Tossed around on rough hewn swells,
Buffeted then pitched by gale force winds,
Marking time against sun’s eternal fade,
I watch horizons slip away. Back to reality...well, maybe not. I've my eye on something new thanks to the ability to dream.
Well, it’s here. The audiences, who,
Unsuspecting, sit perched, waiting
to see that thing–
that incredible power–
that magical,
ethereal,
elusive dragon of talent
that will singe them and squeeze them
with its incredible tail until their lungs
release that semi-audible
gasp of what must come from within,
the sound of joy and pain and depth
that resonates well within the universal being,
resounding Whitman’s universal “yawp” from the balconies
of cultured man. And then they’ll cry (tomorrow, too),
and have to see it again. And you haven’t even made them
laugh yet. Just wait until that happens!
Oh, perhaps they will love you more than
I do, but I doubt it. You see, they’ll watch and feel the awe,
And you’re acting. I watch you grow;
and acting is nothing compared to the you
I know.
Who said you deserve it? Your mother?
Who said you don’t need to be accountable?
Your friend?
Who said you’ve worked hard enough? You?
Don’t give me that, child.
You are not entitled.
You are not better than.
You are not entitled.
Take a trip around the world
And see what you are entitled to–
You are entitled to help your neighbor,
feed the hungry, love the unloved.
You are entitled to fulfilling your
human birthright–
You are entitled to show someone else
that it is better to be nice
than entitled.
My enemy Coincidence popped in on me today
And reminded me that I love you
more than I have told you lately
more than I can tell you now
more than you can understand
Because the love I have for you
Rallies round my shoulders,
Caresses my neck, my arms, my back,
With fingers stroking my hair as tenderly as
it fingers the velvet, satin-silky petals of morning’s first flower,
or heating my wounded heart like the blood-red,
Mediterranean sun.
And all because Coincidence found me
walking alone down a child’s path,
across Hawthorne Boulevard.
Why do I hate that word?
Don’t answer; do you know what
rhetorical means?
it doesn’t matter. I do like beginnings,
and that is where the rub is–
because the potential is unknown;
the power to create is everywhere.
“Come along on this journey, ” or
“Would you like to learn something new?”
Potential lives here first.
Maybe magician’s smoke obscures
the view. I can see right through.
Yet, humans have more than potential.
They have gifts. They have birthrights.
The have capacities of growth immeasurable.
They can affect the whole world.
Did you hear that?
The whole world.
And you wouldn’t want to cheat the world,
would you?
She might haunt you forever if you try.
Flying, leaping, capes and tights,
what is it about these yahoos that
makes it all right
for men to dress like Baryshnikov
and hide their true identities?
And all the while…
Batman fell in love with Lois Lane
But didn’t tell Superman
For fear of reprisal…
I met a kid today, one I’ve met before,
but I learned something about him
That I should have known, for sure.
See, he’s a special boy, one who stands out
among the crowd.
A boy who thinks he’s worth something-
A boy who speaks so loud, assured of who he is
knows who’s who as well.
I should have guessed before
‘Cuz he knew the code so well–
He spoke his mind, he held his ground,
He talked with conviction, with know-how.
Where have I seen this type of boy?
Not the average Joe, for sure.
Oh yes, that’s it; it was the time….
He makes me so darn proud.
The world is safe, at least for now
If one as he accepts the crown.
Where are your papers? Why are you here?
What are you doing to provide your own fare?
What’s that you’re eating? My that looks strange.
Oh, that’s quite good; may I invite the exchange?
Peanut butter and jelly I’ll offer up,
What is that red and green leafy stuff?
A little kimchee, or so you say….
What else can we learn about today?
“I don’t have the papers, or
the language I need to stay in the country
with hopes to succeed.
Can you help me progress,
Can you make me feel good?”
“Come on teacher, my life will not wait.
You said you would be there; I’m here at the gate.”
Come to me child, I’ll walk with you through
The process of learning, the becoming of you.
