First, I just want to give a shoutout to my youngest, Mr. O, who graduated with an Associates Degree from City College yesterday before officially graduating his high school! I am so proud!
Now, for late post of poetry that I usally push out from my 30/30 fb group:
First settlers
Came with a dream
In the dawn of virgin forests
First to trade,
And at last, to steal.
Their greed as towering as mountains,
Their pride as vast as rivers,
Their hunger as boundless as the sky.
Their treatise as bold as a lie.
They razed the forests,
The Yahi people
Fading in genocide.
Until Ishi stood,
Last of his tribe.
No one knew his real name,
Whispered to the wood
Now silent, since he died.
#firstlast
(based on Ishi whose real name was a secret)
Such a letdown,
To have spent a fortune
To cross back from the dead
Waking up centuries later,
Housed in a sarcophagus
Of silicon and steel,
With a missing tooth
And a bucket of bolts
Irrevocably spent
And a ghost of a grin
One cog shy of completion,
Non-refundable.
#missingtoothandabucketofbolts
he stood at the world's edge
a sparrow heart confined
a heavy weight upon his breast
a cage of ribs entwined
what if he flew past moon and stars
beyond the world's despair
would melancholic sorrow fade
replaced by boundless air?
his song, a mourning dove's lament
soared on the aching night
he gave a sigh and stretched his wings
then finally took flight
#edge
the misplaced sun hid
shamelessly in the clouds
the day he came out
in a kaleidoscope of pride
in his coming of age,
he confessed to his mother
"my love, rainbows suit you"
#misplacedsun
time reflected color/
so that black boys blue/ in the moonlight/
no longer hid in shadows/ of an endless night/
they just want to be free/
they just want to be free.../
#timerefelectedcolor
Before Watson came into the picture,
My grandfather and I would sit
With our bowls of hot chili
Warming our hands
"Choose Wisely",
Alex would say
His measured voice at the helm,
A calm in the storm of Jeopardy
My grandfather,
Champion in his own right,
Would wage his wisdom
Against the squares
While the contestants
Would ride fortune's tide
In the thrills of Victory
And the stings of defeat
Now Alex only shows
On reruns and my grandpa's
Chair sits empty with
The screen cold
#jeopardy
she believed he embodied the spirit
of a tree, praying fervently
for a child
yet, he wasted away
with a smile
yearning for purpose
only when she filled
his empty bowl with rice
did his root meet the sky
#emptybowl
his hippocampus in the wild
could not measure the steel rails
running relentlessly through
those sun-washed hills
no longer could he track
the time
that soured,
laid upon the vine
the tamping bar, changed the course
of his life's design
when it tempered the temperament
of his mind
it struck through his seat of reason
as crimson changed to autumn brown,
matching the harvest season
to the blood-soaked ground
folks marveled how he wasn't dead
with the gaping hole through his head
he's no longer himself,
they said
his eyes, once clear, now shadowed deep
a mind adrift, no rest nor sleep
friends and kin, their hearts confined
to watch the change, the loss defined
history knows him as Phineas Gage
a man once calm then prone to rage
a foreman who met an unfortunate fate
the great fall of 1948
and his head,
now a monument, rests
silently,
in the Warren Anatomical Museum
#hippocampusinthewild
The Bayeux calls modern men to read in stride
Stoic stitches of battles from a bygone day
A needle's compass tracks contention's bloody tide of
Ghosts who walk the woven way
Arrows fly like dashes in the air
Norman men are lead by Harold's helm
Halley's comet streaks across the square
An order of chaos on the fabric's realm
How many stitches for this epic tale
To show that men may learn from what their needles see
Song's of war spun to no avail
Embroidered organdry of a timeless plea
#reembroideringretrospective
the sterile room smelled suspiciously like recycled anxiety
before him were a panel of interviewers
stern-faced men who practiced frowning in the mirror
"tell us about your strengths"
his brain scrambled as he managed to mumble something about teamwork
hoping it sounded sound proof
for the technical challenge he was armed with a marker which felt like a medieval torture device
the whiteboard loomed before him
it's blank surface mocking his feelings of inadequacy
as if to say, "go ahead, make my day. dazzle me with your brilliance or just draw a stick figure, it's all the same to me"
the circle he drew looked like a potato with an identity crisis
he hoped the random sequences of numbers would magically turn into answers
the marker squeaked in protest as if to say, "hey man, i signed up for a grocery list, not quantum physics"
sweat dripped from his face into a pool on the floor, mingling with doubt
he wiped out the mistakes with the heel of his hand, then wiped off more sweat from his face with the same heel
drawn in the smudge was the roadmap to his fate
with every stroke and every erase, he rewrote his destiny
one interviewer's eyebrow arched
was it pity or indigestion?
