poetry

A couple of trees with budding flowers. On the left, white flowers and buds, and on the right, a redbud tree with purple flower buds.

Spring flows in

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I’ve got tired legs,
and sleep-heavy eyes,
want to lay like a bug
under a wet rock.

But the wildflower scent
hangs thin in the breeze,
and the fresh grass sways lush.

And the mellow sun
dances slowly with
the newly thawing wind.

A beautiful, flirtatious beginning
as they both
allow themselves
a gradual cascade.

A moment in time
as spring flows in,
I stop to hear
the buds
and baby leaves
babble.

I must stay awake
and keep my eyes open

To watch the slow dance
grow to a tempestuous,
torrential crescendo

To hear the leaves and flowers
scream green
and yellow, and violet.

As spring’s whispers
grow into summer’s shouts,
I’ve got to be here, now.









Calluses

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A friend once told me
That I had it easy:
“Look at your hands,
So soft and smooth
No lines nor calluses
You’ve never suffered
A day in your life!”

I guess your hands
Don’t get calluses
When you’re trying
To keep your head above the water

No, hands don’t get callused
When you’re in the middle
Of a dark ocean
Where the water
Stings your eyes
Where the cold
Saps your strength
And you don’t know
How long before
A great white shark
Drags you
Into the depths

And I can’t
Open up my mind
To show you
The flagellation welts
From self-imposed atonement
For all my failings

And so I have
Nothing to show you
How much I suffer.
All I have
Are these words:
These frictioned, pressured,
irritated conjurations
As my testament to pain.

A Real Man

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How can I become
A real man?

Maybe it’s about
doing a little jig
every time some music comes on
at a party.

Or perhaps it’s about
shooting at every awkward pause
from a quiver full of quick quips.

It could be
that I need to know when to smile
and when to be stern and stoic.

You see I’m writing an exam
and this is either
a math problem
with only one answer
Or a philosophical question
with many.  

I keep trying
to find the right answers
but I keep scribbling and erasing
and I’m almost out of time.

I finally wrote on the answer sheet:  

“I’m not a smart man
Nor a strong man
I’m not the quickest or the nicest
I’m not the fastest or the most prolific
I’m just somebody
who shows up every day,
somehow,
in my own way.

So I’m not sure how to be a real man,
I just try to be an honest one
and that’s enough for me.”

Not sure if that answer’s right
But I hope I get some marks
for showing my work.

Once again

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Once again
“No Cigar”
Once again
Suffer more

	Once again
	Fall over
	Once again 
	Dirt wallow

Once again
Sadness shakes
Once again
Anger stings

	Once again
	Left behind
	Once again
	No reprieve

Once again
Shot called
Once again
Shot missed

	Once again 
	Point blank
	Once again
	Shallow grave

Once again
Fingers scratch
Once again
Claw earth

	Once again
	Shamble out
	Once again
	See light

Once again 
Shielded eyes
Once again
Weary steps

	Once again 
	Starting line
	Once again
	“The Race”.

Losses

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I’m taking a lot of losses this year.
I’m taking them
Out of cold storage,
Where I kept them on ice
For years and years
Because I never tried,
Never played,
Never chanced at winning;
So the losses destined in my fate
Went into icy stasis
Waiting to be thawed,
Until now.

Now I stand in the ring
My hands behind my back,
My chin stuck out
Inviting the universe to punch me:
To knock me out in one hit like a prime Mike Tyson,
And then watching
As the universe dodges every wild swing,
Like Mayweather.

I eat my losses,
Thawed like microwave dinners
Humbly, every day and night.
And every loss consumed brings with it
Cycles of catharses,
Like spiritual enemas,
To clean me out from within.

One day
I’ll run through the backlog of losses,
And my mind, body, and conscience
Will be crystal clear.

From then on,
Every new loss will be full of hope,
And every win,
Free of guilt.

Intense Face

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I always wanted to appear
As an intense and brooding, mysterious guy
When I was younger.

And so I never smiled
Whenever anyone took a picture of me.
And so in all of those pictures
I have a sullen, almost forlorn look.

An attempt at creating an air of enigma,
An experiment aimed at generating curiosity,
An innate desire to be asked
What my deal was.

But nobody looked,
Nobody cared,
And nobody asked.

So these days I smile and grin,
Make all sorts of weird and funny faces,
Wear all kinds of outlandish clothes and hats and glasses,
Do everything to amuse my own self:
Everyone else’s too busy looking at their own, anyway.

Every Day

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Every day I try,
Every day I fail.
Every day I pry
At sealed jam-jars of fate
Till my fingers turn pale.