To walk the yard’s perimeter,
Scout the final place of rest–
Copy down the name of him
Who came before my quest.
I wonder what he did at night.
Were his dreams at all like mine?
Did he imagine all the possibilities
Awaiting in the coming time?
Did he long for trips to Sunset Beach,
Bookstore browsings, or applet treats?
Did tomorrow hold the promise
of another love or two?
Is it enough to read his name
and think about his life?
I wonder, did he know I’d come–
Is he here, but not inside?
I’ll jot his name into my book
And find his records, too
And seal for him his family fast
And hope to meet him soon.
So here’s what “present” meant today:
I practically wailed at the film festival
I almost ran away to northern Italy with Duse,
I felt the pain of my little one
Who so often sits at home and misses me.
I think of students in almost every hour
And my spouse, he’s in such disarray—
He fills my heart, then beats me down
On this and almost every day—
And I drove around for an hour
When I should have gone straight home:
I wanted to be alone and think for now
About what I have and really love,
Like him, and kin, and work–
About where the pain comes from,
And try to figure out which key
Of joy turns the locket heart
For good.
He tossed a coin and hopped around
then sat down cross-legged at the curb
He taunted all the passerbys with
talk that seemed a bit absurd,
“Have you seen my little sister,
or my golden dog, Monsieur?
Do you have time to spare a dime
for the five magic tricks of mine?”
A woman stopped and looked around
Then snuck a dollar in his shoe,
and walked away with just a smile
“This,” dear boy, “is worth my life.”
Turn and turn and turn
back up and hit the wall
Light the switch on the robot’s head
and leave her fear behind.
Mechanical men and maniacal
moments
Leave the girl unprepared for the fog
of brutal wrath
of brutal words
of robotic arms with crashing
gears
Crush the girl
when she least
expects it
You told me something,
I did not hear…
What?
Can you say that again?
Oh, no. That is not what you meant.
is it?
It is?
Oh, gads. Are you
sure?
Can we talk about that?
What do you mean, you already know?
Do you really know?
Have you thought about it deeply,
or are you just being rebellious?
I know, I know, you don’t want
to talk about it.
You don’t want to what?
But do you understand?
How could you,
you’re not even
listening?
What am I thinking? Am I thinking?
Who have I said that to before?
There must be something I can do
to help me regain my concentration.
All I want to do is be irresponsible;
throw caution to the hurricane force winds,
live a little less planned, a little more freely.
Will that ever happen?
What would happen if I did that?
Would the world end?
Would I be a bad person?
How irresponsible can I be before someone really will care?
Stop checking your phone, the email, the snail mail–
She’s gone.
There’s no way to tell you in soft, safer ways
She’s gone.
Dead, buried.
So now every loss seems
monumental.
Every silence deafening.
All the nice words have been said
All the friends gone away
All the caring,
exhausted
And here I sit
lost, waiting for
nothing.
Once and still, the verb “to impress”
meant something like to force into service–
to be drafted by a larger body,
to seize or take hold–
and today still he impresses me
with his wit, his grace, his iron arm–
I am impressed to death.
And the other one, he impressed me, too
With his snarky tongue, his bitter
Retort about his inner inadequacy,
His sheer willingness to slap me down,
And laugh about it after.
And then along came another
whose impression felt sublime
As if God himself had intervened
Leaving me not alone under weight
of marble slabs of “forgive me”s but
imbued with light and love and “I’ll
talk to you tomorrow. Sleep good’s–
Because he saved the well for me,
And I drink from it whenever I can.
Tonight I wish for love from you
For love for you, and you, and you.
I wish for you love and you I wish
for,
too.
And love is not a hurtful thing.
Although it hurts sometimes,
Especially when we take a risk,
Especially when we’re blind
to words disguised as love, and kind,
but acts more like lust or need or slime.
I loved you once, and you
loved me…or was I just
the Giving Tree?
