My Words

Understanding the World through words

Month: May, 2013

In Texas

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I was thinking while
driving on errands-
that unlike Texas,
in California,
we don’t have churches
on every corner.

Rather, what I’ve noticed
is more fast food places.
Down in Texas,
they sure love Jesus.
I’m somewhat jealous-
there’s a whole bunch
of us Jews,
that don’t get
that kind of love.

Barfly

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What is it that barflies do?
Sitting all day and night
drinking bar drinks.

I’d like to think that they
sit and philosophize.
In between
sips of Bacardi and Coke,
perhaps they think of the
meaning of things or
multiple infinities.

Some of my best discussions
on Nietzsche or Sartre
were over a pint of
Guinness with
my schoolmates at a Pub.

Husserl’s ideas sound better
after a couple shots of Scotch.

Though some would argue that
phenomenology goes better with Gin.
I counter that argument with
a splash of Tonic Water
over a Johnny Walker and ice.

But, that’s just me-
I’m not really
a lush-I just like to
drink and muse over
Postmodernist like
Derrida or
Solomon ibn Verga.

In the end, there nothing
more interesting
than bar-room philosophy.

Unless you start
slurring your theories.

Green Means Go

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Green means go,
isn’t it ironic
how certain
colors communicate
messages
to us?

Without these
simple traffic
colors
and what they
signify, we’d
be up a creek,
a wreak on every
street. No one
would know
when to stop,
or when to go?

In this day an
age it would be
impossible to
not have traffic
lights. We depend
on colors to
direct our lives.

Yellow means
caution. When we see
yellow, it’s time
to slow down.

In the military
we live in yellow
mode-all
the time.

Red means stop.
It’s the color of
extreme caution.
“When we see red”,
It’s a metaphor
to look out.

It’s the color
of blood. It’s a
high visibility hue.

On infantry missions
when we were
given the signal
to stop, it meant
stop and listen.

If we neglected
that order we
would put
everyone’s life
in danger.
That was a crime
in the Corps.

Panning For Gold

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Gold fever
ran through
our camp, and all
our kids were
anticipating
a profitable return, so

We went down to
Finnegan’s Creek
in Angels Camp,
a few miles down
the road.

With pans in
hand we took
to looking
for that
illusive bullion.

Beautiful
scenery in between
the green tree’d canopy
the golden creek
Frigidly ran.

Yellow nuggets
invisible,
except
in our vivid
imaginations.

Though we
talked of the
possibilities.

The venerable
what if’s-in life?

Under every rock
we diligently searched, even
Hannah got involved
wadding in
the chilly
river,
with her life
vest on.

Though she
was just happy to
get wet, so happy
to get wet like
a walking,
smiling, pollywog.

The older kids
were laboriously searching,
Like a federal crime scene
Investigators.

Looking for
golden clues

One of them found a startled
Crawdad, another found
a nice rounded piece
of water-polished glass,

but no one found the
valuable yellow
California metal.

The precious metal
that 49ers danced
a jig around when found.

We practically searched
every square inch of that
El Dorado
creek.

Knee deep
in water
Panning the sludge,

Finally, the suns rays
were falling and the
temperature was
dropping.

Once the warmth
of the Western sun
Left
our resolve to
strike it rich
wasn’t as
impressive
anymore.

Soft

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Soft like the caress of
my baby daughter Hannah-
who in the morning pleads
for her bottle-a mixture
of milk and Pancake syrup.

Who rolls her eyes at every
sip, and plays with her soft
fine hair while in a trance.

I used to do the same thing
play with my hair-it was
comforting. Now, I know where
my daughter gets it from,
she craves softness.

Women’s breast are soft
They introduce us to the
nurturing concept. We all
have drank from our
Mothers-the milk of life.

Marines in the heat of a
battle, after being wounded
and feeling the pangs of
death ebbing its way towards
them, cry out for their mothers.

Mothers how soft to the
touch. Like a petal
of a rose.
The epitome of
warmth and love-

That with our last
breath we desire;

Your soft gentle touch.

Your soft whispering words.

Your soft fingers in between

the stands of our hair.

Softly speaking, cooing and

gently rocking us to sleep.

Suns Golden Rays

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It’s early morning on
the outskirts of
Angels Camp,
California
The suns golden rays
are making its way
over the
mountains tops.
Illuminating the land
with showers of brilliant
light. The moon is
retreating-Its
purposed work of
reflecting the
light of darkness
is finalized.
A new morn has
shone with the
revelry of the many
birds new songs.
Giving melodic
pleasantness to
the birth of
another glorious
sun filled day.

The Legend Of Black Bart

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Wells Fargo couriers came
down through these parts.
Carrying gold
on the trail from
California to Oregon.

Lurking in the shadows
was a stagecoach
robber.

Some say
he was-
a gentleman
and a poet.

His name was Black Bart
and this is poem
number four:

“I’ve labored long and
hard for Bread.
For honor and riches.
But on my corns too
long you’ve thread.
You fine haired sons of
bitches.” BB P08

From Lakeport, Cloverdale,
Stockton and Sonora,
He’d make away with
the stolen loot,
until one day-he
accidentally left his
hanky
as a clue.

Wells Fargo
detectives
finally caught up
with him in
San Francisco.
Were he was
arrested, tried and
sent to
San Quentin prison.

Four years he
stayed in the clink.

At his release the
banking detectives
payed him and
ensured-
that his poetic
thievery would
finally and
forever desist.

Sweeping

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I’m not all that, I read
I study, I work hard at
what I do.

At the end of the day, I
have to sweep the floors-
clean the dishes and help
around the home.

Hardly a day goes by that
I don’t pick up for someone.
What would you expect from a
houseful of nine?

It’s in the off hours that
I write poems or think about
my philosophy friends.

Other than that-I’m busier
than a bee, trying to make a
living and supporting
my beautiful family.

Black Beauty

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I have a special place
in my heart
for my Suburban.
who would have
thought I’d write her
an elegy?

It hasn’t been
since the heyday of
Arabic poetry-that
so trivial a poem
was written.

in between the Abbasid’s
and the
Andalusian Muwashshah,

desert poets wrote-
just about everything
even composing
elegies to their dogs.

But, my ode to my
traveling companion-
is composed out of
fondness and love.

For my Black Beauty-
though she lacks
stretch marks,
has safely delivered
me and my family
from one distant
State to another.

And, for that I am
appreciative.

Fools Gold

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In Atlanta there are these
incredible-international
market places.

All you can think of; spices,
oils, hundreds of vegetables
I’ve never heard of.

I’d walk the aisles examining
what people from distant lands,
like the Caribbean, Africa and Asia
ate.

It was a veritable
cornucopia
of tastes and smells.

On one Isle, between
the Russian vodka
and Belarus cookies,
a peddler approached
me and asked,
if I’d be interested
in buying some gold?

He showed me his
bracelets and rings…
How much? I said,
twenty dollars, he replied.

I handed him the
cash-as I got
the jewels.
I was excited
to get
a steal!

Hurriedly, I went and
showed off my stash.
My wife was not impressed.
That’s fools gold, she said.

It wasn’t
long before
it turned green.

Ironically, I was
the bigger fool and
she hasn’t let
me live it down.