Like Water.

Like Water.

You move like water, and run swifter than

Lightning.

Thunder crashes.  All hope is dashed.

Morning shatters in the stillness, there are rain-

Drops everywhere on the ground.

Mud squelches in my shoes.  My children are

Playing in the mud.  That is their home, the place

They love more than being inside, which is

Outside, where they dwell.  The walls can sometimes

Be disheartening, and not what one expects it to be.

We are grateful for it, yes, but nothing can be

Forgotten in her heart or in her mind, the shattering

Thunder and the lightning, and the children must

Stay inside until it dies down.  A tree is struck

With fire.  The fire burns and the tree burns with it.

Fire is the end to all things.  It burns and it is everlasting,

And then the sun is deeper than the dark, and everything

Burns in it and there is no hope in it either because

All hope has drowned.  The lightning flashes,

And rain pours down, down, down, and feelings are

Different than they were before.  But some things

Never change.

You move like water, and run swifter than lightning.

In Silence.

In Silence.

The sound of silence is long.

It lasts 24 hours if you are by yourself.

The silence is deafening; it does not let you sleep;

It will not die. 

So in silence you sit and wait and

You do not sleep, and lovers lie, and thoughts

Do not.  Some thoughts bend like sound waves.

Some thoughts are like kryptonite, hard and

Shattering.  The ground is shattering. 

It makes noises when you walk. 

Sometimes when you wake up, the night

Is calm and daunting, and the silence is large.

Large as myself.  I cannot see anything outside of it,

Outside of anything.  Sometimes when I am reading I

Hear it the most, but it does not scare me.  Noise scares

Me more than silence ever will, and silence is deafening,

And darkness is not, and everything is still.

In silence, you can hear me scream, but you cannot hear me

Whimper.

That is where the realness lies, in your sleep and in

Your dreams.

Houses On Stilts.

Houses On Stilts.

The house was built on stilts.

It was exactly like the ones in Phonm Penh, Cambodia,

That were built to keep the water from flowing

Into the house.

These were the houses that love built, high over the mudded

Banks of the river, high over everything.

The steps would go into the house and sometimes the children

Would track their feet with mud, and the wives would

Be getting supper on the table.

The water would start to rise in the river, because it was

Raining and nothing could outlast the rain but the sun that

Fell after it and everyone knew the water would go down

But they didn’t know when.

Hector Soy was a beggar who lived on the streets

Of Cambodia, going from place to place, never quite fitting

In, wearing baggy clothing and begging for money and food.

One person gave him a blanket that he always carried with

Him like a begotten child.  He never knew where he was

Going to live from one moment to the next, always asking

For rides, always taking public transportation, like the

Double-decker bus.

This was the mode of transportation in larger cities in Asia,

Or some people rode on their bicycles to work or to leisure

Activities like birthday parties or football games.

How I Live In Barcelona.

How I Live In Barcelona

Barcelona is the city without

Lights because the stars are so

Bright at night, that they shine upon

What little world people live in.

Some days I find myself wishing I was

Somewhere else, because every day I have

To walk to work, passing homeless men

And homeless dogs in the street, hearing

Men’s catcalls, trying to find a way out

Of this rut, while others are making millions

From poor men’s suffering.  My father was poor…

He was a farmer on the outskirts of the city,

And every day he would wake up at 4am

To feed the cattle and milk the cows,

And every morning he would wake up all

The other farmer’s hand he had hired and they

Would help him feed the cattle and milk

The cows, and then my mother, God bless her

Soul, would make breakfast for the crew

And my father would bad mouth her behind

Her back, and then she would cry at night

Because she didn’t have nice things.

I live in a little house on the edge of the city,

It is a nice little house with running water,

But I do not have a nice car or nice clothes,

Because my clothes come from used clothing

Stores in the city, or I buy them online and have

Them mailed to me through FedEx.

I am not the only one who does this, and I will

Never be the only one, but I feel like I am on a

Lonely voyage, going from place to place with

Nothing to hold onto but an anchor that is not

Even that close to shore.

Sometimes, I feel like I am drowning,

And only the soft glow of the city lights can save me.

Animals Posing For Pictures.

Animals Posing For Pictures

The snow bird posed for my camera

One foggy Christmas Eve,

And my children were not living with me

Anymore.  It was snowy white and had

Speckled eyes, and I looked at it and it

Looked back at me in wonderment,

As if it had not seen my kind before.

Then there was the reindeer was licking

The sidewalk for salt, and I took a picture

Of him, too, with my smartphone camera.

My brother had taught me how to use it three

Years ago, and now I am a pro, posting selfies

Of myself every damn chance I get.

