My Words

Understanding the World through words

Month: July, 2014

Shave

I wake up
sit on my bed and wait,
until I feel the blood
rushes back
into my legs.

Building up
my confidence
I stand up straight.

I touch my face
and hear
the familiar
stubble-felt noise.

The sound of a
leaky faucet
systematically
drips, drip, drips.

I sight the
stainless steel razor,
morning beacon
draws me closer in.

Pristine white
shaving cream squirts
onto my cupped palm.

An aromatic cloud,
soft and weightless, I
rub against my
prickly mirrored face.

The cold razor presses against
my naked flesh
like a silent
lawnmower trimming
peppered blades,

following the
well-known route
my face is
finally soft
once again.
 

Happiness Undescribed

The lark runs up and down
the cable line.
Up and down singing sweet
melodies all the time.
Like a line dance one sees at a
FortWorth Texas bar.
His rants aren’t reminders
of love gone terribly wrong.
Unlike the cowboys who wallow
in there sorrow constantly.
The bird I see, sings accompanied
by shimmering leaves
and the vastness of cobalt skies,
a happiness that
remains undescribed.

Aphorism-Purpose

20140712-121115-43875163.jpg
Everything in life
has a purpose.
Find your purpose.

Rite Of Passage | First Haircut

I took my son for
his first
barbershop
experience.

He quietly sits
on the booster chair,
to receive his
introductory,
big-boy haircut.

It’s a rite of passage—
complete with
the smell of barber’s
powder and after-shave lotion,

the sound of hair
clippers and hand
scissors working
themselves around
his ears.

He just turned 5,
and he sits perfectly still,
like Rodin’s, Thinking Man
sculpture at the Louvre.

His pre-kindergarten hair,
falls solemnly to the ground.
It’s an end of a chapter in his
promising young life.

Out he walks, opening the door,
to face the cold harsh world,
with red lollipop in hand.

Eastern Prayers | Clamatis

The spider weaves intricate
Silken webs, like your
Purple flowered vine
Overtakes my eastern
Ochre fence.

Climbing, reaching
To view the call
To morning prayers,

Shrouding my lone
Palm tree with your
Royal keffiyeh.

Like a Bedouin
Protects his
Mysterious
Desert beard.

Café Con Leche

I wake up, roll out of bed
stretch and yawn, tired…

I’ve been active in my dreams
chasing after imaginary flying women,
looking for crying babies
that turn into cats.
Making sure my sister-in-law
doesn’t get swept up by the waves.

I’ve run what amounts to
a marathon in my sleep and
I wake up from nights rest
taxed.

The coffee is ready to be pressed
the hot dark liquid inside promises
a certain hummingbird buzz. I slowly press
down trying to suppress the anxiety
of my dreams.

I pick out a dark coffee mug
out of a plethora I’ve collected,
one that matches my mood.

Stir in the milk and sugar,
slowly, until
it becomes the color of
café con leche, the way my
grandma used to make it,

always reassuring,
soothing my morning soul.

Bamboo Sways

Bamboo perennial
Asian princess.

We grow some
where we live,

used as an
emerald green barrier
keeps the neighbors
prying eyes at bay.

I’m transfixed
by the movement
and dance of the leaves,

the way it catches the
breeze, swaying
to a rhythmic
wind-filled beat.

Its hypnotizing
visual effect
stills my Western nerves,

and
my glancing
almond colored eyes.

Son

I remember,
Standing outside together as
The spring sun
Brushed my hair, you had
Important news to share.

I remember, the tears I
shed knowing your life–

Suddenly became an hourglass
Turned over for the last time.

I remember that final time
In your tired broken voice when
you called me, son.

Pink Bouquets

And in my dream I was
Finally able to say
How I felt.

To my sister
Who remains
An enigma.

I choose a
Different path
From her—

The path
Where I walk
On stones that
Appear,

Under the
Clear water,
Unafraid.

A perfect poem
I can whittle,
I felt
Growing inside,

I have crafted
White arbors
And sold
Them to
Unsuspecting
Gardeners before.

I know I can whittle
Words,

Like a florist
Arranges pink
Wedding bouquets.

Things that my
Soul guards,

Upon hearing it
She left expectedly,
She always leaves
In a huff.

The bouquet
Was caught
By someone who did not
Believe in the unity of
Love.

My Rose grew in solace
Under a white arbor,
I also tenderly whittled,

Every year it grew further
And further, seeking
The comfort of the sun.

How can I embrace
You when the thorns
You’ve grown still
Pierce and make
Me bleed?