POEM – Rooster of the Year

Across the gray-black macadam

Spreads a black feather fan

There was violence here last night

A streaking comet

Cracking into the silver egg

Carrying my baby chick

Rattled and shaken

But yolk unbroken

She came to rest on the grassy knoll

Peacefully observing the twisted remains

Of her beloved shell

It is no more and nevermore

And she is alternately

Stunned and sad and stunned again

And this rooster

May have never tended the nest

But he loves the brood

And he guards the house

Diligently

And he is glad the encasement held

The cargo mostly undamaged

Despite the shards that scatter the roadway

And scars in her memory

All that was left

Were black feathers

Etched across a country road

And the tears of oil

Pooling

Only the shell will die tonight

The hatchling carried home

A monkey still alive

To see the Year of the Rooster

POEM: Raccoon Lost His Gaze

I too picked that spot

Felt like I could die

A perfect spot

Cradled in the folds of the tree trunk

A small width of land

And then a depression

To hang my legs into

A place where other roots once lived

It must have fallen last year

Only the small ground cover had filled in

I was resting at the cross-roads

Four miles into the swamp

On a lonely trail

Waiting for the devil

Or anyone else

To hop along and pass the time of day

Until my traveling companions returned

I had opted to rest

They had chosen to explore

And I had hours to myself

Resting and waiting and whittling

A small stick and a slice of time

Letting the thoughts breathe in and out

The ground cover matched the lump of fur

That I hadn’t noticed before

A small startle and a measured examination

A small noise

No response

A larger noise

Still nothing

Must be dead

Hope he isn’t playing

I’m too tired to run away

Would probably just let him maul me

But it wasn’t necessary

He was dead

Resting in the same hole I had picked out

Resting on the new growth

Sheltered from the elements

This raccoon had lost his gaze

Hid from the weather

Under the earthy overhang

And the world let him rest

And passed him by

Suddenly I wasn’t so tired

Felt I could step out of that hole

Leave the tree seat behind

Find my tribe

A little more aware of my mortality

I left the devil at the crossroads

Never shook his hand

Found my own son further down the trail

Gave my hand to him instead

Pulled him back out of the swamp

Along a dusty trail

Under the shadow of the cypress

And the canopy of the loblolly pine

Poem - Pointed Crossing

The only reason I was driving slow
Instead of fish-tailing
Careening and swerving
Joyously enduring
My daughter's sternest looks
Was that it was the new car
The one we hadn't driven on dirt roads
The one that wasn't caked with mud
And that I had promised would never be so
But it had rained
On the dirt road
And ponderously I crept
Keeping the mud inside the wheel well
Not up over the hood
Smeared across the windshield
Caked to the undercarriage
Cautious and careful
Wary of every puddle and bog
As promised

I was rewarded
For an honored vow
As we intruded on the morning walk
Of the local stud of the deer clan
A handsome beast
About to cross the road
Our headlights told him not here
He quickly rerouted
Paused a moment
The briefest of nods
Then leaping to a sprint
Across the fog tinged field
To run and forage
Before the rest of the herd stirred
If he would have waited
We could have bumped fist
Completed the ritual
Begun by the tilt of a head
Continued in smashing knuckles
Alas a lingering look was all I got
Enough of a reward
For keeping the car clean
Slow as the sunrise we drove
Peaceful as a striding buck

POEM – Duel (Again and Again)

