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Saturday, August 05, 2017

Gratitude

You were good for me.
Good to me.
Because we ended
I didn't get the chance
to say a simple thank you.

You changed me.
Mostly for the good;
some brokenness too.
And for both
I give you gratitude.

The beauty of your body
lingers in my mind.
The taste of your love
is still bittersweet
on my tongue.

I harbor great sadness
that we went our
separate ways.
I deeply regret that
I could not make it work.

I look forward
to the time
when it is pleasant
to remember you.
But right now
it still hurts.

For all of it
I am grateful
and would not
have it any
other way.

Even though
I lost you
you were
the answer
to prayers
that I prayed.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Monday, July 24, 2017

Last First Date (Tolkein's Dragon)

I wanted to be
your last first date

Unfortunately that
was not our fate

I am disappointed
that I could not
give you what
you needed

I am jealous that
my love with you
was so rapidly
succeeded

Still I wish
for you all
the love you
can imagine

May your
new love soar
as high as
Tolkein's dragon

May you
ever have
all the love that
you deserve

And may your
love be always
a glad and
happy verse

Forever shall
I carry a
deeply selfish
sorrow

That I could not
build with you
a more promising
tomorrow


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Saturday, July 22, 2017

The Poet's Soul

The poet's soul
is a curious thing,
sometimes cries,
sometimes sings.

At times a quivering
emotional jello,
others a loud
rage-filled bellow.

As soft as the down
of a new-hatched bird,
as sharp as the blade
of a samurai sword.

Innocent and child-like
in matters of the world,
crafty and cunning
in love's torrid whorl.

The poet's soul
is both gift and curse,
for we who paint life
in rhyme and verse.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Thursday, July 20, 2017

Mi Casa No Casa

Biracial at birth
Image copyright Positive.News.
back in the day,
back when it hurt,
a half-Mexican stray.

Not quite white,
not quite brown,
quasi-colored skin
with no proper noun.

Mi casa no casa,
I stood in between,
no hablo espanol,
no tengo a quien.

Never sure where I fit,
which culture to embrace,
getting by on my wits,
no race, no face, no space.

Mi casa no casa,
I had no place to go,
I blazed the trail I made,
and made my way alone.

Today it is different,
mixed is the new norm,
part this, part that,
new boxes on forms.

We of mixed colors
are taking the world,
for love has no borders,
and hair has more curls.



Mi casa no casa.
May that die with me.
Todos una raza,
el mundo nuevo esta aqui.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017



Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Tombstones

She asked to meet my family,
so I took her to the cemetery.

I introduced her to the tombstones
of my mother and father,
brother, sister, sister-in-law.

I explained that half of my family is there,
so this is where half of my heart lies,
languishing in full blown eternity,
family memories moldering in the grave.

The graveyard was cold and snowy,
a fitting scene for a January day,
the nearby road buzzed with traffic,
overhead the sky was ashen gray.

We lingered not long.
It takes but little time
to commune with loved ones
who died and left you behind.

I knew that day
she and I would not last
for she had no experience
of family who have passed.

She could not fathom
the finality of family death,
had no sympathy or patience
for the graveyard's final rest.

She can never understand
until it is her turn to know
how half your heart can lie buried
under bitter cold wet snow.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017

Monday, July 17, 2017

Innocent Love

Photo copyright Jill Atkinson, 2017
I remember innocent love,
the kind that had no questions.

Love that shone in our faces,
put the light of life in our eyes.

I remember being happy
over ice cream and a new toy.

When friendship came easy,
and trust was freely given.

I remember summer nights,
warm breezes, firefly chases.

Hot days of roaming the woods
looking for poor kid adventures.

I remember when smiles were genuine,
and lies were a terrible sin to commit.

And many days of holding hands
giving big hugs and doing small favors.

I remember innocent love
when I see my granddaughter smile.

When I hear her laughter
and watch her play.

I remember hope when
she says she loves me, too.

The unmitigated truth in her face
lightens my heavy old soul.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017

Friday, July 14, 2017

Love Poems

Nobody loves
love poems
anymore

Who has the
time to care?

The demands of
work, children
family and friends
make romance seem
old-fashioned
perhaps even a
waste of time

We can't even be
bothered much to
meet anymore
preferring our dates
to be mobile
express and if
possible online

But I gave you
my time
my poetry
my attention
and my care
whatever else my foibles
if you needed me I was there

Yes, words are cheap
and love is hard to define
in poetry that most often
can't be coaxed to even rhyme

Still, I gave you my words
my heart and very soul
to say in worn out language
the things that can't be told

It wasn't enough
You found another
less poetic sort

Because nobody loves
love poems
anymore


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017





Monday, July 10, 2017

Love I've Thrown Away

You will always be
my worst regret
and best memory

The hole in my heart
where you once lived
may tear me apart

The words that I write
cannot redress
the loss of your light

You gave me so much
the best of love
your soft healing touch

Allow me to say
you were the best
love I've thrown away


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017



Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Now

The word now is a powerful and mysterious word.
It can be used as either a noun, or a verb.
The instant I tell you that now has arrived,
It will have flashed quickly past both of our eyes.
Every new moment renews now anew.
No way to stop it, rewind or review.
Now has us all in its metaphysical spell.
The ever flowing present never has failed.
Time goes on forever, as does the now.
As life ever endeavors to slow it all down.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Thursday, June 15, 2017

Broke Down Beat Up Heart



My beat up heart
is a rusty old car
worn out brakes
needs new tires
doors won't open
except from outside
windows rolled down
handles broken inside

My beat up heart
had too many drivers
grinding down gears
crash cart survivors
drove me into a ditch
left me without a hitch

Broken down old beater
the kind you can't trust very far
Only thing good is the heater
and the engine still purrs

Crappy rusted out old wreck
still going and stubborn as heck
Perhaps I should consider
installing a taxi cab meter
onto my old broken down
beat up heart


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017




Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Walmart Parking Lot Life and Death Drama

I stopped at Walmart after work yesterday to pick up a few things. For whatever reason, most Walmart parking lots in Oklahoma seem to be a popular gathering spot for Grackles, those shiny black birds with long tails and little red eyes that aggressively stare you down as you walk past. "What'chew lookin' at?" it seems like they are saying.

As I was loading my items into the back of my vehicle, I noticed a movement zipping from underneath my truck to the one right next to it. Then a grackle went hopping along the same path. I turned to see what was going on, and just then a tiny, brown, desperate little mouse came running right toward me, with the grackle in hot pursuit. The bird would grab the mouse by its tail and yank upward, like it was trying to flip the mouse into the air. I could tell the mouse was tired and wounded. It paused between my shoes, looking up at me for an instant, like it was asking for help. I raised my shoe and kicked at the bird. It flitted backward, and looked at me with an indignant glare. The mouse ran back under my truck. The bird gave me a wide circle before going back to the chase.

