I Love Your Smile

I love your smile, 
It makes me smile, too. 
I love it, in a different way
When you cry with letters and words.
They pull out the slivers of tears
That sting deep inside me.
I love your Laugh, 
It makes me laugh, too.
I love it, in a different way
When you screech your anger
Across the room 
Making my gut, 
My violent concrete safe,
Crack and ooze my own anger out.
I love your smiling eyes, 
They make my eyes smile, too
And let me know 
This, too, shall pass.

I Remember Not Having a Phone

I remember not having a phone.

I remember putting my finger in the hole
And pushing the hole around until it stopped.
And I remember watching it slide back around
And hearing it go click, click, click.
I remember the buzzing busy signal.
I remember calling information
To get a friend’s phone number.
I remember being scolded
For making a long-distance call.
I remember being seven years old
Talking to my mother
Who was 830 miles away
And being told to hang up
Because our time was up.
I remember party lines,
A time when I would pick up the phone and listen,
Hoping no one was on the line.
And if I heard voices,
I would wait a while before picking it up again.
And sometimes, I would get yelled at
By one of the phone talkers.
I remember phone numbers that only had 4 digits
When you called someone in town.
I remember payphones
And huge yellow phone books.
I remember running from phone booth to phone booth downtown,

Clicking the receiver lever
Hoping to find change in the coin return slot.
I remember shivering at night,
Standing in a phone booth,
Talking to my girlfriend.
I remember looking up Montoya
In the Albuquerque phone book
And seeing two full pages,
And imagining that there were millions

Of Montoyas in Albuquerque.

I remember when my parents moved to Long Beach

And only seeing one Montoya in the phone book.
It was our phone.
I remember in the 70s,
There were 5 Montoyas
In the Long Beach phone book.
It was my parents', my siblings',
And my phone number that were listed.
I haven't seen a phone book in ages.
I remember the phone ringing
Inside our house 

And my mother came running 

From the front yard, yelling,
"Something happened to George!"
I remember her grabbing the phone.
"George are you OK?"
She asked her younger brother.

"I'm OK, but I just saw Florinda
Get hit by the bus!"
I remember wondering
How my mother knew it was George.

I remember being on my ship
Fighting a war I didn’t want

And not having a phone. 

Fire Storms and Hurricanes

Fire Storms and Hurricanes
By Mushroom Montoya

 

The drenching rains, 

The raging hurricanes, 

The scorching fires,

That squelch our desires,

 

Destroying our homes,

And killing our cherished ones,

Mean

no

harm.

 

They cry when they see

The pain they've caused

To you and to me.

 

They weep

As they sweep

Their way across our paths.

 

"Everything is temporary,"

They scream and shout,

Reminding us to pay

Close attention,

 

With our hearts,

To what is most

Important:

Love one another

While

you

can.

 

Dead Leaf

She spent her life
High in a tree
Giving oxygen,
Eating CO2,
Providing shade,
Her once green body
Will turn yellow,
Then brown,
Before the tree
Releases its hold.
The leaf has fallen,
Hidden in the grass,
Her last resting place.
Her body will curl,
Become brittle,
Crumble
And turn to dust.
As it must
In the cycle of life.

Belly-flopping Rain

When the clouds grow dark,

And release the rain, 

Water droplets giggle, 

Belly-flopping onto 

The glimmering blue pool. 

My body wiggles, 

And splashes 

As it dashes 

Across the pool. 

The rain kisses, 

And kisses, 

And kisses 

My head 

With every single drop 

Of rain, 

Whispering I love yous. 

I turn my face into the water, 

And say, 

"I love you, too."

This Is Winter

This is winter.

It's a depressing time of year

For all who deal with SAD.

Short days flash by

So fast that I barely notice
The sunlight.
The long cold night
Knocks on my front door
So very early.

I try not to let him.

But he slides into the cracks

Around the windows.
I hear him hum his dirge

When he does.
Once he is in,

He tiptoes behind my back

And pulls my shoulders down.

And, if that doesn't satisfy him,

He slithers up
And sits on top of my head.

