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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leftward Ho: Ratcheting Our Nation to the Left

I had an interesting conversation with a faculty member yesterday that had me thinking all night long. He is of the opinion that our nation is, contrary to current appearances, moving ever leftward, toward liberalism and not away from it. I, of course, expressed a lot of skepticism. His outlook is a lot more optimistic than my own.

The examples he offered to prove his point seem unassailable. It took a civil war, but we ended slavery. We had prohibition, but we repealed it. We had deeply divisive McCarthyism, but we overcame that. We had institutionalized racism, but we enacted civil rights reforms. We had a deeply unpopular war in Vietnam, but an anti-war movement ended it.

His said our society is prone to pendulum swings, that we make progress, but then we take some of it back. Two steps leftward, one step right. But taken in the long term, he said, our country has been slowly ratcheting leftward. After all these years of hearing conservative voices bitterly complaining that our country is tilting toward liberalism, this professor was actually offering evidence that it is true. I remarked that his argument seemed to validate the conspiracy-theory world view of militia movements and Tea Partiers. He tenatively agreed.

The professor said that he believes we will have tighter gun controls at some point. Not necessarily the "take them all away" kind that the NRA and Gun Owners of America uses to scare its members into action. But logical, sane, gun restrictions that make our country a safer place to live.

Most of the night, I was pleased by his contention that our country is trending ever more progressively liberal. Then, unfortunately, sober reality returned with the cold light of dawn. Rachel Maddow presented an exceptional program on Monday night. The whole hour (now viewable online at provided link) was devoted to Tim McVeigh, the blower-upper of the Murrah Federal Building. The program centered around hours of audio tapes that McVeigh made after the bombing, an agreement he made with a journalist to tell his side of the story.

At one point on the tapes, McVeigh quoted a famous bumper sticker that says, "When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns." He said that he preferred more direct message:

"When guns are outlawed, I will be an outlaw."

Leaving aside questions of McVeigh's psychology -- whether he was a narcissist, a sociopath, suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or was scarred by bullying in high school or by his parent's lousy parenting -- the sentiment he expresses above is still valid. That determination to resist any attempt to take away or control guns, that suspicion of the motives and direction of government, that worldview that says he and others of like mind are the only true representation of the intentions of the "Founding Fathers," are the very same things we seem to be hearing from many in the Tea Party movement ... indeed, from the entire Republican "conservative" apparatus.

Even if it is objectively provable that our culture is moving inexorably to the left over the long term, there is no guarantee that the trip there will be easy or without violence. There are many instances in American history where resistance to change has become violent, and the outcome of change was uncertain. The Civil Rights movement is an exceptional example of that, as we are still waiting for the promise of change to be fulfilled; for the dream to be realized and not deferred.

I believe there are those in our nation who will go to any length to resist and thwart liberal change: health care, gay rights, gun control, economic reform. Telling them that our nation will continue moving to the left will only further enflame their passions. And there are also selfish, power hungry, greedy, dishonest and insincere politicians and journalistic prostitutes who will stoke the fears and hatred of that element for their own political and economic gain ... the welfare of the nation and its citizens be damned.

In the long term, our nation may become a liberal paradise, where people like myself feel welcome and appreciated. In the short term, I'm betting we will see more instances of McVeigh-ism: violence seeking to overturn and up-end any strides toward a more liberal democracy and society. In my opinion, the only real unknowns are when it will happen, and how successful, damaging and destructive the violence will be. The depressive realist in me believes it is not inconceivable this nation could very quickly and violently turn toward a much more strident, assertive and aggressive anti-liberalism. After all, those who peg their identity to the term "conservative" seem much more amenable to cracking heads and shooting guns than liberals like me.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Lady Bug on My Knee

The office I work in gets invaded by lady bugs several times each year. Look up at the light in my office and you're likely to see at least seven or eight lady bugs, some alive and active, some dried out carcasses. The live ones buzz around our heads during these invasions, sometimes flopping on the desks in front of us, or flying bang into our computer screens.

Today, I spent several minutes watching a lady bug crawling up my pant leg. My legs were crossed, and I watched in fascination as the insect crawled to the top of my knee, the highest point it could reach. There it crawled around confusedly for several moments, down one side of my leg and back to the apex of my knee, then down the other side and back to the top again. Several times it would perch on the highest point of my knee and unfurl it's delicate wings, then launch itself into space. It would fly for only a fraction of a second, landing scarcely an inch or two away from the place it started out on my leg. It did this several times, as if uncertain of it's own ability to fly.

I stared at the unfolding process in wonderment, pondering what might possibly be going through the mind of that little bug. Why didn't it just throw itself into space and fly away. Why did it keep failing to launch, only to try again and again?

I realized that I could never understand what that bug was doing or thinking. And it struck me how metaphorical the situation was of my own relationship with God. Is it possible that God sits upon high, staring at me -- at all of us -- in puzzlement and wonderment? Do we appear as uncertain and unsteady in our flight as that little lady bug appeared to me? Is the lady bug really that different than all of us, reaching the highest point we can find, and then jumping around in blind confusion, making futile attempts to take flight? What help can God render to a being in that condition?

Finally the lady bug managed to launch itself into space for a longer flight. This time it managed to stay aloft for about three sustained seconds, all the while spiralling downward to the brown carpeted concrete that is the floor of my office. It landed with a thud on the floor and sat still for several moments. I thought it was dead, killed by the vicious impact it had sustained. I was just reaching to pick it up when it started crawling slowly across the carpet.

I saw my own life flashing before my eyes.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012