Google+ Badge

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Accumulated Grief

Father died.
Then older sister.
Older brother.
Most recently,
mother.

All within the span of a few years;
barely a respite from the tears.

Not to mention the death of friends,
a bitter divorce, and various sins;
it all becomes accumulated grief;
too much to comprehend;
stuff I would love to give away
which I am forced to keep.

It's not a case of the glass half full.
There is no running from death.
Joy and grief are strung
from the same spool, spun
from the same golden thread.

Death is woven
into life's tapestry.
Grief is the warp
and love the woof.

When finally our race is run,
and we realize there are no losers,
that by God's grace everybody won,
we will all wear life's tapestry like
tattoos on our eternal souls,
and accumulated grief will be
the buttons on our godly robes.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Last Love Poem

If I knew I had only one love poem left to write,
if that poem would be the one to end my life,
I would want that poem to be about you.

Golden memories resonate
between the tines of my heart and soul;
humming like god's tuning fork.

Lesser love I had known too much,
faulty love that fell to the ground,
flapping vainly, like a broken-winged bird.

The love we made was witnessed by angels
hovering low above our heads,
kissing us softly with feathered wing tips.

Heaven opened itself to our perception
with fiery-mouthed passion,
and love itself was like naked water
sliding effortlessly over our tongues.

This, then, would be my last love poem,
words carved into my head of stone,
my heart the chisel that drove them home.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Friday, December 16, 2011

Bouncing Along the Bottom

Like so much cut bait
bouncing along the bottom
of a cold, dark lake,
I was strung out on your line.

You were an expert angler
dedicated to your sport;
Me, a bottom feeding line-tangler,
your intentions I meant to thwart.

Our story, you managed to snag me,
despite my fight, you reeled me in close,
pulled me into your atmosphere,
hauled me shivering into your boat.
.
Truth is, I was a willing participant,
happy to crawl into your creel,
but now I spew an ichthyologic rant,
slit my guts on your deadly heart of steel.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Rigid Mind Melt

How hard, striving to be right
without becoming self righteous?
Harder still to remain moral
without being moralistic.

It is human nature to scramble
for solid ground as Samsara
sucks us down like quicksand.

But molten karma solidifies
around our feet as soon as
we think we have the answers.

We cling to Absolute Truths like a life raft,
as we are swept through the rushing
stream of this beingness,
never guessing that our truths
may turn out to be the anchor
that drags us to the bottom.

A rigid mind tends toward hubris,
thinking we know all the answers,
telling others how they should live.
A static truth becomes an idol,
and protecting our idol becomes the goal.

Mental rigidity is an affliction
for both liberal and conservative alike,
believing that the world would be ideal,
if only everybody else believed like me.

Yet, how hard to accomplish openness
while competing in this brutal world?
Is it possible to live and let live
when others wish that you would die?

My mind refuses to cooperate
as these days I often contemplate
how to melt my own rigid mind.
My life continues to deteriorate
as I continue to deliberate
these questions bubbling in my wine.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Perhaps

Perhaps I never loved you at all.

Maybe the love was always there,
already inside me, waiting for someone
like you to act as a mirror, reflecting
my own love back at me.

Perhaps that is all love ever is;
just self-involved, self-gratification.

Maybe falling in love is just a myth,
a pleasing story we tell ourselves
to justify our selfish intent;
a way to explain ourselves
to others and to God.

Love should never cause pain,
for ourselves or for others.
Perhaps pain caused by love
proves that it never was love?

Or have I just, perchance,
never known true love?
Am I, therefore, unqualified
to inquire of that which
I have never experienced?

Perhaps.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, December 12, 2011

Life Scars

A scar is a vivid reminder
of a past mistake,
the result of poor decisions
or faulty brakes.

Like the time I rode my bike
without working brakes
barefoot on a gravel road,
where I dragged by foot
and tore the nail from my toe,
and then I crashed and cut my knee,
and had to walk home bleeding
with my injuries.

I learned my lesson,
and I still have the scars from that.

Or the time I foolishly put
my hand through a window,
and glass cut a chunk from my arm,
and it bled until I didn't know
whether I would live or die.

It is fading, but I still have that scar, too.

There are scars that can't be seen.
Old hurts to the heart,
old trauma to the psyche that
no one knows about,
nor could ever truly understand.
Secret hurts that everyone bears,
dealing with them the best they can.