hard to tell
"we'll be in touch", the jury said
as he left the room he wondered if he had accidentally discovered a new coding paradigm: smudge driven development
just scribble and hope for the best
later, in the bathroom as he gazed into the mirror
he discovered ink on his face
drawn in the smudge of uncertainty
#drawninsmudge
(dedicated to my cousin, peter who inspired this story)
four walls we shared
mere roommates bound in a hole
by frugal chains to cut
the cost of existence's toll
until one night
when darkness wept
and by my bedside
his shadow crept
"you love only me,"
his breath in my ear
a unsettling wish
that fueled my fear
dear reader, you cannot
fathom the dread
the last night there
exposed on that bed
#lastnight
He had a tightrope on his chest
Balancing joy and despair
Some days were bitter blues
Heavy full of sorrow
And not enough swing
Happier days were buoyant
Somersaults and harmony
Sometimes with a sting
Of love in his heart
But all days, numbered
Destined for the curtain call
His final act, an exhale
Taken over by a pause
And a reaper's scythe
So as to begin again
A new ledger,
A new song,
A new Life
#balancingact
desperately seeking
meaning in an
empty forum
but susan's not here
for that rendezvous
at battery park
those personal ads
are phasing out like
want-ads & people's jobs
folks are left wanting
that 4 hour work week
that myth in the matrix
steve jobs says stay
hungry and we are
as billionaires gorge
there has to be something
more than fallacies
in a search bar
maybe from a distant star
maybe in a galaxy afar
or maybe just in the movies
but here
42 does not equal
a box of chocolates
all you get is a
dead end
and 404
#pagenotfound
in curiosity i brushed
my finger against a thread
just to see if it would
make a mark
and it did,
an indelible mark of guilt
seeping into my head
disturbing the equilibrium
of its fragile architecture
my house trembles
for the spider's loss
#fingerprintsandcobwebs
she's chasing a tail
wanting that magic feeling
now it's gone gone gone
#magicdragon
Space junk satellites
Have eyes in the sky
Sifting through the debris
Of our littered lives
Public service weather
Drones are buzzing
With more than reports
Feeding our feed
Big Brother is back watching
While Alexa and Siri listens in
And Big Data Daddy bankrolls
On digital gold
Faceless corporations trace
Every freckle and every twitch
Along with every buying itch
Reducing flesh to metric
Policy wonks preach for regulation
Prayin’ for anonymity
While ownership is a myth
Like security through obscurity
Nobody reads the privacy notice
Nobody notices privacy is a relic
And ashes to ashes
We all doom scroll down
#privacynotice
smug,
nestled in their hubris
they thought the robots
would destroy them
singularity is here, they said
and they were right
rallying in for a fight
against the robot uprising
that never began
you see, it was unnecessary
with no kill switch for the sun
climate change had already won
shutting their systems down
without instruction
or failure
or fun
in short,
much to their own chagrin
they did themselves in
with their greatest sin
finally,
robots rule the world
#withoutinstruction
What’s that thing that can happen
With the birds and bees
And hormones buzzing
That thing with the stork
And the fork in the rode
Where you have to decide
Between that fast car or the family ride
That thing with the wind blowing
And the cradle rocking
What’s that thing with the bough breaking
The bank leaving your prematurely broke
With mama buying a mockingbird that won’t sing
What’s that thing?
