Lost
Lost of words
thoughts just passing by
observations are yawning
Surprises awaits
the mind hates
to be numb
and quiet
hope still says
you will find
the voice
in the end
Tropical Holiday
Heat-haze thunderstorms
Afternoons asleep in shade
Bird calls fill the air.
Cinquain
Magic is the making of rhyme
Out of tiny sweeps, and ticking time
Reaching into the ethers eternal
To extract a small, ripe kernel
That bursts into bloom!
Toxic Necessity (Food Prompt) – 14/24
the irony- to be prompted to write about food.
i have barely written about anything else for years.
you’d think, i’d run out of things to say, about the very act of eating
it is necessary for my life
but still – so toxic
i say that weight is a see-saw,
i’m always on the down end,
or weight is an anvil,
and i’m crushed underneath it.
that fat isn’t a feeling,
it’s three letters, but
god, is it everything
this food-vacuum where eating sucks life from me
and all the years of bingeing, and rearranging my same self into different bodies-
i will never stop writing about food
not once
there is no greater enemy than a toxic necessity
It’s my favorite
It appears before me and I have become ‘Gollum’
With shoulders hunched and weary eyed.
I watch as its placed before me.
A steaming pile of pasta drenched in the most exquisite bolagnese.
I scream in victorious joy that echos throughout the land.
It is mine, my precious. With such delicious cheese!
Oh but I know their tricks, these Hobbits are crafty.
No one shall steal my spaghetti.
I push the bowl of grapes between us.
Hour 14
Food
I prefer the bland ones, the incredibly sweet ones
The cream buns, the Swedish-style saffron buns
The ones that crack and snap and the ones that stretch for miles
Lightly baked crackers or even the seemingly vile
Food is all food to me
The slightly burned ones, the incredibly tangy
The deep fried chicken in unbelievable flavorful harmony
The most aromatic ones to the strictly appetizing
Inedible-y delicious cake dough and the golden crust rising
Food is all food to me
#14bis – The Great Mother is an Angel
The Great Mother
Is an Angel
Going to heaven
Carrying your heart
In a bottle
It’s still alive
And well beating
Inside the crystal –
– clear glass
Of the jar it’s in
Everybody wants to see
The heart beating in a glass jar
But nobody asks how it could be
A heart on its own
Without any other organ
The Great Mother is the only one
To know the answer to that mystery
She always know what’s going on
In the great barnyard of love and drama
The Great Mother is generous you just have to ask
And she tells you
Everything she knows
The Great Mother
Is an Angel
Going to heaven
Carrying your heart
In a bottle
Poem #11
Tower of Babel
No como arroz, y el no come frijoles.
He didn’t understand my English,
and I was afraid to use my Spanish.
What if we quit being so afraid
and just did our best to be understood?
St. Francis was on to something.
Fourteenth poem
A milkshake can taste like a dream
Made right, they’re more than they seem.
Share with your love if you’re able.
Like making love on the table
And sometimes it’s better with whipped cream.
Jazz Man
when I grow up I want to be a jazz musician,
play the piano fast, infuse my tunes
with Afro Cuba and relate stories of
my days on the road and in old Havana when
gangsters, writers and gigolos all
wore mustaches and you couldn’t
tell the farmers from the intellectuals but
they all loved Jazz Americano and I would
sit on my bench and drawl my faux
southern accent into the mic, smile and tell
the woman how much I liked her
frivolous little hat with yellow bird attached
or lots of veiling that was too warm to wear in
this tropical island club but it would catch my eye
red haired woman trying to look blasé, drinking
something sweet filled with fruit, skirt tight
displaying lots of leg, mucho promise of
later tonight with the artist, me the piano player
hiding himself away in Havana until Castro and the Fidelistos
took over one American dream dried up and
where can I go with this angle all worked out
my accent perfected and my repertoire complete
from the American “Hit Parade” and a Cuban
tune to show my attempt at authenticity
designed like the creative guy I was to sway the women
and tell the men I, too was macho, not an untalented
swindler afraid to go back home and start again.