Those life scars serve to remind us, too.
More painful than the skin deep kind,
they sometimes open and bleed
for no apparent reason.

We all have those kinds of scars.

How we obtained the scars is not the question;
rather, it is whether or not we learned the lesson?

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012


Fundamentally Wrong

Forever wheedling and crying,
always birthing and dying,
ever cheating and lying,
no wonder God chooses
to ignore human kind.

Constantly pleading forgiveness,
consistently sinning regardless,
chronically needing assistance,
it is understandable that our
prayers go largely unheeded.

Or is it just me?

People tell me God listens,
they say that He cares,
in their eyes tears glisten
as they peddle those wares.

And on stage the preacher
puts his hand out each time
he claims he is God's speaker,
and asks me to give a dime.

Or am I just jaded?

So many voices
speaking for God,
so many choices,
so many frauds.

It's hard to continue believing,
in a God who never appears.
It's hard to hear God whisper
when the Tower of Babel is near.




Wednesday, December 07, 2011

My Father's Voice

Gregory Rodriquez, Nov. 22, 1922 - June 1, 1996.
Photo taken circa 1945.
Sometimes I hear my father's voice
when I say my own name out loud,
so sometimes I say it repeatedly
while alone inside my house.

It helps me to remember him
after all these years A.D.,
and more dearly to appreciate
all the good he gave to me.

My father was a complex man,
riven by experiences of war,
survivor of a prison camp
where he lived through hell and horror.

Haunted by the ghosts of friends,
and enemies that he slew,
he revisited war time terrors nightly
when he dreamed of them anew.

A man of strength to the end of life,
he steadfastly refused to succumb
to life's punishing rod and constant pain
that would leave other men numb.

A pious man, strong of faith in god,
he showed his children how to walk
with humility of the unshod.

When I hear my father's voice,
see his face in my own,
I know that I am coming close,
a few steps nearer home.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Tuesday, December 06, 2011

Christmas Candles

My Christmas candles just overflowed,
and now I have to clean melted wax
from the top of my bookshelf.

And I remember the Christmas we were
laughing because the kids got wax
on the carpet by pulling over a candle.

We were lucky no one got hurt, and
at first you were very angry, but I
managed to make you laugh.

It's a flash bulb memory I have of you.
Of us and our time as a family.

It's funny how our life together turned
out like so much melted wax,
a nuisance to clean up
and the smudge
will always
be there.

Christmas candles
and melted wax.
Joyeaux Noel.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Daimon Dust

The poetic urge in me
is no pleasing felicity,
nor choice, but necessity.

It is not something
I willingly choose,
rather it is a voice
that within me moves.

No Koranic reciter I,
nor prophetic seer,
just a feckless illiterati,
with a low-grade veneer.

No Keatsian ode sayer,
nor Dickinsonian heart pray-er;
rather a hapless word rhymer,
a greater poet's boot shiner.

Driven to by the daimon
that whispers vanity and hope,
I pump out words like a
gibbering monkey high on dope,
all the while wondering if even one poem
will survive my journey back to the
dust from whence I came.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, November 28, 2011

The Flag Wavers

Paragons of virtue, they.
Upstanding models of morality.
They subvert justice and law
with their money and their maw,
and then judge the disenfranchised
and impoverished as having character flaws.

The flag wavers.

They give full-throated cry,
as they spit in the occupier's eye.
"How dare you question my riches?
How dare you? You sons-of-bitches!"


With their politician friends,
who all wear little-flag lapel-pins,
class warfare they declaim
as they expertly practice same,
and then have the audacity to claim
their good names are defamed,
when anyone suggests they share.

The flag wavers are happy to go to war,
send our soldiers to far-flung foreign shores,
in fights to protect the wealth they often inherit,
but which they then claim they earned on merit.

They call "heroic" the men and women who bleed
for a cause the flag wavers name "liberty's seed,"
a war that often only serves their need
to distract the masses from their naked greed.

Now back at home, the veterans suffer,
as the benefits they hoped would buffer
life's challenges, feed their children supper,
are now in doubt as flag wavers get tougher
on spending re-classified as "entitled"
by their politician friends-nee-puppets.

The flag wavers.

