Category Archives: Poem

The Disease

26 Friday Oct 2018

Posted by in Alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Living with an Alcoholic, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We miss the pitch, seeing what
Dad or others did, so shiny and
apparently fun, a thought is brewed
and we didn’t know anything else
to do.

So drank the liquid.

***

It burned as it was supposed to
burn, hell’s fire tickling up from
below, the devil agrin with hopes
of diverting another soul from the
focus of heaven’s righteous run.

I think I may have been a Fred
Astaire, a triple-threat, whatever
God wanted me to be… hit that piano,
dance and sing

I’m Free, Mom, look at me!

***

All those things I do now, jokes to
tell, from rooms of Alcoholics
Anonymous and Al-Anon, twelve
step beats a native son to meditate
on things gone wrong—

strike the gong, shhhh, be the truth
when we speak it in the safety net
of change.

Serenity is a’coming, Al-Anon like
a spring dress, all a mess like the
duck beneath the water.

On top we quack and splash for
fun, knowing we can quit drinking
the flammable liquid now.

Alcoholism is quite a disease; listen
to me.

Stop and think.  Do not place anything
into your mouth without first
study.

The crux of malady is the confused
insanity of doing hurtful things;

Bill and Bob wrote another chapter
of the Sacred book, you’re reading
it today—men and women both
equal partners in language we
must improve,

Love to soothe,
and peace that rainbow after the rain
coming to the admitted sick
alcoholic like a beat its groove.

Careless Un-Whispered

25 Thursday Oct 2018

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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She had a failure like me, dripping
unseen—her humanity in the odor
that comes upon us as men and
women, not at eighteen like a
discriminating Constitution and
laws pose.

But at puberty.

For her at thirteen; for me it was
years away, but I still liked her.

I asked her to dance, after I cleared
it with friends (as you do in middle
school).  I was short and cute, she
was normal height, huge to me,
pretty and hair that flared up like
‘80’s hair was supposed to do!

Every man chose a partner; I chose
her, though short of being a man, me
in 7th, her in 8th—me at X School, her
at Y School, visiting for the night
in a dance that would last forever.

Sounds corny?  Out of a George
Michael Wham song?  Ok.  But true,
because I will never forget Melanie
and cry tears of sadness, melancholy
and regret mixed with nostalgia—

hoping to see the light of good memories
to pass onto our children.  Not “ours,”
but hers with a loving husband, my
path poetic and unknown—God whispering
lines in my ear since 1995, Spanish
and English lullabies.

What smashes ties?  Or is it better to
cry.  Just let the tears gush; I’m so
sorry I was alcoholic and am.  I’m so
sorry I couldn’t express love like
I’d have liked. I’m sorry to Anne before
Melanie, JJ between—the lies of loving
but failing to report the love some of
the worst sins known to mankind.

Women of Melanie’s kind deserve better.
Truth and better weather; God loving
us on a lonely dance floor filled with
confused un-guided people.  Some say
“kids,” but we had seen it all by then;

the love sweep, the love deep, dreams
crashing on alcoholic shores of
“what’s the cool thing to do,” fighting
the careless un-whispered purity
I failed to be.  Anne knows, JJ and now
Melanie.

We are all fools in love.

The heaven-bound say so, and love
the ones they love by telling them.

Poetry Workshop

07 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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I brought my poems; ears to
hear theirs.

I was so excited, grateful to have
a moment free of care…

Dance, poem!  Songs sung
singing praise like David, living
life sounding songs like David,
the phone rings like I did, God
and truth abound the blatant
sound of songs sung, singing
praise like David.

Dance, poem!  Freely made,
the words are for you, forced
through, woke up with you
after prayers answered they
ganged up and tackled you.
Higher powers than us are at
play, if good.

Be whatever, but let it all waver
in the up and down sometimes
thing, sometimes flavor, the dream
let it sizzle, this is something we
can savor.  Music claims to improve
us, words and I infused with rhythm
anyways, so why not?

Why not go that last step, grab
a guitar and go?

“Enough is as good as a feast,”
said Poppins before she left the
nursery.  Left for the park, Michael
and Jane convinced that cleaning
was fun, the games just begun,
words, haven’t you heard like the
wave of a wand, magic.