It may be true that I have never seen the whole film

Not straight through

But I’ve watched it dozens of times

When I was very young

I guess I should have been watching Looney Tunes

But back then cartoons ended by 10:30am

And sometimes friends had to leave in the afternoon

And I was stuck in front of the TV

Spinning the dial

First through the VHF

Then down to the UHF dial

Slowly clicking through the static

Hoping to catch a rogue cartoon

To fill up the doldrums

Until friends were allowed back out

It seemed I could always count on that movie

To be playing every Saturday afternoon

The one where the guy gets chased

All over the desert

By the semi-truck

And no one says anything

No explanation

Never figure out why

And I always somehow came in at the end

The nervous moments

Heading towards the cliff

The guy in the car gets away

The semi goes over the edge

In a spectacular cacophony

A sigh of relief

As a hat rolls by

Blown by the arid winds

Another tumbleweed in the collection

The credits roll

Still no answers

Always I sat there transfixed

Getting a little weirder

Wondering what I just watched

Wondering why I keep watching

Hoping to catch it again

Next Saturday

In the dull afternoon

The only thing on

When the cartoons and the friends

Leave me to duel with the TV dials

Searching for meaning

Aimless as a tumbleweed

POEM - Bark Worse Than Bite

 It wasn't our dogs
That kept me stirring
But the neighbors had been so nice
Never complained when it was
That terrible yip
In rapid succession
Far worse than the bass drum
Of the hound over the fence

But today is a holiday
With too much food
And just enough family
That being nice has expired
And grumpy
Is my bedfellow

And my prayers are not for my fellow man
But to the gods of silence
Wasted proffering
Selfish and un-thankful
And in this moment
I have not learned my lesson
My digits clenched into fists
Refuse to rise
To let blessings be counted

Except one
That it is not that spearheaded yip
And another
That I commiserated long enough
Through feeble written verse
That even the barker lost his bark

Maybe someone told him
There is a poet next door
Who
Regardless of rage
Will never yell back
In ways known to canines
But in verse only
That neither man nor beast
Has patience
To contemplate nor endure

POEM - Possum, I Wish You Could Stay

We all wanted you to stay

Marsupial of our dreams

So young and curious

But your work is not here

And we had to evict you

Please take no offense

No, really, I understand

I'm sure the large bowl of cat food

Sitting there unguarded

Was a delicacy

Compared to your insect heavy diet

But that is what you do

I know

I read up and you

And it would have ended in tears

You do not have a long life ahead

I can't wish you many years of happiness

It is a sad truth that science doesn't understand

You seem perfectly fine 

Roaming and foraging 

Deep in the woods

And then you play dead

One last time

And it sticks

So, again, I wish you could stay

You were a lovely guest

Quiet and furtive

Kind to the cats

Easily captured

Though kind of a pig

But the internet said no

It is better this way

I released you in a good part of the forest

Same place I sent your brother yesterday

Sorry for the bumpy car ride

Please don't hurry back

POEMS - Holidays in Summer

From May to June I would dread
Any holiday morning
For most of my youth
A holiday meant dad was home
And if that day wasn't Sunday
It meant dad was in the yard
And if dad was in the yard, well
That meant the rest of us would be soon
And didn't he know it was our day off too
That this junk was for Saturdays
This was a Wednesday for cripes sake!
Holidays on Wednesdays are bonus time
Sleeping in
Being lazy
Eating junk food
Going to the movies
Swimming and more swimming
And not just cooling off in the pool
After mowing the backyard
Head first
Fully clothed
Like my lunatic father would
Like he enjoyed it
As if this was fun for him
I guess he believed he did like it
He seemed always willing
To sacrifice our holidays
In pursuit of his bad habit
Tackling one horrific project after another
Bathing in summer sweat
Conducting the gas powered symphonies
Of roaring yard machines
Smiling for most of it
Crazy old man
Probably suffering from heat stroke
Someone should get him some ice water

POEM: Juarez is Again

I was only introduced
To Juarez
After the violent past
When only the wounds remained
Deep scars
Already beginning to heal

It was a controlled encounter
Set rules
Restricted movements
My first treading
On foreign soil

The next visit my heart opened
Juarez was again
The traumatic left behind
As it has been many times
This people do not
Let a little war ruin things
Let a little corruption make them cynical
Let destruction be permanent
They rise up
Put things back together
Clean up the overturned tables
Start the ovens
Hang a sign over the door
And serve up the salsa and chips