They point the finger of blame
for the current economic disaster
at any who would dare to shame
them in their decadent halls of alabaster,
claiming they are just too big to fail,
"job-creators," too important to go to jail.

And now, the flag wavers,
the very foundation, the nation's strength,
crumbles underneath our very feet,
and perverted justice has its sway,
as selfish greed is heartily praised
by flag wavers in pulpits highly raised,
and in Mammon completely steeped.

The flag wavers, it comes close to falling,
as corporate lobbyists continue calling
in the favors they bought and paid
for, using money they lied and laid
for with black-hearted and galling
men who blink opaque eyes of jade
at revolution erupting in the street.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

Paper Gods

Nothing but paper gods.

Money, fame,
the love of many,
glory before
the entire world;
it all looks good
on paper,
but it's all just
paper gods.

The gods of
the sacred texts,
the gods that create
minor sects,
the gods who ask
your life and money,
the gods who promise
milk and honey;
all just paper gods.

There are those
who disbelieve,
and those who
feel much aggrieved
that god won't kill
the ones they hate.

There are those who live in fear
of god's wrath and demons near,
and religious psychopaths
claiming to do god's work,
all passionately oblivious
that they are serving
paper gods.

Religious mystics claim to know
that the river of god forever flows
through the universe of eternal being.
Perennially creating and destroying,
always devouring and deploying
the effulgence of god cannot be
apprehended with the papered
over eyes of this human condition.

So we invent our passionate delusions,
we worship and praise with great effusion,
hoping our efforts will please the
distant and mysterious something we call god.

We hope and pray in dramatic profusion,
and deny and ignore our internal confusion
about the silence and absence we perceive
from the paper gods we serve.

Living and breathing,
our hearts ever beating,
we are the reality of
god's kingdom come.
No future, better version,
no paradise, or promise of virgins,
we are the leaves of grass
sown by god's green thumb.

Wad up and smash them,
rip up and trash them,
those paper gods we
cherish and hold.

Understand and embrace them,
uplift and replace them,
our brothers and sisters,
the faces of god's soul.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, November 07, 2011

Broken Home for the Holidays

Two kids
caught between
two homes,
two families,
two holidays.

With you this year,
with me next,
now one about to
leave the nest,
and we each wonder
about the following time
he visits this
broken home
for the holidays.

The fiction is
that children live
just fine between
two homes.

The reality says
that kids instead
are better when
two parents make
a whole.

Life is life, though,
and we grew apart,
we went to court,
I lost your heart.

Now our kids
adjust the best
they can.
They run their lives
through familial
quick sand
as they navigate
these broken homes
for the holidays.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Love's Legal Tender

Andy
Warhol
gauche.

My silly
sweetheart
poems.

Saccharine sweet
and a half-inch deep,
inadequate to convey
fathoms of love at play
every time I think
of you.

Pedestrian and crude,
like fatty fast food,
they clog your heart
with dueling Descartes
as I struggle with the
love I can imagine and
the love I can prove.

I think, therefore exist,
my love is no trick,
no phantom of feverish brain.
No mirage born of heat,
nor soporific feat
of mad philosophic strain.

These poems are
love's legal tender,
the feeble attempt
by my heart to render
payment in full to you,
my beautiful poetic muse.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Life in a Garbage Can

Walking late afternoon
this beautiful fall season,
I happened across a
trash can full of
late season flies.

The flies buzzed morosely,
as if aware the early frost
soon would terminate their
short lives on the trash heap.

They gathered mournfully
around a blue puddle of
sticky liquid, almost as
though parishioners praying
around sacred wine.

The afternoon sun glinted
on their fragile wings
as they languished in
torpidity inside their
trashy plastic universe.

For a moment,
just a moment,
I understood that
I was seeing our own
world from a god's
perspective.

This beautiful garden
that we call earth
is come close to an oily
trash can, and we the
flies around a sacred
black petroleum wine.

The detrital byproducts
of modern life fill
our lives, our minds,
our bodies and our
sacred spaces with
toxicity and garbage.

Do we, too, exist in
the late afternoon fall sun?
Is our existence also as perilous
as those flies living out their
lives in a garbage can?

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Friday, October 21, 2011

Left Unsaid

I am learning so much from you.
It is amazing how much
I never knew.

You taught me that it is
more important to listen
for the things left unsaid.

