Java Verses

Chain Gang

2006-02-12T21:11:00.000-08:00

Falling, soothingly falling
Making tracks of black mascara
Marring perfectly made up lips
Turning peach toned skin
Into a watery gray,
Now stripped as a chain gang,
Best suits,
She knells her head

(This was written sometime in the late 90s)

2006-01-19T12:53:00.000-08:00

I’m interested in the way your mind ticks.
I want to disassemble you down to bare cogs.
Analyze depressions folded in shadows for the markings
That rendered the many succinct parts you.
Train my fingers along the contour of the frame that holds it all in.
Appreciate the beauty of how each portion works together,
The collection of experiences that turns and tunes your time piece

I want to know why each thought was created,
Where it traveled before it reached my ears
The rhythmic tattoo of your well cued words
Has me traversing spaces previously unknown
My body fades, surroundings slide into translucence
Yet I am only one of your many, and you’re not speaking to me

We are suspended waiting, hanging in the moment
Knowing there’s a punch line coming,
And it won’t be funny. It’ll slam into our core,
And I can almost sense you reel from across the room,
As you expel the last breath, the last tick,
The last syllable and it hits hard, sends us home,
Keeps us wondering, thinking, sometimes even yearning
Until the next time, the next line, we watch you tick.

She looked the same as she always had ...

2005-12-20T01:33:00.000-08:00

This is a major revision of one of my old poems. To give you a little background on it - basically the speaker is a man who is explaining both to himself and to stranger at a bar the unraveling of his marriage. It is told in a soliloquy form. The title will be changing probably, but for now it is

She looked the same as she always had ...

“I looked at her,
she looked the same
as she always had”

What had changed?
Years of married suburban life,
at some point . . . someone,
for some reason . . .
I can’t understand,
stopped . . . touching.

How did it begin,
the beginning of the end?
I feel as though we’d been in the
dénouement for years.
Was it me . . . was it her?

The touching,
it’s one of those things
best remembered
when reciprocated.

Like a dime store romance,
“He grabbed her body, embraced her.
She raised her head,
brushed her fingertips across his lips.”

I can’t remember . . .
if she ever looked at me,
in that elemental way.

“With eyes half closed,
bodies steaming passion”

Really, it’s the words I missed most of all.
Those stupid endearments that disappear.

We had become one of “those” couples,
who in our hurry to the office,
only glanced at the park full of children,
dogs, happy families, lovesick picnicking.
If we thought of the honeymoon, it was only

fleetingly.

I, I worked too much,
paper piles grew
despite my diligent.
She flew often
to other countries,
gone for weeks,
hammer in hand
to break that glass ceiling,
on her way up up up . . .

I stayed glued to the ground, shrugging,
struggling to shuffling my feet.
Haunting happy hours, and after hours
where I knew I would not find happiness.
But I played the game, at some point
we all play the game. You would too,
If you were living the life of a lie,
All's well, all's well, alls' well here in hell

Till one morning,
a rare hour when we awoke
still lying next to one another.
Separate cocoons in a bed unused to two.

She arose, completed her solitary routine,
carting her body in unassuming silence,
as if she was the only one.
My presence, simply a necessary invasion,
like a maid in a four star hotel.

At the breakfast table,
I sat clutching my coffee,
contemplating a bagel.
She grabbed dry toast,
prepackaged orange juice,
keys, rushing for the door,
as if she had some reason to run,
some awful thing to escape.
Maybe she just something better waiting?

I called out to her…
“So, Hon, how’s your week been?”
Two clipped word were all she answered,

“Fine, yours”

Without pausing for a response
she revved up the car,
peeling out of the driveway.

Well, I suppose, what can you expect?
To have called either of us a better half was ruse.
How can you be a better half without the other half?

Later on, at my lunch hour,
when a man approached me,
detachment silk screened across
his generic features,
I wish could say I was surprised.
I wish I claim I hadn’t been looking for him,
everyday as I ate my lunch,
chasing Alka Seltzer with whiskey,
for my diet of heartburn and hopelessness.

He handed me a cheap Bic pen,
oily with someone else sorrow and bitterness.
I had to hold on tight to keep it from slipping.
It’s funny, it only took moments to sign away
a façade we spent a decade building.

Back in my cubical, I sat solemnly,
Lacking tears may have been what
Saved me from emotional dehydration,
for despair had long since passed into numbness.

When I finally looked up from my desk
I saw her picture perched in the shrine
I had appointed to her and I wondered why?

Why she looked the same as she all ways had?

What had changed?

Bags drooped under my eyes,
my shoulders slumped, my feet stumbled
more than they ever had in the past.

Sitting beside the first picture was
another photo of her taken last summer.
She looked the same as she always had,
but something inside her had changed.
At first, I thought maybe it was
A little less luster to her hair,
Or a used spent look to her eyes.

No, she still looked the same as she always had.