He’ll send a note disguised as love
But hope she’ll not sense the irony
of his notes to the “silly girl”
who deserved, she thought,
his love.
If "love is like a red, red rose," then what is love that's like a faded one?
Have you ever seen a movie or
TV show or sidewalk p.d.a.
that you really hadn’t seen before
at least a dozen times, I’d say?
You’ve seen the one where Batman wins?
Where Lois gets Superman?
Where Beaver tells a little lie
Or Gilligan causes quite a spin?
Have you ever seen the girl get dumped
Or the boy lose all his charm?
Or what about the nosy broad
Or guy who hits too hard?
Perhaps you know the simple
script where good surpasses bad?
But have you seen the other one–
when the good guy just gets had?
Of course, there’s G.I. Joe and Jane
and Larry, Curly, Mo,
And modern families tell the tales
of plot line so and so.
All our lives have simple truths
and tales that are retold.
It’s how we live and who we love
That make them not grow old.
If I could list my life’s great loves,
I’d have to praise your powers,
“You are the one director’s cut
that I could watch for hours.”
He hiked the hills of Hollywood
And when he reached the sign,
He pulled down his trousers to the knee
And pooped beneath the Y.
He hustled to the freeway then
And caught a cab to school
But when he reached the classroom door
He had to poop there, too.
No one knew what made him
Poop so often and so much
But deep inside, poor Billy knew
‘Twas caused by fealty’s touch
Poor Billy, often thought this thought:
To love the world meant that he could not
Poop where the poop belongs–
He had to poop on everything
His poop was like his song….
“I am a little poopy boy who wants to
sail the seas; I’ll capture
love and pirate girls and poop
where e’r I please.”Watch where you step...
Haphazardly, we let our minds
Crawl into spaces even exterminators
Avoid-dark, damp, reeking sewers
Within concocted realities.
Or
Willy-nilly, fantastical realms
Where superpowers save our love,
Our town, our world from the greedy
Clutches of the Joker, the tea party, or
Hairy-legged spiders that long to
Dismember us from ourselves
Or
Apathetically, boredom’s fits and spurts
Tease our minds into uncanny corners
Where exit routes vanish and thoughts
Of exotic travel, even perilous forays
Into uncharted, pirate infested seas
(oh please, let there be pirates)
steal away our sanity
Then finally,
The phone rings or the bird shrills
And reality pipes up
And we take a pill to sleep
Because the heartache is still
Too much.
To sleep, perchance to dream, ay, there's the rub; for in that sleep... what dreams may come
I’ve only got a second to buckle
down and write–
So, I’ll tell you now, I have no
thought to pick that nasty fight.
Say what you will, I have no doubt
You’d win the knock down fest-
But what is won, that Pyrrhic prize
Is worth what’s lost at best?
If you fight dirty like mob boss #1 or #2,
like De Niro or Marlon Brando,
or the dad-gum terrorists,
Then you win hands down, I will not fight
I have no need to play-
have fun with you– yourself,
I’ll not engage today.
“I have never been this happy,”
burped the tadpole to the fry.
“Of course, you know, you little squirt,
I have no need to lie. I happened on
a lily pad while swimming on my way
and sure as tootin’ it’s just the one
I hope to own someday.”
“That made you happy?” said the little fish,
“You really felt joy then?”
“Of course, you teeny, tiny trout;
my ambitions never end.”
“But think about the journey, frog;
what is it that you seek,
perhaps you’ll miss the journey, friend–
perhaps the end will reek?”
“Worry not, you fish egg fool,
I seek the prize, for sure.
Life is way too short for this,
I’ll race you to that pool.”
“I’d rather linger just awhile,
there’s lots to do here, too.
Perhaps you’ll find some value
after growing a leg or two–”
Overrated, underrated, and sometimes
disregarded in the name of sparing
your feelings
Keeps me true to myself
And oddly true to you.
If I don’t tell you plainly
exactly what I see, then we
head directly down the dark
path of deathly insecurity
and jealousy and fantasy
and worlds that cease to be.