In that moment, my sympathy was with the mouse. There have been days lately when I swear I feel just like that hapless little rodent. I wanted to help, but couldn't imagine myself running around in dress clothes, chasing a bird and a mouse through a Walmart parking lot. Logically, I knew that I was only watching nature play itself out; there is nothing inherently evil or wrong in the drama between predator and prey. Still, I wondered if God ever feels the way I did in that moment, watching we humans go about the business of shooting, stabbing and otherwise killing each other, often saying we are acting on His behalf?

The mouse ran along the curb, looking for a place to make its escape. The bird kept pestering and pecking, and I knew soon the chase would end. Not knowing what else to do, I got into my truck and started the engine. I swear I saw the bird raise a feather at me as I turned out of the parking lot. I found myself hoping the bird would choke on a mouse bone.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Wondrous Spaces

Grand Canyon from Navajo Overlook -- © 2015 Richard R. Barron

Our world is filled
with wondrous spaces,
magical places
that demonstrate
just how small we are
in the scheme of things.

Without hands or eyes
nature paints a beautiful sky,
a breathtaking landscape,
and humanity stands in awe,
feeling at once grand,
yet incredibly small.

Mountain ranges bounded
by oceans endless,
space full rounded
by bright stars limitless,
this world but a speck
floating in infinite time,
a pool of deep dark forever.

The poet teaches
W.B. preaches we can 
hold infinity in our hands;
that our vision is limited 
only by the blinders on our brains.

Open vistas, massive geologic structures,
perspectives from a mountainside,
all expand our presence in the world,
make us yearn for wilder days of yore,
when we lived a harder life,
and loved the land
like a husband loves a bride.

Wondrous spaces are sacred places,
deserving of our devotion and love.
They enrapture and bind us,
beckon and remind us
of a grander presence
that can only be described
as coming from above.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Monday, June 12, 2017

The Illiterati

They revel in their bliss;
happy, they, who hiss
at the educated masses,
eager to burn books into ashes.

The strong arms of stronger men,
they threaten violence just to win,
unwitting tools of the upper classes,
misinformed fools showing their asses.

The illiterati take pride in not knowing
how much they do not know;
noisily amplify the lies flowing
from crazy like a fox TV news shows.

Have never known the American dream,
they invest their truth in alt-right Internet memes,
and while claiming to know the founder's intentions,
vote to reduce their own hard-earned pensions.

They are terrified of the terror they think will unfold,
having swallowed most of the racist lies they were told,
and so rally to drive foreigners out of this land,
believing themselves to be God's helping hand.

There is no reaching the illiterati,
there is no cure for this cancerous rotting
that blinds the minds of those such as these,
who willfully lock themselves into cells with no keys.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Campbell's Monomyth

Joseph Campbell taught us to look beyond the particulars of any given mythology or religious tradition, and to instead consider the universality they might contain. He demonstrated that there is a basic skeletal structure of most mythologies, particularly those that that he designated as "hero myths." In his book The Hero with A Thousand Faces, first published in 1949 (!) and still available in print today, he examines the hero's journey, and establishes his theory of the monomyth. The monomyth is the skeleton upon which hangs the flesh of any given hero myth.

Campbell differentiated two types of heroes: the physical hero (e.g., Hercules), and the spiritual hero (e.g., Jesus, Buddha, Abraham, Mohammed). His monomyth model applies more evidently in tales of physical heros, like Odysseus, Gilgamesh, and Luke Skywalker. Campbell asserts that regardless of the hero and the details of his or her tale, the basic elements of the story have a universality that stretches across time and culture. There is a sameness to the story line, regardless of the specifics of that story line.

1.) There is often an auspicious birth. The child is born of a virgin (Jesus), for example; or immediately takes three steps and proclaims that this is his last incarnation (Buddha); or his mother is impregnated by seeing a falling star (Laozi); or often, a god impregnates a human female (Hercules). The auspicious birth presages that this person is different, and that their life story has weight and meaning.

2.) At some point in their lives, the hero is called out of normal society, and makes a decision to follow a calling, or is otherwise lured into an adventure. Jesus, went into the desert; Bilbo Baggins went on an adventure. 3.) At this point of the journey, the hero often encounters a helper of some kind, a sage or sprite who initiates them into a higher understanding, a broader vision of reality (e.g., Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi; or the little goat guy, Philoctetes, and Hercules). 4.) The hero is then faced with some kind of ordeal that marks their passage into the adventure, a discovery, or a turn from normal reality into an epic purpose. Campbell calls this "crossing the threshold." The important thing is that the hero makes a choice to pursue the adventure.

5.) Afterward, the hero is faced with a variety of tests or trials, against which she must prove her worthiness. Again, the hero is often assisted by other figures or things. They may find, or be given, magical items that help them successfully overcome the tests. For example, Perseus is given winged sandals and a helmet that renders him invisible. So, too, Bilbo Baggins finds a ring that makes him invisible, and gets him out of several scrapes. 6.) As in any good story or movie, there is ultimately a climax, a final battle, struggle or revelation, a moment when the hero's life -- and often the fate of their people or the world -- is at stake. Of course, the hero will prevail.

7.) After killing the dragon, defeating the monster, or tricking the lesser god(s), the hero's adventure comes to a close. It is at this point that he has a crucial decision to make. He can persist in the place of adventure, and find more adventure, or he can decide to return home, bringing with him the magic, knowledge, or insight that he has gathered on his journey. Campbell uses the tale of Jonah in the belly of the whale. After being vomited back onto shore, Jonah immediately returns to human society with his incredible tale of events and understandings. 8.) It is at this point that the knowledge acquired by the hero becomes the province of normal human beings; the magic, the knowledge; the expanded perspective is shared with the rest of human kind.

What fascinated Campbell, and what I too find intriguing, is the manner in which these same elements, this same kind of journey, occurrs repeatedly in human mythologies, regardless of the culture or time from which it arose. Campbell's thought was influenced by a German scholar named Adolf Bastian, who is credited for helping develop the discipline of anthropology. He was also the first proponent of the "psychic unity of mankind," the idea that all humans share the same basic mental structure and framework.

Bastian's own study of mythologies led him to theorize that they contained what he called "elementary" and "folk" components. The "folk" components are comprised of the local, culturally-relevant elements of the story. They are the parts of the myth that its hearers can recognize and understand, and relate to their own social and cultural environment. The "elementary" part of the myth represents the basic underlying structure of mythology, the "monomyth" that Campbell theorizes in his famous work The Hero of the Thousand Faces.