There was neither a line, nor a fold on her body that wasn’t there before,
yet the person who spoke to me these last few years . . . was a stranger.

I still wonder . . . when it changed?
How she could look the same?

I am still searching for that moment,
when consummation turned to evasion,
when the we split into her and I,
when she stopped looking at me
and began looking through me.

Counting on us ...

2005-12-07T05:19:00.000-08:00

When we came together, collectively we owned . . .
3 bookcases, 1 discarded patio table, with matching chair
A coffee table, who having seen better days
Masqueraded as a headboard for the sheets & blankets
That composed our first tentative bed.
We spent those early autumn months
Softly cushioned by carpet and pillow
Our bodies sprawled out . . . harem style

Now, 3 couches and 2 children later
I still want you, like some people want yesterday
Thinking that rewind would somehow result
In a tummy tuck and a tight ass, today
They want to redo or undo . . .
I just want to do . . . you
Even though the bills are piling up
And sometimes I think the future won’t ever come

So, as we trade in diapers for pull ups
I know we own tomorrow, today
We have a family unmarked by hostility
Every smile, every sunlit laugh, every caress
Holds a value immeasurable . . .
You can’t buy what we have with soiled pennies

Unbroken piggy banks are rare, theses days.

The Rainbows End . . .

2005-11-12T06:12:00.000-08:00

Knowing it had two different ends
We stood near the axis, for years . . .
Arguing . . . I chose a different path
I’m sorry . . . I truly hope
You’re not still seeking short cuts,
Back then you were convinced
It was the only way . . .
That would lead us to happiness
I hope by now you’ve realized
That beauty was false . . .
Shimmering like a promise
We were the rainbow
Attempting to sell our souls
For leprechaun love

Used (Redraft 34)

2005-11-12T06:09:00.000-08:00

Frail, wasted . . . confusion consumes me
Damp gold outlines the fringes of my eyes
Staring out into the faint . . . nothing
Fear pours, hisses, as it trips on pavement
Squeezes between cracks, and fissures
Explodes on impact, a thousand fragments
Provoke elusive scents of motor oil, grass,
And some addictive poison . . . fragrance

You . . . smell of toothpaste and shaving cream
Of wet wilted sheets, creased by your body’s heat
Stains . . . ironed . . . deep

Miring this Monday night in emotions
Evoking thoughts too long suppressed
A clocks ticking, the window is open, again . . .
Wedged by my fingertips, stretched out trembling
Like graveyard talons grasping at elicit fumes

Half forgotten moments creep in our harbor
Dragging headstones, postcards, pillowcases
The minutes stink like mortuaries
Refusing to dissolve . . . acid washes skin casing
Weathered . . . does not equal purity

Languishing, I move to the den,
Disturbed, I rock my false icons
Frosted, my lips are, frigid, my body is,
Faltering, we are, fading, I am faint,
And still you’re vital pulse insists!
Seeks to make me, how you want me . . .

I fall, fall, fall, off of pedestals . . .
Cannot sustain the pose, the pristine picture
Slides out of focus, caught by the deceit
Reflect between our eyes . . .

Fiction, this fiction . . . it is written
By my weakness . . . the façade is shines,
Glares, burns, destroys photosensitive skin
A self-inflicted punishment . . . for the naive

There are many details, unspoken, unheard . . .
In silent spaces . . . between redundant words
The conversation loops, loops, loops
Varies only in tone, pitch, and Volume!
It imparts . . . no more certainty
Contains . . . no more conclusion
I'm not sure, how much more, I can take . . .
Before the reel snaps . . . slapping me

It seems as though our neighbors
Know us better than I do.
Speakers dangle, cling to plaster walls
Sends our confusion vibrating
Out into the ears of strangers

Do we keep them up with us till dawn?
We lay in bed, late, reiterating, everything
Unattainable, the truth sticks to my lips
Tongues move murmuring gray noise

We are not a public thing . . .
To be used and seen and known!

Like filthy bus station urinal
That carts disease . . .

I want to wash my hands clean,
Sanctify and sanitize my soul
But flies still hover near,
Like vultures, or buzzards,
Memories . . . the mind’s maggots
Burrow deeper devouring . . . me

Portrait Poem

2005-11-01T13:32:00.000-08:00

This is a poem that started from a writing prompt on wild poetry forum. The idea was to write a portrait poem. I didn’t really follow the guide lines, but I kind of like the out come anyways. As of now it’s still untitled.

