dear honesty

Dear honesty,
I don't think I know you.
Oh, I've thought I did, but
seriously?
I mistake you for others, like a bigot
a rascist
maybe I should shake your hand
tell you why I say kind words to strangers
and choke my mind when I'm with friends
force my hope
through a colander
of half-wit
and
selfish modesty

nothing profound,
I've all but forgotten
how to open up without saying too much
how to pour without spilling.

as I write right now, I fight the metaphorical
the romantic, the vague
I remember decade-old advice from a TV show
"it doesn't have to be something meaningful, just something honest"

honesty, are you the truth?
am I being dishonest when I don't say what I want?
is it less true if I say it, than if I keep it away?
dye is deeper, darker when unused

is that what I'm trying to say?
that I think I'm weakening something to talk about it?
from where does that come?

childhood, no doubt; being told that my drawings weren't good enough
that I couldn't whistle on-key
that the lyrics I wrote shouldn't be shared
jaded by peer pressure
desires swallowed to appease an ally
graduation day

honesty, if I don't get to know you
how can you be my friend?
How can I invite you to dinner with her?

Take

(an attempt at channeling Lisa Loeb)

calligraphy names around the circle tables,
My eyes trace the plates and spoons
wedding rings, crystal sings
no music in my flute of champagne

do you take this woman,
do you take this man?

Brides have made me their bridesmaid
Do I look good in this shade of maize?
Not a great cut, or what I would want
but this isn't my wedding day.

he can have your hand
do you take this man
with his new name even though
I like it the way it is

do you take this woman
the day everyone calls her beautiful?
And they say it's not for you.
I guess it's not for me, too.

I hold the arm of a friend of the groom,
his wife is the one with the stroller,
do I take this tissue to his
runny-nosed mother and daughter?

do you take this man,
do you take this woman?
dancing like shivering jello
spilled on the rubber-smudged floor.

limousine car's left,
dripping rosewater mixing with
daffodils, satin and taffeta
do I take this centerpiece home?

do I take this man,
will he take this woman?

tortilla soup

moon hangs in the sky;
her presence can help me decide:
half empty or full, a frown or a smile?

porcelain glistens, wet and smooth,
she clunks her arrival at the table, and I pull her to me;
self-conscious, aware of my need to thank God
for all the providence and provision that allowed this meal to happen.
silver spoon sings on takeoff,
and I dive into the Chef's recipe.

crunchy and colorful top layer,
that's what I expect with tortilla soup.
warm and bold,
but she'll get cold after too long, sitting on the patio.
peppered, tongue stings slightly
one alarm, maybe two.

time slips by as she fills me
with hints of cream
soured, chunks of avocado green.
she's cheesy, corny --
not saying that's a bad thing --
and like me, a little chicken inside.

u-turn

(rule: must use 'u')

you concluded thusly:
you could pull through, you wouldn't suffer consequences --
counting upon your guts, your muscle, your thoughts.
until you found out you're bound, cursed.
sinful soul, shrouded under crumbling humanity.
but Jesus
fought our nature unblemished
ultimately crucified upon rough lumber
fully creature, fully universal Ruler,
unique suffering saviour,
murdered, buried, but un-ending,
returned triumphant, survived execution
rescued us through undergoing undue punishment.

you must trust Jesus.
put your burden upon our Saviour --
surrender, humble yourself.
you requested rescue, but understand your situation:
you're purchased undeservedly because our Ruler treasured us.
through Jesus conquer lust, covetousness, drunkenness, frustration
pursue purity.

a to z

OK, I just started going with this, and since it’s free-association and stream-of-consciousness, I’m sharing its (and my) weirdness.

If you start to think about it, I know you'll agree
God made your heart the way it's supposed to be,
it's not some mass-stamped starch candy
in a cellophane mosh-pit, reduced to debris.
Mine’s a cornucopia you cannot empty
a restaurant where all the food’s free
...yet an open net, without a goalie;
I could block shots, but then never be happy --
rather let a few get by, than stand idly.
red heart emblem on my team jersey
with a lock around it, try your key
if the teeth fit, it’ll turn, most likely
give me a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, not an implied ‘maybe’
I’ll try to shoulder it nobly
though I’ve blown some good opportunities
...like jay-walking through the French Grand Prix
you have to move quickly
or you get caught up in the final rally
searching for that overlooked blue coupe named Sally
...as I pine like a tree,
things get sappy, unfortunately.
But I know Who’s shared His ultimate victory,
and I trust Him to make my ‘I’ into a ‘we’ --
I’ll be right on time, ‘xactly.
we’ll praise Him daily, monthly, yearly
for bringing us from a to z

B+

Cardiac tourniquet.
I can’t stop the bleeding.
Pressure works for a while, but it doesn’t last.
Maybe it’s the blood loss, but I don’t remember how long it’s been.
Won’t clot, just hemorrhage.
it gets old,
spilling my arterial rivers.
the serum of living turns to rust.