Campbell was also influenced by German scholar Otto Rank, and in particular his book The Myth of the Birth of the Hero. In this book Rank compares the birth and early life story of Moses with the birth mythologies of other well-known heroes from different cultures, like Sargon and Oedipus. In this work, Rank equates the hero myths with human dreams, arguing that they represent repressed human desires, and are therefore informative of the human mind and psyche. Rank was an early disciple of Sigmund Freud, although he later split with Freud's method of psychoanalysis. As an early psychologist, Rank was interested in the way mythologies represent, or provide evidence for, larger, basic human psychological needs and desires. It is probably Rank's work that inspired Campbell to famously say, "... a dream is a personal experience of that deep, dark ground that is the support of our conscious lives, and a myth is the society's dream. The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. If your private myth, your dream, happens to coincide with that of the society, you are in good accord with your group. If it isn't, you've got an adventure in the dark forest ahead of you."

Throughout his life and studies, Campbell remained fascinated by what mythology and literature can teach us about human psychic nature. His work established that, in mythologies, there are common (elementary) traits that cross cultural and time boundaries. He believed that fact was significant, that it indicated areas where further scholarship and exploration was needed. Why, for instance, do the same elemental mythological structures crop up again and again? What does that tell us about human nature? Is there something larger, something deeper, something more universal in this fact that we should be paying attention to in our own considerations and studies?

I think the answer to all of those questions is yes. The basis of many forms of communication is a repeating pattern.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017

Monday, June 05, 2017

Empty Boxes of Certitude


In the marketplace of ideas, the easy way to success is to feed your audience information that reaffirms their prior biases and beliefs. In essence, this is how Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly achieved their fame. All they do is wrap traditionalism, racism, nationalism and revolutionary populism in shiny and entertaining gift paper. They are not advancing any new (or real) information, with the possible exception of trending conspiracy theories and political scandal. They tell their listeners, in subtle and not so subtle ways, that 1.) they are "smart," and they are "winners" for listening or watching, and 2.) their preconceived notions and prejudices are good, healthy, normal, even virtuous. In the end, their listeners and viewers usually gain nothing more than headlines, and an empty box of certitude.

This happens on the left, too. Liberals and conservatives have competing media megaphones. For people like Rachel Maddow, Chris Matthews, Joy Reid, their aim is also to reaffirm and praise the worldview of their liberal viewers. The path to success is exactly the same. The wrapping paper may be different, but the underlying empty box is surprisingly similar.

It happens in academia, too, I think. Healthy scholarship is supposed to add to the overall extent of human knowledge -- it is expressly charged with creating new knowledge. What often happens instead is that people get tunnel vision within their own discipline, and do not bother to question the guiding knowledge paradigm wherein they exist. They speak only to other scholars in their field, and often in lengthy, dense, pedantic and impenetrable academic jargon. Regular people, like those who listen to Rush Limbaugh and Rachel Maddow, often can't access the new knowledge, if indeed it is there. It makes one wonder if the various academic disciplines, not unlike various religious traditions, are just brightly colored empty boxes?

In the world of ideas, creating new and accessible knowledge and information that can help a person rethink their prior biases and prejudices, and escape their empty boxes of certitude, is the harder thing to do. As I look around, I see most of us trapped inside respective two-dimensional squares of self-imposed limitation, where we can choose to hear only what we want to hear. But that is becoming harder, as voices on all sides seem to be increasing in volume, intensity, anger and fear. Samuel Huntington, historian and political scientist, wrote about the clash of civilizations. Today, we see a clash of realities, a clash of completely differing explanations for how the world is, and why it is that way. There is no longer an authoritative neutral arbiter of reality and fact. Both science and religion aspire to that position, but so far neither is winning.

This lack of agreed upon truth, combined with the cacophony of clashing realities, is creating a sense of unease and insecurity. Our nation now has a Homeland Security division, ostensibly to protect us from terrorist attack. It also serves as a very real manifestation of our sense of insecurity. We are collectively floundering. We have lost any cohesive identity. We are afraid of what might happen next, at any moment, to our nation, our homes, and our families. These symptoms can all be attributed to the fact that we seem to be missing a central authoritative and secure truth.

Bill Clinton once said, "When people are insecure, they'd rather have somebody who is strong and wrong than someone who's weak and right." This seems to be a common theme in human societies throughout history. The cultural norms which seemed to stand for so long suddenly start to falter. The central truths that everyone previously agreed to follow are questioned, and so too are the gods. The Greek tragedy Oedipus the King informs us about a similar time in Athenian history, when the gods were questioned, and there were strange things afoot in the kingdom. It is in these moments when the strong man arises, and a portion of the people may seem suddenly ready to accede to almost anything in an effort to secure a little more security. They are all too ready to crawl into an empty box of certitude that has been garrulously gift wrapped for them. They may then listen only to the strong leader who is wrong, and become all too happy to completely ignore, or even crucify, the weak leader who is right.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Saturday, June 03, 2017

Modern Day Lepers

What fascinates me about the comparative study of religion and religious history are the similarities across time and cultures. Although the content of beliefs may change, again and again we see the same WAYS of believing and thinking. It is the WAY people believe, and how those beliefs work inside an individual's world view, that I find intriguing -- the true universal element of religion. I am less interested, now, in WHAT people believe, and more interested in the WAY they believe. Somehow, I think this way of examining human belief sets is important to defusing the religious and political conflict we are witnessing in our modern world.

As an example, from the days of Jesus all the way to St. Francis of Assisi, people with leprosy were shunned and avoided. The frightening physical manifestations of the disease were horrifying to see -- stumps of arms and fingers, horribly disfigured people, lesions and sores. It is easy to understand why people would be scared to be around, or in close contact, with lepers. As we know, lepers were often ostracized, forced to live outside the community, reviled and avoided by the "good" people of society.

In those days, leprosy was thought to be caused by sin. If a person had leprosy, it was because they deserved it. They were thought of as morally corrupt individuals, and their sins brought the disease upon them as punishment from God.

Neither Jesus nor St. Francis seemed to believe this, as both are known for healing or working among lepers. Of course, we know today that leprosy is a disease caused by a type of bacteria. So in retrospect, we know that people who believed lepers were sinners, and therefore deserving of the disease, were factually and historically wrong.