You evolve your features with the flip of a hat
As if some one pulled your cord and beard grew . . . most magically
Yet I know this is based upon illusion
Underneath there is still a musicians cleft in your chin

Beneath the ink and metal that adorns you now
Your skin still crawls with words
Claws scratching at your wounds
Ready to burst the scabs of time

I can hear the tick tick tick of your time bomb mind
Aching artist trapped inside . . . it’s not too late
You don’t need to pretend that you can’t feel
Your eyes tell the truth, they always have

Fathoms deep, they attempt to sell your soul

The Mold

2005-10-12T00:11:00.000-07:00

Long hair
Long nails
Tight skirt
Tight shirt
Pink hearts
Purple stars
Plastered on
With glitter
Teetering in
My high heels
I feel . . .
Disgraced

Aged sandals,
Short hair,
Chipped nails
Stained dirty jeans
And dreams
Faded tank top,
Passive hues adorn me
I am comfortable
In a thrift store hat
This is me

Clumsily I cringe,
Claustrophobic,
I can’t cram
Your mold is unpadded
I am short
My feelings are delicate
You need to know now
I fear stepping inside,
I refuse to be refitted
I won’t suffer it,
My pride would not
Endure the battering

This is another piece written back in "those days"
(written & 1st edited aug 7 2001, major redraft Aug 15 2001)

I hide myself in verse

2005-10-12T00:06:00.000-07:00

I hide myself in verse
Masked in metaphors
Alliteration, alliteration
Alleviates aggravation
So hard to say it straight up
I weave, wavering in resolve

As The Story Goes

2005-09-11T22:06:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember the truth of the story at all.
Just disconnected real memories woven amongst
Fiction, which was embroidered by the constant retelling
So many times through the years that I know it by heart
Though I was really to young to remember
It’s almost a fairy tale now,
Without the happy ever after end.

A waterfall made bathing fun
Dusty porch lit by candles
Two rockers creakily guarded the shack
Inside it was dark, often damp
There was a wood stack behind
The cracked wall, I was forbidden to play near it

I remember twirling around falling
Leaves and laughter
Being hoisted up high on shoulders
To better see the starry sky

I remember a screen door that would
Catch a little girl faster than
It ever caught the fly,
Which got in anyways . . .

I remember Mama turning to step inside
Swollen and slow, restraining the screen door
As she glance hesitating in our direction
One hand supporting my secret sister

I remember smiling back with love
And fear that the door would catch
Her as it always caught me,
This was just before he grabbed me

His hand were hard but never too ruff
For a daughters tender skin
Insistent and determined as he took me
For good, this time

She knew I was gone before we ever left,
He threw me down into the cars interior

As I looked back for a final glimpse,
Torn, not for the last time,
Between a child’s two greatest love and fears,
He shoved me back on floor, the glass shattered,
I cried, because I couldn’t see her smile anymore
The smell of his fear, hung heavy, tainting the air.

It could have been diffrent

2005-09-11T21:29:00.000-07:00

It could have been different . . .

That night,
I wished that I could have been bought,
Like cheap wine, or stolen
With no questions asked.

Naïvely waiting on an ill lit street corner,
I know, now. . what was thought.

So simple, my well laid plan
Unfolded every night.
An established routine …

I was young, invincible, and invisible
I thought . . . then again . . .
Maybe I just didn’t care.
Just waiting . . .waiting to be taken out
Out of this hellish world.
A holy hell with heaven scents
Fermenting in the breeze. .
Taunting me . . .I wished for an escape.

A just a pack of smokes and my bag,
Was all I’d need to roam
All night, at least till 4am,

Check in time, sometimes delayed
By soft body resembling blankets,
Buying two additional hours of freedom
At the extra cost of risk.

I was almost innocent then.

First order of business . . . smokes
My fumescent fire,
Fighting to steal my life and breath.

I’d wait . . . . .
Till some “older” man
Or woman, but mainly men.
Tired, worn, reckless men,
Took pity on me, or perhaps,
Perhaps something more sinister
Was in their exhausted thoughts . . .

But nothing ever happened.
We each went our separate ways
After meeting in the dark alley
Running beside the 24 hour Stop and Go.

At least this is how it went most nights.
Really, all but one,
Man,
I should have feared
But didn’t
Don’t.

He could have been anyone.
We stood on opposing sides
Of the payphones that still cost 25 cents,
Waiting for an hour . . .
I was getting antsy.

Not only did I crave
My nightly fire stick,
But even then I knew . . .
Knew that the longer I stayed
The greater the chance of losing
My hidden freedom.

When he approached,
I hesitated . . .
For a moment. . .
But it was routine,
As always, I rounded the corner
To wait in shadows

Perhaps I was particularly lonely . . .
Or full of angst that night.
Seeking to defy to a greater degree
Than the usual,
Anyways,
No one ever noticed.

So, when he asked me,
“Do you want to go somewhere,
Quiet to talk?” as he
Peeled back his jacket
That cold night to expose
Offerings of peace and pleasure
Stolen and forbidden.

Young and dumb, I followed, he led,
A route I might have taken, familiar ground.

He spoke to me tenderly
His voice resounding sincerity,
Cautiously carting his pain,
Only a glimpse was visible wearily
Spiraling in his earthy brown eyes.
His tan body was all hard muscle
Which required for his survival
But I knew this was just scar tissue.
He used this surface well . . .
Hiding inside his soul.

