Parting is …
Stoneheart
Since you left, my heart’s like a stone.
It’s a single, left alone, ancient stone.
Indians like to put rocks in a stack.
That’s hard to do when you have one stone.
Coyotes prowl solo, or in a pack.
If one devoured me, he’d eat a stone.
The days go by, I can hardly keep track.
Not much to do to nourish a stone.
I now have no one to watch my back.
But who needs a guardian for a stone?
I try over and over to retrieve what I lack.
It’s so easy to stumble on a stone.
Doesn’t matter if I live in a shack.
I don’t have a soul that cares for my stone.
Everyone’s talking at me, yakety, yak!
Go away. Mary’s heart is set in stone.
Journey
Jesus replied [to the Samaritan woman
at the well], “People soon become thirsty again after drinking this water. But
the water I give them takes away thirst altogether. It becomes a perpetual
spring within them, giving them eternal life.” (John 4:13-14 NLT)
Worldly distractions occupy my thoughts
in spring
My mind quickly unravels like an
unwound spring
Though confusion and doubt breaks
the Father’s kind heart
He still urges me to drink from
Love’s unbound spring
Do I follow my Creator or walk away
Or do I pursue His route to an
upbound spring
Joyous overwhelming trust starts
to develop
Together our journey gives me a
newfound spring
Now a disciple, I grab hold God’s
hand and walk
Along a path next to a living, inbound
spring
A cat's claw romance of sorts recurring with moon
attached
Summer taken prisoner near the rotation of the heart
So long to the pronouncement of favor in mid-breath
Another twisted remembrance taken under the stars
I pulled at the yellow dress she wore yesterday in flight
It did me no good to clutch at her larger purpose
Frequency rustles a grimace out of the ground floor flashing
Three cats bolted from a temporary rumbling of darkness
There were empty glasses bunching up against the sky
Schoolbooks yellowed before I could break a rule
Driven to hillside blessings trained to be cataloged
Visions are at best narrowed by a haunting speculation
I placed my hands at the warmest edges of forgiveness
More cats curl up around where the sun has left its purpose
insubstantial
in the black night sky are stars unseen
behind each door are affairs unseen
beneath all the inky depths of seas
hide the fallen drops of tears unseen
upon aged shoulders heavily weighed
the brunt of too many cares unseen
cobblestone roads paved with broken hearts
in miles of patchwork repairs unseen
I write poems to an absent muse
my words fade away for years unseen
leeway
out in the desert sands the wind’s tune plays
while the
night’s cool breath across a dune plays
all the children are wrapped up in their beds
caterpillar in a warm cocoon plays
waking up to begin another day
in the full cereal bowl the spoon plays
cycles of time another month passes
with all the little tricks that the moon plays
so Mark why are you writing a ghazal
really you should be trying to groom plays
petition
“nothing grows here” said the geologist standing atop ten
species of flowers
while the student smiles knowingly since despite the lecture
she sees
the flowers
all the magic comes wrapped up in bright colors that we will
never hope
to see
it takes no miracle from god to know the beauty found by
bees in flowers
a child in a meadow chases butterflies in some kind of wild
abandon
trailing behind, his wake, footprints in the grass and
broken pieces of
flowers
a neanderthal skeleton was found buried seemingly with
compassion
mourned by the people that loved them and so covered them it
seems with
flowers
I watch daily feeling so helpless as the world’s temperature
keeps going up
while humanity still continues ignoring the entreaties of
flowers
Not for Now
His
rage turns into an uncontrollable fire just now
Nothing
can put out his hatred flame for now
There
is no need for him to worry so much
Things
will finally work out though not for now
I
give him my earnest advice for his dilemma
He
pays no attention to my suggestion for now
His
concerns are rational and logical
But I
will not give them credits for now
His
accusing words roar in my ears all day long
Disquieted,
I want to forget about him for now
There
is no way to stay carefree all the time
Moments
of sorrow come albeit not for now
Life
and death are endless topics to discuss
Rose
will stop chiming her opinion for now
Those Legs
She never crawled before she
walked
At 10 months, she took her
first steps on wobbly legs
Never one to take her
time,
She soon preferred to run
rather than walk on those legs
When she was four, the world
was opening up again,
So she could finally swim with
those legs
Kindergarten gave her knees a
beating,
All those scrapes on the
asphalt against her legs
Now at six in gymnastics,
Evelyn, you’re somewhere between a young
Shannon Miller and Simone
Biles on the beam with those legs
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“No” was obliterated from
the vacancy sign lonely by black highways
Bullet like bells ring,
animals hear nights, passengers’ pass highways
Cliche ghosts pull faded
red curtains, abandon motels unpack highways
Western film frame desert
scenery, remembering acts past highways
She rode her horse sand
color, both covered in layers red dust highways
Galloping along chasing
trains zig-zagging tracks her down highways
Desert painted rich colors
eons ago or black and white photo highways
She heard the am radio
static in her belly missing you and baby highways
Sky was the prettiest
blues as any state would claim right above highways
Character clouds revealing
signs for days, white chrome chip hole highways
Tee-Pees with titles Beer,
Coffee and Ice too hot for tourists’ track highways
Look up to and see where
the cliff pueblos, twinkling, staring sky highways
Pull over on Route 66 now
often Disneyfied so we remember highways
Desert daughter of son/sun
growing in a Georgia O’Keefe painting highways
Slow Huzzah Ghazal
Resistance and rebellion don’t excite? Are you okay?