I suppose I think animals would like to take

Selfies of themselves, too, if they had hands.

The reindeer reminded me of Bambi,

And I hoped he had somewhere nice and warm

To go to.  I hope he was getting enough food to

Eat.

I went inside to get some nuts, and when I came

Back out, both the animals were gone.

But I have the pictures to remember them by and

That is saying enough for now.

So tomorrow I will post them on facebook and hope

I will get a few likes, even though I do not care

About likes at all.  It’s just something to remember

The animals by.

How To Get To the Abyss.

How To Get To the Abyss

I have walked to the abyss and

Came back.

The light is glaring behind me.

Sometimes, I can see the sun in

The abyss-other times, the wind

Is still.

The night is full of monarchs.

The wind is whistling now.

The tones of darkness are interchanging.

I hear wind chimes on the edge of time,

And the abyss is bending.

Backwards and forwards, it bends.

Sometimes, I think I can hear it bending,

Then I realize I must be going crazy.

Whatever is happening, is happening inside

Me.

I am the abyss.  The abyss is in a garden

Of the mind.

Certain things change over time.

Not much changes.

This is the revolution.

The seed of change.

It opens like a flower and closes

Like a heart beat.

Everyone dies, but then, everyone

Lives.  It is something that happens every

Second of every hour of every minute.

Then, one day, the abyss will come again.

This will be the change.

When I Went To the Mountains.

When I Went To the Mountains

That night, I went camping under the stars

On top of a mountain.

It was breathtakingly beautiful and the air was so

Fresh and clean. 

I had brought my canteen and my backpack

Full of goodies, including a flash light and a small

Tent.

I packed everything the night before.

I had worn my extra pants and a wool sweater,

My hands were clad in gloves.

This is the first time in months that I had gone

Anywhere. 

I would like my life to be full of purpose,

Not to be an experimental drug,

Or full of noise pollution.

I would like to see nature to its fullest potential,

From on top of a mountain,

Looking down.

When I went to the mountain, I saw mountain goats

And birds, flying so high and fast I wondered

Where they were off to in such a hurry.

The night is full of bright white stars.

I pitch my tent in a spot that I feel is the best.

Then I build a fire and set up my tent.

This is my first night out on the mountain,

And I want it to the be best.

I remember getting ready for my trip,

And saying goodbye to all my friends and family.

They acted like I was going to China,

But I am only thirteen miles away from my

House.

I wanted to be out in the middle of nowhere,

Looking at the stars and dreaming of something I knew

I could reach, if I simply tried hard enough.

That was what happened when I went to the mountain.

On Going To Thrift Stores.

 On Going to Thrift Stores

Sometimes I go to thrift stores and browse through

The cheap-ass books that they have there,

From Stephen King’s “Misery,” to Ernest Hemingway.

I have found books at thrift stores are much cheaper

There than any other place, unless you buy them used

Online, or at a library book sale, and sometimes,

Used library books are good, too. 

I remember I used to wander

Around the library during a library book sale,

Looking for the perfect book-perhaps Shel Silverstein,

Perhaps Madeline L’Engle, which I preferred in those

Days when I was a child.

After I bought the books, I carried them

Home proudly, holding them up high as if they were some

Sort of medal of honor.  They were medal of honors for me. 

I cherish each book

As if it is worth more than gold, and usually it is,

Because each word is like a single drop of knowledge in

This ever-expanding universe that is constantly filled

With energy. 

My love of books grew and I grew with it.

A Poem About Love.

A Poem About Love

I never found myself yearning for

You as I did last night,

You I pictured walking home from class,

Head bent to the wind,

A strand of dark hair falling over your

Forehead.

Then I saw you in my dreams later that night.

I thought we were swimming naked in a pool

Of midnight and moonbeams,

And swans danced above us like

Smooth, celestial objects that by chance

Couldn’t fly in any other dream.

I remembered your eyes, deep like pools,

Swimming with quiet thoughts of resolution.

I thought to myself, “That was the kind of man

I would like to take home with me,”

And then you saw me the next day and we talked

About books and JFK by my locker,

And you told me how you dreamt of being a rock

Star and I thought that was the cutest thing

Ever, and then I laughed, and you wondered

What was so funny,

But I couldn’t tell you I was falling for you,

That I didn’t want it to be hard on your wife.

You couldn’t understand how fallen I was for you,

You with your funny smile and your dark hair,

You with your graceful waltz and your sensuous

Mouth, and I knew how real the dream was,

Even now.

Spread the Peace.

Spread the Peace.

The gift of the written word is

The seed of the truth.

Sometimes I tell tales to help others;

Sometimes I write poems to spread

The truth.

