When I Write

When I write

Sometimes

It feels like I'm dancing

My loquacious mind,

Whose dance floor 

Is a clearing In a forest,

Covered with leaves,

Upon which each and every leaf

Holds a word,

Or a thought,

Or an emotion.

I jump and twirl in the air,

My feet coming down

Exploding the leaves.

They flutter up

And swirl around me,

In their yellows,

browns, greens, and reds.

I dance with my fingers

Around the keyboard,

Conjuring poems

That I have collected into bundles.

And then I jump in

And dance again,

and laugh, or cry.

And sometimes,

I just flop onto the pile and say,

Awe!

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.

Dance

I am grateful for dance.
Dance moves me
From the inside,
Deep,
All the way
To my core.
I want to move,
To play my arms,
My legs
My entire body
Like the
Visual/
Physical/
Musical
instrument
It is.
I want to join,
To be a part
Of the dance.

Mono

I did take Cat off the shelf. We had agreed to that in the time before now. But when the time came for Cat to arrive my brother, Rick, put Cat into a sling and flung her far to the east, over the Atlantic to Ireland. We didn’t know where she landed at the time. My brother took Cat’s place. 

When my mother came home from hospital, I was so disappointed. “Where is my mono (monkey)?” I asked. “You told me that you were growing a mono (monkey) in your stomach for me,” I protested.

 [The Spanish/English dictionary defines mono as monkey. But it is far more than that. Mono is a term of affection applied to babies. Today ye might hear an aunt, or uncle say to their newborn niece or nephew, “Such a cute little teddy bear, she be.” Mono has a similar connotation.] 

The night after me mum and dad brought me baby brother, Rick, home I had a dream. Our dog, Paco, who slept under my bed, got up and lay next to me. He licked me face. I stared at him and petted his head. I started to cry. “Donde esta mi mono?” (Where be me mono?) (Me first language be Espanol.) “Your baby brother took her place,” Paco said. “Yer mum agreed.” I be beside meself. I cried harder. “Porque?” Why would she do that? Me mono and me were supposed to grow up together to protect each other. We not be like the others.” 

“It be hard to explain,” Paco said. “Yer mum has been with yer baby brother for many lifetimes. She be his protector. But Rick not be so good at protecting himself. Many a lifetime he died before he reached 3 years. He be a reckless one, Yep, Ricky Reckless he be. “Your mum say many a prayer, “Please Dear God, if you take me, please take Ricky too, no one else will put up with him. He’d drive them crazy and they’ll abuse him.” 

Me little mind be frustrated, confused and hurt. I didn’t want a little brother, I wanted me mono, me sister. “Tis yer job to help yer mum,” me dog said “And protect him so he makes it past 3.” 

I wiped me tears. “But me mono. What about her?”

 “She be fine for now? She be growing up with fine parents.”

 “But without me,” I whined. “Will I see her in this lifetime?” 

“The three of ye have much to give in this lifetime. And much to learn. Some will be very sad and some will be make ye very happy. But ye will see each other when yer older, much older.” 

“Three?” lifted Paco’s head. “Three?” 

Paco’s picked up his head and licked me face again. “Ye be having another mono, not just one,” he said. “Actually ye be having many. But these two be far away.” 

“How will I find them?”

 “A new magic will find her and her sister, Mary. Mary be the one to find her first and then she find her for ye.” 

“Mary?” I scrunched me little face. “Who be Mary?” “She be yer mono, too, over many a lifetime. Mary’ll be the first to recognize who you two actually be.” Paco licked me face. “Go back to sleep. I’ll make sure ye find yer monos in this lifetime.”

Why I Stare

Yes, everything can change
In an instant,
Or an eternity,
Or so it seems,
I gaze at our daughter's face.
Admiring,
Cherishing,
Wishing this moment will linger.
"Why are you staring at me, Dad?"
I sigh.
"I love looking at you,
Like I love looking at flowers,
Or watching the waves,
Or the sunset."
Questions scrunch her face.
"That's silly, Dad."
"You'll understand
When you have your own babies."