You maybe lost your belly for the fight. Are you okay?
Who dialed back the thumping on your militant subwoofer?
What tranquilizer beat your appetite? Are you okay?
You used to jump at the chance to mix it up in the
street.
An activist lit. Alive dynamite. Are you okay?
This isn’t news to us: there are no happy activists.
But happiness is not the hoplight’s right. Are you okay?
Just stay in bed. You’re in no shape to break the
barricades.
I’ll take your place when bonfires blow tonight. Are you
okay?
A million voices cried out Mercy from the sea.
Chain-marred bodies drifted homeless from sea to sea.
Regard us,
benevolent ones don’t look away.
We were Kings, Queens & Lords
before the brutal sea.
People packed like sardines 'til they culled the bodies,
disposed along with spoiled cargo tossed in the sea.
Wealthy overlords
want to drown out our voices,
but they will not suppress our light
in the dark sea.
Thru the passage of seasons, they gathered their strength.
Currents can't stop ghost dancers from trampling the sea.
A voice calls:
Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise.
It is written in flowing Scriptures
of the sea.
Resolve & strength keep weary bones out of the mud,
& sinews of memory float in the deep sea.
If you don’t
believe we’ve been purified-redeemed,
follow us to refuge in the turbulent
sea.
These Ancient Souls were not swallowed by injustice.
They speak with inaudible whispers in the sea.
Rise Up, Oh City
of Bones, bear witness to all.
We survive & thrive amidst an
oppressive sea.
As the beautiful bones break death's dominion, Come,
Dean, Wait & See: How's God gonna trouble the sea?
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DANCING
LINE
(Dedicated
to CaLokie)
Just like poets ink on the page their dancing line
The rage of soldiers on time goose step in a line
90 degree angles marching with a power like the poem refined
With geometric precision, as treaties are signed, letters
align
Observing real experience, subjectively, steals a way to right
ignorance of a time
Like Jackie Robinson in Brooklyn Dodger Blue racing down the
3rd base white line
Professor Griff’s mad military moves with flair in his red
beret in 1989
Public Enemy’s rebellious fists in the air, their “Fight the
Power” line
From chains broken to Ali’s lightning quick hits, sting
like a bee rap rhymes
Wars for peace howling from the hip within the creativity of
the Beatnik line
Words within the world form universal signs with their own unique
design
The way Man aligns with The Divine in cursive writing or the
printed line
Zen meditations, going within, into the bodhisattva’s Unity
of breath in time
The discipline of both the institution and the revolution is
always in the line
More powerful than breaking down concrete, or flesh, walls
that we find ourselves trapped behind
Rearranging the dogmatic through the new kaleidoscope shine
of piercing truth in the poetic line
How any Tyranny can fall when metaphor traverses the
confined freeing the individual mind
Just like the caterpillar transforms, Poetry gives birth to
Mankind, the air, in a butterfly’s dancing line
We Blinked and Lost
Yesterday
is gone it is lost
The
love we once had iis lost
Childhood
times were unadorned
These
days gone by are lost
Teen
years we were busy
Doing
things we have forgotten are lost
As
young adults deciding what we want
Making
decisions based on youth are lost
Middle
age we try to experience our youth
What
fools we are we are we are lost
As
we age we come to our senses
Those
years are past cannot be recaptured are lost
In
the end we look back yes Mary
The
senseless irresponsible years are lost
Grieving the Loss of My Former Self
I see beyond the
lipstick's red
Whenever I paint my lips
red
I see a gaping hole in
my open mouth
Bad teeth and gums
bleeding red
I see a target inviting
arrows
Circles around a dot of
white and red
My friends are all
avoiding me
My bank account is
forever in the red
My suitors have married
other women
The autumn persimmons
are turning red
And I, Jackie, am no
longer an A student
But the X on my forehead
marked in red
Raspberry Parade: A
Ghazal for Prince
On my way home from the
cabaret,
I realize I've lost my
beret.
The street is an endless
parade,
raspberries on my float,
not a beret.
Vagabonds crowd the
sidewalks,
wrapped in colorful
rags, but no beret.
I wear a red dress my
mother bought,
with a crystal tiara,
not a beret.
She passed away in
1994,
and the song isn't about
me but a beret.
-Previously published in Fevers of the Mind Poetry Blog
A Green
Sort of Ghazal
After reading Kazim
Ali’s “Rain”
Having grown up among lawns of hissing, endless green
and all-day roadsides emptied of all but green,
You say you can no longer see color:
Black, brown, red, yellow, or green
Being the color you once swam in but now cannot see.
Trees’ leaves, shapes lost, are all the same.