Gotta do something, not just
wait ‘til platelets arrive;
liquid flesh of my flesh.
I catch what I can -- pint after pint.
Hasn’t run out, and for that I give thanks.

I ain’t no perfect donor,
though I can be oh so negative.
maybe not a match,
but a transfusion might be
just what you need to get through
your “too busy” emergency.

so...

...should I keep posting poems, or just keep them to myself?

Highway 14, 2 AM

coming down
Mohave high.
There’re more stars than I’ve believed.
thought I was alone, but they wink at me,
show me pictures of their grandkids --
he has _your_ glow, and _your_ satellites.
it’s a mirror, you know -- The atmosphere?
That’s why the sky
is blue, and
starshine makes you smile.

The dolphins don’t echo the clouds,
and you don’t see yachts and reefs in the air,
but you see the sea’s hue above.
just the same, the night sky makes us reflect, though all we see
is our souls.

orange

I totally get this poem... and I smile.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!

How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one's name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!

-Emily Dickinson

mutton

This is my attempt at an English sonnet... let me know if I have two left feet.


you look and see a lost and found beige ram,
his grazing diff'rent since the day he strayed,
led back by He who died a man, a lamb,
Whose fold is true, and staff, relief prepaid.

I speak with sheep and yes, we bleat today.
we'll lie with lions, just you wait and see
last night I tried to shear it all away.
forgot how big a golden fleece can be.

the dreams don't show from all the counting tried.
the wool I pull still veils my hazel view
I love the flock, try not to stand and hide.
a meadow, fences disappear - and ewe.

do you remember just what Mary had--
advice given Bo Peep when she was sad?

wise eyes

This is a one-syllable villanelle... not great, but not easy either.

wise,
fair
eyes.
cries
there,
wise
guys
stare.
eyes
prize
where
wise
skies
flare.
eyes
rise.
pray'r-
wise
eyes.

Dive

it's back open again.
Lifeguard gave the 'all clear'.
pool-boy hadn't seen
a kid in cutoffs horsing around.

summer sun saturates skin.
I like to float, but forgot how to swim.

looks good, I'm aware;
pulsing solution, alive,
splashing the toes waiting
out on the tiles.

does the chlorine sting?
a few rub their eyes,
yet nostrils aren't singed.

Someone filled this void with water,
though I'm sure some of it is made of
tears and sweat.
Rules are clear, and yet
it's here to enjoy.

trunks are on, and chest is bare.
I walk up to the edge, and ask
a question I am not first to pose:
slip in quietly and adapt,
or grab knees and cannonball?

Charites

This is a sestina poem. Check wikipedia for a definition.

I know many, still only three
stay in my mind. They know Grace
like few others. If beauty
is truth, then their work is mirth,
and it always brings good cheer.
They lend their gifts to serve.

And I know who they serve-
the Lord Who's one in three.
Hosanna! I hear them proudly cheer.
Co-heirs of boundless grace,
I'm driven to their mirth;
smiles that sing Creation's beauty.

first we meet beauty
as she fixes food she won't eat, yet will serve,
and coyly engages in sarcastic mirth.
she works until three,
then passes unbelief into future grace.
tired, but brings the same side-smile cheer.

In a blur you'll see good cheer
set up by another style of beauty.
We'd all be better off if we knew the grace
it takes to silently serve.
She could be the leader of the three,
if selflessness did not multiply her mirth.

Finally you might miss mirth,
since she's always out there sharing cheer.
She plays every position of the three.
Big heart, she laughs, un-ambitious beauty-
that's the kind of spirits they serve;
what else would you expect from Grace?

There are no demands from grace,
the only thing with no strings, gives mirth
to the lips of one receiving a gift. They serve
not because they seek, but because their cheer
is tied to the One who formed beauty
through death, and fulfilled it by day three.

The Three Graces-
Aglaea: Beauty, Euphrosyne: Mirth,
Thalia: good cheer, and humbly they serve.

You're good woman, I'm good man

OK, only, like, a month late. I just saw Spiderman 3.
I wrote this about a character from Spiderman 2 right when it came out, and (hooray!) she showed up in the third!
Enjoy.


Ursula

She's thin like a rose stem
and me, bare-handed, pulling weeds
I feel her slide sharp under my skin.
That gold-green stare,
as she turns her blondeness from the oven,
knows more heat than the stove's redhead flames.