And if I tell you plainly
what eats me up inside,
Do you have an obligation
to answer–, or, at least, deny?
Here’s the truth from
My narrow vantage point:
You came into my world
And now it’s out of joint–
I cannot reverse its tipping
I cannot slow down the train
Just leave me ’til tomorrow
And I’ll be whole again–
Otherwise, I’ll be dead
And it won’t matter either way.
Imperative that you grow
quickly enough to be at the open window
exactly when the sun shines
upon that beautiful you-ness
upon that magnificent mountain
of youth’s eternal dew.
And as brilliant sun rises, and
freshness of morning scent
dances around the spring of your life,
remember the mighty redwood
on the river bank of now
watching, bending, whispering
a little melody of love
to soothe you on your way.
Follow your heart in growing
follow you heart in song
follow your heart forever
it’s unlikely to lead you wrong.
So learn yourself well, dear one,
learn yourself well. Only you will stand
against the rise of current, wind, and wrong.
I’ll be there, in one form or another
to cheer you on.
I'll stand beside you as you grow; you can catch me when I fall.
Fly me to the moon, or so the song says
And once I board the ship
I’ll be free. And Kennedy did not have this
in mind when he said we’d travel space–
just put me out of this misery–
find me a better place.
If love is knowable, then so must be hate
And with that a thousand days of get me outta heres,
untie me nows, and I must undo these fates.
So why the promises, why the pain
when all I feel is rich disdain?
If I could shout to the world right now,
if I could see it through-
I’d screw that Lady Macbeth courage
Right through my own heart true.
I hate the fact that I am weak
That what I feel doesn’t make my feet
walk the plank a thousand times
or even once for sure.
I’ve done what I thought all promises meant,
I’ve stuck through all the thick and thin
and then, of course, there were the slurs,
and gabs, and stabs, and painful words
I’ve stuck through nights that others thought
were fun, and light, living hell, but not
the happy daytime reverie, so why’d I do that?
Why indeed?
It’s all because
I thought it meant something.
But now, I realize that mold is what some are
and when it’s time to call it quits, I’ll find the
door somehow. You think that doormats
don’t have spine; well, press me now
and I’ll show you mine.
It’s about damn time.
Words, millions of them, have
attempted to describe, create, pine for
love.
Indefinable though it be, universal smiles
acknowledge it, hearts break when it departs
tears flow at both ends of its spectrum
While I appreciate your worry,
(concern over my well being),
Please don’t saddle me with doubts
or fears of what might not.
I thank you for my being, I thank you
for the care; I thank you for (no matter what)
or mostly bring there;
but your fears are not my worry, I cannot
stop for them
My truest north lies straight ahead;
What you pardon are not sins.
My hunger for your acceptance
but not exactly love,
nonetheless compels me
to make you somewhat happy;
at least, a little proud.
Confuse me with the others
who chose a safer route–forget
that I’m your child–
forget that I am free.
I’ll show you what I’m made of–
You’ll see
In the eyes of men and angels the great ones shine;
not because they don’t have flesh and blood,
but rather, they seize the moment and climb
Just a little bit faster, or farther, or truer. or
Perhaps just because their inspiration, newer.
And it doesn’t matter the field where they toil
Science, mathematics, art history, or soil–
An actor or singer or barber or cook,
The great ones leap forward neglecting to look
down or around or at neighbors or fiends
They just power through to glorious ends.
If greatness defines one then what would we see
In textbooks for children to grow up and be?
The giver, the grower, the leader, all three?
Greatness begins when the leaps made are free
of have-tos and musts and you-owe-it-to-mes.
The only oblige that stands in the fray is the one
That demands that the self lead the way.
Greatness requires a wee little more
That must be the reason the great ones explore.
They dig deep, stand tall, endure to the end
They model behavior, they make me
sick.
haha, not really. I just tire of the rhyme. Some greatness is simply beautful.