I see a similar kind of thinking among the so-called conservative and pseudo-religious wing of the modern Republican party. People of this ilk state plainly that poor people are poor because they deserve to be poor. They argue that gay people should not receive civil rights protection because their lifestyle is an "abomination against God." They argue that social support programs like Food Stamps and Welfare should be eliminated or reduced because, in their estimation, the recipients are not really deserving, or worse, are defrauding the government. Although the content of these beliefs is different, the structure of the beliefs are strikingly similar to thinking that lepers were being punished for their sins. It is a way of thinking based upon an assumption of moral superiority and self-righteousness. It is a way of thinking that "God loves me despite my flaws, sins and shortcomings, but God punishes you because you deserve it." This kind of thinking led some people to proclaim AIDS as a punishment for homosexuality. It is thinking on the same spectrum as that which led the Nazis to segregate, persecute and exterminate millions of Jews during World War II.

This way of thinking is making modern day lepers out of economically disadvantaged people in our nation, and around the world. It is creating life threatening circumstances and dangerous social environments for gay people here and across the globe. It underpins a very selfish effort by certain sectors of our populace to blame the victims of economic disparity. It is, perhaps, a psychological projection of their own evil natures and intentions onto people of differing socioeconomic status, or differing sexual and gender orientations. It is very much the kettle calling the pot black.

It demonstrates that what people believe changes with history and social context, but how they believe remains surprisingly consistent. If we hope to disrupt this kind of behavior, this hypocritical self-righteousness and self-piety, we need to examine it more closely; we need to understand why this kind of believing is a persistent feature of human thought.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017

Monday, May 15, 2017

Whispers

Lean into the silence
let loneliness fill the soul
Only when it is empty
can the heart be made whole

Wisdom is never shouted
it is whispered from within
Love is never doubted
nor lost in a madding din

Find quiet places
within and without
where listening is easy
and whispers resound

Be silent and be still
the universe will provide
be emptied and be filled
peace will enter and abide


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Marrow of Sadness

I have sucked the marrow of sadness
from the bones of broken relationships.
I have been thirsty for love that vanishes
like a water mirage in the distant heat.

This is the desert of advancing age,
where the slippery sands of past decisions
shift and glide beneath my feet,
and regret, like a scorpion, skitters and stings.

The horizon is open, boundless and humbling.
The sun is shining, merciless and bright.
The skeletons of past love and conquest
lay bleached by the burning white orb.

The days stretch into distant forever,
and nights are bitter, cold, and silent.
Still, I am alive, so I press onward;
lost, perhaps, but determined to survive.

So I suck the marrow of sadness
from the bones of broken relationships,
and take from that meager nourishment
the strength I need to finally make it home.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017


Saturday, May 13, 2017

Little Arms

How can such little arms
give such mighty hugs?

How have you captured
my heart with your
little smile?

My granddaughter.
The light of my eyes,
the breadth of my soul.

You are a blessing
like your mother before.

A tiny angel of joy,
with headstrong will
and an open heart.


You will be a titan,
an amazement of strength
and intelligent resolve.

Be kind to your mother,
she will always need your love.

Let God's beneficence
shine down on you
all the days of your life.

Promise to join me someday
far from now
in a place where pain and death
are but distant tales of yore.

And know that here in this life
I cherish the bounty of love I feel
every time you wrap me
in your powerful little arms.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017



Thursday, February 23, 2017

Expected Death

As I age, the death of close loved ones
begins to bear more weight.
When I witness the final days of someone
I have known for most of my life,
I feel eternity's presence
in a profound and very real way.

Time slows down just before,
and right after, someone passes.
Life takes on a surreal quality
as we move from death bed
to funeral home to grave side,
with barely a pause for breath

Expected deaths are horrible to experience,
staying the last few days with the dying,
seeing their body struggle instinctively to survive
long after the will to live has passed away

And afterward life
most cruelly
goes on.

After each death
I start playing the
death lottery.
Who will be next?
Will it be me?
Another brother or sister?
A friend, or someone else
I hold most dear?

As I watch my family and friends
being whittled down by time and death,
I can no longer escape the reality
that my own death is getting closer.

That is just the way things are.
Life is incomplete without death.
Time is meaningless unless it passes.
Love is forever only after it
ventures bravely into death's eternity.




Thursday, July 21, 2016

Unheard

How can I call myself a poet
if what I write is never seen?

Unshared.
Unpublished.
Unread.

My poems are mostly still born
living only on my computer
existing only in my balding head.

I have been content
allowing myself to be unheard,
having flattered myself endlessly
as a misunderstood word nerd.

The truth is I am frightened,
afraid my poems will be rejected,
or worse that they are boring
and my poesy disrespected.

Angelou says to trust the universe.
When you put it out there
it finds its way to the persons
most in need.

So that is why I keep trying,
even though no one ever
seems to understand.






Monday, November 02, 2015

Criss-Cross Heart

Fold a paper heart,
it leaves behind a crease.

When you flatten
that paper heart
the crease remains,
a lasting reminder
of the painful fold,
of losing love and
passion gone cold.

Now fold that paper heart
a dozen times or more,
then unfold it yet again
and see creases by the score.

That is the way of life,
of love, and painful losses,
each a crease upon the heart,
each a burden of crosses.

We cannot escape these
creases upon our hearts.
If we live, we are destined
to feel our lives torn apart.

Furrows upon a heart
are like wrinkles on a brain,
they are lessons we have learned
and knowledge we have retained.

So even though my heart is now
battered and scarred from many cuts,
I will hand it over again to new love
and tell myself that it is tough,
and can withstand being folded again.



Sunday, November 01, 2015

Shine But No Substance

It was all shine
and no substance
the love I
felt for you

Glittering on the outside
flat gray underneath
it was wind
without trees
to slow it down

In retrospect
I wonder why
we ever loved at all

Perhaps it was
a young man's love
fueled more by
desire than by
depth of feeling

Even so I have no regrets

What we had was an
experience worth having







Friday, October 30, 2015

Driven by delusion

Perhaps I am wrong,
but I no longer care to be
driven by the delusion
that I make a difference
in the world.

The same ten commandments
that informed the morality
of the ancients are still
equally valid today.
People have not changed
their natures in over
5,000 years of recorded
human history.

Wars.
Hatred.
Murder.
Lying.
Cheating.
Stealing.
Adultery.

These are permanent
human character flaws.

Poverty.
Famine.
Starvation.
Illness.
Refugees.
Innocent children
riven by the
horns of political wars.

These are the facts
of human history
going beyond memory.

I used to think
that the bottle of water I bought,
or the shoes that I wore,
or the money I gave to faceless
charitable organizations would
actually make the world a
better place.

I know better now.
Many charities are profitable only
for the administrators of the organization.
And all socially conscious businesses
are simply marketing their wares
by other means.

So I no longer allow myself
the luxury of delusion
that my small, inconsequential
thoughts, actions or purchases
make a goddamn bit of difference
in this world.

People are as they will always be.
The world is the best that human
beings can make it, given their
perennially flawed behaviors.