She offers her simple passion on a plate:
Chocolate cake made for me,
and a silent, tall glass of milk
thankful to be emptied.
Her Chanel skin glows
into my breath.

If promises were crackers, she would be fat.
Lanky and awkward as any femme fatale,
Ursula Ditkovich lives in some
old New York low-rent high-rise,
therefore, she doesn't matter.

Despite the everyday regrets of heart,
these thorns are not painful.
Spidey decides
that for once he cannot wemble.
That copper-curled girl is forgotten
as he holds his true heroine.

Thetis rectifies

Ties
and rails, parallel only to themselves, and one who runs.
crunching gravel under pressure. Bare feet knock on
pressed Southern Pacific wood. Faster, stronger.
head down, eyes useless. feel the iron horse
snort miles. The line straight, no deceit.
two slats at a time, pistons hammer
their argument to unkind ballast.
Steam is the only perspiration.
Now the yards become feet,
which leave hard friction
and touch steel pilot
machine breach
engine yields
kinetic hate
breaks.

Four-finger fist

Yeah.
Uh huh.
Of course.
Jaws clench.
So, guess what?
I've forgotten how.
It doesn't matter what
it is I've forgot. It's gone.
Mind plays tricks. 52 pickup.
Sick like a smile. Maybe the flu.
Could be regret. Not sure about that.
I swallow. It's empty. My tongue is gone.
maybe carpet the narrow path with my dreams.
Gotta be good for something. You shuffle your feet.
And while walking, you reach for someone else's hand.
Zap.

Ulmo + Nienna

OK, yeah.
I wrote this, like, 3 years ago now. Why am I posting it? I'm sure if you've been reading, you'll catch my drift.

Pacific

The concrete path melts...
And there is only
grass, coast, ocean.

Shoes bite into the juicy sand
like a bitter apple.
Undertow fills the cavities,
leaving foamy circles behind
like dead jellies.

High tides try to drown the shore,
intentions like water, clear.

"Look at the waves," gulls wail,
"teal and sequined,
pristine" their beaks laugh.

The 'glamorous' ocean,
so hollow,
empty like a puppet.

I prefer the rocks.

The skipping stones and gravel
scrape-clunk aloha
as they drift on the shore.
Dull gems better
than De Beers understands.

Some pebbles just shrink
away into the murk,
glad to leave the seaside.
You can't really tell where they go;
in the ocean, I've heard
rocks roll below.

Carved, depleted,
they might return to the
saline breeze,
to rest, finally dry.

Mocked by the sea,
teased by shells,
this sand was once a
boulder.

Now, ground to grains,
scattered and swept,
drifts of snowflakes
that never melt.
The beach swims in from the water,
sun-blonde and tan
like a surfer girl.

I take some home in my shoes,
some inside.

Copper attracts lightning

Hey all you faithful readers out there.
I love watching my 'views' count go up, and yet, no comments. It's like seeing an empty "take a penny, leave a penny" tray.
Well, here's my two cents worth. Toss 'em into the well, make a wish.
(BTW, I wrote this following Jim Simmerman's "20 Little Poetry Projects" idea, which is why there are numbers. Ask me if you want the guide list...)

Pop Song
Trust is a bubble	1
blown from the inside.	12
Snowflake on the tongue,
tastes like music that won't stop.	4, 3
Confidence is
the last stop of limerence	11, 8
Bubbles burst because I exist.	9
But you can't see what never were.	3, 10
You don't have a lap when you stand.	17, 7
Even James Randi can't sniff out that trick.	3, 5
Feel the glossy sphere that you made,	3
a net, or possibly a screen.
When you pay attention,	2
caveat emptor.	2, 18
You can always hear	3
bubbles being filled for free.
Bubbles are not yours--	6
right now, eager solution in a bottle,	16
an unopened can with dreams.	19
the effervescent kind, doesn't go flat.	13
And it will be filled with the same breath	15
that made nothing-man from dust	14
when He knows you're ready.
Don't worry, just listen.	20

Catharsis is addictive

All right, second day in a row with my weak thinking.

chewing glass
for more than an hour
hurts,
and I'm pretty sure that I'm biting down
on some of my teeth
along with the shards.
the hard part is
not swallowing those pieces along with
all the blood and saliva.
fluids critical to proper oral hygiene
mingle, earthy and humid.
So, as you watch me drool foamy red,
and wince with every bite,
don't tell me to stop;
chewing is all that I have.
Just get me a pack of Juicy Fruit
and some Listerine.