Hello Everyone!
Welcome to my Poem Album!
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Try and Try

I have always seen life for what it really is.
Ever since I was a child growing up, hard times are all I know.
I had to sit back and watch my mother work from sunset to sundown.
I had to sit back and watch my mother work herself to her grave.
Nothing ever came easy for her.
She always had a heart and kept a smile on her face.
Life is like a newborn baby struggling to come out of its mother's womb,
life is a struggle true enough, but after all the struggling you have done,
and after all the hell you have been through, there is success.
Life is nothing but a big struggle, but just keep the faith and focus on your goals.
Don't let life beat you or you will be walking around like zombies.
Keep on pushing, keep on trying, life can be whatever you make it to be.
But life can also be a bowl of cherries with whip cream and apple pie.
I say this again; life is what you make of it.
You can achieve or conquer anything it throws at you,
you can't quit or give up, you have got to keep on working,
look higher some way, some how you are going to make it.

A Christmas Story

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it... overspending...the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember Christ, and "give" in a Christ-like manner. After all, he is the reason for the season, and the true "Christmas spirit" this year and always.
God bless.

Through a Child's Eyes

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child. The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the old man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, "Nothing, I just helped him cry."
Teacher Debbie Moon's first graders were discussing a picture of a family. One little boy in the picture had a different color hair than the other family members. One child suggested that he was adopted, and a little girl said, "I know all about adoptions because I was adopted." "What does it mean to be adopted?" asked another child. "It means," said the girl, "that you grew in your mommy's heart instead of her tummy."
A four year old was at the pediatrician for a check up. As the doctor looked down her ears with an otoscope, he asked, "Do you think I'll find Big Bird in here?" The little girl stayed silent. Next, the doctor took a tongue depressor and looked down her throat. He asked, "Do you think I'll find the Cookie Monster down there?" Again, the little girl was silent. Then the doctor put a stethoscope to her chest. As he listened to her heart beat, he asked, "Do you think I'll hear Barney in there?" "Oh, no!" the little girl replied. "Jesus is in my heart. Barney's on my underpants."
As I was driving home from work one day, I stopped to watch a local Little League baseball game that was being played in a park near my home. As I sat down behind the bench on the first-base line, I asked one of the boys what the score was. "We're behind 14 to nothing," he answered with a smile. "Really," I said. "I have to say you don't look very discouraged." "Discouraged?" the boy asked with a puzzled look on his face. "Why should we be discouraged? We haven't been up to bat yet."
Whenever I'm disappointed with my spot in my life, I stop and think about little Jamie Scott. Jamie was trying out for a part in a school play. His mother told me that he'd set his heart on being in it, though she feared he would not be chosen. On the day the parts were awarded, I went with her to collect him after school. Jamie rushed up to her, eyes shining with pride and excitement. "Guess what Mom," he shouted, and then said those words that will remain a lesson to me: "I've been chosen to clap and cheer."
A lesson in "heart" is my little 10 year old daughter, Sarah, who was born with a muscle missing in her foot and wears a brace all the time. She came home one beautiful spring day to tell me she had competed in "field day" -- that's where they have lots of races and other competitive events. Because of her let support, my mind raced as I tried to think of encouragement for my Sarah, things I could say to her about not letting this get her down -- but before I could get a word out, she said "Daddy, I won two of the races!" I couldn't believe it! And then Sarah said, "I had an advantage." Ah. I knew it. I thought she must have been given a head start...some kind of physical advantage. But again, before I could say anything, she said, "Daddy, I didn't get a head start... My advantage was I had to try harder!"
A little boy about 10 years old was standing before a shoe store on the roadway, barefooted, peering through the window, and shivering with cold. A lady approached the boy and said, "My little fellow, why are you looking so earnestly in that window?" "I was asking God to give me a pair of shoes," was the boy's reply. The lady took him by the hand and went into the store and asked the clerk to get half a dozen pairs of socks for the boy. She then asked if he could give her a basin of water and a towel. He quickly brought them to her. She took the little fellow to the back part of the store and, removing her gloves, knelt down, washed his little feet, and dried them with a towel. By this time the clerk had returned with the socks. Placing a pair on the boy's feet, she purchased him a pair of shoes. She tied up the remaining pairs of socks and gave them to him. She patted him on the head and said, "No doubt, my little fellow, you feel more comfortable now?" As she turned to go, the astonished lad caught her by the hand, and looking up in her face, with tears in his eyes, answered the question with these words: "Are you God's Wife?"