A glance, a smile,
a quickly dried tear;
a touch, a squeeze,
a half-hidden fear;
those are the unspoken
words I must always hear;
those things, left unsaid,
to your heart are dear.

I love you for all the things
you are too sensitive to say.
I love you for telling me everything
in your quiet, loving way.

A man such as I needs
all the grace he can find,
and a woman like you
should probably never be mine.

But you grace me with your beauty,
you walk where angels fear to tread,
so I accept it as my solemn duty
to understand your words left unsaid.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Rusty Ship of Friends

Life took a toll
on most of my
friendships.

A narrow wife,
a constricted life,
the joy of children,
griefs unbidden,
all of these oxidized
the ship that sailed with
my collection of good
friends.

Now my life approaches
a different phase
in which I have more
freedom than in
younger days.

And that begs
the question
of what next to do,
when you figure out
the hull of your
friend ship has
rusted through?

The answer,
like cancer,
had riddled
my brain.
And the cure
ensures
I will have my
friends again.

Like Noah,
I will find them.
one by one,
and two by two.
I will build a new ship,
fill it with friends
old and new.

No longer resting
on life's ocean floor,
I will salvage my
rusty ship of friends,
haul it back ashore
where we will laugh,
drink wine in the sun,
sharing life's victories
and aright life's wishes
still left undone.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Shall I Wait Forever?

Shall I wait forever
for your answer,
which may be "never"?

Shall I hold my breath
as you consider,
turning blue as death?

Say yes, say yes;
just tell me yes.

I will bring you flowers, and
we will lay abed for hours
wondering how we ever lived
without this lover's gift,
this time to spend alone.

I will play soft music,
mellow, warm and soothing.
We will whisper quiet,
and our passion will run riot
inside our lover's home.

Is that worth the waiting?
Does your heart beat still for me?
Can we stop debating?
Do you finally see?

Say yes, say yes;
just tell me yes.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Promises

What are promises
but sincere words wrapped
in ribbon of hope?

I try not to make
promises I cannot keep.
I try not to give
assurances I cannot meet.

I want to tell you
everything will be fine.
I want to sell you on
this faulty love of mine.

But this love doesn't come
with any guarantees.
It is like the autumn sun
humbled by a winter breeze.

Do you need promises
that cannot be fulfilled?
Do you seek certainty
that milk will not be spilled?

You are the dairy maid,
you know the prices paid
for love that is hidden,
for love that is forbidden.

So I won’t make promises
that I cannot sustain;
I won't turn I love you
into a glass of cheap champagne.
No other lover, no demon dark
can tempt me away with promises,
of greater love than yours.

I will ask you
to stay with me
to the end,
as my lover,
as my friend.

Let my tongue
play joyfully
around your name
until that glad day when
my words are no more,
and my life has been given
to you with sincerity
wrapped in hope.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Friday, October 14, 2011

Heaven Afoot

My most beautiful friend.

You are heaven afoot,
an angel unwinged
so a devil like me
can hold you for
a moment,
and desire you
for eternity.

Our souls touch
when you but hold
my hand.

When you lay
down with me,
time stops,
and I smile.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Love Today

Love today
is so confusing.

We all have hurts, regrets,
baggage we don’t want to claim.

I love you is so easy to say,
but so hard to mean.

It comes with questions --
Is it real? Does she mean it?
Why must I ask to be told?

Sometimes love is true
but is trapped inside
a too cautious heart.

Love today,
at this age,
in this age,
is so confusing.

So just wrap your arms around me.
Hold me close, and kiss my cheek.
Let me feel your breath on my face.
That is the comfort I need.

Be my true friend,
and I will hold tightly
to you for always.

Because
love today
is too confusing.


© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Peace, Be Still

Silence.

Just be still.

Wisdom is found
in the space between
your thoughts,
not in the thoughts
themselves.

Peace.

Be Still.

Just breathe.

Just listen.

Understanding,
at last.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Ninety Nine and Hot

I remember the first time I saw you
sitting in your chair.
I wanted to say you were beautiful
but I just didn't dare.

I never guessed a woman like you
could love a man like me.
Of all the things I thought I knew,
I thought our love could never be.

I was wrong and I'll say it.
It's my song and I'll play it.

And when you're ninety nine,
and still smoking hot,
and whether you're with me then,
or not,
I'm going to love you anyway.

