its youth, shuttles off to war
Innocent, naïve, return limbless and grieve
A comrades life, lost in battle, forever gone
     A band of brothers

A fraternity pledged with a blood oath
A happy few that comprehend a nectar
A sore need, positioned for death’s rare call
     A band of brothers