The Person I Long To Be

The day light breaks again
Another day has begun.
But still no sleep has come.
My body is weary
My mind overworked.
I lie awake thinking
But what I am unsure.
I need to break free from the cycle I endure.
Everyday is the same and the nights are undistinguished.
I feel as though I am being pushed along with the tide
Unable to break free from the everyday flow.
This is not me I need to change, before time takes over
And I am unable to change.
I need to be freed from the grasp of ordinary
And become that person I have always longed for.
Express myself in every way, and conquer the dreams as I lie awake.
Then I may fall asleep and put my mind to rest.
Make changes in my life and help those in need.
I would like to touch everyone's life in a positive way
And leave my mark on society before I fade away.

ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING

Jerry was the kind of guy you love to hate. He was always in a good mood and always had something positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I would be twins!"
He was a unique manager because he had several waiters who had followed him around from restaurant to restaurant. The reason the waiters followed Jerry was because of his attitude. He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, Jerry was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation.
Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Jerry and asked him, "I don't get it! You can't be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?"
Jerry replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself, 'Jerry, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood.' I choose to be in a good mood. Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life."
"Yeah, right, it's not that easy," I protested.
"Yes, it is," Jerry said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut way all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live life."
I reflected on what Jerry said. Soon thereafter, I left the restaurant industry to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it.
Several years later, I heard that Jerry did something you are never supposed to do in a restaurant business: he left the back door open one morning and was held up at gunpoint by three armed robbers. While trying to open the safe, his hand, shaking from nervousness, slipped off the combination. The robbers panicked and shot him. Luckily, Jerry was found relatively quickly and rushed to the local trauma center.
After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Jerry was released from the hospital with fragments of the bullets still in his body.
I saw Jerry about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, "If I were any better, I'd be twins. Wanna see my scars?"
I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the robbery took place. "The first thing that went through my mind was that I should have locked the back door," Jerry replied. "Then, as I lay on the floor, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live, or I could choose to die. I chose to live."
"Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked.
Jerry continued, "The paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the emergency room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read, 'He's a dead man.'
"I knew I needed to take action."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"Well, there was a big, burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Jerry. "She asked if I was allergic to anything. 'Yes,' I replied. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breathe and yelled, 'Bullets!' Over their laughter, I told them. 'I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead."
Jerry lived thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude. I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully. Attitude, after all, is everything.

Flower In The Desert

This happened many many summers ago.
There was a young flower in the desert where all was dry and sad looking...It was growing by itself...enjoying every day...and saying to the sun "When shall I be grown up"? And the sun would say "Be patient"---Each time I touch you,you grow a little"...And she was so pleased.Because she would have a chance to bring beauty to this corner of sand...And this is all she wanted to do---bring a little bit of beauty to this world.
One day the hunter came by---and stepped on her.---She was going to die---and she felt so sad.Not because she was dying ---but because she would not have a chance to bring a little bit of beauty to this corner of the desert.
The great spirit saw her, and was listening.---Indeed,he said ...She should be living...And he reached down and touched her---and gave her life.
And she grew up to be a beautiful flower...and this corner of the desert became so beautiful because of her.

The Christmas Computer
One winter morning
I was asked by my dad,
"What do you want for Christmas,
Young Thad?"

My answer was quick:
"I want a computer.
Not just any computer.
No, I want a root-tooter!
I want a ZBN 23,
No ripoffs. No scrapple.
No cheap imitations,
No lemons. No apples.

"I want a fast computer;
One so fast and flit
Four mathematicians, in 400 years
Couldn't do as much as it.

"I'll need an IGA graphics card;
Everyone knows graphics means games.
An IGA has 2 billion colors
Most of which don't even have names.

"Of course I'll need a modem--
The biggest, baudest modem around--
So I can call all the local computers
And make that BEEP-whirr sort of sound.
Oh! The boards I can call up!
Oh, the computers I can walk through!
I think you need another phone line
So you get a chance to talk too.