This time I watch the flag furl
Red, white and green
Blown by the wind
Big enough to cover a stadium
Or the brightly lit star
That shines from the hills of El Paso
As if in answer
Proclaiming the pride of a people
This time I walk through the streets
Break bread at her tables
Breathe the air recently forbidden
Walk the streets and shops
Laugh with my amigos
At the shirt that reads
  "Made in USA
      From Mexican Parts"
My heart now also full
Of Mexican parts

POEM - My Father is the Ghost My Mother Lives With

This isn't some metaphor

A loveless marriage

Ships passing in the night

Some abandoned halls of an empty four chamber heart

My father is in fact deceased

He expired and is no more Encased 

In this mortal coil

But it is a decade and a half later

And I only think of him when I need to

Or when my mother is talking

Or on the anniversaries

Of his birth or his death

But my mother still sort of needs him

To be around

Make sure things are in order

Be a presence to fill a lonely void

Somehow

And she expects him to be there

And when she talks about the little signs

The signals he still gives her

I don't think of it dismissively 

As the quaint fantasies of an addled mind

No mater how much I want to

Because I know she believes they are parted

But not separated 

And she believes forever is real

And he did to

And we all believe in ghosts

That like to visit on an occasion

Like to whisper to the grandchildren

To tell mom to do the dishes

Because he always told her that

He is the ghost that she lives with

That checks on her now and then

Whispers to her as well

Little things to calm her nerves

Lets her catch a glimpse of him

Out of the corner of her eye

With a big smile on his face

That raises his eyebrows 

And makes his eyes twinkle mischievously 

Kids Are People

Dishwater blonde kid

My son from my first marriage

           From my only marriage

My youngest son from an ongoing marriage

And he doesn't always get this

             To sit in the front seat

             For a long drive

Into the mountains we go

Uncharacteristicly

EzP is able to stay entertained

Without a single screen

Turned on

                  Off but close at hand

In case this journey fails

Despite all the assurances

That it would be a blast

Backup is at the ready

                          But it stays put

We are headed to pick up a friend

And a stranger

It doesn't bother him

All worry is on me

I own it

There are questions that come with ownership. . . 

Will EzP behave?

       And be able to understand 

             The accents and the mannerisms 

                     Of these folks so far from home?

He can

When bored

Cause a ruckus

Have behavioral issues

Bug the ever living cuss out of me

It worked out
He behaved
Talked and engaged
Answered questions
Carried a conversation
Effortlessly understood
                   Maybe far better than I
Our guests

It was soccer
And youth
And simplicity
And play
And a mountain stream
Of rushing dancing water
      Chilled noisy waterfalls
              Blissful clear pools
Hummus and string cheese and Red Vines and smiles
     And smiles
          And smiles
               And smiles







             

