Morning Stroll

My lungs wave the red
flag. I stop and wheeze
near an Areca palm and
inside gray matter’s cavern,
as I replenish the recall
of walking distance and glance
at passers-by with faces like
vigil candles burning
long and slow;
then the sudden rain
etches on the momentary wind
your name.

 

Bugs

Sometimes the bugs are too loud,
fantasizing your swat
in their twisted minds and torsos,
as if an acknowledgment.
Maybe they need you to applause
and call out their name, shrieking in
high c’s in your maniacal style.
The lowdown is their torn up endings you
cannot help, as they wait for the campfire
to cook their wings or for their life to coil
around your fingers while your skin,
bitten blue inside your bedroll, smells
of their innards, because like a special treat,
either you or they have to exit the premises.


 

Graffiti Writers

Outside the window, the graffiti slows,
as the train pulls up to the platform.
The loudspeaker grants a parasitic explanation
of in and out destinations, and your work boasts
fattened, multihued letters like fresh croissants
and the crafty hands that baked them.
Such quizzical shifts in our styles...
but still in the same leisurely way, you throw
yours on the streets like discarded postcards;
I write my graffiti inside spiral notebooks with
crazy-legged letters, dressed in suits,
and we both lack that cutting edge voice
of the big man on the mic who sings his
tender words in tough-in-your-face format,
vividly presenting our extinction.

 

For miles we followed
the big old truck on Route 66
with a cargo that hinted at tears.

Once towering and beneficent
the mighty had fallen
pinned to the barrenness
of mercy without
the tangle of boughs
and empty bird’s nests.

Still mighty those
true knight-errants
who once touched the clouds
with their powerful heads
glowing brightly under the sun,
but naked now;
creatures with no limbs
those large tree trunks
thrust on a flat-bed and chained
like common criminals.

They say, “Big trees
grow back too; they
just take longer,”
but who can say
we’ll be able to unload
the cargo we carry?





 

Well beyond being
spring chickens,
my friend and I
reinvent ourselves
in a Chinese Restaurant,
opening up secrets,
as we talk of
torn away, defamed loves.
I fear the grey plate,
and united like sisters
playing the fool,
the chopsticks
are out to get me.
Then, the fortune cookie
clenched in my hand
crumbles like an obscene gesture.
“Make someone else happy.”
The words shake like dice,
as I pause to sip diet Coke,
mulling over the speech
of our food.



 

I.

All those I loved didn't really exist,
for their existence
was only a hope
like the ghost of a cloud
that didn't rain
but scattered to evaporate.
Such love no one ever witnessed
with a love poem
and a song
that weren't there.

II.

When the wheel of fate
disperses its colors into the black-hole night,
all my roads lead to your ocean
whoever I love, he becomes you,
and I call him with your name
for I was made for impossible loves
for I neither learned how to embrace you nor to forget you.
for I am stuck at the spot where the sun sets.

III.

Autumn, with warm palms
and arrowlike gaze,
smokes off the evenings
on purple hills,
as I hear your voice
from far away.

Pity, I lack the passport
and the roadmap
to come to you,
but separation, too,
belongs inside
my loving.

If dawn pulsed
in colors
with large child eyes
and if I could
only hold
your hands,
I could die
lacking
nothing.

IV.

When the guitar sings
time gets torn away
and coral-centered cigarettes
tell many a tale
to make you wonder
"Where did youth go?"


V.

With the moaning of
the song inside the disc,
with the poetry
spilling from your memory,
I blend with the dark

If you would stop
blocking my view,
I could see the world
and I would know
where I am.


VI.

You have changed too much.
I couldn't recognize who you are
and I cannot remember
if you preferred tea
or coffee.
white bread or rye,
or if you had brown hair
or white
like right now.

When you laughed
the moon used to rise
on my nights,
but now I am used to
the dark.
Is it you who changed
or could it be me?


VII.

Out of nothing,
your eyelashes carry
dew drops.

Is it the wind or the dust
attacking like the enemy
abruptly after an entrapment
when forgiving
quiets the din
inside my throat?


VIII.

To leap away
from grief's chasm,
you fall
from one abyss
into another.

All because
you loved
in a different way than
other lovers.

IX.

Who is he who rings my bell
I open the door and he is not there
He is never there.

Surely, I heard the ring

Maybe it is I
who is at my door.


X.

Your heart in thousand shards,
you go as you came.
The roads are vagrant;
you are vagrant.
On the roadside,
people trade love and hassle,
poverty on the right,
death on the left.
This city, the king
of all vagabonds,
can find no balm
for wounds.



XI.