"Wait a minute! I forgot!
I'll need software too!
Hardware without software,
It just wouldn't do!
I'll need a word processor, for processing words.
I'll need a third processor, for processing thirds.
I'll need a spreadsheet. I'll need a tax program.
I'll need Super Paint. I'll need VAX-o'gram.
I'll want games in which you get to drop blocks.
I'll want games where you get to shoot spaceships in socks.

"And I'll need a big hard drive to fit all my programs,
A very big hard drive. With hundreds of megograms.

"Oh yes! And a printer!
A Laserjet printer--
A 668 color Laserjet printer!
So I can print pretty pictures
In all colors through
Indigo-indigo-purplish-blue.

"And a full page scanner
So my computer can read.
And that's all the computer
That I'll ever need!

"Except...
What of a joystick?
How can I live
Without a big joystick?
I can't play all my games on the keyboard,
Why it wouldn't be right!
You wouldn't want all of my friends to think that you're tight!

"So a joystick. And mouse.
And a speech synthesizer.
And so I can talk back:
A speech recognizer.

"Oh, how my friends will like my machine!
When they see it they're sure to turn green!
They'll come over for hours to play all my games,
And see all my colors that don't even have names.

"But there's only one computer
And there's lots of us.
How can we all play
And not make a fuss?
I'll need terminals
That will connect us all through
To the main computer
(I'll need cables too).

"Now the ZBN 23
Has RAM interriminable.
But not quite enough RAM
To keep track of ten terminals.
I'll need a step up--
A supercomputer.

"A ZBN Bloober-Supercomputer!
And a staff of technicians
To make sure it keeps working.
And a staff of debuggers
For any bugs that start lurking.

"An account on the Hinternet
So everyone on the planet
Can call my computer
(Please, don't ask me to can it).

"There's just one more thing:
A Multi-User Confuser!
It's a kind of a game
That can be played by dozens of losers.

"So that's what I want.
I'm not asking much.
Why, Brad down the street
Has a computer that that wouldn't touch!

Ed and Ted Have Spaceships
There once was a spaceship captain named Ted.
And also a spaceship captain named Ed.

Ted had a speedy, tidy neat ship.
He had a chair. He had a bed.
He had switches to flip.
He had a food replicator
And a 2 way communicator.
That was all that he carried.
That was all that he brought.
Said Ted,
"A ship ought to be tidy and taught!"

Ed's ship had all those things too.
And a few things more. Well,
Rather more then a few.
He had bolts. He had screws.
He had glop. He had ooze.
He had snails. He had eels.
He had bananas. They had peels.
He had papers. He had books.
He had niches. He had nooks.
He had raisins. And bread.
He had tofu, had Ed.
He had a copilot/wife
(Edwina, her name)
And all of their life
The mess was the same.
They had penguins. And squirrels.
Little boys. Little girls.
Wolf spiders and flies,
Hang gliders and ties.
They had Wook-Took-a-Zookers
And Aquarium Glookers.
'Cause Ted liked to travel with less,
But Eds like to travel with mess!

Said Ted,
"You are silly, Ed.
All that stuff bogs you down.
You're being a slob.
You're being a clown!"

Ted was right, too.
The stuff bogged down Ed's ship,
Kind of like glue.
It slowed down Ed too,
'Cause all the stuff
Was hard to wade through.

But one day by a fluke,
They dropped the bomb
And the Earth was nuked.
No one left. No one home.
Ted and Ed were on their own.
Because when they came back from Procoyon,
To their surprise, their world was gone!
With no more fuel they were stuck there--
Cause Ed's tanks were filled with junk,
And Ted's were filled with air.

Several days later their heaters broke.
Ed's family wore coats and burned papers.
The biomass kept his spaceship warm.
But Ted got chilly and got the vapors.

Several weeks later their bolts got loose.
Ed tightened his up and fixed 'em with glues.
Ted's bolts just kept getting looser and looser
Because he didn't bring wrenches and didn't brings gluesers.

Several months later their food replicators broke.
Ed's family ate their raisins and bread.
And they grew veggies in dirt.
But Ted got hungry instead.

A couple days later their oxygenators blew.
Ed's family and penguins breathed the air
From the plants that they grew.
And Ted?
Ted's dead!

Spring Hits Wilder Bowl
Bugs bite big bouncing boy
Boy bites big bounding bugs
Boy bounces with boundless joy
Bugs give bugs small-bug hugs.