I watched as he walked a lanky stride,
I saw at once that he was different
From his world, I learned one more time,
To not judge so quickly,
Or at least more carefully.

We smoked slowly,
read with care,
drank with abandon
And talked. . .
As though no one had ever
Listened to us before . . .
Many, many hours
Above the high school track
Wind whipping our fresh words away.

As time passed, we eased down into
The gray velvet shadows
Faded dank and dark beside my old school
Sitting, laying in the faculty’s
Forbidden outdoor foyer

There he shared his heart
The folded tattered scraps
Singed and saved for years
He gave me all he had left

We almost fought falling in love
If both heart hadn’t already been bought,
. . . And returned . . . broken.

He told me stories,
Told me he’d watched
For days,
Me in my mask of concentrated joy,
Displayed with a purpose . . .
The others were always too near . . . too close
To touch or talk truth

He said,
“You don’t just walk up
To a girl in a crowd,
When your 24 and though she seems older,
She’s surrounded by kids who
Go to class with your baby brother”

His name was tattooed in
Old English across his shoulders
“Leonardo” the only typical
Thing about this turbulent man

So many demons . . .
So secrets . . .
We revealed that lonely foggy night

Holding on to each other . . .
As if we’d loved forever,
And were not just strangers
Sharing the night

I was dizzy, when he first
Placed a hand upon my arm, back,
Then waist, to caress, in that way,
That man touches a woman
He wants . . . I was a girl

We spoke honestly,
This stranger and I,
Baring our cracked crystal
With a trust that denied
Our supposed love of loneliness

As we moved, uncomfortable,
On concrete, his desire
And tenderness shone
Brighter than the moon
Ever could . . .
But the fog was thick.

That moment I recalled my choice,
For do not be mistaken, it was my choice
In one lucid second revoked
Not because of him, or anything
This man did, right or wrong.
He moved softly away, biting his breath
With difficulty, holding his head with dignity.

In our frenzied of need
My new “womanly” underwear
Were ripped . . on one side . . .

We lay there, talked, awhile yet
In the fog, under hidden stars

He had been to prison,
And was back, recently,
To haunt the night, stalk
His disowned family,
Who refused to see him,
He ready to run, again, from his past,
A ticket to California, one-way.
He begged me to go, I wanted too. . .

We toyed teased out a teetering plan
. . . Of impossibility

But, our iridescent dreams were bound to fail,
I was short on time . . .
Like the child I was,
I prized too many possessions
I could not leave behind,
The emblems of my former life,
The ink scrawled pages the held and bared my soul
There was no time to sneak it all away,
That way. . . that night, before day break.

Like the Latin gentleman he was,
He walked his foundling
As far as he dared,
Desperately whispering warnings
About guys like him. . .
Who had hardened vile streaks.

As I snook home from our halfway point,
Clutching my side, enveloped in shadows,
That even streetlamps couldn’t pierce,
The winding sidewalk reeled.

I slipped behind the haggard hanging wooden fence,
Crawled drunken in my silver patched window,
Floor solemnly creaking, announcing my arrival to adulthood,
If only to me . . . just before 4 o’clock check in time.

My mother,
She burned her bra in the 60’s,
Proclaimed her loss innocence with flames,
The smoldering cotton declared her new maturity

But not I . . .
I simply struck a match
A burst of sulfur
Lit a solemn funeral pyre for
The pale blue polyester panties,
Pretending to be satin . . .
Sent an acidic smoke signal
Into the rising sun
For it reminded me too much,
Of myself . . .

It could have been different . . .

Testified

2005-08-28T20:42:00.000-07:00

The spacing between lines is not what I was going for, but its not responding the way I want.

She testified . . .
     Everyday . . .
For years . . .
    In her mind . . .




The lawyers
     In their
        Gucci suits


Never called
      Never came
           In search of her




They didn’t see
     Behind the crushed
            Velvet creases
                 Burnt orange
                        Gapping
                           Curtains . . .


      Hiding
        Retiring
            Timid
               Tiny
                  Us        
                            We . . .  
                        Knew  . . .
                     Him . . .
                 Had  . . . 
              For . . .
           Years . . .


Heard . . . 
   Strange . . . 
      Whispers
        Down . . .
          Lengthy . . . 
            Hallways . . .





They never asked
     . . . this child





No one ever asked
Me . . . or her



Our friends
    Hidden ignored



Probation
    Conviction . . .





Again





Some other child’s . . .
Word . . . was enough



They . . . never looked . . . here





Because courts never asked
       Because she never told
              The right people . . .
                         Because . . .they
               Never made him pay,
      She did . . .Grandmas in denial

Woman

2005-08-28T20:18:00.000-07:00

Ok, this is a little silly, but what the hell . . .

Woman . . .