I remember the first time I kissed you,
in the cab of your pickup truck,
and when you left I missed you,
and hoped that we would...

...get to know each other better.

And when it all happened
it was like a dream come true,
I saw the silver fireworks,
just like they say you do.

But then I lost you.
I let you slip away.
And it cost me
a price I couldn't pay.

I was wrong and I'll say it.
It's my song and I'll play it.

And when you're ninety nine,
and still smoking hot,
and even after with me
you are not,
I'm going to love you anyway.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Gradients of Love

There is I love you,
madly, passionately,
and you're the
only one.

And then there's
I love you,
you're my daughter
or my son.

Sometimes, I love you
is said in kind support.
Other times I love you
is said in jest, as sport.

Love changes with the gradient,
the incline of the slope,
love changes in a person's heart
from sublime to knotted rope.

You say that you love me still,
but I don't know what it means.
Our love of fiery passion has
mellowed and grown lean.

On love's gentle gradient
I don't know where we stand.
Over our love light radiant
darkness has command.

Maybe your I love you
means a slow goodbye.
Or I love you as a friend now,
and that's all I can supply.

My prayer is for I love you
as only you could say,
and if I find that love again
it will never get away.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Let's Face It

Let's face it...
I need help.

I am mortally
wounded,
emotionally
scarred and
incapable of
trust.

I can hear you say
I love you a million
times, and I still
cannot believe it.
In my mind, I replay
all the times I heard
those words before.

And look how that
turned out.

Perhaps it is because
you are so beautiful.
Maybe I don't think
I am worthy of your
love and affection.

You are out of my league.
You are more than I
could ever imagine
to desire.

Or maybe it's because
of my own past sins
of omission and commision.
Things I did that I am
not proud of, which
haunt me to this day.

Maybe because of those
sins, I feel unforgiven,
undeserving and unlovable.

I really don't know the
answers, after years of
soul searching and
staring at my navel.

So let's face it...
I need help.

The kind of help that
only you can give.
The kind of love that
gives me reason to live.
The kind of help that
shows there is a God
in his heaven smiling
down on me and you.

It is so much to ask.
It is so much to need.
And I understand if you
want to cut out my
heart and laugh as
you watch me bleed.
I have wronged you out
of my own distrust.
I have besmirched you
with my ego made of dust.

Let's face it ...
you're too good to
ever be with me.
And after the hurt I
have caused you,
why would you
ever want to be?

Maybe it's too late
to get back to what
we had before.
Maybe in your heart
you have already
shut the door.

But let's face it ...
without you I have
only half a life,
without you I lose
the will and strength
to fight
life's greater jihad.

Let's just face it ...
without you
there is not
much me
left to even help.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Thursday, October 06, 2011

A Proper Goodbye

Mere words won't do.

Goodbye seems hollow,
not appropriate for what
passed between us.

The highest highs,
the lowest lows,
the deepest sighs,
the fire below;
that's what we had,
that's what we
almost had.

I would be lying if
I said I was not
devastated by it all.
I would be trying
to mislead if I said
I was not sad,
I was not mad
at how it ended.

In our denouement,
this poem is all I am left;
my only way to bid
you a proper goodbye.

Know this.
Love always shines
in the darkest places,
love always finds
the smallest spaces
to grow green again,
to flow streams within
the most parched of hearts.

My wish is that you find
all the love you need,
and that you can forgive me
for this simple screed,
this poem,
this feeble attempt
to tell you a proper
goodbye.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

I Held Your Hand, God Holds Your Soul

I promised you
and God
that I would be there
on that fateful day
of your passing.

There were late night
phone calls saying
she's dying now,
come home quick,
this time she's really sick.

I would get there
only to find you
sitting up and breathing,
suffering with pain
the doctors could not explain.

Slowly, yet quickly,
I watched you age,
saw you waste away,
but stubbornly holding on,
even after hope was gone.

In the end it was hospice,
strangers in your house,
injecting you with medicines
that melted you into death,
everyone saying it was for the best.

I sat next to you for hours,
and I held your hand,
saying that I loved you,
hoping you would understand,
even though I knew
you were already gone.

But mom, I never did thank you
for the legacy, the gift of words that flow.
The life that you have given me
and much of what I know.
I visited your grave site just
the other day,and I found myself
crying over words I failed to say.