Every day I lie
Motionless in bed,
Circling thoughts of tasks so dry,
Inside my pillowed head.

Every day I try,
Every day I fall
Into thoughts of cries
Over bitter goodbyes,
And mental shadows brawl
Over unanswered calls.

Every day my arms too weak,
To grasp or change or mold,
Every day my mind too full,
Of skeletons frigid cold.

Every day, a chain-bound strain,
Wading through rivers of lead.
With every stride, my strength wanes,
As I barely reach the beachhead.

Every day I try,
Wrestle with all the whys,
Every day the pain,
Of things I can’t attain,
Every day a fight,
Hide inner blight behind an “I’m alright”.

Every day I’m knocked to the ground,
Black-eyed and blood-stained,
Yet the gloves go on, and the hands go up,
Every day, again.

Pebble in a stream

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My mother always says
That I’m like a pebble in a flowing stream.
Letting the water flow over me,
Absorbing none of it.

Maybe I am a pebble:
Born of magma, thrust
From the belly of the earth
Violently onto the surface
Then exposed to wind, rain, and sun.

A giant basalt expanse
That slowly weathers away
Windswept,
Water worn,
And Sunburned.

Most of it turns to dust,
Some of it gets dug up
And turned into statues or floors
Or money or fuel

But a few little bits
Find themselves in streams
Streamlined and rounded
Zen symbols of calm and peace

A cool and uncaring existence
An acceptance of fate
A passive resignation
Appearing un-influenced by its surroundings,
While being constantly shaped by them.

So the water flows over me
A constant stream
Of babbling screams
Flowing from infinite, insane mouths,
Into bottomless, obscure oceans.

In that stream, I appear
Untouched, unperturbed, unaffected
But every passing moment,
The water flows and chips away at me.

Words, like tiny daggers,
Grind magmatic memories into silt.
Every nonapology,
Every thoughtless comment,
Every unmeant thank you,
Every missed connection,
Every stone left unturned,
And every conversation that petered out
With a “No, I’m good, thanks.”

Tender Days

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Some days feel like a full-body bruise:
Abstract, intangible, and mental
Pressure like over-tightened screws,
Digging in against my temples.

Turmeric stain instincts,
Stubborn, indelible, and distinct.
Let them be and they might wane,
Or let them in and re-live the pain.

Old pains not fully cleansed,
Bad juju from stifled energies,
Changing landscapes, but the same old lens,
Dull aches from blunt force memories.

The sharp agony has long passed,
A phantom soreness remains.
Illusions dissolving at long last,
Last gasps of waning hurricanes.

So I wake up tender some mornings,
And hurt through the day.
Sulking, sullen, and mourning,
The rotten fantasies I threw away.

Weekends

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Weekends are a lot more pressure than weekdays.
So much pressure to perform:
Did you enjoy yourself?
Did you have fun?
Did you relax and recharge?
Did you get ready for another week?
Did you find some social connection?
Did you find a girlfriend or life partner?

I can’t just lie in bed.
I can’t just vegetate.
I can’t just aimlessly walk around listening to things…
That’s just not allowed!
It is mandated:
My free time must be spent pursuing progress.

Continuous, relentless progress.
Sacrificing my mind, body, and soul,
At the cold and unforgiving altar of advancement.
I must develop new skills,
I must build my muscles,
I must open up my mind,
I must hustle harder,
More certificates, more reps, more momentum.

I must grind,
Shear off all the jagged edges,
Until I am nothing but a smooth, shredded, cerebral specimen.
A dried, used-up husk,
With a great job title,
A big fancy car in a medium-large house,
A woman that probably settled for me,
An ungrateful kid or two.

So I’ll get back to it:
Rubbing ointment into my hair,
Trying to be the prized pig at the farmer’s market,
Trying to speed-run my 20s in a few months,
Just so I don’t miss out.
Just so I have something to show for myself.
Just so someone settles for me.

You see, I don’t get to relax.
I can’t just be an unmarried 30-something,
With no fancy job title,
A small-car driving, entitled, non-productive,
Squandered-potential man.
I can’t wander and play and roam through life.
I can’t do things on my time.
That’s simply the wrong way!

This isn’t my time to spend,
And this isn’t my life to live:
It was simply loaned to me.
I am indebted and indentured.
I am here to perform my existence,
Held up by invisible strings,
Pushed around by all my masters.

So the sharks circle around me,
So the lenders have come to collect,
And so must the puppet show carry on,
Every day of the week,
And every weekend.
Especially the weekend.