Toast from loaves from rocks
to roll, water from whine, it’s
now half past time to pack it up
and begin again, mid-flow, give
no more…

***

“No folks, there will be no poems
today.  We have on the schedule,
as you can plainly see:

A Poetry Workshop, with Dr. and
Mrs. XYZ, experts each, doing the
experting…”

The end of freedom.  Hope for the
day jolted.  Conforming itself the halt
on what I love, so I left.  Found my
rhythm again, know there are no
poetry experts but dreams and wind,
things we cannot catch

but put them down on paper anyway.

Only God is Good

17 Monday Sep 2018

Posted by in Education, God, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We deify ourselves, to our
own detriment.  We throw the
ship off balance, forget our
place, and suddenly we imagine
we did this and created it all.

So we register, buy a car, sign
on with a “doctor” and do what
everybody else seems to be doing.

The goal to live a long time, right?

Only God is good, taught a rebellious
rabbi from Nazareth, and for those
who do not believe in God?  Find
a dictionary, or look at Google.com,
some place online, type in the letters,
G-o-d, and see the concept defined.

God exists.

***

Next, break away from all
convention, and all things you do
and have done because other
people said it was good.

Ads on TV splashing a flammable
liquid around in fancy glasses
and bars, telling you it’s great
to drink!

That man or woman in a white
coat telling you you have a grave
disease that requires much care,
stated with assurance and high
education, Latin terms and bull.

When was your last hike in nature?
When did you last discard your
wardrobe, walk naked in the
sun, feet on earth, taking in
the Great Spirit, a song in birds
sung, the click click of a squirrel
being chased by another squirrel,
the deer waiting for quiet to speak,
soft tracks by the creek? Jump in
it’s wet, cleansing and a reminder

we created nothing.

Only God is good, look it up—
I didn’t say it first, say it now,
not last, aware I prayed to God
for poetry and got it from my dreams,
prayed for a sense of humor,
and got it right away in a car burning
earth as it rained sunshine, cooler
than it seems.

Screwing Up

11 Tuesday Sep 2018

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Do we get a second chance?

Romance, a thing of the past,
growing up sagging parts at 30,
life is lived between five and twelve,
then shoots down the ladder of
never-never.

What if you drank alcohol at five years
old on Dad’s lap?

What if you fell in love with
a girl named Anne in Third Grade?

Then never told her until you were
in your middle twenties, a part of
a twelve step group that honored
truth, needed truth, and gave you
God for your troubles.

Love is a fifth of vodka in the face
of the ignorant.  We come out of Mom
not knowing a thing, perfect bliss
minus the hellacious rush of light
and reality felt the moment we
breathe.

“Let me back in!” is not an option
as you keep breathing, if healthy.

I stayed in the hospital for two weeks,
a blue baby—they helped me to
breathe, and what did they think
at home?

The devil is all around us, we live
on the dragon’s back, wide the path
to destruction—you cannot change any
of it!

With a lion’s roar you win some ground,
but tell her you love her.

If not, you’ll be like me.

Writing about love on the lonely
sea, the dock of doom cluttered with
broken sails, amends and promises.

I was rude instead of honest;
I found fault in her eventually!

I SCREWED UP!

Can you ever go back to third grade?
I’d tell her I loved her.  I’d ask her
to play tennis.  I’d take her to the
movies…

But no; I was with the devil since
five, bourbon on Dad’s lap, he and
Mom pretending at divorce while Jesus
just shakes his head!

Man can never separate what the LORD
God has bound together, so Anne:

I’m sorry.

Bound now to bedevilment and alcoholism,
to girls, gals and chicks who treat me bad.

I could have married Anne, but no
I had to fail!  The poet’s tale!

What could I write with the wind of
perfection behind my back; I’d be, sadly—
not a writer at all.

I’d be closer to a “doctor”—a know-
it-all…

I’d be something I was not; “God” has me
just where he or she wants me:

Writing Truth, fiction, lies that supply
the counter and cupboards of jokes and
stories to tell our children.

Warnings to not drink flammable liquids;
to always be true, grab a god first, as it
helps with the courage to be you…

And tell her again and again that you love
her.  Again and again that you love her.

Again and again that you love her; making
up and making amends that you love her…

I screwed up.  I…

Still love her.