Your life was a hard one,
and yet you carried through,
held onto your faith
and never questioned who
was your savior,
your lord and your king.

And I can only imagine,
hope and pray,
that now you sit on high and sing,
your songs of joy and praise
at having gained the prize.

I believe that God welcomed you
into the bright glory of his love,
and that he embraced your soul
in His everlasting touch.

And when upon His face
you first gazed
I believe you heard him say
"well done, thou good faithful servant."

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Saturday, August 06, 2011

Love Lingers

Alfred said it is better
to have loved
and lost
than to have
never
loved at all.

The good Lord
Tennyson was wrong.
One never loses love.

Love lingers.

Like a rusty barbed wire digging
deep into the flesh
of an unlucky tree,
love lingers in the heart.

Like the sharpest shard
of a broken glass
invisible on the
kitchen floor,
jabbing savage
into a bare foot,
love lingers in the soul.

Like the sweet perfume
of a passing lady
that reminds you of the one,
love lingers in the memory.

Better to have loved and lost?
As age and wisdom increase,
I now wonder if that is true.

Better to have loved or not?
Because love lingers, its sweet
taste I have come to rue.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Lovers and Liars

We were lovers,
and we were liars,
declaring love
so we could follow
the desires of our
own selfish hearts.

Heedless, mindless,
blind to the pain
we were causing
others who
were invested in
our lives.

We both blamed
the spectre of
our youths,
but we were
old enough
to know better.

We reveled in
the joy of our
company, and
the abandon
of our bodies.

We swore we
would part as
friends, but that
too was a lie.

Love and lies
are more intimately
related than
kith and kin.

Lovers and liars
are comfortable together,
lounging naked
in their true skin.

In a world that
is poison to
love, perhaps
lies are all
we have.

In an age
when love has
no meaning, maybe
lies are a
new golden calf.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, April 11, 2011

No One

No one
to love me
ever
again.

No one
to hold me
skin
to skin.

No one
to show me
the meaning
of love.

No one
to know me,
redeeming
my trust.

These are the fears
that haunt me at night,
cold, naked demons
not afraid of light.

These are the thoughts,
one hundred years old,
bubbling in my cracked pot,
leaching life from my soul.

No one
to mend me
when I am
ill.

No one
to defend me
when I am
still.

No one
to Shine
a love light
on me.

No one
to pine
when life
I leave.

These are the demons
that speak to me at night,
cold, naked fears
not afraid of light.

These are my secrets,
one thousand years old,
growing in my sore spot,
stealing sun from my soul.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Friday, April 08, 2011

Bob Seger Said It

Life is a series of
calculated compromises,
uninformed choices,
and terrifying crises.

Navigating unknowns
and savoring vices,
stark disappointments
and pleasant suprises.

Bob Seger said it,
I no longer regret it,
"those are the memories that
make me a wealthy soul."

Love is a mystery
without any heroes,
a storybook history
of losers and zeroes.

Marriage catastrophes,
and divorce court dramas,
deadbeat dastardlies,
scheming baby mamas.

Bob Seger said it,
I finally get it,
"those are the memories that
make me a wealthy soul."

Death is involuntarily engaging
the emergent process of aging,
and walking steadfast into sorrow,
averting eyes from a final tomorrow.

A series of illness and healings,
of perpetual burning and peelings,
until the skin of our soul breaks,
rendering death no longer opaque.

Bob Seger said it,
I no longer dread it,
"these were the memories that
made me a wealthy soul."

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, April 04, 2011

A Father's Heart

How like broken glass,
a father's heart, a father's love
ground underfoot until it has
turned into shards, turned into dust,
leaving only gritty remains
blown into the eyes of
unsuspecting strangers.

How like a hummingbird wing,
the laughter of children,
the patter of small feet,
beating as fiercely as
a father's heart
as they run away with time
in a thousand different directions,
leaving only empty spaces
inside a life once filled
with only their concerns.

How like a sacred story,
the tears of the father
whose prodigal son goes seeking
in a world of wrong turns and vices,
whose only daughter goes weeping
in a world that holds no new surprises
for a parent who has contended with
all of its evil and tempting ways.