Truth goes faster than a lie.

Hate will fade.

Some things you have to say in order

To go on, others you keep to

Yourself.

When you speak the truth,

You mend the world.

When you mend the world,

You mend the future.

The future is at the hands of all who

Are born, and all who will be born.

Don’t spread the hate.

Spread the peace.

Peace is in yourself.

Spread the peace.

The Corruption of American Greed.

The Corruption of American Greed.

I have followed the water.

The water is nice and warm.

The fish swim in the water that is

Now infested with greed.

I have followed the land.

The land is wrought with greed.

White men have stolen from it.

There is trash everywhere.

Pollution is rampant; no one

Car pools anymore.

The countries are all in disarray.

Some dark has gone; but still

It will not fade.

Corruption is in the face of

The government,

And lies spread faster than the truth.

The dream is in every form of

Violence.  The dream is more commonplace,

But fades faster than the wink of

An eye.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

The tools of life are lost.

Her Best Friends.

Her Best Friends

The canoe dances on the water.

It is light outside, 5am.  A woman is

Wanting to go fishing in her canoe.

She made it herself five days ago.

She lives alone with a pack of wild dogs,

And goes out to the field to feed them

Every morning.  That is where they live,

That is where they have made their home.

Her love of animals comes from the fact

That she has never loved herself.  The truth

Has not destroyed her, it has merely set

Her free.  She thinks Nature is grand.

Sometimes she takes binoculars and goes

Off hiking into the woods, to see all

The pretty birds.  The robins, even the

Crows, though they kinda scare her because

She wonders if they would rather eat her. 

She supposes they would be hungry.

But the canoe sits in the water, every day,

Waiting for her arrival-waiting for her like

A long lost friend.

A Story.

A Story

This is a story about commerce.

The light was in the window of

A tall skyscraper.  A man was spinning

A web of lies, telling secrets no one should

Tell-that he didn’t love his wife or his family,

That he didn’t even want to work.  He wanted

To be a prizefighter and earn money selling

Beer to local teenagers, who are trapped in

This thing called “school,” trapped in loveless

Friendships, trapped in fighting at home.

Perhaps he thought he was helping them.

Sometimes there is no way out except to

At least try to help yourself, becoming better

Than what you were yesterday, and sometimes

There are ways to make reality appear a little

More appealing, that the difference between

Being popular and having friends is like

Throwing a penny in a fountain.  The reality

Of life is this:  everything is temporary,

Some things are nocturnal, like bats,

Who live in their bat caves and have their

Bat lives, so unconcerned with the rest of

The world.  That is how I would like to be:

Totally immersed in my surroundings,

Swept away by the tide.

A Query About Time.

A Query About Time

My mother left the city when time

Was ancient.  The days were longer,

Stronger, brighter.  Sometimes the women

Would cook all day, and the men would

Work all day.  The children would play

In the streets and go to school.  It was

A little like Heaven.  I used to belong to

A group that talked about the olden days

At the little grocery store down the street,

Some people would brag about their

Grandparents and the good times they had,

Others would talk about the war.

There were many wars to begin with,

And that wasn’t the nice part of it-the nice

Part was the fact that everyone was sitting

Around a table together, talking about it,

Expressing their feelings and emotions.

Sometimes they would stop and reflect.

And then the stories would evolve and change,

And reflections were had.  There was a strong

Relationship between the bad and the good,

The weak and the strong-but sometimes the weak

Were also good, which meant they were strong,

Too.  Even if it was nighttime, the darkness

Evaporated as the stories went on, and the night

Would grow chilly, and then the day would come

And everyone would go home.  ‘Cause sometimes

They stayed all night, not being aware of the time.

That was when time was the most ancient.

When I See the Night.

When I See the Night

The night is like a moon without stars.

There are stars in the woods.

The stars are made of glass, shiny and new.

I have made a groundbreaking device

That pumps blood vessels with sticky

Residue.  Everything comes in all colors

And sizes.  The heart is burdened by proof.

Shadows bend and wave in the grass.

Time is not still.

What is the length of us?  What is the

Grandness?  Everything we see, we see

Both inner and outer.  Sometimes people

Can be annoying.  Sometimes you want to

Have them around.  Faces smile at nothing.

Life is a burden to have.

When Daddy Left.

When Daddy Left

The night my father left my mother,

She was crying in her sleep.

Daddy didn’t leave her homeless,

But he might as well have, she’d said

Later, after all the tears

Were shed, and the last cherry cordial

Eaten.

Daddy had left with his mistress.

I had met her.  She was a pretty lady,

With long blonde hair and cute bangs,

And I had asked her to play a song

For me on her guitar.  I secretly wished

She was my mother, but I didn’t tell

My own mother that because I was

Feeling guilty about the whole thing.