Hackey sack
Sackey sack
Zak he kicks
The Hackey Sack.
Lackey lack
Lackey lack
Zak he lacks
The Hackey Sack.

Noemi writes.
Noam he writes.
Noemi writes that
Noam he writes that
Noemi writes about
Noam.
Is Noam he real?
Or is Noemi real?
Or did I make them up
For this poem?

Shana lies
Under flying flies.
Shana's wise
To flying flies.
If Shana stands
Or lifts her hands
Then flying flies
Mite bite her eyes
So Shana lies
Safe from flies.

Rain
Rain
Rainy rain
Brainy Brain sits in rainy rain
Cause Brainy Brain knows
That when rainy rain goes
That grainy grass grows
Into grainy grass umbrellos.

Daffodils are yellow
Daffy Don is mellow
Daffy's pills
Cured Daffy's ills
And made him a mellow fellow.
Daffodils are green
Daffy Don has no spleen
The pills he chewed
Made him flower food
Now Don can't make the scene.

Robin crows
crow is robbin'
Away crow goes
Robin's sobbin'.

Zak he finds
His Hackey Sack
Zak he whacks
The Hackey sack
Crow he eats it
Thinks it's pizza.
Now Crow is ill
Needs Daffy's pills.
Old crow is sobbin'
Shouldn't rob a robin!

Springy spring
Makes me singy sing
Oh ding-a-ling
We're Fairy Kings!

The Idea of Florida During a Winter Thaw

Late February, and the air's so balmy
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.

In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Escapees from the cold work of living,

the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.

At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....

Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.

She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.

The Only Rose
I

It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Where, as I discover as I go through
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
That desire has ever built, have approached
This perfection, this absence.

And so I gaze avidly
At these masses the snow hides from me.
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
To a higher level of appearance.
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
With a hand freed from weight,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
In a single floral stroke,
The form sought for centuries by
The pain of being born into matter.



II

And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Against this sky no longer of our world.
Oh you builders,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
What is there in the depths of these walls
That open before me? What I see
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
From which, thanks to symmetry,
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
I bring down a bit of its light
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
The bees are buzzing,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?



III

And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
The line between the outside and this room
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Between the high and the low, in this night.
It is as though I were at a second threshold.

And beyond, the same sound of bees
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Summer bees were saying
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.

And I would like
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
The paths of childhood.



IV

But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
And piled up at the base of the columns
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
That this mud draws on the stone.
My only thought is for what has
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
The purest form is always the one
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Trampled snow is the only rose.

The Medfly

Once upon a midnight, eerie,
While I read with eyes so bleary,
The propositions, their pages and pages,
I realized then that reading them all would take
ages and ages.
While I nodded my brain a fuzzing,
Suddenly, there came a buzzing,
As if some wings were in a flutter,
Caught outside upon the shutter.
"'Tis the wind," my lips did mutter,
"Blowing a leaf---'Tis that, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember,
It was early in a bleak November,
That I read the propositions
And the politicos' positions
On the use of pesticides
In the air and on our tides.
Then again there came a flutter
Out upon my window shutter.
"'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger.
Hesitating then no longer,
Opened I the shutter door---
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering,
Long I stood there, wondering, fearing.
But the silence was unbroken,
By the words that were unspoken:
"'Tis some creature that's awoken.
Merely this and nothing more."

When soon again I heard the flutter,
That racked my soul with a somber shudder.
"Surely," said I, "Surely this is something
At my window---
Surely, that is not the wind though,
All my soul cried for this answer:
"'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open again I flung the shutter.
Then with many a flit and flutter,
In there flew the dreaded Medfly.
And then did he about my head, fly.
For a moment did he watch me,
Slowly circling above, about me,
'Till he stopped and calmly sight he,
A landing place upon my right knee.
Thinking then of Malathion,
I asked him then, "Would you die on,
My knotted knee?" that he did lie on.
Quoth the Medfly: "Nevermore."

Much I marveled at this pest,
Upon my knee as he did rest.
Though its answer little meaning.
For we can't help all agreeing,
That no Medfly hiding or fleeing,
Had survived, despite what I was somehow seeing.
Hadn't the spray served in all occasions?
How much longer must we see invasions?
As if his soul in that one word did he outpour,
Nothing further had he uttered.
Not a wing had he fluttered.
Till I scarcely more than muttered.
With a voice that nearly stuttered,
"There's some Raid within my cupboard.
I can find it, though it be cluttered."

