Sit-In at the Sycamore

Day 10 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on

The family encircles the ancient trunk
lost in the lobby of a five-star hotel.
Enclasped in hands armored in adamant,
they chant up strength as the protectors of peace
apply a pepper spray swab to their eyes.
Even the firmest hand loses its grip
as camera phones preserve the scene to share
with friends on Facebook and Twitter for a like.

The Forest for the Tree

Day 10 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on

I missed the forest for a tree, they said,
so I stepped out to survey the whole scene.
The emerald ocean gleamed with such prospects
I blinked–lost sight of what made that tree unique.
Seemed I could lean against another tree
and carve my name into its flesh until
stripped bare, then climb a fresher one now bloomed
with daisies, leave when they started to wilt.
When Autumn came, I found the reason why
my oak stood tallest among trees. The gleam
enthralling me lost glamour, fading with
the summer, but she remained evergreen
no matter the distance of the sun. I now
wander the wilderness in search of her
jaded glow but only see browner plains.
Perhaps I already plucked her bare too.

The C Word

My entry for Day 22 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on

You ruined the friendship we had
when you mentioned your religion
in a chat about our histories.
Implications made obvious:
Affections shown–a fantasy
to lure me to your velvet pews
to flail my arms to bigotry.
You spoke so highly of chastity,
but I bet you fucked any douche
adorned with a cross and bleached spikes.

I mistook you for a living saint,
but now I see every good deed
was only bargaining for souls.
The kids you lead, the poor you feed–
all pawns to turn you royalty.
I see the real you brandishing
a picket sign at funerals
of gays and Wiccans–mothers too–
spreading love with double-edged words–
hidden daggers on the tip of your tongue.

I mistook you intelligent
when we studied geometry
in my tomb with coffee and the Cure.
I tutored you Science–fiction
according to your Nicene Creed.
Truth doesn’t jive with Adam and Eve.
How do you interpret the stars?
Do you see the fusion of lights
or think it all angels and signs?
No need to speak; I know your type.

I mistook you for my closest friend
when you walked me to class each day
before you journeyed to your own.
To waste your time on talking to me
was your personal Golgotha–
but I’m the one left crucified.
Affections analyzed, revealed
to be nails through my hardened hands
into rusty crosses I thought
I shattered. Double-crossed by you.

White Acropolis: Suburban War

This is my entry for Day 2 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on The prompt is to write about a visitor.

Immaculate streets become battlefields
as patriots fight–stand their ground against
black-clad invaders armed with sweet arsenal
and white earbuds. The chaos ensues–shortcuts
across trimmed lawns, jaywalking silent streets,
humming to music downloaded for free.
No bleach can wash away the stains they leave
on virgin property fairly bequeathed
by the old natives. Canaanites cannot
reclaim what God has gave. To coexist
is cowardice. One must either flee night
approaching like mice in race with black cats
or fight to live in property free
of devaluing blemishes. The jackals
can go away–with Christ–back to the slums
or they can stay in coffins underneath.

Her Shadow

This is my entry for Day 9 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on The prompt is to write a shady poem.

Her marvelous light envelops
me – sharpens the fuzzy contours.
I stretch across the bright expanse
atop the prints she makes in the sand.
She steps ahead – I keep the pace
without a breadth between our soles.

Though lacking depth and shape beyond
hers, no dimension could compare
to following her feet all day.
I keep close wherever she goes.
Even when the sun sets and night
begins, I never do vanish–
I envelop her existence–
beneath her lips, her breasts, her thighs–
I’ll always follow her back home
and spoon her until night becomes day.

In Sheep’s Clothing

I wrote this for Day 6 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge, but it fits better with the Day 8 prompt.

I sit, suppressing shivers with a smile
as Pastor Wade continues his crusade
against my kind.
The sin we flaunt decays society–
moral terrorists shoving fired crotches
against their eyes.

If we had our way, we’d turn the world gay
and twist their kids to believe that it’s okay
to have two dads.
Marriage was created for a dad and a mom–
sometimes old mom, sometimes new mom, sometimes
even two moms.

Wade fires off the dusty Old Testament–
the crowd goes wild with applause the unborn
don’t even earn.
I ready for the wave in case an eye
inquires my reaction–eyes once warm but
now only burn.

Once deemed a son, brother, future husband–
ruined by a misplaced phone, poached by vultures
starved for secrets.
Now only thought a queer in sheep’s clothing
because they spread like eagles their massive cracks
starved for cookies.

The sermon ends. I slither through the pews–
get nicked by stray thorns–glares by a boy I thought
my closest friend.
He takes a girl he fucked at the spring retreat
back home. Perhaps they plan to pray for me
or just my end.

A Child’s Tears

A child’s tears cut more precise surgeon’s knife–
Envenomed with sting unbated by any spice.
Eyes bleed old vinegar on budding paradise–
If hell is death dealt twice, his cries render it thrice.

That banshee whine ignites the mother rose aflame–
Pink petals wilt as night dispenses thorns untamed–
Deeper than crucifixion they pierce the martyr vein
With fire even Venus dare never constrain.

That prunéd face drips vinegar out swollen cracks–
Submerges the rock–I am–immersed in cataracts.
Each gasp fortifies the flood’s next wave of attack–
Sun sets as the tide pushes the horizon back.

Each teardrop buries smiles another fathom down–
The pressure clogs each breath with murmurs underground
Of greater tears ahead no lullaby can drown
Until–at last–in wood and dirt forever bound.

A child’s tears are the great deluge on Springtide nights.
Hell’s flames cremate, but his newborn cries crucify.

New Talent

Rainbows recede before the peak,
winds whoosh too fast for her to catch,
the thistles tear out from her grasp,
but she still flaps her withered wings.

Elders demand she take her fate,
but her wings span too wide to fit
inside the nook she’s been stuck with;
an island’s no room for her face.

She mimics everybody else,
but the bubble bursts in her hands,
her roses wither into sand,
her hatchling returns to the shell.

Back in her nook with withered face,
she picks up her tools and hits
each problem at the angles missed,
hammering away a new fate.

She usurps the stage with new wings
to present things that surpass peers,
transcend her caste, conquer her fears
of life at the trough of the peak.