Now, I exist moment by moment,
mourning the senseless bloodshed,
witnessing the self-serving political lies,
noticing the religiously self-righteous
who serve up hatred on a golden platter.

If there is an afterlife,
complete with a judgmental god,
I hope to hell that I get a chance
to tattle on all shit I have observed
during my travail in this world.

My revelation is that
long after I am dead,
the world will still be plagued
by wars, murder, hatreds and grief.

But maybe I am wrong.





Thursday, June 25, 2015

The State of Your Heart

What is the state
of your heart?

Has love overtaken,
or has it forsaken
and left you afraid
of a fresh start?

Is your heart in it,
or do you prevent it
from being pierced
by Cupid's red dart?

What is the state
of your heart?

Remembering love
is not enough,
but are you ready
for emotion this sharp?

Or is your fear
now so dear
that you refuse to play
upon love's angelic harp?

Look long in the mirror
at your own graying face
before you answer or
move from this place.

Kairos passes by quickly
leaving behind remorse
and regret at missed
opportunities.

When lady love bends her
light in your direction,
should you even pause
long enough to wonder?

What is the state
of your heart?

Monday, June 22, 2015

Even If....

Even if love hurts
it is worth it

Love comes with
no guarantees
there are ups and downs
beginnings and endings
falling in love and
pulling ourselves out again

We live
we learn
we love
we burn
bridges back to
places we
no longer
care to go

We laugh
we cry
we give up
we try
and when we
are lucky
very lucky
we even manage
sometimes to
love until we die

But even if
love turns to ashes
even if our hearts
lose their gold
love is always worth it
for the ways that
it enriches our souls


Friday, June 19, 2015

Non-Binary

Until there was you
I never knew
there was another
way of being

You taught me that
my binary world
was a world of
false choices

There are more options
than zeros and ones
blacks and whites
boys and girls

You inhabit a universe
of richly appointed paradox
where male and female abide
in perfect unity within the one
and grammar rules are rendered
meaningless for explaining
the non-binary gendered

You help me remember a time
when God was non-binary
dwelling in the houses of both
the holy mother and father
and the twain were as one

In their own image created God
male and female created them
and humans lived in perfect Eden
the dyad existing as monad
in a non-binary verse
antecedent of any curse




Sunday, June 14, 2015

Velcro ®

Assisted living center,
interior early afternoon,
an old man pauses
while strapping up
his velcro ® strap shoe.

He looks at his wife
of many years
across the room,
and thinks about
their time together,
a long trail of joy, loss
success, failure, fears,
and smiles as she
buttons up her dress.

"You and I are like velcro ®"
he shouts so she can hear.

She gives him the look,
a slight shake of the head,
a shrug, and he understands
without words she is asking
what on earth he means.

"One side is roughed up fabric,"
he says while walking to her side,
the other shoe held in his hand.

"The other side is full of little
hooks, barbs and spears."

He pulls the velcro ® strap
across the top of his shoe,
making a ripping rasping sound.

"Neither side is perfect,"
he says now standing next to her.

"But it is the imperfections that
hold both sides together. It is
the imperfections that cause the
strap to hold and stick."

She looks at him and smiles.

"Our imperfections are what
made us a perfect match for all
these many years, and brought
us to this happy anniversary day."

She leans in and kisses him.

Just then a knock on the door,
their daughter come to drive
them to a celebration of their
decades long love.

The man quickly pulls on
his other shoe and tightens
the velcro ® strap,
then hand in hand they walk
through the door,
the man having
completely forgotten
both of his socks
laying on the floor.




Kissing You

Kissing you
makes me smile
and forget my worries
for a while

The sparkle in
your deep dark eyes
skips my heart
I am hypnotized

Joie de vivre
and fireworks too
all because
I am kissing you


Saturday, June 13, 2015

First Firefly

I saw the first firefly
of the season tonight
and it reminded me of
when you kids would
spend warm summer evenings
laughing loudly and running
through backyards
and lamplight streets
catching fireflies
and making lifelong friends

Holding the glow in your tiny hands
you marveled at how nature created
wondrous and mysterious little
stars that flew on invisible wings
through youthful summer nights

And I marveled at how lucky
I was to have my own little stars
sitting in my lap and laughing at
silly things said and done
and placing tiny hands inside
the hand of their father
who held on to his children
and wished on flying stars
that it would never end


Tuesday, June 09, 2015

Color In My Life

Suddenly
life is filled
with beautiful
new colors

Diversity
of people
new shades
of love

Realization
that my life
has been all
too colorless

Hopeful
that my new
box of crayons
will not break

Exotic
exciting
Aphrodite wearing
caramel skin



Sunday, June 07, 2015

First Kiss, New Lips

First kiss, new lips.
Next chance for new bliss?
Who knows?
God moves in mysterious ways.

Sublime beauty,
a beautiful mind,
so very gracious,
graceful and kind.
Power beyond me
held my hand,
and made me shiver
with just a glance.

How lucky can
one man be,
to hold and angel
and feel her heart beat?

How lucky can
one man be?


Friday, June 05, 2015

Inherited Faith and Amazing Grace

I have spent a life time learning,
a whole life time yearning
to discover the secrets of God.

Immersed in the world's religions,
studying the mystery traditions,
trying to see divinity in a rock.

The further I get from the
Christian faith I inherited,
the more clearly I hear the
words of truth spoken by
the man we call Jesus.

In Buddhist teachings,
one must learn not
to grasp too tightly,
or believe too stridently.

Belief is like a boat,
said the Buddha.
It carries you across
the river of life but
you no longer need the vessel
when you reach the other side.

I have been blessed,
of that I am certain.
How else to explain
the successes I have made?

Those successes only came
after I consciously decided
the move beyond the boundaries
of my inherited faith
and instead chose to rely
on beautiful and most
utterly amazing grace.



Intrusion

You intrude on my life
when I think I am over you
disrupting my balance
wounding me anew

I carefully constrain
the events of my days
making sure there is
no hope of our meeting

But chance intrudes
as do you
when I least expect
and I am shaken asunder
as the love I keep suppressed
like a rumbling volcano
threatens to erupt

Five decades of living
and losing love has never
gotten any easier
nor less hurtful

Still I keep pushing forward
what choice do I have
moving aside the memories
and hoping that today will be
the last day I am bothered
by a coincidental intrusion



Thursday, June 04, 2015

What Does It All Mean?