He reaches down,

His fingers pull down

The edges of my lips.

I have spent years

On that river in Egypt,

Wearing a happy face.

I’ve done that all

In a faulty attempt

To convince myself

That I am impervious

To depression.

Today, I shall step out of that river

And choose to embrace

That life is temporary

And depression is part of life.
It comes and goes.
It leaves me gifts

That I rarely remember

To pick up.
Today, I shall pick one up.
It has two sides.
A dark side

That I feel every winter;

And another side

That feels different, somehow.

I shall embrace the dark

Knowing it is temporary,
And then maybe,

Just maybe,

I can touch the other side

When the days will
Eventually get lighter.

My Hands

When I look at my hands,

I see what I once thought

Were an old man's hands.
I have earned these wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.

My hands have held babies, puppies, and kittens.

They have wiped tears from children's faces.

My hands have cleaned poop, vomit, and crud.

They have thrown newspapers
Onto porches from my bike.
They have swung hammers
That built shelves, green houses, and toys.

My hands have kneaded dough.

When I was in Viet Nam,

They loaded heavy amo

Into the magazine

Beneath our ship's cannon.

My hands have crocheted baby blankets,
Bathing suits and a tostada.

They have picked up kids

Who've crashed their bikes.

I have held hands with my lover,

With elders, and children.
My hands have massaged sore muscles,
And they have brought healing to the wounded.

My hands have patched torn skin
On my mother-in-law’s arm,
And they have applied Band-aides
On children’s scuffed knees.

My hands have played the guitar,
And rhythmically beat the shaman’s drum.

My hands caressed our son’s face,
And stroked his arm
When he was dying.

I am grateful for my wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.

Depression Is Temporary

Everything is temporary.

When the somber

Lightless fog of depression

Surrounds us,

We are trapped,

Shut up,

Caged and shackled

To the floor.

We repeatedly scrawl

The same question:

What's the point?

The Fog whispers back,

"Everything is pointless."

In those moments,

We agree.

And then we feel it,

Barely noticeable, at first.

The wagging tail

Swishes peripheral sparks

Well before we hear the barks

Of our own internal puppy

Well before we feel the wet kisses

Well before the wagging tail

Blows away the Fog.

And the Fog evaporates

Leaving its underarm stench

To linger for a bit

Before the light of normality

Nods and says,

"I'm sorry it took so long

To come back.

Would you like a cookie? "

Everyone Brings Gifts

Everyone who enters my life

comes with a gift.

I might see it immediately.

Or it might take me years,

through a lot of tears,

Fears and even jeers

Before my heart's eyes

Can pull away the disguise

And reveal the gift.

And it is always there,

Waiting to be uncovered.

Sometimes the gift is Practice.

Oh how hard that gift can be.

When I must practice being

The best version of me.

That gift of practice 

Enhances my very essence

And that is as it should be.

I am grateful for all the gifts

That each and every one brings.

For each gift enhances 

The me that is magically

And lovingly evolving.

Honesty

Why are we sometimes so reluctant to be honest, to speak our truth, as we understand it? Why do we avoid saying what we feel is true? Why is it that sometimes we don't even stand up for ourselves?

Honesty

Sometimes bares

Her Fangs

And slices a stinging cut

So quick,

So deep,

And so painful

That we lash out

Viciously,

With cruel intent

To rip out

The vocal chords

Of the one

Who dares 

To be honest.

Autumn Aspens

The breeze whispers,  

"Come on, I have a secret  

For you, Little Brother." 

I hike over a ridge. 

"Aye que Bonita!" 

The aspens wave their little hands.  

I hike into an aspen grove. 

They click their tongues  

And giggle when I enter.  

"He sees us," an aspen says.  

"He knows," says another.  

"Be with us," they say in unison. 

"Breathe in our charm, 

Relish in our beauty. 

Acknowledge your own." 

I stand in the grove. 

Happy. All smiles.  

They click their yellow tongues, 

"He hears us.  

He is turning yellow, too." 

I bow in gratitude. 

I walk out of the grove  

Glowing yellow.  

I am happy.