poetry

I shy away from …

poetry

There exist
stares, glances
which break silences
or spoil mornings
when she seeks a soft word, a loving word
at the foot of the bed
where only used slippers should lie adrift,
out of choice.
She said she dreamt a hope and hoped a dream
where I could be her protector.
I grimaced a smile while shamefully wishing
her to fade somewhere beneath the pillow or the carpet.
I can’t even snore in peace anymore!
She is always on the lookout
for a slip up, but
I was a faux pas from the first day we met
She mistook my drunken cheerfulness for a pleasant personality
She even thought me a sweet thing or maybe a sure thing
These days, she just pokes, pinches me at the crack of dawn
hoping to catch and squeeze my vulnerable self before the sourness kicks in.
In my long short life I’ve never been big on refunds or exchanges
once something is in my hands,
no matter how chipped, dysfunctional or useless,
I still keep it.
But that painful light
so heavy under her eyes
she calls it love; and I want it away.
I want to bring her back to that street, to that time
where her smile was full and her eyes less needy and sad
I could bathe in chocolate and strawberry creme
but I would never be the satiating treat she craves;
all I can do is give her up.

keyboard!!! the new and improved pen of the future

poetry

They say that the pen is mightier than the sword
and while that may be true
it is unfortunate that no one uses pens anymore
at least not for any important business,
except for signing documents, created on a keyboard.

So I’ll interchange the words,
pithily creating a new truth, saying
the keyboard is mightier than the sword,
albeit much less sexy and less like a sword,
for have you ever tried to stab someone with a keyboard?

hymn

poetry

the darkness of my blackened soul
what fear of love
and shame of loss
that i should forth my self its lame
but wallow in this earthen fame

you grace my heart rejoice my weakness
given my pride
and forthright guile
if i should seek myself once more
you should turn your face and me abhor

oh life of loss
so filled my fears
that i called out in shame and tears
to know my life a passing shame
to know your son for me he came

Why I should (but inevitably won’t) teach the poetry of the sieve and the sand

poetry

Beginning tomorrow,
for a limited time only
I will for the first time ever
teach two groups of students about
poetry.
And while I write a poem
nearly every day I do not feel
that i know the first thing about
poetry.
Except that it sounds good
when rc creates beautiful phrasing
when roger plays with words’ meanings
when ned tells poetic stories
when freaky challenges expectations
when tucker speaks from his heart
when josh creates vivid images
when tim stops slacking.
Thus I look to the sand and the sieve
for most of what I know and like about
poetry.

The man in black

poetry

The man in black walked along the highway
swinging his black cane with each step,
not for stability but for style,
searching for what had not yet been found
along busy highways, possessing only
haste, pollution, and trash,
feeling the hot sun furiously
beating down on his black, leather jacket.

here’s to you mr. and mrs. r.c. ribay

poetry

seems like only yesteryear
you wandered on to a field
of tall uncut green
to join us in a game
while wearing your fatigues
thrilled you had fulfilled
your calling to the ROTsomething or other
and hoping for a future

music and poetry
made you dream of
leading young pupils
to find the truths you were taught
did not exist

but you dreamed big and up you went
in status and down you went
in location
from mountains to crime
you found your home

and in teetering on the edge
of destruction found something better
perhaps even smarter
(spit out of harvard afterall)

but i still remember
you asking if i had seen the turtle
you found by the lake
and thinking you vulgar

but friendly
as we toured the scum of the earth
and dreamed of better times
you no doubt
have found.

Emotional Revelation

poetry

Lying awake at night

I ponder another’s words

Filled with strength and meaning

Two-plane reminder of my love and opener of my eyes

“Try to say goodbye and I choke,

Try to walk away and I stumble,

Though I try to hide it, it’s clear

My heart grumbles when you are not there”

Sung by one of my Mom’s favorite’s

Now these words speak to me,

As they traverse through my mind

Like the current of rushing rivers

Gathering from the deepest crevasses

Beautiful memories, purifying them

And carrying them to the surface

Where I now have attained a new level of sight

Sight through an opaque film

Made from the very substance it later shall shield from

Which should clear my vision of sorrow

P.S. That was a quote by Macy Gray from her song “I Try”

En Passant

poetry

In Passing

Me or Her or Both or All?

Do I pass through changes

As She passes from Life to Death?

Or does She pass through and through My mind

As I did pass through Hers in Life?

How many paths for passing do cross in this present time?

Can I hope I’m with Her now?