I am a wall;
I never saw the sun.
My wounds do not display glory
but pain
for I embrace
all that was abandoned,
and in front of me,
they shot the condemned
as I stood standing
when the dead fell.
But then,
the clouds spit on my face,
although I was dead tired
and turned red
in bloody shame.

X.

Mother earth, a child
with giant fists,
frees from chains,
to leave my lap
like an overused bed,
crumpled, dirty,
but now,
I can fold myself up
and soar to the skies.




 

I cringe for today
but wish for other tomorrows,
other than what seems to be etched
on the walls and fallen towers;
other than when the moon
shows its dark side,
other than when ancient fish
reek and ripple with naked scent,
other than when each child
joins the circus
to run away from home,
but I am too hapless
to build a moat
of wishes around
anywhere
to ward off the sting
of bloodthirsty things.



 

useless tears
sighing words
torn dreams
stale grievances
silent fury
indefinable worship
creaking
like a harness
on bad roads
“some things
do not emit
or reflect enough”
-an Astrophysics fact-


---------

Prompt:Write a poem taking off from a scientific fact.
For "Poets' Practice Pad" 
 

Who says, at sixty plus,
lacking
a polished surface,
I cannot roam
on the tarmac?
While this limpid dream of flesh
--in dalliance--sulks at the traffic,
a power wants me to exist
like a prominence
high over a ravine
about to break off.




 

I survive, groping around
in the dark, searching
for something
round the bend,
above the trap doors
of wishful thinking, pain,
betrayal, and residues
of ego's primeval silence,
as I long for another dream,
skipping over
pirated promises,
so incomplete,
like the stones I took for pearls,
not knowing
their expertise lay
in words unsaid.

Write a poem using the prompt “Above the Trap Doors,” quote of a chapter heading from the Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux.

For "Poets' Practice Pad" 


{
 

Risky Business

Stranger, you,
from the dark roads,
come to me every night
dreamlike, creating a myth
of starry hours,
but I am made of solitudes,
and my sorrow you cannot obscure
with seizures of tenderness.
Still I, attempt to spin
a thin, threadlike bridge
to a world newly invented
with a feverish hope
that my feet won’t fail me
when I cross over
to you.


For "Poets' Practice Pad" 
Write a poem to the prompt “crossing a thin, thread-like bridge.”


 

Haikus and Senryus

the pebbles and stones
want to get out of the sand
needing to be thrown

in awe of the earth
moon’s face shimmers on water
like aurora’s flame

On darkened stairways
walks the enemy within
and I hide in words

desperado seeds
like sour grapes turning purple
need moist soil to sprout

Moon river, your name,
an echo fading to gloom,
whispers a swan’s song.

for global warming
nature gives us no reason
but cancels our lives

For enlightenment,
I’m flying low on approach,
just before landing.

Night rocks her to sleep;
she walks in the light of dreams
on short, stubby legs.

picking up their tales
once more, narratives swagger
in verbosity

Thriving on contempt,
my poems have halitosis.
No applause needed.


------Found poems from horoscope-----

you've got it flaunt it
enjoy fruits of your labors
don’t lord it over

You, firecracker, you!
You’re out of the starting gate.
Don’t waste time, thinking.

Flexibility
now is the name of the game
forget fears and doubts

You’re just not ready.
Look! Unlike a perfect start,
he threatens to leave.

Mars in sextile sun.
Get to it and do it now.
Attend local gym.

Think forest, not trees.
Accident not on its own;
you took the wrong turn.

Some forward movement
Ending old ways of living
Now, express yourself!

Stop, look and listen.
Be on your best behavior.
Saturn goes forward.

Focus on success,
work, responsibility:
All these Saturn themes.

Upbeat demeanor
euphoria in your heart
injects levity

You reach a new peak
Lunar orb in Gemini
Literary times

Moon-Venus union
Love vibrations amplify
late in the evening

--From “Your Daily Tarot”--

The Knave of Wands Card
My power is in testing
opportunities

In the game of life,
adventure, enterprise, fads.
signs of approval.

Found poems (haikus-senryus)
--from the local paper on the same day--

Housing market’s plunge
is a whale of a fish tale.
Town needs more rentals.

A doctor shortage.
What can you do about this
Medicare factor?

Do good to feel good.
Volunteering improves health,
since life gains meaning.

Population shifts.
Tackle the issues head on,
Our aging nation!


“Do not go gently”
young dancers appear on stage
for eighty year-olds.

Artistic pursuits
kids perform an Indian dance
Community ties

Tomorrow’s leaders,
kids connecting lives, dance with
feet not touching floor.


Our great highways, but
vacation’s on weak dollar;
gasoline costly.

Expensive story!
Euro pulls rug from under
last minute airfares.


Monumental stress…
It’s not about the war, but
The wounded warrior.