Suddenly, his wings did flutter,
At my hasty words of war.
And in a moment he had headed,
Headed toward my chamber door.
Springing then onto my feet,
For the kitchen I did retreat,
Grabbed the can and then I beat,
A path to my chamber, the fly to meet.

In the room I quietly stand,
With the can clutched in my hand,
Waiting patiently for him to land.
And when he did, the spray I fanned!
Then me thought, the air grew denser,
Poisoned as if from an unseen censer.
"Wretch!" I cried as I grew tenser.
Suddenly I felt like I was choking.
Quoth the Medfly loud an clear:
"Raid!? After Malathion, you must be joking."
Then to the window he did flutter.

And through the space beside the shutter.
Then to freedom he flew and darted,
With these words as he departed:
"I'll be back forever more!"

Many weeks have now gone by.
Narry a once have I seen the fly.
But hark! What do I hear upon my shutter?
Could it be? Is that a flutter?
Will I again be plagued once more,
With those buzzing words of yore,
Words that say: "Forever more"?

Waiting for Frogs

Through pieces of April
And parts of May
Princely frogs
Come marching her way.
Fly-catching tongues
Flicker and snatch
Playing ribbit and croak
With eyes that don't match.
Up to the mountain
Fingertips itching
Sweating a fountain
All senses just twitching
Squeeze and wish on
A lily pad's root
Caressing and crushing
With a kiss on the snoot.
languishing touches
On the likes of such
Seeking fruition
(God, what a crutch!)
Ear looking eyes
Legs of pure motion
Who'd think they'd give
Such a God-awful
Notion.
Nites black seeming
Day not to come
Nites tadpole teeming
Black passions (run some)
Wishes for princes
Receding in time
The need for
Fresh frogs
Now that would
Be mine.

Day 29 in Delano for Cesar

The church is empty.
Silent pews of shining wood
reflect the mid-afternoon light
of stained-glass window.
Candles flicker on the altar.
Some have burned out.
Have they been burning for you,
Cesar, as you lie weak in your bed,
your fast to focus attention
on our poisoned food,
now almost a month old?

I search for people---where is he now?
The rectory door, behind the
closely trimmed hedge,
is locked. I start my car.

In town, at a Mexican restaurant
(where I stuff my face),
I learn that he is at his compound,
weak, sick, thin.
I follow directions
and make my way west of town
to the media tent.
Jesse Jackson has come and gone
after holding court---a photo opportunist
seeking out another handshake.
The communion to break the fast
is cancelled for now
and I wade amid the castoff
paper cups and torn banners
scattered in the wind.

We too are scattered, Cesar.
The food we eat does not nourish.
The air we breathe grits the throat.
And the water is bitter with the chemicals
that bring your tears.
You are right, Cesar, but we laugh you off
as a relic of the past;
a Sixties fad now given over
to the widows---
and the mothers of deformed children.

I leave and search the fields for the road
that will lead me in the right direction.
The signs are confusing. I start my fast.

Perris Valley

Join me now in seeing the beautiful playing of the beings all around us,
Expressing sharing the biosphere of earth with us,

Dolphins frolicking, dashing spray at sea,
Squirrels with their tails flowing, leaping tree to tree:

An elk stag bugling, sounding his love call,
Peregrine falcons mating in free fall;

A timber wolf cocking her head quizzically,
Tiger cubs cuffing, sprawling clumsily;

Penguins popping up on the ice flow,
Humming birds hovering, darting to and fro;

Baboons staging theater-in-the-round,
A rockin ol' bull walrus, makin' his walrus sound;

A big dog bounding high to catch a frisbee,
Kittens with their tiny claws having an unquilting bee;

Thoroughbreds at the gate, tossing their heads a prancing,
Elephants trumpeting, in the jungle dancing;

Otters sliding down the mud slide,
A white whale sounding, breaching high an' wide.