Sometimes we as women,
Have a hard time . . .
Identifying with MALES
The old time “oppressors”
Those cavemen brutes
Those corporate sexist pigs

But think for a minute,
Woman . . .
Before you go on your next
Holy crusade of male bashing
Have we become the oppressors now?
Cavewomen, sows
Still nursing resentment
Long past its prime?

I don’t understand you,
Woman,
You’re still trying to down the “man”
While crawling in the broken glass
Filled attic, the ceiling’s broken
Where do you have left to go?

Stomping the heads of brothers,
Fathers, uncles, “boy” friends,
Who personally did you no harm?
These passive, active, male women’s libbers

You still want to beat your
Bongo drums, marching, chanting,
“This penis parties got to go, Hey, Hey, Ho, Ho”

Bouncing bra-less

Damn it woman!
The wo in wo-man
Was not meant to make us worse!

Aug 27, Ed Aug 28 2001

There is a peace in finding answers

2005-08-28T20:10:00.000-07:00

There is a peace in finding answers
Forgotten in the earth,
By distractions pulling
Syllables through the air
Elusive as smoke . . .
Found the question calling
Out in high notes on the back
Of a leaf left drifting in smoggy years
Feel the winding body wrapping serenade,
The future tickles my ears . . .
Tiptoe, and trip, sing stand and try one more
Silly step, dizzy dance holds my hand and head
Hearty and hesitant

Moon Kin

2005-08-28T19:45:00.000-07:00

I feel something, inside of me.
I have no words to explain,
In proper English sentences.

The smoky gray storm clouds
Hugging the moon, who peeks her head
Around it’s smothering arms.
Under gaps and beneath edges.
Unsure, whether to come out for good,
Or if it’s her bed time,
Along with the night owls, and vampires
Who don’t need or understand harsh daylight
The suns irrepressible cheery heat

I must be kin to her in some
Distant primal past

I have no memory with which to recall
But her light is like unto my blood
Necessary at times, to be shed
I feel myself bleeding,
Wounds never quite stanched

I don’t know when I stubbed my toe,
Ripping off the protective nail,
Or when I pricked my finger,
Bit my lip, scrapped my knees
Scratched my chest . . .
But I must be hemophilic,
For I’m still bleeding

Ringing

2005-08-19T23:52:00.000-07:00

I forgot all about this poem, I just found it on my computer and thought I’d post, it about 4/5 years old.
Click here to hear me read this!

Ringing

I lay with my ear pressed,
Against warm flesh of your arm
A ringing sounds . . .
From fathoms deep,
Burrowed in your bones

Percussion sounds reverberate my skull
The faint insistent ring

The rise . . .
And fall . . .
Your chest
Is out of sync

Discordant
With my
Breathing.

Your heart beat,
Ba boom,
Ba boom,
Ba boom,

It comforts me,
Strangely, to know deep inside you’ll keeps going
You know it’s you who steals my sleep

Ba boom
Ba boom
Ba boom
Your heart beat
It pulls the strings,
Leads the concert,
Conducts the orchestra
Of breath, blood, and vitality.
Your parted lips led the stricken symphony
In the holding court of stolen silence

It calls out to me
Conflicting sounds,
I can’t interpret
Your body’s compositions
Drawing back unto the tower of Babel

It wakes me up at night,
The angry anchient staccado
You sleep soundly
I check the phone,
A dial tone greets me
Though I know it's you, I still check the door.
Keep telling myself that I just have
Remarkable hearing, wish
The damn neighbors would not
Get calls so late

I hear its echo when I’m alone,
In the space we rent,
But can’t call home
The plaster cracks, splits
As Your percussion bounces
Off walls of tainted canvas
Filtering through me with every pass
Straining my mind of rational thought

Seal the windows, shut and lock the door
Must . . . keep the vibrating sound inside,
Escape . . . cannot let it follow me.
Flee from the den of trembling noise,
Driving me from sanity . . . tormenting me

A conflict inside you,
It doesn’t include you
Refuses to exclude me,
Fights and races me
It waits for you,
Wants you to discover it,
But torments only me.
Unfulfilled, uncontained,
Fighting me, frightening me,
Repeating things I should not know.
I am weak, it all drains me
You are ringing, pounding
My past is buzzing
The line is busy

What has happened to all the poets?

2005-08-19T00:55:00.000-07:00

***This is a short paper I wrote a few years ago that seems particually apt lately, So because it deals with poetry, even though it is not poetry, I wanted to post it. ****

There are many forms of art, which we encounter everyday. Musicians are adored, actor/actresses are admired, sculptors, painters, designers, novelist, all of these are exalted for their forms of art. When reading Patricia Hampl’s, “A Romantic Education,” it brought to mind the scorn we place on poets. What has happened to all the poets? Did they die out? Is theirs a lost art form? Did they commit a sin so heinous that they deserve scorn and ridicule? Or perhaps our culture just stopped listening? Could it be we no longer wish to empathize with each other, or maybe we just don’t know how to anymore?