Green
palms or jacaranda do not fit into the screen you watch
miles above the prairies’ green—
the Great Flyover, home of couples ambling through Wal-Mart
after dinner at Ryan’s. There grasses are a thousand shades of green.
Sandhill cranes nest and soar, sparrows flit,
and the songs of these birds sound like green.
A few couples cross the river and join the trees,
All that we do not see, blinded by green.
Ghazal for
Maryvale Park in July
Today the
small stream through the swamp is hidden:
turtles, bullfrogs, stones, bottles, cans, all hidden.
The birds sing from behind the oaks’ lush leaves.
To all but a blind birder, their names are hidden.
One bullfrog calls out, his voice a bass gulp,
from behind the reeds in the pond where he is hidden.
Yellow and purple flowers carpet the swamp.
I look for milkweed. Where is it hidden?
A pale yellow butterfly flutters over the flowers.
She is the ghost of monarchs from whom food was hidden.
I walk to where the stream always reappears.
Surely its turtles will not be hidden.
For once I do not see the school of little fish.
I wonder where the turtles’ food is hidden.
I see the turtles swim with nothing to find.
Fish, worms, spiders, weeds, all hidden.
Before too long, I fear, it will be bare winter,
warm winter when nothing but my heart is hidden.
How We
Remember the Kokang
Peering across clotted Sixth Street from a Thai restaurant, we remember
the Kokang, where we often ate when I moved to your city. We remember
walking in back of the arena, then up two flights of stairs.
As our hurried server refills our water glasses, we remember
the Burmese man who always served us at the Kokang, always wore white,
the owners’ son. He was so tall, so calm. You remember
running into him at the Fourteenth Street Safeway last year.
You chatted with him by the frozen foods. I remember
how you can talk, even to strangers. I can’t.
He had ready-made meat loaf in his cart, you remember.
He told you why his parents never reopened the Kokang.
Ten years later do they still remember
how to cook pork with mangoes or Chicken Kokang?
how to bake semolina cakes? Do they remember
how to eat without their child’s help? I know my wife’s father is forgetting.
Yours did, too. So did mine. We remember
the Kokang’s Burmese green tea salad, not quite bitter,
not quite sweet, gram fritters with red sauce. We remember
the bright yellow walls on humid evenings. My kitchen
is not quite the same shade but close enough. I remember
how quiet the Kokang was without TV or music.
Trying to ignore Rachel Maddow even with the sound low, we remember.
GRIEF
RELEASED
The
more I live, the greater the grief;
the
best I can do is treasure the grief.
I
began life with promise, but found
that
life can only guarantee grief.
Improvising
the normal along with
remorse
allows me to see grief.
If
not relief, let me regain the mundane;
I
only ask that you leave me, grief.
Moving
on is a slow pained process,
the
only avenue to flee grief.
The
more resilient I can become,
the
better I can set free grief.
The
best way to pay the bill is to dive
into the human element, and leave me grief.
Ellipsis
The
thing I think of most is your lips.
Not
just the appearance of your lips,
but
the animated quality of those
parallel
love-word shapers all call lips.
I
must also say their movement is
gloriously
applied to the meeting of lips,
which
I savor as if I were a simple
organism
discovering another with lips.
I
live for our moments of undulation,
like
two snails on their sides (essentially lips).
As
we move to reproduce feeling from
one
set of cells to the other via lips,
it
is then I feel I am a living creature, Don,
happy
to make connection osculating....
Pau Ghazal
Pau Gasol, he's a turncoat to the Lakers this summer
Because he's playing for Spain again, like every summer
The past seven years he played with his national team
Moonlighting first from the Grizzlies for six summers
Then moving on to the Lakers in a steal of a trade, quickly
Catching alley oops thrown by Kobe Bryant, no bummer
He, who used to hate summers: all practice, no real games
Until this year's Olympics in hot muggy China summer
Wherein Kobe got to plow through his enemy teammate
In the prelim (to be serious about winning this summer)
And came the medal game, Spain keepin' it close this time
Pau taking tosses and laying them in heavy like Hummers
On the Americans, almost winning, before MVP's takeover
That sealed the gold for the USA and made an up and comer
Of Kingfisher's looking forward to the start of a new season
Forgetting for a moment end of another basketball summer
Ghazal Reps
Time
to write another ghazal
Another
exercise in repetition
Another
repeated exercise in
Repeating
what is just repetition
Just
like another day of breathing,
Eating,
pooping, wiping repetition
Another
day of sleeping, dreaming,
Waking,
shaking, showering repetition
Viewing,
listening, thinking, writing,
Revising,
printing, more repetition
Reflecting
on the repeated reps
Of
daily life in constant repetition
Measuring
one’s life against others,
Finding
we’re all dying in repetition
What
is the purpose of this repeating?
To
justify our existence repetition
Crawling,
walking, running, driving,
Flying
on a planet revolving repetition
Around
a revolving sun also revolving
A
galaxy, a universe of repetition
There
must be a reason for all this
Repeated
repeating of repetition
Yes,
to write a poem on repetition,
Declared
by me to be a new repetition
Though
eventually they’ll be nobody to
Read
it, Don thinks that’s a repetition too
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