I went to the store to buy a pickle
But who would have guessed I’d be short a nickle
When out of the blue, a stellar jay chimed,
“I’ll loan you a nickle, or even a dime.”
Thank goodness for what silly, odd creatures, do say
They remind us so oft of the whimsical days,
of Dr. Seuss, Mad Hatter, or Puffenstuff lore
And each small reminder beats back childhood’s gore
For some folks are good, despite what they say–
some folks are kind and treat others that way
So the nice little offer from Stellar bird jay,
Redeems the good hearted, hip, hip hooray!
All threaded together like socks darned
with string, the stories keep pulling
on my hardened heart strings
And each grows in import and pathos
and more; till the horse runs away
and the rest becomes lore.
Stop making me care with your camera
and score–stop the characterization
stop the color and gore
Just ride out from nowhere and find
your lost Joey–before you lose
sight of the reason for story:
and forget that the person
you save is ___________ ?
(not me).
It’s the craziest thing that
you think I don’t know
that you cover your tracks
and you let the wind blow
When just yesterday morning
you gave it away, that the thing
that you’re doing will not go away
And I know the secret, it’s not very
rare, to have what you’re doing
impregnate the air
with little, squirrel giblets all boiled
or stewed, all wrapped up with lying
and served in fondue.
He buried the evidence while it was hot, and I knew it.
What a mind must there be in that bivalve sphere
With tin metal brains,clinking steel ears–
Little boy lost in some adult fears.
Where is his mother? What, are those tears?
And what could it be that caused love to hurt
A million rejections or one single spurt–one oil
Can greasing, one rusty ole turn
One simple rejection, one’s life work to earn?
If only the lonely had outlets as much
Like Robot and Oyster and James boys,
and such,
“the girl-who-turned-into-a-bed” would no longer
be touched: not by the narrator,the lover,
or whomever the crush–she’d sleep just fine
with her pillow soft hair
And dream of her heart left unfettered,
just spared
of all the injustices that men do inflict
with each little hug, with each little
prick
If that mind appeared truly to the rest of the world
It would certainly be something that most
thought absurd–
But suffice it to say, the man has his way
Of making the most of his wounds
and his days.
If our little creatures crawl out from our dust
Imagine the horror, the demons, the lust
that would swallow up children and spit out the bones
and make for Tim Burton just another night’s prose.
Tie me down with Burton rope; let Jack Sparrow save me 😛
It occurs to me that in this life
Only a handful of moments are worth
remembering. And today was one–
It was an ordinary day, with ordinary work
and people I know came and went
in ordinary ways. When out of nowhere,
a thought trickled through my core–
I have and will never pass this way
again. And looking round at the
ordinary view, things and people
became extraordinary.
See what happens when I’m with you?
Thanks for making the view worth sticking
around for a little longer.
I think I know some happiness
When chats pop up unannounced
Between a friend and pal of mine
Who shares some likes and silly things
It’s just enough to dull the ache
of those more tortured hours
When sleep evades and candles fade
And moonlight shades the view.
She can’t remember a time
When she didn’t want to
Make other people happy, proud
Follow a true north
Do better, constantly do better
Yet she failed. She failed utterly,
Miserably, never thought that
Helping one might mean
Causing harm to another
And then last year happened
And everything flipped on
Its head
And lovely child deserves
More.
A family deserves better.
Strip pretenses; stop judgments.
Spoken truths reveal this:
Vitriol, bitter jealousy and continual
Goodness-crushing destroy her intent
To build a meaningful life with
Someone who loved her
And needed her,
But drains her of joy.
Survival only remains
Like poverty when it robs souls of ambition
So, constant belittling steals belief
In her own soul. Nay saying negativity
That peels each layer of skin back
Until raw, broken redness cries
Mercy,
And she seeks solace in those
Who know nothing of her lonely life
Her battle to smile
Her need to be connected to kindness
And love.