I was supposed to love my mother more.

What a rotten daughter I was to think about

My mother like that, as if she were some

Sort of garbage that needed to be taken out.

That’s what Daddy thought about her.

I didn’t need to be thinking that about her

As well.  She had been through enough.

I tried to be comforting.  “You’ll find someone

Ten times better,” I said.  “We’ll help you

Look,” I said.  “Daddy wasn’t that great,”
I said, which made her cry harder.

Maybe I just better shut my mouth from

Now on.

Flight.

Flight

A master in flight

High above the city

He dreams of places

He hasn’t been to:

Hawaii, Guam, Mexico

In his mind he is already there

Soaring through the sky

Like a bird with songs on his mind:

Beatles, Queen, Jon Bon Jovi

Learning How To Live.

Learning How To Live

I could not find myself becoming

Immersed in the poetry that has

Large hands.  Like drops of crimson,

The shadows dwell within all of us-

The shadow of defeat, the shadow of

Work, the shadow of fear and greed.

I try not to remember all those bad times

That I was kept locked in the cave of myself,

Locked amidst broken promises and half-assed

Dreams, in order to have a dream I discovered,

One must have money.  I had no money.  I was

Homeless for quite some time, living in my car,

At shelters, or at my niece’s, who was only seventeen

And had two children.  She was more well-off

Than I was, and I was the proud uncle, telling her I would

Buy her everything once I got the money.

Once, I say, once this happens, then we’ll be rich,

And she dreamt of that day, and so did I, but nothing

Happened except she worked six days a week at the local

Drive-in, and dated a man named Bob who had a tattoo

Of a mythical god on his arm.

The Dutch Floor, Circa 1984.

The Dutch Floor, Circa 1984

And we still had the floor that the Dutch

Had given to us three decades ago-it sat

Morose in a corner in the living room of our

House, where we walked on it every day.

It wasn’t the kind of floor that squeaked.

It was quiet as a whisper on a cold night,

Where I would lay naked in bed, drinking

Vodka or a Tequila, wishing I was with

Someone, wishing I wasn’t by my lonesome,

Wishing for thousands of dollars.

The floor would be there still, looking up at

Me forlornly as if to say, “Get off your ass,

You lazy bum!” because it was a floor and

It didn’t know anything about jobs or working

Or paying taxes, because it was a floor and floors

Didn’t know about such things.

I wondered about the Dutch who brought it to us

All those summers ago, if they were still alive,

If their children had children, if their children’s

Children had dogs and toy cars.

That’s what I thought about on those lonely nights

In bed, while the Dutch flooring muttered to

Itself in its own room.

True Love Is Like a Dinosaur.

True Love is Like a Dinosaur

This is lit.  It’s colder than cold.

The light is lit within the oven,

And we are baking a pie for Thanksgiving.

It was the first Thanksgiving without

My aunt, who died tragically in an automobile

Accident earlier that year.  Some things

Go left unsaid, like being in love,

You just can’t tell the person you love

Them because their response might

Rip you to shreds-they’re kinda like a

T-Rex dinosaur, metaphorically,

Because they tear you up inside.

Love will do that to you.  It tears you

Up inside.  But it makes you feel better

About yourself as well,

And sometimes you have to go through

The bad to get to the good,

And the good will be all right in the end.

That’s how it works,

That’s what we know to be true.

Only true love will last.

On Reading the Poem About William Carlos Williams’ Plums.

On Reading the Poem About William Carlos Williams’ Plums

The plums are ripe

And juicy and sit on

The wooden table

In a bowl.  I take a spoon

And dig right in.

Bees buzz unhappily by my kitchen window,

But they can’t get in.

I munch happily on my afternoon

Snack, it is not yet time for dinner,

And I am starving.

My Photographs.

My Photographs

There is no patience here like

Single blocks of geese.  Temptation is

Wrought with food and ill,

Blinded by the temporary pain in my right foot.

Nothing is sacred as a photograph,

So still it seems to capture the sentience of

Life.

My father would have been proud of my photographs,

That I take each and every day on my journeys

Walking from place to place, to the park, to the

Grocery store, even to the neighbor’s yard,

He has a huge tree in the front, that bears

The plums of summer.

And it was summer. 

A red-hot Indian summer

In the middle of September,

And everyone was waiting for it to start to

Get cool, and the trees to change their colors-

Red, yellow, brown.  Then the snow would fly

And Christmas would follow.

Yes, my father was proud of my photographs,

Especially the ones I sent out to everybody

For our Christmas cards.  They were especially

Special to me.