CHORUS:

All kinds of play are found round the world,
From chess in the Ukraine to bull fights in Spain,
From Olympic Games with banners in furled,
To Death Games amid sand grains at El Alamein,
Yes, play is a word we use every which way,
From gun play to sword play to word play to foreplay,
From gamboling lambs in a meadow in May
Or a gambling man in old Santa Fe,
One space to play in,
One place to fly free south of L.A.,
And in from the sea, diving away from the D.C. 3,
High in the wind over Perris Valley, valley, valleeee, Perris Valleeee.

I close my eyes and see people at play,
Age in the night to this day:

A batter swinging in the box,
A climber reaching on the rocks,

A skier swooshing by on skis,
A glider gliding in the breeze,

A biker pumping by on a bike,
A tyke pedaling a trike,

A bird watcher watching birds,
A poet stringing together words,

A caver torching in a cave,
A surfer riding on a wave,

A marathoner running the race,
A poker player playing an ace,

A chess player reaching to take a piece,
A channel swimmer all coated with grease,

A gambler rolling on the table two dice,
A skater twirling on the ice,

A soap box speaker being verbose,
A late night comic being gross,

A colonel being a cannon loose,
Truman waving from a caboose,

A gymnast swinging on the rings,
A guitarist playing on the strings,

Skydivers swooping to the formation
Excited patriots forming a nation.

CHORUS:

All kinds of play are found round the world,
from chess in the Ukraine to bull fights in Spain....

She Sailed Away from the Harbor

They said her sails were tattered,
Would rip when by the wind battered.
They threw discouragement at her.
Best to stay in the harbor.

They said her rigging was frayed,
All grizzled and frazzled and flayed;
Would part from the stress the wind made.
Best to stay in the harbor.

They said her mast was brittle,
Would not give even a little;
They said it would crack in the middle.
Best to stay in the harbor.

They said her hull was encrusted,
Said it could never be trusted;
Would be on the rocks busted.
Best to stay in the harbor.

But she chose her own season to sail,
Praying her will would not fail,
Committing her vessel so frail
To sail away from the harbor.

She drew up her plans in the night,
Below decks by lantern light,
Knowing full well of the might
Of the ocean beyond the harbor.

She heard the night wind moan
And heard the ship's timbers groan,
And knew she would sail all alone
In the morning away from the harbor.

She dreamed she heard cries in the night
From a "V" of wild geese high in flight
Through storm clouds and silver moonlight
Winging high over the harbor.

The dawn it came windy and gray
With wavetops blown into spray;
The brisk morning breeze seemed to say,
It's time to sail from the harbor.

Then windows of blue opened wide,
Seagulls circled and cried,
Her sails filled up as with pride,
And she sailed away from the harbor.

CODA

She sailed away from,
She sailed away from,
She sailed away from the harbor.

we looked so damn good together.

yes or no. go. stay. don’t call me. why haven’t i heard from you? i think he’s depressed. his friend killed himself at this time of year a few years ago. he’s upset. it’s winter. he’s not noticed that it’s been weeks since the lastime we spoke. months since we saw each other. & he calls me a “friend.� i’m glad i never fucked him. he’s unstable. unavailable, they’d say in 12 steps. he doesn’t care about anything but getting sex on demand–on his schedule. he doesn’t care to send anything better than mixed messages.

it doesn’t matter. you want a bengali husband? the Universe said & laughed. Her laugh was playful, sinister, knowing. let me show you your bengali husband.

he’s 28. saturn return. his saturn must be in one of those unbalanced signs. scorpio, leo, gemini. aries. violent, ambivalent. addicted.

he resents his parents. his features take after his mother.

why did he even seek me out? he asked me out, kissed me, got in bed with me & said he wasn’t looking for anything. liar. he cooks dinner for me once & shows me his short temper. repressed rage misdirected at the one who requested him. who prayed for a lover whose skin matched her own shade.

be careful what you beg for. you’ll get it.

rare, sparse conversations full of tension & doubt. you never opened up, let me enter, all because flesh was off limits. not a shred of willpower remains. we can never talk again because if we do, my words will be, “bring some condoms over.�

the ribbed kind.

he wouldn’t tell me when the last time for him was. i’d been celibate for 8 months when we met. he hid everything from me, knowing i’d be disappointed & move on.

let go. leave it behind. it was a good try. but it’s gone as far as it could. i got fucked & left again but this time, no sex to speak of.