What I intend
when I compose
my poetry
is far less interesting
than what you
make it mean
when you read it

So don't ask me
what it all means
don't count on me
to have the foggiest clue

Instead ask yourself
what you think it means
and then ask what
the meaning you make
says about you


Condensation

Time condenses on the
glass house that is my life
like water droplets on
a glass of iced tea
sweating on a table
on a hot summer day

The condensation carves
tiny rivulets on my face
leaving behind furrows
and wrinkles that remind
me of past loves
past lies and
all the mistakes I
have made

Still the draught of my life is sweet
honeyed by the essence of
beautiful women I have known
and the beautiful children and
grandchildren I have grown

As time condenses
ever more quickly
and my life drips away
I find pleasure in the
emptying of my glass
and the gradual vacation
of my living vessel

I savor the remaining
drops of life as the sweetest
I have ever swallowed


Thursday, May 28, 2015

God's Bubble Wand

"He who feels punctured must
once have been a bubble."
                           -- Tao Te Ching


God inhales
and blows its breathe
through the fragile
film covered
bubble wand.

From the other side
emerges a perfectly
spherical bubble,
iridescent colors
shimmering on the
surface as it
reflects God's light.

Each bubble is a soul,
floating upon an ether
of love and light,
descending slowly until
it finally bursts,
releasing its inspiration,
the breathe of God.




Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Unchaste Madonna

I sat at the feet of the ancient,
and he proposed to instruct me in all things.

"After an infinite number of eternities," he began,
"the God decided that it no longer wanted to be God."

I nodded.

"But that which is God can never be not God," he continued.

"And so the God decided that it
would simply forget that it was God.
Thus God created the material universe,
wherein the God hides
unrecognized
in myriad and ever-changing manifestations,
forgetting that it is,
itself, composed of the God."

I squinted up at the ancient.
His bald head partially blocked the
bright light of the sun shining behind him.

"Ah, I see," said I.
"Then there is exquisite irony in
the unchaste Madonna singing that
she is a material girl?"

The sun glinted off of his bald head,
as he cocked it, trying to understand my reference.
He didn't get it. Sometimes the ancient does not
keep up with pop culture.
Or perhaps it was just a bad joke.

Said the ancient,
"In all of us there is still an element,
a derivative of the divine,
that makes us to intuit
our own divinity.
Our task is simply to remember
that we are, indeed, children created
from that which is most sublime."

It was my turn to cock my head and squint.
"So, like recovered memories? Only,
I am supposed to remember that I am God?
I can only imagine how that will make
the religiously faithful feel,
those who have devoted their entire lives to worshiping
a being they believe to be outside themselves.
Not to mention, it will be a boon to that whole
recovered memory therapy scam currently
en vogue."

The ancient chuckled and held
his hands up to frame his face.
"Again with the Madonna jokes?" he asked.
"Yes, past lives and former wives
are hard to deal with for a
person who believes the God is radically transcendent,
or someone who believes the entire truth of the God can be
held in a few sacred scriptures and books."

I guess he did get my earlier reference.

"What you are saying is not news to me," I stated.
"I did not need to climb this mountain to hear you
say all of this; for this wisdom you share is well
known in world religious traditions; it is, indeed,
the origin of the word namaste."

The ancient shrugged, which pulled his bald
head down into his shoulders, giving him
the look of a saffron colored tortoise.
"Ah yes," he said. "This is all well-known
territory. This is why papa don't preach."

I smiled.
"We have a real Madonna theme going here," I said.
"How is it you know so much about pop culture,
sitting here high atop your mountain home?"

His weathered face grew solemn.
"The truth is heard in many voices,"
he said. "The god speaks to itself
in wondrous and sundry ways.
I listen whenever I hear the god
reminding itself of its true nature,
whether that voice be in a sacred text,
or through a pop culture icon who challenges
religious pomposity using
the very same religious imagery
that has veered into religious idolatry.
Too often humans begin worshiping
the thing, and not the meaning behind the thing."

I nodded, thinking back to all the times
I had tried to use prayer and religious covenants
as a way to force the god into giving me
my unlimited supply of wishes granted.
How I had worshiped scriptures, and religious rites,
idolized empty crosses and religious bosses
to show that I was worthy of having
my prayers answered. All for naught.

The ancient must have read my mind.
"We all do that to some extent," he said.
"In the face of vast silence and
self-imposed ignorance, we all
grasp at those things that remind us
that there is something more than this."
He motioned at everything around us.
"It is because all of this is a mirror,
reflecting back to us our own divinity."

I knew what he said was true.
I had known this for years,
but refused to believe it
because early religious training
drilled into me that it was dangerous,
even soul killing,
to imagine oneself to be as god.

"Remember what Bill Murray said,"
the ancient insisted.
"If I recall correctly, he said
I am a god, not the god."

My mouth dropped open.
"You are quoting from Groundhog Day?"

The ancient chuckled, and a gleeful
light shone in his eyes.
"Sometimes the mountain top gets
lonely, which is why I had satellite
TV installed a few years ago."

He pointed over his shoulder,
where I noticed a satellite dish
perched at an angle on the mountain.

"Why should that surprise you?"
the ancient queried.
"I referenced a movie that was all about
a man living the same reality over and over
until he finally gets it right,
until he finally remembers all he is
supposed to remember.
Like I said, the god simply chose
to forget that it is the god.
But that which is god can
never be not god.
The god cannot help but,
eventually,
to remember its true nature."

I pondered his words in silence.
Somehow, I always believed that
truth and wisdom could only come
from the ancient scriptures,
the ancient beliefs,
the religions that had existed for
thousands of years.

"If you seek the truth," said the ancient,
"look no further than yourself.
In your heart of hearts, you know,
you recognize, you understand
that within you live the Buddha,
the Prophet, the Messiah,
and all the holy men and women
who spoke the wisdom of the ages."

I nodded, as I felt his words
ringing a truth bell deep within.
"But what about Madonna?" I asked.
"Surely she cannot bring holy truth,
she who some accuse of defiling
the holy symbols of the son?"

He laughed, and his skinny frame
shivered with delight at
the bright sound of his own laughter.
"She is precisely that which brings the truth.
The unchaste Madonna challenges
dry-boned religion that resides only
in the shadow of the valley of death.
She understands that life, in all of
its glorious sensuality and carnal pleasure
is all part and parcel of god discovering god."

I stood, and my knees popped from
sitting cross-legged for too long.
"I never would have guessed that
a wise old monk like you would
turn out to be a Madonna fan,
and a fan of American movies," I said.

The ancient grinned slyly
as he looked up at me.
"Come back to me if
you ever want to talk
about the real meaning
of that song The Crossroads."

I walked down the steep slope
thinking of all that had transpired
over the past few moments.
When I turned back for one last glance,
the hermit monk was no longer there,
but I thought I saw a reflection of myself
shining in the snow as the
sun sank behind the mountain.


On Poets and Endings

"Poets are unhappy people, for, no matter
how high their spirits reach, they will
still be enclosed in an envelope of tears." 

