My Poetry

Come dance with my wordy words.

The Day
We seem so far away
two separate worlds apart.
Mine is full of weeds
burnt with dryness.
But your world is so shiny
colorful and fine,
healthy like a yellow rose.
I used to grow that kind.
That’s what happens when
worlds collide, one grows,
one rips apart – like the tension
in an atom, one side light
one side dark.
In our exhange, the sharing of our pain
there was something that I became.
Somehow I got lost, it was night
and I gave you my vision and the moon
stole my sight. My hands are tied.
I can’t decide, I can’t sustain or
embellish or even derail
this world where I spin and find myself frail.
But I can see your beauty, and my demise.
Maybe one day I’ll know healing.
I tell myself it’s all okay.
I tell myself the pain will pay.
But what about the day?

What I see in you
Who is this evil, this man I despise?
Who controls this behavior?
What hands are these that lie?
I know not what I do.
And what I do to you, I do to me too.
Who is this liar, this lover, this fate?
Who is this friar who cloaks his own hate?
Who calls my name with fire and air?
Who is the constant breeze, this constant despair?
I smile and touch you with young eyes and skin.
I feel I’m eternal, a sliver, razor thin.
Who is this frustration, that’s running towards hell?
It’s like a cunning salesman with fine herbals for sale.
I know not who I am, nor what I do and
everything I want to be, I only see in you.

The Rock
I thought I was a rock
being thrown in one direction
all the while plotting my path and
expecting to land in a verdant meadow
misty with lavender fragrance.
There I would watch the day turn to night,
full of my rockness, giving thanks for the sight.
But you, you came in with a shovel and started digging,
like a jeweler refining a stone,
shaving off my edges and taking
a closer look, and I let you,
not that a rock can move on its own or
peel back the layers, small stone by small stone.
This was a painful process; rocks don’t give easily.
I felt your hands and nails and supposed that down deep
I knew your intentions.
The scenes changed and I remained refined
by your attention and having no idea
where this would end and when it would begin again.
Then one day I felt the burst of your radiant light
from within my heart and realized that the shedding
of my layers was my letting go, and
that every heart of stone holds a brilliance,
imagination compressed, a universe contained,
an explosion of darkness into light.

Tapas
This place has a moldy rubber mat,
gunk stuck in the crevices kind of smell.
The Spanish wine is stacked up on the beer cooler.
It’s bustling, busy, chopping, cooking, pouring,
serving laughter, dipping and dancing to the second
hand on the clock that pulses the time away.
The band shows up late. The empty space is suddenly
full of cords, stands, speakers, picks, amps, pedals
and mics in their proper place. The house fills fast.
Person after person, group after group
searching for a seat and olive oil to dip their bread in.
The music starts, I take the mic and reach out to the space
around me, pulling the sound into me
from the second floor balcony,
from the secret city below
and from the well lit corners
of distant streets.
I let go and try to soar,
positioning myself as a receiver of God’s love
and the giver of music.
My voice soars, dancing with agility and light.
It flows like cream from a creamer, like silk on the skin.
Moments of perfection float by in the grace notes of
sunshine and sparkling moon, throbbing stars and footsteps.
I go exploring, excavating all my spaces while the guys
paint the world around me.

Bare
The crowd is seated at booths dating back to 1962.
The PA is set up, the lights are dim. There’s a hush
throughout the room. The newsman taking notes
stands in the back feeling the hardwood floors
in his aching feet.
I’m doing five songs, five separate journeys against nervousness,
against closing the door, against shutting down.
Five different road trips, some on a grass lined highway,
one on a dirt road, one to Las Vegas, one to the mountains
and one to the sea. But they all originate in a dark corner,
reaching with vibration. I collect listeners via beauty
via velvet lined melodies that dip, duck and soar.
Let me take you with me.

Shipman
I met you at a party, near the banana tree.
You had a beautiful face, healthy and tan arms.
You never shifted your gaze and I knew you were kind.
Even when I walked away, I knew you wouldn’t mind.
The Queen of England waltzed on in, said she was pleased to be there.
She loved a fun gathering where people set aside their cares.
I was searching through trashbags for a clue, searching for a signal
that could have been from you. But the party died
and you were gone. Something was terribly wrong.
Or maybe I was dreaming.
We ran to the boat docks to see if you were there
and stared out at your empty slip, and couldn’t figure where
you had gone without a trace, or even a goodbye.
We looked around at all our friends to see just who was lying.
I searched the trash, I searched the house, but all to no avail.
I found a half an anchor and hope you’re out there somewhere.