POEM - Form vs. Function

I liked it until I knew better

And grudge is a strong word

But even to my 3rd grade mind

It inspired strong emotions

When I got it

I loved it

When I premiered it

I understood

Sadly

Where the design went wrong

The plastic Peanuts lunchbox

That I had proudly lugged to school

With the thermos full of milk

    And a PB&J

            And celery sticks

                  And the little metal pudding cup

Just laid there

         Wide open

              For all the world to see

Like my lunch was Exhibit A

And I tried

I tried every which way

To make the thing sit up

Like everyone else's

             Wonderful lunch sanctuary

A bit of privacy

In the micromanaged world

That is elementary school

But it didn't work

And I continued on

Exposing my culinary secrets

Each and every meal time

Unguarded

On display

Exposed

My lunchbox

A similar lunchbox exposing the design flaw

POEM - Hugs

Neurologists tell me

All this worrying

Causes activation in the insula, 

          Anterior cingulate, 

                   And dorsolateral prefrontal cortex

And to settle down my worrying circuits

I need a real good hug

That is some good science

But isn't that the way

That it takes an international team

Of psychoanalysts and neurologists

Working for years

With control groups

Double blind studies

Full brain scans

Intensive metadata analysis

Just to confirm what we all know

What we've known since we were infants

When you feel bad

A hug, most often, makes it better

An embrace of a loved one

Drives out the pain

Anguish can be squeezed away

Vaporized

        Forgotten

The dorsolateral prefrontal cortex 

Finally stops being so complicated

At the same time our knees falter

Our legs shake and collapse

The world is left to drop

From our portion of Atlas's shoulders

As we crumple in a relieved heap

Bouyed up only

By a simple hug

POEM - Gray

In the monochromatic twilight
Of a frozen morning commute
I blurry eyed and struggling
Fight to retain consciousness
Dancing through the radio dial
Wandering and searching frantically
For something in my key
That I can sing along to
Loudly
Energetically

In the pre-dawn office building
I sore muscled and uninspired
Take circuitous paths
Through darkened quarters
Just to avoid arriving too soon
At my lonely quiet office
Where I slump down
Apathetic
Lazy

It is gray
The day ahead
Half-lidded
Stopped time
Tangential
Distracted

Only the faces that enter
Snap me back from the brink
Of abysmal boredom
Lackluster enthusiasm
A distraction from my distractions
A welcome lifeline
From fellow humanity
Discussing the merits
Of the latest remake
The quality and richness
Of the latest indie release
The tones of the vinyl
Recently rotated across warm turntables

A little grace
In gray worlds
Golden tones
Wake slumbering ears
Monochrome dissolves
In technicolor conversation
Warmly
Richly

POEM - Where the Rain Falls

This winter we must have been on Venus

Waiting like school children

Trapped in the classroom

For sunshine that seems to never come

Even the slightest ray warms

Skin so damp it never dries

I have watched the rain fall

In many ways

On many different days

And I play a small game

Trying to predict where to place a thing

So that it will not get wet

Protect a shiny steel wrench

Or a powered drill

From the cemented permanence of rust

As it eats and freezes 

First black then red

Then a pock marked mixture of both

Slowly the hard metal flowers 

Bloom and wilt imperceptibly 

But I never guess right

Where the tears fall

When the heavens cry

And this rain makes sadness stay

Hangs heavy all around

First black then red

And I never can tell where the rain will fall

Where there is shelter from the storm

And what will bloom

In the rains of Venus

As we wait for a summer day

POEM - Balcony Morning

Across the way

I look down

On the 9^th floor balcony

Where each morning they sit

The aging husband and wife

He reads the paper

Sips coffee

Swaddled in his white robes

She is dressed more brightly

And each morning he is there

The dutifully son

Caring for her

She is old

With bones so sore

Which he massages and moves

Lifting her arm this way and that

Helping to keep the stiffness away

Communing with his beloved matriarch

In the dawning warmth

Helping her to still be her

She must move

Much more than the old man

Next he will comb her flowing black hair

She can no longer comb for so long

This ritual continues

For most of the morning

As the son tirelessly cares for her

Father sits and reads

Comments about news and such

Asks for a refill, and another

Remains until the heat is too much

Only to relocate inside

To wait again

As she cooks the midday meal

Forgotten in the Middle

I am writing this on a Thursday

Or maybe a Friday 

Because I forgot

Because everyone forgets the middle child

It was Wednesday the holiday was

Middle Child Day

But

As I've said

Of course 

I forgot

And it was my middle child

Reminding me of it

Telling the joke

But she wasn't laughing

And the big sad lip

And the look

Telling me

She was not

In any way 

Amused

But that middle child

Well, they know they are forgotten

Mostly because

We all know

They will make sure

We all know

If we ever forget 

So we don't try to remember

Cuz they will

Make sure

We all know

So, I finally got around to this

Because I forgot 

But the middle child didn't

And she reminded me

Repeatedly 

And alright already

I finished it

I know, I know

I did it again

Sorry!