There is no other art form so mocked, hated and derided than that of poetry. Is it any wonder that the poets have drawn back up into their shells and become “closet” poets? They have been called dreamers, crackpots, and lunatics, gay, worthless. Why? Because they dared to write and express emotions that we’d rather not deal with. Forcing us to listen and think about their feeling and ideas. They use poetry to communicate feeling, illicit empathy, envy, understanding and healing. This kind of interaction is important to our social and emotional well being. Poetry is an art form that expresses emotion. Now, due to social scorn of poetry and poets, many have been forced to suppress emotions that are unhealthy and often this has caused disastrous results. Everyday we see violence and hear crude language on television, both real and fictional that is desensitizing us to our fellow human beings.

Before we move on let me explain what I mean by art, poetry and communication. According to Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary, “Art is the conscious use of skill, taste, and creative imagination in the production of acetic objects, and also works produced.” Poetry is defined as “Writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experiences in a chosen language, and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm.” Communication is a technique for expressing ideas effectively. As you can see, by these definitions, poetry is an art, which allows us to express emotion and receive a response. That sounds harmless enough, so why does it incite such derision among the general populace?

In Hampl’s “A Romantic Education”, she says “I am enough of them, my kind of family, to be repelled by the significance of things, to find poetry with it’s tendency to make connections to past and present and break barriers, slightly embarrassing.” This is coming from one who is a self-professed poet. So why all the fuss you might ask? After all our school systems teach it, it’s still on the shelves at libraries and bookstores. Because though it is there, there it stays, gathering dust. We have a nation protesting that we don’t need this frivolous use of words, and we don’t have time for silliness. We don’t care to hear about the angst, whining or mushy poetry. We have tuned out each other’s feelings. We see and hear of murders, rapes, kidnappings, and catastrophes and say that it’s too bad. Why do we do this? Simply because we don’t want to care, we don’t want to get involved. We don’t want to be scorned as weak because we do care and cannot help doing so.

Finances also play insidious role in our gauging of self worth. Society says if you make a lot of money you are worthwhile and that if you do not you should get a “real” job. But due to the cultural derision of poetry, no one buys it. If it is not bought then poets do not get paid. So therefor they are not worthwhile and should get a “real” job. Do they, yes, they are hiding in your office, schoolrooms, day cares and drive through windows. They hide because of their fear of being called a dreamer, a crackpot, fruitcake, or worst of all, a “Poet”.

If we as adults do all this, what are we teaching our children? Our children are growing up in a time when role models are few and dangers are many. They are continually faced with not only the normal cruelties of childhood, but also excessive violence and extreme lack of caring. Many of these very children have lashed out on their environments because of this lack of understanding and caring. I am not in any way excusing their actions; yet how much empathy did these children receive? Could these children understand the grief they wrought? Could they empathize with their victims? Can empathy be taught? If they could have empathized would it have stopped these senseless tragedies? We have taught them to read, write and to scorn poetry and their creators, through our adult behavior. Many children see poetry as a childishness to be avoided so that they will seem more grown up. Do the children of today know what it is to communicate emotionally, without suppressing their feelings, to be taken out in anger and resentment? We all need an emotional outlet, and poetry is not the only venue for this, however through a desire to understand, poetry teaches empathy. Empathy is the capacity for participating in another’s feelings or ideas. Children and adults alike need to relearn how to communicate emotionally, in other words to empathize. Fear of rejection has imprisoned them. Throughout history people have felt the same emotions we do. But they didn’t keep them suppressed. If they had many of a great works of art would not be here today. We all need a positive release from our mind's bondage. Poetry can offer just that. With each verse you are pulled farther into the poets world, their point of view. They are not so different from you, they feel the same as you do, but they express it constructively. They let down the barrier to their very souls, a precious gift; they let you in to explore. We as a culture must embrace this again and teach our children it’s all right to do the same. We must tell that there is no shame in showing emotion. Because it is most important that we do not lose our self and how to understand each other, or else we will have nothing left except an ever-escalating piercing scream for emotional release.

She looked the same as she always did . . .

2005-07-23T22:31:00.000-07:00

I don't usually comment on a piece, especially before I even post it. But for this piece I am going to make an exception.

While most of my poetry it based on my life, this piece is not. It has a few elements that remind me of a past relationship, it is not my story, or anyone else's. Its purely fictional, born of a few lines that moved me, a weaving of ideas that just came together at the right time. I actually really like this piece, even though it is sad. Anyways . . .

She looked the same as she always did . . .