Until finally, all moments—
life overseas, college years,
and faith guided days of youth
Become memories that, like
Lightening striking the waters of
Lake Powell while she and her lover
Escape the rented aluminum skiff
To hide beneath the hieroglyphic
rock outcroppings, singe her soul
reminding her of a joy that cannot be found
here and now.
And so, as so goes—she’s really going—
She hopes the better parts of her life
Shine through
And she hopes no one is angry
Nor bothered by her departure—
Because if they are, they did
Not understand that she had really wanted
to live a good life, but she didn’t
do that very well—Not a self-pitying
thought—she would despise that
attribution; but rather
an imposter coming clean.
She fell in love with her work,
She fell in love with her kids,
She fell in love with her man,
She fell in love with the words.
And then, she crashed into something
She could not control.
And she stopped herself
Before it stopped her.
And catch -22 exists. This is what happened. Saved only to perish.
What happened that tulips bloom
everywhere but here? Pastel pink,
Cherry red, Midnight purple, too
Tulips blooming everywhere.
Yellow tulips, the most beautiful,
Stand erect soaking sunlight down their
virile stocks, taunting less beautiful
flowers without knowing that their
shadows block the warmth, steal
light, and greedily grab every
ounce of goodness away from admiring
bulb sprouts.
Bury me beneath
New Zealand’s rocky shore.
Bury me, bury me,
Bury me.
It comes from my heart
or another, kinder place–
Words of care and love.
I tell you my truth so
you can find yours.
I tell you so that
judgment remains yours,
controlled the way
it will always need to be
for someone in your shoes
I tell you because I love
(and cherish) you. That’s right.
I do.
And love needs to say strange things
sometimes. I hope
it comes across,
I hope I say it right.
I hope you hear words
guided by that other, higher
light.
Because there are other,
less cautionary tales
about Hamlet and you,
Marlon and Johnny,
learning, growing, loving
or even poop,
That enrich (or disgust) us each indeed.
(Just ask Garcia Lorca–he’s
over there with Ginsberg
and Whitman on the third isle.)
I want to be removed from the
horrific job of sharing bad news
I want to not tell a friend
the hard truth that one is gone
I want to see them all in memory’s
eternal spring where
cares meant deciding who would drive that day
or whether Ben would cause Mr. Frizzel
to think we were raucous children
who could not tell an acid from a base
I want to tell the whole wide world that
life is short so make it good
and if that cliche is trite,
then what is the alternative?
If I could change my place with him
I’d offer up the dime–or cell phone line
to share the good news of another time
It makes me silly grateful for the plan
I know’s in place
Eternal life with those we love and
friends’ abounding grace.
I heard him say it,
just one time–
How one moment of crazy courage can change a life
And for whatever reason, I believed him
And leaped with two determined feet
into the fray.
And life has been so much better
And love has been so much better
And tomorrow is no more beautiful
than today.
And so I look around and find you
sitting there unfettered to the social mores
And political correctness of today’s world,
a lighthouse in the mist of time
a beacon in my eye,
And I can’t stop staring
Because that simple courageous act
Altered my world forever.
And that would not have happened
without you.
Three bigots, four.
What will it take to even the score?
Five racists, six sexists,
seven homophobics more
under the guise of making sure
History remains 18th century pure?
I think I need to calm down a bit
I think I need to scream
I think I need to wield an axe
Or pen or keyboard screen
Beware of those who claim they’re free
of bias, hate, or bigotry
We have it, all, to some degree
But civilized enough to see
our faults lie, every one
in ways we can, with work overcome
so that we grow in honor some
It’s worth it just to face our faults
large or ugly though they be–
If I were not the one I know,
I’d criticize the lot.
But that other kind, that overt
fraud, who claims no judgement false
beware of one who thinks he’s
swell–he’s sometimes worse, or not.
I would have spoken up today
But something stopped me, true.
It was that inner voice that said–
Be careful what you spew.
One bad word is not worth the strife
But truth is usually true.
So all I say to the bigot friend is,
“May I have a word with you?”
Word Play 