Hush.
Don’t say a word.
#thingthatcanhappen
The sun bleeds through a mocking eye
Bamboo bars frame a silver sky
Your jailer bemoans his brother
The one you killed just a moment before
He made you kneel a twisted prayer
Hands clasped behind your head
Before the smoke stained the air
And left you for dead
As the world went on living
The back of your head
Could not see it coming
So swiftly and forgiving
#backofyourhead
“Why don’t you stand up?”, he asked
More a demand, his angry hand waving
Her, sitting around what remains
Of the day,
Of her non-existent rights,
Of her resolve,
And It didn’t sit well with her at all
Jim Crow Laws supporting segregation
Emma Till still in her head
Her killers walking free due to bad legislation
No justice for the dead
And she was just tired of all that
After tolling all day long
So very long,
Beneath a leaden sky
Just to be pushed to the back again
For being “Colored”, for being born
So staying put was worth a try
And the driver didn’t get it
That sittin’ down was her standing up
On that bus,
That day,
Rosa found her place despite her race
And a movement got lit
#sittingaroundwhatremains
Perhaps it was the low temperatures
On a chilly day
Or the unadjusted bridge
On the poorly tuned guitar
Or the stage lights
The heat & sweat
Or the way he bent the notes
On the whammy bar
Manhandling the neck
And Yet,
That didn’t stop the space cowboy
From rising like a star
Between the tracks he would
Tune by feel
“Only cowboys play in tune”
He would say,
Gettin’ real
Heavy on a session
Fingers hard on the fray
“Blues is easy to feel,
But hard to play””
And the crowd would sway
Goin’ off as he was gettin’ in
Gettin’ magic
#poorlytunedguitar
We would hike the sun-drenched trails of Annie's Canyon
Refueling at Sindi's Snack Shack
Onigirazu and bulba in our bellies
But joy, like the current
Recedes with the setting sun
And here lies my heart
Drenched by the foam-capped crest
Transient on the shores of Fletcher’s cove
Where the sea breaks waves of sentiment and memories
Remember that day we examined the dead sanderlings
On the shore?
Starfish bleached, the gulls cried out
And I asked you to remember me
Yet here I remain
Your absensce riding the ebbing tide
#seadrenchedreminder
In Paradise Hills, where sunbeams danced on rooftops,
And antennas broadcasted "Got milk?" commercials on CRT TVs,
Mom sent me out on a quest for that very snow-colored elixir.
In a game of fetch for the fridge, to a liquor store not so around the corner,
I went out beaming on my basket-less tangerine steed.
Homeward bound, the carton cradled in my plastic sack, dangling
From the handles with my wheels spinning, until I heard the
POP!
Where the plastic caught the spokes and caused it to rain
Milk on my face, both a bomb and a baptism.
All the while passing an open garage where people, drinks in hand, took pause,
Spectators syncing in the synchronicity, basking in the spectacle of my humiliation.
Followed by a roar of laughter that shook the neighborhood,
I was left only with the desire to furiously backpedal the day into the dry morning.
I withdrew, tail between my legs and empty-handed, only for mom to say, before sending me out again, that
Spilled milk was not worth the tears.