Start working with vets,
get active by raising funds,
keep programs going.


He fights unlike most.
Some people think it’s cheating,
but boxer has style.

Fishing tournament,
Third Annual Offshore Big Three.
Gift bucket and prizes!


Art gala scheduled
capturing essence of sea
by modern artists

Fun things you can do
in spring extravaganza
at Whispering Pines

Ultimate Frisbee
Just bring a light and dark shirt
learn a fun new game.


For the ambiance
Fine dining on the island
Piped-in jazz music

Art deco menu
Casablanca wooden fans
candlelight romance

For appetizer
yellow fin tuna and shrimp
on oval platters


In branch library,
events every Saturday
author talks and more.

Marsh Music at night
-banjo, mandolin, fiddle-
featuring Bluegrass


Bars, tables, and stools…
We have what you’re looking for
at Barstool Station.


In obits, a man,
ninety-three and from Poughkeepsie.
“Please don’t send flowers.”







 

Garden

The flowers in tacit formation
arrange the beds to their liking,
as they ascend from dirt and dung,
with colors like wavering constellations
separating themselves from the green.
But I stare ahead at the snail
with horns erect
flaunting courage, creeping,
leaving a trail that glistens in the sunlight;
like a fledgling poet,
it empties its insides
along scattered lines
with cut-up meanings.


A Shortie

The feisty red yarn
in a child’s hand
is searching for
a grandma.


 

Dark practices spells
to change everything
without touching;
shapes paled like roots
climb out of the floor
letting me pace among them.
When icy feet bump
into fierce, dreamless things,
stifling a moan,
I attempt to ward off--in vain--
other woes
that surface
in ebony waves.

For "Poets' Practice Pad" 
 

The sun drills holes in the skyline
for tipsy lights to swagger in,
and I wake up from dreams
destined to be untold.
I should hide them in the dumpster
and cover them with amnesia
so they don't reek.
Nothing captures me today
although I could do a million things
to betray any illusion
on the horizon.


For "Poets' Practice Pad" 



 

I feel the whiff
of insecurity…for
chaotic, lucid,
stealthy
jealousy nails
its herringbone fangs
in your frail frame,
stifling reason.
You whine green,
eaten alive
in bits,
every sinew, every bone
rattling with
the mad fever.
Pride chases shame;
wrath burns
in the blood.
To temper it,
I still want my arms around you,
at this precise moment
before you end the world.


 

I still hear the music of
her fingers tapping
numbers; she does not comprehend
who the child is.

First, I stare
long
at her, without blinking, while
the shimmer of a distant light
from her hair--the blonde smudge
on burnt umber--writhes
to infiltrate my retina,
mismatching the frail blossoms,
rather the thistles, of young years.
My tongue, burning, tastes ginger,
the hidden roots of evil,
and I laugh
out loud
with repetition,
pointing a finger
at her. Look,
who's the tyrant now!

Not good manners, but revenge
is sweet, and
this is the woman
my father ran away with.




---------------------------
For "Poets' Practice Pad" 
Prompt: Write a poem about a cashier.


 

I have no compulsion
to broadcast the details, but
"I knew I was going to take the wrong train,
so I left early,"
inundated by protests
for missing my drumroll moment.
Through some ritualistic humbling
with petty reasons, such as someone
peeking in on my sappy romance,
I left that bel canto terrain
and my front-row seat
with jackhammer speed
to shield specific bits from
the public and to kind of muddle
my way through my own
preposterous new plot,
amid buckets of tears of dismay,
so, I could survive the grueling race
between fame and defeat.
On to the platform I rose as if a newcomer to life,
although I knew I was taking the wrong train.

--------------------

Prompt: for "Poets' Practice Pad" 
Write a poem from any Yogi Berra Quote.
""I knew I was going to take the wrong train,
so I left early."


 

She thought
she was born secluded
in Neptune's arms,
where the fish conversed
with hints and allusions
like some kind of junk
resembling Zen,
then the waves ushered her to
this mundane world.
"She's psychotic," people said,
but I saw her as spirit,
weighed down by a label
and confined by an
inherent flaw, pondering
the ocean's edge,
her infinite softness akin to
the foam on waves, searching
for a potent inner life
as the world waited for
the invention of a conceptual cure
for manufacturing minds.

----------------

Written for "Para/Poem Challenge "Open""  using 6 words:
Confine
Allusion
Hint
Seclude
Mundane
Usher

 

With a torrent of longing,
clouds disarm the folly
of a spun-out summer,
and the first brown leaf tries to cope
with the branch's disloyalty
of letting it plummet on
the immaculate lawn
in sincere obedience to the wind.
Little does the leaf know
that, from the moment of birth,
all leaves are made
to crumble and vanish.