Be Silly

I be writing a nice poem,

With a fine message for us all.

It be a fitting poem,

For today,

I be remindin' ye

Ya need to play

And laugh.

I be telling ye

Ya need to be,

Be the reason

Those who have to live with ya

Won't be wanting to kick yer ass

Out of the house,

Out of their lives,.

Because if they did,

A nasty sadness be burying

Them in self pity.

And a pity it would be

If ye weren't around

To help them see

That when ye stop

Laughin'

At yerselves,

At life,

Ye stop feeding

The garden that gives ye joy.

There be magic

In being silly.

Just listen to any child

When she be free to be

Unhampered and wild.

Laughter be what ye hear

While she be silly

And freely expressing

Her most beautiful charm:

And that be

Her Being hilariously,

Delightfully,

And lovingly

Silly.

Crying

Stop crying!
Stop being a cry baby!
Stop crying or
I’ll give you something to cry about.
Boys don’t cry.
Don’t let the other’s see you cry.
Why are you crying?
You don’t need to cry.

Those are cruel
Hateful words
That stomp,
Crush,
And stuff my feelings,
My pain,
And my joys

Into a lock box
With a broken key.

When I cry,
Tears slide down my face,

Into my throat

Wrapping a spiked cord
Around my voice.

I used to hate it.
But now
I cry.
I cry
For myself.
I cry

Into the tenderest,
Sweetest part
Of me
To sooth
And smooth out
The wrinkles of my life,
Allowing me to slide
Into bliss.

I cry happy tears,
Sad tears.
I cry in pain
And I cry
When I feel Joy.

I gleefully disobey
The cruel and stupid command.

I shall cry
Whenever I want to.
 

Personal Evolution

Each and every day
Is a turning point
In my personal evolution.

I choose which way,
How much,
And what intensity
I put into
The turn I am making.

When I awaken each morning
I choose to be
Something.
What choice would that be?

I can choose to be
Grateful.
Grateful that I am still here,
Still breathing
Still taking opportunities to
Direct the flow
Of my personal evolution.

Or not.

I can choose to be
Pulled, or pushed, or prodded
Into the next moment
And its consequence.

I can choose to take the helm
Of my moments
Of my thoughts,
Of my emotions,
And see,
Really see,

That I am evolving
Into a being
That realizes,
Relishes,
And radiates
The divine light
That we all are
Re-evolving into.

When La Mar Dances

I be smitten by La Mar
When she dances,
And when she sways.
When the storm clouds come
Blasting their thunderous invitation
To dance a fierce Irish jig,
She throws up her watery skirt,
And laughs, and laughs,
Grabbing the clouds,
And splashing to and fro.
After the dance
She bids the clouds farewell,
And reminisces with
A gentle tapping
Of her toes
on the nearby shores.
In rare moments,
She lies completely flat,
As if she were
Stretching like a cat.
And when she be doing that,
She be pretending
To be a very flat
Plate of glass.
Even when she not be dancing,
She be pulsing her belly
In and out to her own
Heart’s rhythm

Carmela Was the Only Mean Old Lady

Crash! Crinkle, crinkle.

“Oh! Dios mio!”
My mother shouted
As she grabbed my
Little brothers off the floor.
“What was that?!”
I yelled as I jumped up
From playing with my cars
On the living room floor.
A rock had crashed through
Our front room window.
A rubber band held
A white paper
Around that rock.
I read the note.

“Fuck you!
Wetbacks go home!
We don’t want
Mexicans living here.
Fuck you!”

Fright burned our mom’s eyes
And made her cry.

My mother’s fright
Grabbed my gut
Making me want to cry, too.
“What is wetback, Mom?”

“I don’t know.
I think it’s us.”

“What is fuck?”

“Sh! Cochino!
Don’t ever say that.
It is a very bad word.”

“Why don’t they want us

Here,

Mom?”

She pulled me close,
Hugging me tightly,
Without answering.
She kissed my forehead
And then shook her head.
“Bring me the broom and the trashcan.
And then go tell the landlord,
“Mister Rudy,
Someone broke
Our front room window.”

A few months later
Mister Rudy told us
We had to move.
He sold the house to Carmela
Who lived two doors down.

Carmela was the only
Mean old lady
On the block.
Mister Rudy told us
Mister Krutchner’s tiny,
600 square foot house,
Was available for rent.
It was right next door.

We moved into
Mister Krutcner’s tiny house
Which was turned out
To be right next door
To Carmela.

A short time later,
Mister Krutchner sold

His tiny house
To us.
Carmela had tried
To buy it.
But Mister Krtuchner
Didn’t like Carmela,
Who was the only
Mean old lady
On the block.

Eight years after
Someone threw a rock
Through our window
Telling us we weren’t
Wanted in the neighborhood,
My father sold
Our tiny house
To an “undisclosed” buyer.
That buyer was Carmela.
She finally got rid of us.

Eighteen years later,
My brother rented Carmela’s
Old house.
“Why did you rent to me?
When you spent so much
Time and effort
To get us out
Of the neighborhood?”

Without a hint of shame,
Carmela replied,
“At least you aren’t Black.”
Carmela was the only
Mean old lady
On the block.