A father's heart,
a father's love,
as certain as the morning sun,
still as vanquished as the light
by every certain turn
of the world on its axis,
by every passing of the day
into ever encroaching night.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, March 28, 2011

Love Times Infinity

When I tell you
you're the most beautiful woman in the world,
you know it's a lie.
The truth is you're not perfect,
and bless you,
because nor am I.

But it is the truth when I say
you are the most beautiful woman
that I get to see,
naked,
and laughing,
as we cuddle and tease.

Shivering under covers,
when it is cold and dark,
speaking in whispers
and sharing our hearts.

This, then, is love
as God meant it to be.
Blinded by love's beauty,
and blessed by love times infinity.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Sunday, March 27, 2011

America's Obituary

The United States of America was found dead today inside her home. She was 235 years old at the time of her passing.

Investigators have not yet released a cause of death, but indicate that foul play is suspected. Historians performed an autopsy, but results have so far proven inconclusive. Their preliminary report stated that Barack Obama, Harry Reid, John Boehner and John Roberts, the four individuals last entrusted with her welfare, should receive the lion's share of historical suspicion for her death. Textbook writers are scrambling to print new editions including the nation's demise, and recording the four men's ignominy for future generations.

There apparently was some disagreement among the investigating historians, however, as a minority report also was released. The minority opinion placed blame for America's death more squarely on George W. Bush and Richard Cheney, the two caretakers in charge of her keeping prior to the current team of caregivers. The minority report noted that America's health began a rapid decline during the Bush/Cheney era, and pointed to the rapid depletion of Ms. US's bank accounts as evidence of fiduciary malfeasance and suspect behavior. The majority of investigators, however, dismissed the minority report as reckless and dangerous speculation, noting that both Bush and Cheney have retired from public life and have since moved to private islands they acquired during their tenure as caretakers. The prior caretakers, say the majority of historians, do bear some of the blame, but primary responsibility should be given to the current care giving team.

Meanwhile, independent investigators, working without the authorization of the American estate, continue to raise questions about all parties involved with the health maintenance of Ms. America. They point not only to the care giving teams, but also to the lax oversight provided by representatives of Ms. America's press. They cite questionable reporting and editorializing by many members of the press, referred to only as pundits. The independent investigators reserve especially harsh criticism for foreign owned press reportage, citing in particular one Rupert Murdoch. They note that collusion between the Murdoch press and the Bush/Cheney care giving team appeared especially suspicious, since it coincided with the initial diagnosis and rapid progress of Ms. America's health decline.

It should be remembered that Ms. US had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. Political scientists were never able to definitively pinpoint the type of cancer plaguing America. It was believed, however, that the cancer was caused by several contributing factors, including corporate and individual greed, an invasive militarism, the constipation of justice, and the corruption of religion and governance. Regardless of the cause, the cancer she suffered was quite aggressive, and was attributed with causing dementia and erratic behavior in the final few years of her life.

Ms. America is survived by over 300 million citizens. At her peak, Ms. US's estate was estimated to be the largest in the world. In her declining years, however, her estate had fallen into severe disrepair. The amount of income she was dedicating to her own maintenance soared as she grew older. In recent years she was devoting large sums of her estate to health care, banking, and energy supply industries that provided her with fewer and fewer sustaining benefits. The current value of her estate is unknown, but it is expected that her 300 million survivors will receive little or no inheritance. The independent investigating team has noted that the health care, banking and energy supply industry leaders, those receiving the bulk of the American estate in her final years, have since moved offshore and overseas, taking most of the American estate with them.

Funeral arrangements are pending as the official investigation continues. In lieu of flowers, representatives of the estate are asking for donations to help cover the expense of closing her estate. A very large donation has already been provided by gun manufacturing industry leaders, as their business has soared since the announcement of Ms. America's death.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Friday, March 25, 2011

Beats Per Minute

Thirty seven million heart beats,
each of them for you;
one point six million minutes,
not knowing what to do.

The quandary you gave me,
Dirty laundry you saved me
With your quiet, secret love.

Heartbeats per minute,
times minutes by years,
equals thirty seven million,
the sum total of my fears.

Are you the last love
ever I will taste?
Are you the last witness
of my mortal disgrace?

Can ever love save
a fading wretch like me?
Shall I give up hoping
for what should never be?

Thirty seven million heart beats,
and each of them for you.
One point six million minutes
not knowing what to do.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012