                                  -- Khalil Gibran


When it is done,
it is done.

The mistake is to hang on
to deluded hope,
to dreams of love's return.

Love is like a
wildflower;
once bloomed
the stem survives
but the flower dies,
the barren stalk
a sad reminder
of love's beauty past.

Love wraps its tendrils
around your heart,
the roots digging
deep into your soul.
There they find a
rich reserve of moisture,
released as rain from
your sorrowing eyes.

When it is done,
it is done.

Let it go.

Let it end.

Make friends with
your loneliness.

Make peace with
your pain.



Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Demons of Doubt

I would like to speak
candidly if I may
about those destructive
demons of doubt
that have dogged me
throughout my life.

Critical inner voices
they are sometimes called.
The saboteurs.
Nattering nabobs of negativity
screaming inside a cacophonous
and chattering monkey brain.

By the look on your face
I understand I am not alone
in harboring such voices.
Many of us suffer the same plight,
unheard but listened to lectures
about what we do wrong or right.

Is it a mistake to call them demons?
Perhaps too religious for those
who choose not believe in spiritual beings.
Yet, they seem more than simple memories,
more than curated mental recordings
of past chastisements and pain.

They seem somehow evil, consciously
intent upon tearing me down.
Intervening. Interfering. Frantically
obsessed with preventing me from
attaining the peace of mind that comes
by simply loving myself as a
blessed child of god.

Psychologists and psychiatrists
call it depression, a term that
stigmatizes the patient
and empowers the doctor.
Their answer is simple,
all you need
is to take a pill
and chill.

Psyche is the Greek word for soul.
Psychology then is the study of the soul.
Why is it they forget that?
When did they become focused
exclusively on pharmacology,
and faltering chemistry of the brain?

Saboteur voices are real.
For me, to perceive them as personal,
plaguing, and baleful demons of doubt
rings more truly to the experience.

I have learned to call
my saboteur voices by name.
And in so naming them,    
I dis-empower them.

I call them for what they are,
inner assholes that I no longer
chose to allow inside my brain space.

Thus they are banished from me
for a moment, or for days at a time.
Vanquished, they shriek in their leaving,
and go in search of an accommodating
herd of swine.




Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Forgiveness

"Forgive and forget," I have been told.

"Get over it!" say the gurus of psychobabble
and easy-peasy religionairres.

But it wasn't until I understood their motives
that I truly understood their advice.

Most of us forgive not out of altruism.
Most of us forgive out of a desire to reclaim our lives.

A desire to be no longer trapped by our self-pitying anger,
our self-decaying bitter resentments and boiling hatreds.

In short, we do not forgive
for what it gives the other person,
but for what it gives back to us.
A very selfish reason, indeed.

Those who give the forgive and forget advice,
and the get-over-it boot strap attitude
are motivated by selfish concern more than
their love of others.





Wednesday, November 27, 2013

The Holidays Alone

The holidays alone
are not so disheartening
now as they were in the days
immediately following
our divorce

Now they are a familiar meal
and I enjoy their buffet of
discomfiting soulless food

No the holidays alone
are not the thing that
bothers me anymore

Rather it is that
holidays are alone
the only time I
really remember the
loneliness I felt
the entire time we
were married

Armor

I was defeated
on the field of battle
in the war of life
and my enemy bade me
to lay down my shields
my armor and my weapons

In doing so I noticed
I was suddenly much
lighter and more
fleet of foot

It was a freedom
I had forgotten
the freedom of
childhood
the ability to run
unencumbered
through the
fields of life

In this way defeat
turned into victory
and I realized that
my enemy was in
reality the war
I was waging
with myself


Monday, November 11, 2013

Teach My Soul to Sing

Teach my soul to sing
O Lord
The praises of
Your blessed names


Cause my spirit to shine
O Lord
and bring light to
this world's darkened mien

Your presence in this life
O Lord
is as ineffable
as your existential mystery

Yet my faith and my hope
O Lord
are stronger than my
desire for prideful certainty

So teach my soul to sing
O Lord
that I may always
and anon remember

Your divine spark in this world
O Lord
is as a roaring flame
to its white hot ember


My Constant Beauty

Come to me
my constant beauty
my lover
and my friend

I cherish you
as one of god's
divine creations
and hold you
as my most
treasured wealth.

I will love you
as long as breathe
sustains me
and will leave you
with memories of
delights we shared

We are no longer innocents
no longer ignorant of life
and all of its troubled ways


We feel our days dripping
we hear our time ticking
we have tasted the bittersweet
nature of life and passing love

So come to me
my proof of god's favor
hold me now
and feel my love




Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Between a Tear and a Smile

Life happens
in the gap
between a tear
and a smile

Love lives
in the space
between heart ache
and bliss

Ever changing
ever turning
always moving
from beginning
to the end

A mind can change
as quickly as the weather
or as slowly as the seasons

A heart can love
until the very moment
that it stops

In the ringing deafness
after the explosion
the wounded soldier
becomes aware of his
own mortality

In the silent nights
after voluble fights
the lover becomes
aware of his own
contributory faults

Life happens
in the space
between a tear
and a smile

Time stops
in the days
between lost love
and living again

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Tumescence

Morning wood
is not good wood
because it can't do
what good wood should

Lucky me
that at my age
I still can choose
which wood to play

Wednesday, September 04, 2013

When I Try

When I try to be profound
my words most often
have a tinny
hollow sound

When I try to be me
interestingly that is
not what others
seem to perceive

But when I try to just be
ah to just be
that is when I feel
closest to the me
that I believe myself
destined to be

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Blessings for the Road

You are young
and you are married
now and your life is
ahead of you

Together you will
choose the roads
you want to travel
as a couple and
sometimes
on your own

Life will swell
and dip
beneath your feet
as you move forward
in love and laughter

Sometimes the dips will
be so deep you will
feel a tickle in your belly
and you will be on the
edge of being afraid

Other times you will
rise so high it seems
the world is a pearl
far beneath you
as you both sail higher
on wings of love

This is my benediction
my fatherly hopeful prayer
to send you along your way

May all the roads
you follow lead you
to light happy places
and may life always
deliver you both
safely home
wearing bright
happy faces

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Perspective

In my aging years
I found myself alone,
lost in an unfamiliar place
and having wandered
much too far from home.

There, upon a curving and dangerous road,
somewhere in the state of my fifth decade,
my engine stalled and my will went cold.

The path behind me was littered
with burned bridges and broken promises.
The way forward seemed impossible
to determine in the gloaming of my life.

It was then I happened upon an old friend.
Or rather, I should say, he happened upon me.