12 Jul 08

poetry

was it the night
we sat on steps avoiding
others so we could speak secrets and dreams until 4am?

or was it the time
we walked in the park in
autumn sat on a bench beneath
the night acutely aware of our hands and the distance between them?

or was it that Thursday
the first time my lips fell into yours
in the background the treading percussion of Explosions in the Sky?

or was it that Sunday
at circle of hope when I calculated the exact pressure
of your hand on mine to equal the love of God and kept it to myself?

was it in old city
beneath the din of eighties hip hop
when I told my friends I would marry you someday?

was it in spanish
stumbling mispronunciations and incorrect accents
in an attempt better know those who mean the world to you?

was it in harvard yard
dressed as wizards wandering and wondering
where we could find the best butter beer in cambridge?

or was it the summer
we spent unemployed reading and mastering
the NY times crossword puzzle then emerged, merged adjusting our eyes to autumn?

or was it that night
in central PA when you showed me how
to cup both hands to carefully catch these drifting constellations?

I cannot say exactly
when
only
somewhere
between my hands and yours
between sunset and sunrise
between the top and bottom step
between the mountains and the atlantic
between jersey and philly
between te amo and mahal kita
between the upbeat and downbeat
between the first and last page of this notebook
between one thousand and one days ago and today

I fell in love with you.

and even to partially properly articulate this
it will take my entire life
an infinite number of pages
and perfectly placed kisses
(which is part of my plan)

but something tells me
nothing will match
the simple eloquence
of your hand
in mine
some evening
fifty summers from tonight.

GOD’S playing field

poetry

imagine GOD
floating above
HIS playing field
manipulating every
piece and creating
incidents and accidents
all at once
the greatest creator
the greatest craftsmen
HE is flying high above us
looking down upon his model earth
but does HE, GOD have regrets
to some of his creations
and the manners of how they act
and the way they destroy
and the way they hate
and the way they corrupt
when are the coals of GOD’S fire pit
going to heat up and be ready to
torch this model and start anew
on city where GOD exists
to tell HIS tales to the people
who believe in HIS plan
and are blessed with eternal life with HIM…

The Vanity of Fancy Food

poetry

I watch a lot of foodnetwork
a channel that often emphasizes
the presentation and beauty of food
however, today the epiphany struck hard
that no matter how good a piece of food looks
the next day inevitably it looks the same
dirtying the waters of my toilet bowl
floating/sinking     liquid/solid
black, filthy, wretched poo

of leeches in my secret spots

poetry

yesterday we picked
mud from our tires
after an hour climb
through wet jungle
mounting the summit of dup thoi

go back the way we came?
or try a new single track down

remember good decision bad decision?

mud and leaves
my brake fully locked
as we sledded down the hill
on thousand dollar mountain bikes

hopping fallen trees
and waiting for the fog to clear
sliding and slipping
and more mud in our tires

a joy until
i picked leeches from my legs.
imagine a forest so thick
so moist and so warm

i found a leech stuck to my
unmentionables
on the ride down
and still have a large red bruise

man scar or not
that was stinkin’ fun
dup thoi

Together We Stood, Alone We Fell

poetry

They have made a statue of us for all the pain and misery that can never be washed away.
We were the ones who never got what they deserved.
We were meant to survive when others live. Do they live,though?
Or is it one more puerile misconception?
Harassing thoughts of us trampled on and made to scrounge for food.
We were fools the day we let ourselves get born.

So many dawns and evenings passing us by, with us stuck and sticky with anguish and fear that we may die unfulfilled, unmade. So much space, and air wasted on us. We were innocent, incapacitated with our defective will to life. We were shells; beautiful and redundant in this painful harrowing world beauty. Where was the awe, the worship owed to all the pretty things created just for us? The sun smiled and our limbs shivered and shrieked out of weariness from the sun that only does as expected warming skins and things. A terrible understanding of our undignified, unsettling collection of hours, while our bodies gradually turn to dust.

We were companions of misfortune in our young tender years; disasters at every corner.Yet, we would imagine and dream a god dying for our sins and no one else’ s.
But between oceans, and lands; vast, painfully vast, we became strangers…

The other

poetry

I thought I would remove the “self” from my convoluted mind
the self which only exists, contorted, exalted in your eyes
to please you or revolt you; the other

There won’t be no prickling shame if it weren’t for you-the other
the other’ s self I can’t escape or hide from

I would erase you if it weren’t a crime-sin and more shame from the other
the other’ s self which resists, galvanized and contrived by my brain
taught to hallucinate you and accept you; the other

It’s as if we are back to back and each facing a mirror where we’d sometimes
catch each other’ reflections; A vision where we can never meet- the other

I ought to shed my “self” and your “self” from my awareness’s shelf
maybe it’s all a mirage where nothing subsists beyond our selves.

[If] death’s-agreeable and unpredictable,
why walk away?
After all there won’t be no needling pain if it weren’t for you- the other
the true other – I can’t ever hold or get close to.