POEM - Breakfast Date

I didn't make work a priority

On a day I probably should have

But it was pay day morning

After a long dry spell

With too many bills

And no liquid assets

And I just needed

       We both just needed

A breakfast date

To help us face the day

Help us know the feeling

Of a little freedom

And a little time without kids

And you know how much we both love

The way they play 80s music

In the corner booth

So out of place

In this small country town

Where the old men congregate

Over biscuits and gravy

And a senior coffee with free refills

To speak in accents 

Only they can understand

Somehow it makes "Purple Rain" 

An even better song

Makes us smile and smirk

Eating our chicken biscuits

Sucking down diet cola

Watching the dawn change the world

My Indian Friends

The programmer from Bangalore

Who flew to Cali every year 

And always went back through Qatar

Because his parents worked for the government

Was a good omen

He was kind and informative 

And slept for 12 of the 14 hours 

From Dallas to Doha

I had to wake him up

He missed breakfast

But he would see family soon

In DOH it was clean and new 

I got to wait in the business lounge

Much nicer than the one in DFW

And much lonelier

But I was on my way soon

To see my Indian friends

The ones I had spoken to

Every other week

For several months

Only they didn't know I was scared

I was coming alone

And I had picked the wrong hotel

And I hoped Babu would be at the airport

Cause I wouldn't know how to say

Take me to the Ramada

It is on an island

In the backwater

Close to the ocean

At least I think it is

My new friends think I'm the boss

That I know what I am doing

And they are afraid I am as American as I look

So they play it safe

Take me to the normal restaurants

Avoid the real food

The stuff they eat every day

Until the third day

But they still hedge their bets

Anoop is hesitant

Even as we are paying

He shows me how to get the big metal tray

Fill it with rice

Scoop on the different curries

Get a cup for the curd

Get a cup for the sauce

Grab a salt cured chili

And two Dixie cups of dessert

Head to the table

And dig in with our hands

He brings utensils the first day

And the second

Before he doesn't bother

Before he sees I love it

Almost as much as he does

We finish all smiles

And Anoop bobbles his head

In encouragement

In the Karala way

POEM - Omelette Set to Stun

I've written about eggs

Often and fondly

The crack and the sizzle and the yum

Or the cool and smooth

Of hard-boiled perfection

But they can be so much more

With a little imagination

Perspiration and creation

As onions and tomatoes

Spinach and cheese

Grill in the buttery slosh

Covered in salt and jalapenos

Heating up and mixing

In delightfully indecent ways

From where I stand

I inhale

Breathe deep 

As I beat the vicious circular rhythm

Of fork against the porcelain bowl

Torturing the slimy insides

Of the shells that lay shattered in the trash

Unblinkingly I continue

Soaked in the delightful aroma

Then it is time

To release the yellow sea

Of protein rich fluids

To engulf the savory stew

Sweating it out in their cast iron prison

I only can release them

Once they emerge 

Coated in a delightful robe

All are transfigured

Beyond the sum 

Of such disparate parts

A greater new creature

Arises from the fires

A delicious phoenix

Named omelette

POEM - Hard to be Good in Church

I come from an old school

And a history seeped in religion

My culture is less

Country of origin

Than it is 

Church of membership

I've been here all along

Just like my father 

And his father 

And his father

And maybe a few more

And it gets hard to be good

I'm not implying any mortal sin

It just gets hard to behave

In an acceptable way

One would expect

A middle-aged

Father of five

To behave

Sequestered 

In the pews

As I am

And organ music triggers this odd response

A desire to succumb

To a power supreme

That encourages me

Forcibly

To nod my head

But I have gotten better about it

Barely ever drool anymore

But I have to do something

And I have to distract my youngest

Or he'll kick and squirm

And drive someone crazy

And isn't it cool

All the weird designs

The gum makes 

That I squished between the folds of the program

And then gently pulled back apart

I know church is not the place

For artistic experiment

But it looks so cool

And he is entertained

And my head hasn't nodded once