i know where my feet are. right here. across the water of the bay, you’ll stay oversexed & underpresent. there are many others. other women who won’t ask where your dick’s been.

breath is even until i forget to keep it going. force myself to relax, to let go.

yeah. i thought i was available, too.

the first male skin i touched in years. the first lips i kissed after an eternity of silence. when i say goodbye you will play ambiguity, ignorance. those masks that don’t fit me anymore.

the silence has lived too long. no phone calls in months. & the lastime i saw you, i hated what i saw. what i heard. a voice angrily raised above mine; over nothing. a shallow conversation about whether the masa you made tamales with were truly vegan.

you scared me. that’s when i really knew. because i said nothing to put you in your place. because you would have called that “processing.�

mixed messages. silence. a weak excuse. how many months of this?

breathe. exhale him out of my system. see, it’s easy. it gets easier.

By way of introduction

So it is that I meet your father on the same page
as an ad for $8,900 pre-owned cars, INVENTORY JUST UPDATED.
Looking at the picture used in the obituary,
I'd peg your Pops as a secret admirer
of Ferraris, too smart to own one but the red dream
costs nothing, complete with downshifting
through Italian curves. Plenty of past tense to come: he looks
like a happy man, a sense of wind just under the skin,
smile opening like a sail. This is rehearsal for me.
My father's heart turns more fictitious by the day,
a different kind of metaphor, one of failure, silence.
There's a saying that we don't grow up until our parents
die. Are you half grown today, just getting back to things,
going down to the street for coffee, looking at a man
curled at the edge of an alley and thinking of the work
your father did, giving legal advice to the poor, do you reach
for your phone, press the number anyway, letting it ring,
letting the sound of you wanting to speak to him
have a life in your ear and another life in an office
hours away, the beginnings of séance and telepathy, of wanting
air to conspire into language, into reach? Second-person
poems drive me nuts: I'm telling you things you know
or getting things wrong. Ferraris? Calling the dead
before you've had your coffee? I barely know you.
It only now occurs to me how much your name is in history
and how little that helps, to be grandson of the man
who filmed another death of a father, one that slo-mo
looped through my childhood, people looking for reasons
for loss like it's a matter of frames per second, as if
we slow down enough, an image will take shape and explain.
I trust this: I have your father with me, I've printed
his life out, the sketch of it, he's kept me company
this morning, a presence that has brought my father closer,
and reminded me how much I honor faces, that we can judge them,
that we need to. This face: I'd have moved toward it.
This man: I'd have believed.

The naked, wet man-beast rolls
off, and strides around the bed
to rescue a cat from a hairband. He
stands for a moment, surveying

the scene - cats on the bed, on the floor, me
tucked under the covers. The one-eyed cat
glaring from beneath my denims, and
dancing feathers teasing the dreamcatcher,
breathing colour against a stark wall.

I frown a little and he comes back, crawls
next to me, mirrors my body with
his. A cat curls up near four feet. Knees
enfold knees, a cold, wet
penis against my bum, chest chilly in
winter sweat, on my back, and then
strong arms around.
I rest my cheek on
the hand that's there, and
close my eyes.

Furious scrabbling under the bed.

"It's got your sock again," he murmurs
as he falls asleep.

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the {AE}gean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I Sing A Sad Song


I sing a sad song for the cold, lonely
Moments no one will admit to aloud.

I sing a sad song for all of the broken
Promises,
Wrought by circumstances beyond
Anyone's control.

I sing a sad song for the faces pressing
Against the window panes in longing.

I sing a sad song for wild anticipation
Of days that never come.

I sing a sad song for the telephone
That never rings enough.

I sing a sad song for dreams woven of
Hopeless illusions.

I sing a sad song for all of those who
Waste time, singing sad songs!

The School in August

The cloakroom pegs are empty now,
And locked the classroom door,
The hollow desks are lined with dust,
And slow across the floor
A sunbeam creeps between the chairs
Till the sun shines no more.

Who did their hair before this glass?
Who scratched 'Elaine loves Jill'
One drowsy summer sewing-class
With scissors on the sill?
Who practised this piano
Whose notes are now so still?

Ah, notices are taken down,
And scorebooks stowed away,
And seniors grow tomorrow
From the juniors today,
And even swimming groups can fade,
Games mistresses turn grey.