The Saline Sea
Dancing like a leaf split open,
red, vulnerable, a child with hopes and a string
tied around the first finger of a distant childhood
wish, and plucking the hair of a barely vibrating heart.
Fifteen years ago, I was lost at sea, tossed on amplified
fears. Somehow my pulse kept floating through every day.
I waited for another storm to appear
in the dark corners of my secrecy, one that would
bring everything to the surface, exposing my every
weakness, and leave nothing to the imagination.
But the saline sea licked and cleaned my wounds
while I wasn’t looking. She began sealing them up.
One by one, she removed the damage that the earth had inflicted.
I swam in her bosom, floated on a red door and she took it all.
She left me like a crack in the sidewalk after a hot summer rain.

The Self
Black salt on a slick roadway
spinning back three days time
to hot tongue kisses and broken branches.
I’m gonna get me some relief to this deep ache.
Drugs don’t touch this Grand Canyon of a crevice.
Red rock painted with hieroglyphs, the hands
of someone gone before pointing out the important stuff,
water, danger, food.
I’m barely surviving but the heart keeps beating, lungs keep breathing.
The spirit’s held captive here, it gazes out only to see it’s very self.

Afternoon Stars
The pollen swam against the sunlight
like floating stars sparkling into the late afternoon.
The horses were out in the field, calm, quiet, grazing on grass.
The concert of colors is where skin meets earth and sky.
It’s a respite away from the day to day, hour to hour
responsibility of the life I’ve chosen.
I dare it to change. I dare it to change overnight.
Let it turn out into the pasture and start separating the
wheat from the chaff. Let it leave my days full of music,
guitars and voices that float along rivers of consciousness.
And when I close my eyes, let me see those afternoon stars
floating by.

Circles
Stark raving lunatic man of cans with a shopping cart
dances in the parking lot to a beat that no one else hears.
Park ranting bible son on a milk crate standing on the sidewalk
preaching words but no one cares.
The world goes to hell in a handbasket full of crumbs of
hot cross buns and the waters flowing down the drain,
the aged doctor controls the pain, going down, down, down.
Life is leaving her green eyes, dark ringed and those circles
tell the truth.

The Wake
I stand on the cold parquet floor
butter dripping from my sweet overloaded cinnamon toast.
Leaning in the yellow doorway, I eat starting at the surface
of the counter top, thinking, discovering the
dirty pink paint personalized words.
The faint radio thoughts open like an umbrella.
There’s merchandise, freeways and tangled grass.
I can feel the wind coming in from the San Gabriel mountains
through the dirty dusty window.
I retreat to last night, television in the background,
some discussion on public radio about the marketing placement
of grocery shelves. My oblivious man, fine on the soiled
couch growls some turkey neck tin shoe comment about the diner
down the street. We’ve got to deal with traffic tomorrow
on the way to the burial to watch emotions express the past.
We have to go to the wake and see an icebox filled with
interesting neighbor made, quaint dishes and sweets and the
hot German bread will disappear.

Hard Times
We’ve got Quick Silver Jerky beef in a can and
and the old fan is turning. His eloquent but sad
grey hairs on his head are slicked down by
pommade and his tiny new whiskers need a blade.
I put pencil to paper and he shook as I wrote.
He studied the label and quietly spoke of
millions of grasses, a fury of color
the faces all passing, the painting of lovers,
prams and hands, holding elbows and thighs
and throwing electric sparks from our eyes.
He sees what’s attractive in lines upside down.
Hard times have constructed a permanent frown.
We slip in the bath tub creating a lather,
soapy and wetness, conditioned we’d rather
fly by our seats to lands far away
where dew on the grass sparkles all day.
We’d sail on fine carpets and all dreams would come true.
We’d capture the sun’s rays and use them for fuel.
Diamonds, rubies, emeralds and ores
spin in our minds as we dance on the floor,
touching and tasting the skin of
this earth and feeling our bodies twirl in our skirts.