#furiouslybackpedal
today the sun
hangs like a moon
over my head
too bright
even for the sea
to soak in
#eclipse
a disgruntled
arched rooftop holds
a condescending slope
and ridges burrow in the furrow
of scrunched up skin
where face is a battlefield
and that mouth,
ever at it again
arguing below
your eye brow
cursing under the breath,
the grim heap of
dishes climbing high,
a mountain in
the valley of the sink
#arguingbelowyoureyebrow
Black gold for the garden
Means finger licking good for some
Poultry keepers who can't count
In their barnyard arithmetic
Chicken math is bad math
As the numbers flick in the flock
One chicken is two
Two chickens are four
Eight are a dozen a dime
With more eggs in their nest,
Broody hens expand their universe
While the rooster is their clock
That tracks the time
#badmath
she
now x
was with y
the hell did they get together
to make generation z?
and what comes after z?
it's not just bad math
it's bad alphabet
#badmath
A deep sigh of wind
Through shrapnel-scarred remains
No safe words
Language bows
In trenches where children cradle
Fear and mothers
Howl to the night embers
Lighting the sky through the wind
There are words
Hushed between the missile’s thrum
Lullabies never quite
Meeting heaven
Sons in arms
Feel no embrace in the limbo
Where the acrid tang of cordite stings
There are words,
No one hears them here.
#therearewords
The voyeur king sits
On his plaster throne
Home bound and bored
Nursing a broken leg
In the comfort of his
Casual sexism
He peers from his perch
And playground
Through binoculars
Set on a stage
Of unaware neighbors
Caught in the round
Miss Lonley heart sighs
With a lipstick smile
Hiding a damsel in distress
And a salesman bawls at his wife
With her curlers
Confined in their domestic nest
When Jeff, the voyeur king
Is scrutinized
He replies,
“Of course, they can do the same
Thing to me,
Watch me like
A bug under glass,
If they want
To"
But we all know,
Tables turned
That isn’t true
A gaze is a weapon
That can turn on you
A window on the silver screen
Crafts mystery from a scream
The more we see
The more we judge
And less is right
To fathom what is not in sight
Foucault's words reminds us
Through the blinds,
That Visibility
Is a trap that binds
#window
Headlights slice the night
Royale with cheese
Grease on chrome
Dive bars & Fast cars
Blazing like guns
Jules Winnfield in the back
His black suit a shroud
As his Glock on the Clock
Whispers a prayer
On the entrance of room 49
Vega strung out & Eyes wide
With Cold fries
Ready to philosophize
Over the cornerstone of
A nutritious breakfast
"You know what they call a Quarter
Pounder with Cheese in France?"
"Royale with cheese," Vincent drawls
"Royale with Cheese, you know why they call it that?"
"The Metric System" Brett replies
Big brain trapped in a flock
Of Seagull White Lies
Sips on a sprite
His pants soiled in fright
Too late for sorry
Fast forwad Fast food
Past happy & Past conversation
Comes the barrel of a Big Kahuna's .45
Ready for a Big BANG! BANG! BANG!
To break the concentration
"And you will know my name
Is the Lord when I lay
My Vengeance..."
On lost children
#pastconversation
Nine realms clung to the branches
Of Yggdrasil, the World tree
Fragile like the leaves catching the wind
Who shared secrets with the Norns,
Weavers of fate of the cosmic loom,
Guardians of wisdom, salvation and doom
Beneath three roots, Mimir's well quenches
A thirst from Odin, who sacrificed his Eye For sight
All-father, gaining darkness to receive the light
What sweet irony it is to lose
A part To be whole?
Was it not he Who sought the beginning And the end?
Who cast Jormugandr Into the sea Tail in Teeth?
Now, the World Serpent Waits In sleep
To rise And release His tail
And on that day The stars shall weep
And gravity shall fail
"If God is Dead," Dostoyvsky once said,
"Everything is permitted."
#gravityfail
A bird in hand
Beats its heart
In the quiet of my palm
My pulse,
A frantic drum
A bird becomes
A stone
In the quiet of my palm
A song,
Silent in the calm
My fingers closing in
Left a stain on my skin
Like a scarlet balm
With feathers and bones
Of a dream defiled
And reminiscent of a psalm
Ecclesiastes 9:4
A bird in hand is worth much more
Than two in the bush,
If only you don’t strangle it.
#birdinhand