Years later, I caught her staring at her own baby.
"Now do you see why I stare at you, even now?"
She gave me a warm, tight hug.

New Year's Resolution 2020

Tell me now, why

Every single year

On New Year's day

People are

Coerced,

Compelled,

Obligated,

And worst of all,

Made to feel guilty

If they don’t,

Won’t,

Or can’t

Make a New Year’s resolution

To improve?

What if they be just fine

The way they bloody be?

I ain’t saying

That making a resolution

is a bad thing.

Well, it could be a bad thing.

Maybe it should be a bad thing.

If we must,

If there be no way

Around it,

Why don’t we

Make a resolution

To be naughtier this year?

Why do we feel

We always have to be

Pure and holy?

I, for one,

If I must make

A new year’s resolution It be to be

Happy with meself

As I am,

Continuing to be kind

To everyone.

Well, maybe not everyone.

I don’t like termites

Eating me house down.

OK, termites aside,

I’ll be kind

To everyone else.

And I will be naughtier

This year than last.

Be an Angel

Sometimes,
When we least expect it,
A spark within a few,
Maybe me,
Maybe you,
Lights and glows
Ever so bright,
Compelling us
To open our heats
And do,
Do something kind.
Something sweet,
Something so amazingly neat
That patches a broken heart,
Brings a smile,
Connects someone
To another,
Or re-ignites
The spark of life
In the dying ember
Of a lost soul.
Sometimes
When we least expect it
We become angels, too.
Be an angel.

Beauty Floats on Falling Leaves

 Beauty floats on falling leaves.
Who glide, tumble,
Whirl, and swirl,
Gracefully, or haphazardly
On their journey
Off their trees.
Leaves harbor
Niether fret nor worry
As they transform
Their green garb
Into clothing of red,
Brown or gold,
For their final performance,
For their first flight
Into the unknown.
Beauty stays
As they age
And crinkle
On the ground.
Beauty resides on fallen leaves
Who whither and die
On the earth
Where they lie.

Standard Time

Standard time
Does not,
Cannot,
Will not
Exist.
Time is invisible,
Ethereal,
And illusory.
It flies in America.
It walks in Mexico.
It Marches in Germany.
Or so they claim.
But no one,
No two or three,
Not you nor me,
Have ever held
The reigns of time.
We all complain
That we have no time
For this or that.
And that's a fact.
For we cannot have
What does not exist.

You Can't Ask a Lady

You can’t ask a lady
to reveal her age
Without risk,
Without offense,
Without being rude.
But the question isn’t crude.
It’s real and easily understood.
Why then do women think
That if they reveal their age
Something about them
Will sink and they will be
Less than,
Unworthy,
Undesirable,
And should be ignored.
It is a cruel rule,
A horrible yoke
Upon their shoulders.
No one has the authority
To issue the rule:
“Hide your age.”
Does the Crone
Have no value
In a Man’s world?
Who says
An older woman
Does not excite
Does not titillate
Does not arouse
The sexual hormones
In a man?
Why do women acquiesce?
And pretend
They are not the wise crone,
The experienced elder,
The women of knowledge,
And power?
When they were six
They were proud
They could read
And run faster than the boys.
They showed their license with pride
When they reached 21 years of age.
Men don’t conceal how old they are
When they are 30 or 40 of 50.
They are always
Desirable at any age.
At least to their way of thinking.
People tell me
I can’t ask a lady,
“How old are you?”
She will be offended.
Why?
Because she bought the line
Hook and sinker
That once she is past
Twenty-one
She is of no value.
That is ridiculous,
Obnoxious,
Sexist thinking.
When we devalue
Any aspect of who we are
We cheat ourselves
Of the cooperation,
The power
And the wisdom
Of half the human population.
We rob ourselves
Of the wisdom of the Crone..

Backyard Autumn Blush

People Who Die Rip Us Off

People who die 

Rip of us off. 

They really do. 