We sat for a while and made small talk,
caught up on former wives and future weather,
learned about each other's lives,
laughed about my coat made of "pleather."

And then, just as darkness fell
and night was close around,
my old friend took my hand
and asked that we both kneel down.

Such a prayer of thanksgiving,
he prayed with earnestness and fear,
asking for guidance and direction,
protection for all we held dear.

When he finished, he looked me in the eyes,
told me not to worry, said God would hold
and cherish us both for the rest of our lives.

By then dawn was breaking, and the road ahead
suddenly appeared to light, and I awoke to realize
I had been dreaming, my friend long dead
was gone, and I, again alone, with tear filled eyes.

I understood, then, that what I had needed was perspective,
a way of moving forward while also looking back,
and the prayer he prayed was more than suasive,
it was my prayer of complete submission
coming from a place of complete and total lack.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Horse Latitudes

Gone are days of passion
anger and thrill

Now instead are
the Horse Latitudes of
mid-life and beyond

Medical crises
habitualized vices
and a somnolent
ennui that stretches
lonely days out
forever making
me to sleepwalk
through my life

In this quasi dream
state I have visions
of future grand children
and nightmares of
my eventual demise

This is the life
of the living dead
the dry boned
valley of the
shadow of death

Yet there is
also peace

There is also
the reaping
of oats sown
long ago

And time enough
yet to tarry with
my memories
and my satisfaction
over children
well raised

So I lift my
life sail hopefully
and trust that
a final wind will
catch me
as I languish
these days in
Horse Latitudes

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Tw1tterVerse

The poet's verse
is the poet's curse
in this brave new
Tw1tterVerse

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Feeling Zen

When I am
feeling Zen
I wash my dishes
so that I am
reminded of
the sacredness
in every
ordinary moment.


Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Pecan Tree

I am like a pecan tree
and my poems are nuts

Some pecans are full of holes
bored by worms and other things
that hollow out the nut from inside

Other pecans are fully formed
beautifully shaped and
filled with goodness that
is a delight to the tongue
the soul and the body

Likewise some of my poems
are full of holes
drilled by worms of hate
anger self doubt and
fear of rejection

And others are actually
fit for human consumption
hopefully filled with
love emotion and
universal experience

Does the tree ever know
which nuts will grow
or which nuts are
deformed and unfit
for anything but compost

Does the tree even
know that it is nuts
that define what it is

I am a pecan tree
and my poems are nuts
and a tree is alas
known by its fruits

Tuesday, June 04, 2013

Role Playing

I have been playing roles my whole life

The forgotten middle child
The obedient and needy son
The stable and reliable Pater Provider
The lover
The unfaithful lover
The rejected and cuckolded husband

Brother
Student
Teacher
Boss

Friend and sometimes
though not by choice
enemy

Late in life I come to the wisdom
that all these roles are not me
but only choices I have made

The choices have seared me
scarred me and given character
to my aging and graying face

Now the end of this journey
is real and growing closer every day

Now is the time for me to determine
and to learn who I really am

To cease being a minor player on this stage
and to live in the truth of this moment
with the authenticity of a poet's heart.

And this frightens me more than any
role I have ever learned to play


Monday, October 01, 2012

Childhood Cheerios and Memories

I just dropped some Cheerios on the floor,
and I flashed back to a time when they were yours,
falling from your high chair, spilling from your bowl,
and you, happy faced, cherishing them like gold.

Sitting in just a diaper, carefully using your little fingers,
you put them one-by-one into your two-toothed mouth.
You slobbered and grinned, the memory still lingers,
you seemed to savor the flavor, but then spat them out.

And there they were, on the tray, some in your hair,
some inside your diaper (not sure how they got there),
you laughed as I cleaned you, pausing to tickle your feet,
said "no" so seriously when I asked if you needed more to eat.

Then, off to the races the moment you hit the ground,
and I chasing after, yelling for you to slow down;
you laughing hysterically, never turning around.

I now understand, it was a metaphor for the rest of our lives,
and soon you both will be wanting husbands and wives,
and I will move ever more slowly as you two are fruitful and multiply.

Who would believe? All of that from a bowl of breakfast cereal?
Memories so fleeting, generating emotions sublime and ethereal.

I wonder and marvel at this thing we call "time,"
how it causes children to age at near the speed of light.

How, today, I am the one digesting memories and dropping food on the floor.


Sunday, September 30, 2012

Tree of Life

No matter how high a tree may grow,
it can never touch the sun.
Yearn though it will, strive how it might,
it can never reach that golden height.

God planted the tree of life in His garden,
firmly rooted upon this good earth.
We are the fruit borne of that tree of life,
grown in the beautiful garden of God's delight.

We, too, yearn for the heavens,
offering our sincere prayers to the sky.
We, too, struggle to reach that light,
to move from shadow into God's sight.

Like apples, sometimes we fall quickly,
smashing down with a rock hard thud.
Or like leaves, we take momentary flight,
twirling gently down into God's good night.

Either way we can never fully attain
the elevation needed to rise above the stain,
we are the bruised fruit of this worldly life,
and our children, our seeds, inherit our blight.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

A Shade of Love

I see a dark shape pass quickly by,
just a glimpse from the corner of my eye,
but when I turn to face the open door,
I see nothing but my shadow upon the floor.

Still, a cold shiver bumps up my skin
as I wonder why it happened again,
this feeling that it is you,
or, rather, your love's shade,
that frequently visits me
in this discomfiting way.

My father, my mother,
my sister, my brother
-- all of whom now soar
on ethereal wings --
any of them, I ponder?
Could they be visiting me
from their new home up yonder?

But I know that isn't true.
In heaven, I am sure
there are better things to do
than to visit again this baleful earth,
or to pine for love left behind,
here inside this painful curse.

No, it is certain that if I am haunted
by the wight of a love that once I vaunted,
then that shade of love is certainly yours,
so why, damned ghost, be so demure?

Out from the shadows, out from the heart,
you shade of love hidden there in the dark.
Out of my life, and out of my mind,
quit stealing my joy, quit robbing me blind.

Leave me alone now, you dreadful ghost,
and rest in peace, you whom I loved the most.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Carry The Present

Multiply your future happiness,
add in a few more years,
remember to carry the present,
subtract time for past tears,
and then you have a tally,
the mathematics of being here.

Shoulder your current burdens,
lift them up and soldier on,
remember, too, carry the present,
the gift of God's love here and yon.
To bear the yoke and heaven's rein,
carry the present ever and anon.

We are repeaters of heavenly powers,
receivers of signals, like radio towers
we carry the present will of God,
we transmit His invisible thought abroad,
in our thoughts, our actions, and our prayers,
we make this present reality from His rarified air.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012