To Be A Better Poet–A Poets Creed

I want to be a better
poet, to say things
with delicacy.

to describe a scene
perfectly.

I want my words to
have meaning and
not get snagged
in the echoes of
mediocracy.

Nothing comes
so easily, without
dedication, hard work
and perseverance, this
goes without saying.

To the men and women
who dedicated themselves
to this art, I beg of
you, teach me to
be inspired and
to be
smart.

Let the words
that flow
from my pen
be formed with
the ink of
my heart,

and give credence
to this indelible
art.

Una Konversación Kon Dio:

Perdóname Senyor mío
pero lo peór a sido
ke en Zion nada a
trokado.

Desde ke escribió
el hacham el poema
en Sefarad hace
500 Anyos, han
pasado,
i déynda

hay zorros korriendo
y aziendo desgracia
de muestra religión.

Te rogamos Adonai,
Ke mos mandes a
otro Moshe
o alguien
igual ke el.

i ke otra ves
se levanté
tu Torá,

Para enseyarnos
de
tu Ley!

Hot Pink Finger Nails

How different are men
from women?

My darling lovely wife
in one conversation
we had,

was so enthusiastic
to describe, her newly
purchased nail polish.

It was a hot pink color
she’d just picked up.

The hue set her
fingers a’ fire.

She absolutely
loves pink.

I was awestruck
and grinning from
cheek to cheek,

as I listened to her
gush and squeal
over her aesthetic
choice of nail color.

On the one hand,
I was thinking about
how her newly
painted nails,

would look on
my olive
skinned back?

At least for a moment
that thought made me
shiver.

My next thought was
about that
M1 Carbine

I saw at
the pawn shop
near my home.

How balanced
it felt
in my hands
as I picked it up,

pulled the receiver
back and
let it ram forward
on its own.

While pretending it was
locked and loaded,

I wondered, if it seen
any action storming
the beaches at Anzio?

Or perhaps fighting with
The 1st Marine Division
in the Pacific island
of Peleliu?

All of this
was thought,
while I was
putting a bead on a
guitar across the shop.

For a moment that guitar
became my mortal enemy,
as I lined up the
rear and front sights
perfectly.

Standing there,
ram rod still,
with my pointer
finger lightly
caressing
the trigger,

I pulled it
gently back.

The action
was smooth.

The battle rifle
was well preserved
and oiled.

It would make a
fantastic addition
to my mental
gun collection.

Suddenly, I was
interrupted by
my wife’s voice.

“Honey, what do you think
of this hot pink?”
“Isn’t it lovely?”

I smiled, nodded
and said,
“ I love it.”

The Iwo Jima I Never Knew

To the Iwo Jima I
never knew:

Standing guard
somewhere in
southern
California,

Holding my
rifle at
right shoulder
arms.

Two weeks into
boot camp
and I want to
run.

That busy highway
I saw from afar,
As I was checking
my perimeter,
I knew it led to
my backyard.

With spit-shined
boots my head
was ajar with
inconsolable
thoughts.

Wherever,
this journey
took me in camo
utilities, I made
an oath to see it
through.

I shot expert,
learned
to control
my fears.

Eventually,
I learned to be
a meritorious
Marine.

when I see
those tired
men raising
our colors
on that
God forsaken
Pacific Island,

with polish
gone from
their boots and
their spit-shine
drawn
with blood.

I knew they
didn’t run.

Their highways
led to different
fates and
unlike me, many
never
returned
home.

Stanislaus County

I remember while
still a child,
we’d head east
over
Pacheco Pass.

On a another
California
road trip.

The slumber
of summer felt
in the warm
dry air.

Me, in the backseat
with my sisters
staring out
the window
of my fathers car.

sights of the
yellow sunburnt hills.
then the deep
blue of
San Luis
Reservoir,

these,
were forever
imprinted in
the recess of
my mind.

Finally, we’d
hit the valley,

my father
would say,
“Were in
Stanislaus
county.”

In the back seat
my sisters and I’d
giggle as we
mispronounced
Stanislaus.

Instead
we’d say,
“Santa Claus,
Yeah!”

With the
windows down,
the hot musky
smell of grapes and
cherry orchards,

would cause us
to desire the
luscious fruits
of California’s,
Garden of Eden.

“Can we stop
at a fruit stand
dad?”

“We want to
have something
sweet…”

Now, that I’m a dad,
It’s my kids that
are giggling
in the back seat.

Stanislaus County
the memorable,
yet at times
mis-pronounceable name,
is where we live.

Picasso

Picasso said that
Like poetry, art must be
greatly inspired.

Fishing

I carefully
set the hook.
With a new reel
that’s as
smooth as ice,
I set the line.

I have a nice
fast rod,
I can feel
the slightest tug.

It’s ready with 8 lb. test,
like Moses it will part
the lake.

I stick my fingers into
the black warm earth,

and pull out a fat
squiggly worm.

It’s trying to escape
but my fingers are
all business, as I
tighten my grip.

This worm is destined for bait.

I jab the hook into
its soft body,
like butter it enters in.

I cast into the reed
filled waters,
I’m into it for the fight.

My bobber warns me of
a bite.

I let it pull a
few more times,
until the hook
sinks in.

That’s when
I reel it in.

The adrenaline
surges at this
critical stage.

You can’t say,
“Yes!”
Until the fish
is on dry land.

Aphorism-Laws

The law helps
to mitigate the needs
of the logic of the law.

When this counters the needs
of the community,

the law in
question becomes
useless and needs
to be changed.

Lovers Heart Beats

Two passionate hearts
spark
unspeakable love
together.

Like musicians,
they harmonize their
melodies as one.

What’s heard is:
a single heartbeat,

lovers hearts
beating together.

Cruising

El Camino Real
was known
for its
party nights.

late 70’s up
into the early 80’s
cruising the strip
was what we did.

My brother’s
yellow Duster
was
muscled out,

at least from
the outside
it looked that way.

It had
Mag Wheels
in the back,
where it was
lifted,

When it was
all said and
done,
it looked
like a mean
street machine.

Though it only
had a
straight six.

It still
purred like
a kitten.

we’d hit
the streets
listening to the
Cars,
Moving In Stereo,

Foreigner, or
Blondie’s
Heart Of Glass.

Classics Rock
hits-when
I hear them now,
they take me
to those paved
streets.

Up and down
The Royal Road,
We’d be looking
for the chicks,

friends we could
hang with or
the inevitable
hormonal fights.

Those were the
ways, we’d spend
our teen aged
summer nights:

Cruising and
looking for those
warm Saturday
night adventures.

When we hooked
up with
the babes
we’d say,

“Success!”,
“That was
a night to
remember.”

Cruising
the strip
on the
El Camino.