"I looked at her,
And she looked the same,
As she always did"

What had changed?
Years of married suburban life,
At some point, someone, for some reason
I cant understand, stopped . . . touching
How did it begin, that begging of the end.
I feel as though we've been in the denuvaua
For years . . . Was it me? . . . Was it her?
The touching . . .
Its one of those things best remembered
When reciprocated.
Like a dime store romance
"He grabbed her body and embraced her,
She raised her head,
Brushed her fingertips across his lips"
I can't remember the last time she ever looked at me,
In that kind of way
With halve close eyes pouring tears of passion
To mingled with our steaming sweat
Really it's the words I miss most of all
The stupid endearments that fade away,
We became one of those couples
Who in our hurry to the office,
Only glanced at the park full of children,
Dogs, happy families, and the lovesick picnicking,
We thought only fleetingly
Of the honeymoon
I worked too much,
Paper piles grew despite my diligent,
She flew often other countries
Gone for weeks
Hammer in hand to break the glass ceiling,
On her way up up up
While I stayed glued to the ground, shrugging,
Struggling to shuffling my feet,
Haunting happy hours, and after hours
Where I knew I would not find happiness
But I played the game, at some point
We all play the game, you would too ya know
Living the life of a lie,
All's well, all's well, all's well, here in hell

Then
One morning,
That rare hour when we awoke
Still next to each other,
Separate cocoons in a bed unused to two,
We rose and complete our
Solitary morning routine,
She carted her body in silence,
As if she was the only one,
My presence was just the necessary invasion
Like a maid in one of those four star
London or Parisian hotels
The ones I could never afford
But her company always paid for,
Million of miles and years away,
Always claimed she was alone.
At the table, I sat clutching my coffee,
Contemplating a bagel,
She grabbed dry toast, orange juice, and keys
Rushing for the door,
As if she had some reason to run,
Some awful thing to escape
Or maybe just had something better waiting

I called out to her.
"So, Hon, How's your week been?"
Two clipped word were all she answered,
"Fine, yours"
Not even waiting for a response
She started the car,
Pulled out of the drive.

What can you expect from a stranger
Who submits to lie near you 1 week total out of a month,
Always . . . neatly on her own side,
As if their were bars that separated his and hers.

When a man with a mask of detachment glued to his features
Approached me at lunch hour I was not surprised,
Except that it had taken this long for him to contact me.

He handed me a pen
Oily with the essence of sorrow and bitterness,
I had to clutched on tight to keep it from slipping
As I signed the soulless legal document,
Accepting the unavoidable.

Back in my cube, I refused to weep,
My tears were the only things saved me from dehydration,
And despair had long since passed, years ago.
When I looked up, I saw her picture
Sitting in the shrine I'd appointed to her
Long, long ago.
And I wondered why,
Why see looked the same as she all ways had?
Who had change?
The bags under my eyes drooped,
My shoulders slumped,
My feet stumbled more than they ever had in the past.

Sitting beside the first was
Another photo of her taken last summer,
She looked the same as she always did,
But something inside her had changed.
In that way that pictures cannot capture,
And mirror do not reflect.

At first I thought maybe a little less luster to her hair,
Or a used spent look to her eyes, but no.
She still looked the same as she always did.
There is neither a line nor a fold on her body
That wasn't there before,
But the person who spoke to me these last few years
Is a stranger.
I wonder was it a cheating heart or merely the body that consumed.

Aug 2001

Unanswered Letters

2005-07-23T19:56:00.000-07:00

Simply sitting on a dusty bookcase of fiction
Beneath pages of verse, prose and unanswered letters

I wrote you once, but never placed
That off white letter in the mail,
I wasted the stamp (it was glued firmly)
To the trivial words I scrawled on the page,
Because I couldn’t say in person what I felt,
My hand would not allow confessions,
Emotion paralyzed ink,
You are not the first to be
The unrecipient of my prosthetic prose,

My lips catch on metal wires
My lips quiver with a certainty of rejection,
In retreat I run to the nearest gift shop
To buy cards and posey plastered stationary
That cannot absorb the iron ink of truths,
Apologetic for my deficiencies,
Angry at my hands refusal to budge
Angry at my hearts refusal to submit,
My lethargic letters sit unanswered,
Unreceived, cause I was afraid of your response
I craved a real answer,
I file away my hollowed-heart pretenders.

Aug 22 2001

Flamingo Queen

2005-07-23T19:44:00.000-07:00

Flamingo queen dances every night
Moonlight . . .
Fluorescent pink,
Glaring contrast
Pale skin
Casting daunting shadows
Into her reflective eyes
Seen threw the night
Her body being unveiled

Flamingo queen
In sunshine veiled
Dark lens, one way glasses denied the eyes

You see me not as you would have me
But as I choose to be!

Patronizing pink . . .
Purid pulp like pink . . . twirls in the wind

Written 5/5/97

I Am This Night

2005-07-23T19:40:00.000-07:00

I watch you dance
Upon treacherous rocks
In a meditative state
Body sing the story of pain
Elegant hands caressing air
As though it could feel you too . . .