Bottom’s Curse

01 Saturday Sep 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We want to do it all; be all
things for all people, please them
all—have them hold us in their
so very high esteem, be paid,
praised and sleep.

“I can do it!” we volunteer, often
for things we do not well, but
have within us a self-confidence
that knows we do that thing
better than most!

Then one day we wake up,
shake off the hangover—feel a
little tired of holding a flag
for big groups of others, as its
weight lags and lags.

Truth washes over us in the
shower, some better yet find
lines off shore, paddle out and
fall in to be cleansed of all the
self-told lies mirrored out;

We give to God but not enough,
reserving really hard times for
wine and beer.

We claim belief in a Nazarene
teacher, who pointed up not
to himself, said about your life
to never fear!  The birds are fed,
God clothing fields with grass,

and you?  You are okay, maybe
just stay in your lane a little more,
do your achieving there.  Look at
Solomon with his one bestowed
great trait,

David could sing and dance, very
blessed, Jesus a teacher—

And you?  What, are you the first
down the pipe to master all trades
at once!?  Haha, you have been
cursed with Shakespeare’s bottom,
you’re an ass,

I say with all loving embrace.  Wake
up striving for the stars, and find
yourself falling on your face—

You are not good.  Neither am I;
we get a few talents, pray to god and
thank, then with that one or two
things we do well let’s go out now
and to the world supply.

Turn Around

27 Monday Aug 2018

Posted by in Cosmic, Creation, God, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Universe

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Before time began, we were ordered
but not yet delivered—the point of
sale hot and hairy with the friction
of moving bodies through space.

One “day at a time” was created by
faraway forces, all in perfect harmony
with a divine plan—the mystery impossible
to penetrate, the more pondered,

the more lost in that… space…

Truth comes to us late in life, sometimes
after horrible events, always when
we least expect

After the conditioner wears out,
blood instead of shampoo on the
bathroom floor, vomited mess.

We were sure war was good and manly.
We were sure men should be strong.
We were sure sports were good to play.
We were so sure college was important.

July 4th exploded in our face.

We saw the light, when we read a
real deed to the land to find it more
native than white—to have stolen
property a curse on everything in
civilization we do.

Perhaps that is why we, not the
native people, so often curse, cuss
and spite our walk on concrete.

***

Turn around.  Look back, when it’s
safe, tell the truth; start with strangers
if you must, and swim toward the next
real thing, peace of mind the chime on
fourteen bells of alarm so alarming
you’d rather silence it than tend to the
fire burning all around you.

Burning earth, driving cars, helicopters
playing more war in my “city” stolen
because our British forefathers thought
it the only way to live.

A bible?  A bound set of papers with ink
on them?

Could it ever compare to the waterfall?
The river?  The mountains, the valleys
of gold in morning’s light, saunas for the
sun if the desert catches it just right,
lick it up bright—

I call this life crazy, but I’ll ‘til the wheels
come off live it, it’s my right.

To swing around the sun a hundred times
a goal of sum;

Dogs and cats more honest in fifteen,
some birds to sixty, disease a myth of
the rich, while the poor continue as
the prophet said, blessed with the meek

The sorrowful now under feet with a key
to heaven easily won, take a peak.

Thunder to roll, God by another name as sweet,
this is or is not a game played by at least
some far off unfathomable beings.

Maybe green, blue, fat or small, maybe
E.T.

The native chiefs knew, but many of
us just wanted to thump our book;

both point to the Great Mystery.

The Heartbeat

24 Friday Aug 2018

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Taking off, it’s your best chance,
the first romance never topped
as long as you live, so if you’re
lucky to be young and reading this:

Tell her you love her now, but pray
first!  Courage not from a bottle
of flammable liquid but from a
dependable power you can’t see

but know it’s there, the things you
don’t know mounting high as a
cherry mountain, a dreamy plain
fair and true, humility is not a bad

thing, it’s knowing what we can and
cannot do.  The Truth.  Enough to spark
a revolution, tell her you love her!
Tell her now!  Stay with her, the Wife

of your Youth, never leave her!  Give
all you can to God and life, one
day at a time was not a lie, be like
Henry said a Hero in the Strife!

Gosh, it could have all been nice.
But could it still be?  Can this last dance
make up for the time I ignored my
feelings, stuck in a hole of not

knowing?  Of not understanding, nor
inherently having the necessary things
you need to Love?