Not intentionally, mind you. 

But their death, 

Their departure,
Our awareness of their absence, 

Robs us of their presence

Of their touch, 
Of their aroma. 

Death gets up in our face,

Nose to nose, 

To dare to declare 

That we, too, 

Shall surely die 

Someday.

There is no escaping,
No eliminating,
No having an immortal body.

Fear of our very own death 

Is hard-wired into our psyche. 

Grief buries itself in our muscles.

Therefore, we must

Talk grief out of our bodies, 

And out of our minds. 

Grief hides deep in our hearts. 

It desperately needs a voice 

To work its way out.

When we gag the mouth of grief

It chokes and rots deep within us. 

Grief then manifests 
In unsavory ways. 

It will bite every helping hand.

It will chomp,

And chew,

And spit out all joy,

While stomping on everyone 

Who would attempt 

To make us feel better. 

Our voice is a magic salve 

Use it
To squeeze out our grief 

A little bit at a time. 

Poets

The Hardship of Backpacking Is Temporary

Every now and then nearly everyone thinks about suicide. Life has its dark, downside. And it has it marvelous upside. Consider the fact that everything is temporary. When life really sucks, it is temporary. When life is so wonderful it just couldn't be any better, it is temporary. And because we flip back and forth, from pain to joy, we learn that we are strong and that even in the dark downside of life, we learn, and we widen our capacity for joy.

I'm a backpacker. Last week several of my buddies and I climbed up to Pear Lake in the Sequoia National Park. It was nearly a 3,000-foot climb from the trailhead. That sixth mile was so hard. My shoulders hurt from the backpack. My knees were biting me from the inside with each step. My lungs heaved and struggled for oxygen. And when we arrived at the top, stepped over the creek, and put our packs down at the campsite, my heart was glad. We made it. The lake was beautiful. The full moon crested over the rocky ridge. It was awesome. A couple of days later we descended the 3,000 feet. My shoulders hurt, my knees bit me from the inside and I didn't care. I was happy.

Mastodon at Pear Lake

I found this mastodon a few meters away from our tents at Pear Lake in the Sequoia National Forest. 

When we allow our imagination to flow free, it brings us gifts, some delightful, some hilarious, and sometimes, some are scary.

Arrogant Bastard

 Text message from Dirty Dog to Diego:

I had just finished unloading 98.2 pounds of groceries from the trunk of your car. I was so damn hot, my tongue was dragging on the ground getting all filthy and all. Damn, I stepped on my tongue and dam near fell and broke the eggs.  But I caught my balance in the nick of time.  My tongue hurt like a blazing hot anvil fell on it. I couldn't even call my sister to help me.

And then when I put the groceries on the table, did I get even a hint of gratitude with a simple, thanks Sweetheart? No! My sister was lounging on the couch drinking my Guinness, the only God forsaken Guinness left in the house.  It was the only damn beer in your house. I brought it to share with you. Honest. 

But would she offer me even the tiniest of sips? NO! She drank the whole glass, All of it.

"Here Little Brother. Put the glass in the dishwasher for me.  Will ya."

I stood there with my tongue dry and throbbing in pain. I really needed a beer to wet it good and sooth my pain. But do you know what my selfish sister said?  I can't believe it. 

"Oh Sweetheart, (I don't know why I listen to  her call me that. That's what she used to call me when she used to change my diapers.) Oh Sweetheart, she said, "put them groceries away.  I don't want to miss my soap opera."

I fixed her, alright. I put all 98.2 pounds of groceries in the freezer and walked down to Jerry's liquor store and bought me an ice cold six pack of Arrogant Bastard.

Oh. I need you to come to the Seal Beach jail and bail me out.  After that sixth Bastard I took all my clothes off and I jumped into the ocean. Well. It turned out to be a very small ocean. It was the public pool and they don't allow you to swim in your birthday suit.

And the bail is $500.oo.

Can you bring me a shirt and pants too.

Thanks,
Your brother-in-law, Dirty Dog.