In envy of your grace
Courage , freedom of movement

In envy of your haven
Though you brought me here

I am still the outsider . . .
I always will be
Here you are one
In solitude

On these waters
Inside this breezy night
Unseen hand can reach you
Feel you , protect you
Together , but alone
I am this night

8/21/96

Dress Up

2005-05-12T00:38:00.000-07:00

I Play Dress Up
Sliding A Tight
Black Dress
Down My
Curves
Slipping
Soft Silk
Stocking
Up To My
Thighs
Where
They
Kiss
Satin
Garters
Guarding
G-string

Chastity

8/2001

this was a fun piece to write

Used

2005-05-08T23:03:00.000-07:00

Click here tohear me read this poem!

Confusion consumes
A small figure sitting
Damp gold outlines
The fringes of her eyes
Staring out into the
Faint . . . nothing
Fear pours, hisses,
As it trips on pavement
Squeezes between cracks,
And fissures
Explodes on impact,
A thousand fragments
Provoke elusive scents
Of motor oil, grass,
And some addictive poisons
Fragrance

You smell . . . of toothpaste
And shaving cream
Of wet wilted sheets,
Creased by
Your bodies heat
Stains irons deep

Miring this Monday night
In emotions
Evoking thoughts
Too long suppressed
A clock’s ticking,
The windows open, again,
Wedged by my fingertips,
Stretched out trembling

Graveyard talons grasp
At elicit fumes
Half forgotten moments
Creep in our harbor
Dragging headstones,
Postcards, pillowcases
Minutes stink like mortuaries
Refusing to dissolve
As acid washes skin casing
Weathered . . . does not equal purity

Languishing,
I move to the den,
Disturbed,
I rock my false icons
Frosted, my lips are
Frigid, my body is,
Faltering, we are
Fading, I am faint,
And still your vital
Pulse insists,
Seeks to make me,
How you want me

I fall,
Fall,
Fall,
Off of
Pedestals

Cannot sustain the pose
The Pristine picture
Slides out of focus
Caught by the deceit
Reflect between our eyes
Fiction, this fiction
Is written my by weakness . . .
The façade is shines,
Glares, burns,
Destroys photosensitive skin
A self-inflicted punishment
For the naive

There are many details . . .
Unspoken . . .
Unheard . . .
In silent spaces
Between redundant words.

The conversation loops,
Varies only in tone,
Pitch, and volume

It imparts . . .
No more certainty
Contains . . .
No more conclusion.

I'm not sure . . .
How much more . . .
I can take. .
Before the reel snaps,
Slapping me

And it seems as though
Our neighbors know
Know us better
Than I do.

Speakers’ dangle,
Cling to plaster walls
Sends our confusion
Vibrating
Into the ears of
Strangers.

Do we keep them up
With us till dawn?

We lay in bed, late,
Reiterating . . . everything

Unattainable,
The Truth sticks
To our lips
Tongues move
Murmuring gray
Noise

We are not
A public thing . . .
To be used
And seen
And known

Like filthy bus station
Urinals
That carts disease,
We wash our hands
Clean,
To sanctify and sanitize
But flies
Still hover near
Like vultures,
Or buzzards
Mind maggots
Burrow
Deeper
Devouring
Us

I use to
Sing,
Wanted
To believe

Somewhere . . .
Over the rainbow,
Skies were blue . . .

Elusive,
Its still raining here
We have searched
And searched
This desert
For that invisible rainbow,

Knowing it had
Two different ends
We’ve stood near the axis,
For years . . .
Arguing . . .
At some point,
We will have to commit
To a path,
Chose our separate ways

I know my route will not be easy,
You’re still seeking short cuts,
Convinced it is the only way
That will lead to happiness

I cry out in a voice
I no longer recognize
From far away echoes,
Greet me,
Crooning
My fears
Foretelling demise

Quivering my lips
Catching my word
Vocal cords tremble
The echo wavers
Wavers, wavers
Stabbing my ears

Written 9-10-01

Java Verses

2004-11-14T08:53:00.000-08:00

I stare into my cup of Java
And watch the lines of yet to be written verse
Circulate in the thick froth

I rise to the platform at the rear
Of this dimly lit, smoke filled cafe

I speak, the shop falls into silence
The dull hum of half forgotten conversations fading out

I hear myself as they hear me
Reflected in their eyes
I see my image

Shouting roaring ranting
Whispering singing verse
I try to evoke emotions
In which I'm solidly wrapped

But glazed are their eyes
Only mirrors in a body
And deaf are their ears
To understand my works

… Still in a far off corner
I spot one who might . . .
Might just be listening
Who might even relate,
Who at least appears to care,
I see a battered notebook into
which he begins to scrawl

I now step down from platform
And walk to his far corner
As the dull hum of conversation
Fills the room once more
He speaks, verse rolling of his lip
Forming it's self into the steam drifting upward
From his dark cup of Java