April 26, 2013 at 12:36 am (Poetry)
Tags: April PAD Challenge, Immigration, Poem, Poem-A-Day, Politics
Wrote this for day 15 of the Writer’s Digest April PAD Challenge: “Write an infested poem.”
That French bitch brought home fleas–
refugees from the tramps
she beckons from alleys.
The vermin make their homes in my stucco,
blot white-washed walls with foreign specks,
and nibble at my well-lubricated chest.
Did the alleys not offer them enough
to fill their dirty families? My leftovers
could feed an African family for a year,
but these bloodsuckers want much more
than what I toss into the black and brown bins.
They want to turn my country home
into a hostel for whatever roach
will come. Rats, frogs, everything but the wasps.
What happiness can they find here?
Air conditioning, broadband, satellite TVs
won’t feed them. Will they follow me to my office
and multiply until I’m the minority
forced to seek sanctuary in the alleys we built
for them? The bombs set off don’t help;
they breed like dirty, brown bunnies
and have hard shells that could survive hell.
I might as well burn down the house
since I can never tolerate this itch
that gnaws my nuts, my chest, my fists.
I finally had the bitch put to sleep;
I claimed she was a stray.
I still keep pictures up of her
at home, at church, on bumper stickers and shirts
to prove to the world
I loved Liberty.
February 14, 2013 at 10:22 pm (Poetry)
Tags: Catholicism, Christianity, Poem, Poetry, Pope Benedict XVI, Religion, Roman Catholic Church
The world speculates on
what awaits the Catholic Church
after the transition.
Smoke signals search the world
for new blood to fill the Vatican,
but every answer to every question
hides in history.
The next pope will come
two generations late
wielding a staff
or a rod if occasion permits.
For the poor and the widowed,
he will cast much money
in exchange for their two mites.
He will not suffer another pedophile to harm
the church’s reputation further–
he will speak out against
homosexuals and priestesses
liberals and abortionists
Girl Scouts and cartoonists.
He will wear an egg on his head.
He will sit on a throne.
The sun will set
the sun will rise
the clock will tick
the clock will tock
the dogs will bark
the cats will hiss
the bees will buzz
the wasps will sting
the wolves will wake
and hunt for sheep
October 22, 2012 at 6:51 am (Poetry)
Tags: Poetry, Yoga
Breath flows like ocean waves
rolling off the rocky core–
the burn expressed in breeze.
Pillars bend acutely
in search of balance
sway with the breeze.
Hands reach into heaven
branch into beams
sway with the breeze.
Foreigners see the forest–
each tree shivers its own storm–
some rooted in place,
some drifting in space,
others choke on the weeds.
The yogini’s breath
shapes each branch into balance
swaying with her breeze.
September 2, 2012 at 6:14 pm (Poetry)
The faculty all knew William by face–
soft pale visage dappled with dots,
jet mop atop fading to ash.
The sweetest boy branded with smiles,
he spent his afternoons near ducks
at the pond named after him,
outlining novels, chasing dreams
of fame with wizards and vampires
in romantic dystopias.
Alone always except for when
he dated the valedictorian–
four years they lasted, but she left.
A master of English, Math, History,
the freshman sought the sage–
the walking Wikipedia–
for wisdom on professors, parking, food.
Nobody ever saw him off-campus
except at the wake. Even mascots paid
their respects to the scholar of the bell
tower, still full of textbooks and degrees.
September 2, 2012 at 6:11 pm (Poetry)
The noisy neighborhood now sleeps.
No foot disturbs the silent streets.
The children vanish with their moms or dads
replaced by picket signs with smiling kids.
The gardeners groom the lawns each week,
the sweepers polish the city’s streets.
The primped up houses beckon newly-weds
to settle down and start new families.
July 26, 2012 at 6:00 pm (Poetry)
Tags: PlayStation, Poetry, Sony, Vita
Metallic gloss through onyx reflections,
Avalon allusions through silver trim,
tradition tempered through familiar face
evolved with sensitivities to touch.
The front, the back reacts to each caress,
the twin nubs spring up with each flickering thumb,
the eyes capture sights ahead and behind
fusing fantasy with reality.
Flashes full of memories and melodies,
lights shining brightest on the perfect blackness,
motions followed without a breadth with each pivot
without the strain uttered through a hiss or a buzz.
Potential present even at infancy,
the daughter to parallel the mother’s strength
if not through force, then through a post-modern style,
a pixie flowing with titanic power.
Unwilling to sell herself at a loss,
she vindicates her hubris by inches,
not just another toy to play old games
but a new life experience.
July 24, 2012 at 6:00 pm (Poetry)
Tags: Church, Poetry
I’d carry your cross if I had the strength
but mine’s too heavy already.
The dime I give you leaves me deprived;
I need it for my coffee each morning;
besides, you’ll probably buy wine.
And giving time would be too expensive.
Juggling kids with work and school and church
leaves no time to toss in service to the world.
All I can do is rush without a glance,
pretend I don’t hear you beg for a chance,
and throw a prayer your way as I wash my hands
that someone else will come be Christ to you.
July 20, 2012 at 9:32 pm (Poetry)
Tags: Aurora, Poetry, Politics
A dozen lives murdered in Aurora;
the killer waits for justice in a cell;
the nation declares the real culprit
not Holmes, a pawn, but ideology.
Obama’s gun control shot that kid, some say,
others accuse a Tea Party conspiracy,
and some even blame the feminists, but
not Holmes, a pawn to ideology.
Whatever hint suggesting influence
becomes the evidence the tragedy
was orchestrated by the other team,
not Holmes, a pawn of ideology.
Meanwhile, the real killer’s forgotten
along with victims whose names we won’t learn, mere statistics on PowerPoints
to win debates against people we hate.
July 19, 2012 at 6:00 pm (Poetry)
enthrall the coffeehouse hipsters
generic power chords
strike the crowd with a fierce ripple
that precious name of yours
as trite as the other guitar heroes
but girls with labret spikes
and pink mohawks fawn over you
and deem you gods for songs
like every other garbage band.
Need a drummer or a bass?
I’ll kiss ass too for a piece of theirs.
My precious poetry can’t
afford the ego’s luxuries.
July 17, 2012 at 6:00 pm (Poetry)
I never wore that Hawaiian shirt
that one aunt bought me last Christmas,
but when he reached into his fanny pack
for the fifty cents,
I reconsidered the possibilities
the fruity shirt could offer me.
Ironic dress to amuse my friends
accustomed to my fashion sense.
A veil for my gut at the beach
until I started on that six-pack.
If nothing else, a comfy shirt
to wear on laundry day.
But revelations come too late–
our hands exchanged, the shirt is gone.
I shoo away the other pests,
drag the leftovers back inside
and prepare for a shopping spree
to fill my chest with more treasures.