Freud was occasionally right; not about
member envy, but I liked the Id, ego
and superego, nice words—kind of pretty.

And about Alcoholism?

Could have been a picture or poem
about me, he said that alcoholics cannot
express…

Love.

Kind of being dishonest to your own
heartbeat, you see her, but look around
at parents who fight or call themselves
“divorced.”  You freeze, have not a friend

to help, and you freeze, because you
loved your dad but kept it secret from
Mom because the dragon is all around
us, and alcohol feeds its fire.

You want heaven or even just some
peace of mind, give up bull, make
a schedule for today, believe in a
God that works for you, and learn the

Law, starting with 10 good commands,
Native American final stands, Tao Te Ching
yin and yangs, no more Big Bangs, take
it slow and easy—blessed are the meek

and poor.  If you have nothing, seem abused
at every turn, turn the other cheek, survive
the chaos and torture for the years like
John McCain in jail, come out and shine.

We are a race that throws money and
accolades at survivors of pain, we do it
all the time.

Rainbows to rain, the flip of the coin,
smile while you have a beat, better the
ball of the last play…

And dance.

Ser Alegre

24 Friday Aug 2018

Posted by in Alegre, Español, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spanish

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Es decisión, ser alegre, pero
también son transitorios todos
los sentimientos.

Emociones vienen y van, olas
del mar, alas formadas antes
de nacer, nosotros todos nacidos
como un piano.

Hay notas altas, bajas, y todo
entre las dos.

Ser alegre, que esta debajo del toro,
de la tierra a tu nacimiento para
tu vida vivida para capturar la
niñez, ¡sí!

Sí, este es un camino, a veces corto—
a veces largo, para…

para la niñez, para recordar quien
somos debajo la ropa, nuestra
conexión al polvo, a las flores,
el cielo y nubes;

el viento empujándonos y este
astronave tan perfecto alrededor
un “sol” que es brillante, caliente
y poderoso de cualquier nombre
que le damos.

Al lugar donde no hay palabras
llegamos, el lugar donde empezamos
el viaje, primer paso, ultimo lo mismo,
la verdad de bebés mas cerquita a
Dios, pues…

Cielo, paz de mente, disfruta este
momento tan móvil, transitorio y
salvaje.  Es ser alegre, o mejor…

Fue.

Illusion of Power

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political, Politics

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We sell our souls the moment
we pledge allegiance deeply to
anything not God, not good, not
the Creator, not Nature, not the
One.

You know the One.  The peace you
feel when you appeal to the highest
high.

It’s hard.  You have to ignore or
overcome your past, stuck in a
bottle or two—pushed out or down,

it’s tempting to get revenge, climb
some big ladder, and from apparent
heights spit down and cause problems
to your apparent enemies.

Keep it simple, they say, and maybe
they are right.

The more we hide, the more our sins
expose, the secrets we keep barring us
from finding what we truly seek;

Peace of mind.

Abandoning hate from anger from fear,
we wake up to a new day, listen to
higher power, wear less suits, tie
yourself not to things, material everywhere
except heaven—

which still exists!  Yes, we make or break
the goals we score, the mystical place
gained beyond the Great Mystery,

Native America pushed aside but truth
seeping up through evil’s cracks,
they are back in the grin of Columbus
the shiny coin of Lincoln, Seattle,
Standing Bear and the beginning.

Nothing ends that cannot, Newton
squaring all of us in three parts, one
of which asserting the conservation
of things, the equality of reality, dreams
and poking holes in power which is
only God’s no matter how it seems.

“Good Orderly Direction.”  Beware the
false gods and flags, borders and divisions.

Beware big words, capitalizing this
or that thing, there really is a jealous
Being moving stuff toward Faith.

Death removed, life toward one goal
with the Guide.  Good luck on it,
admit your faults, come out to see
the rainbow—

Imagine if after the rain, the sun
decided to fly!  It’s always here, while
today’s obsession comes and goes.

We cannot improve or change the world;
enjoy it, bloom where planted, and
consider deference to real power,
instead of the kings you crown on TV,

only that which we can touch and see.

There is more, believe me—or just wait
for the next event to humble us from shame,
putting higher power first is…

Serenity.