My Words

Understanding the World through words

Month: December, 2015

Smith Rock-Poem

Heading up north closely following the Deschutes,

we’re going out for a trek on a warm winter day,

out with my nephews and sons;

our lunches are safely stowed away. Driving towards Smith Rock—

if only you could see it glimmering against the back-drop

of fresh air and Oregon western blue skies.

My brother-in-law racked with pain, cancer eating him away,

bedridden on his front-room couch,

yells at us to—“climb away, but watch out for the snakes”

his eyes wishing he could go, if only once more.

Every-time you climb a mountain,

you follow in the footsteps of great men,

those who ascended—making their aliyah, and

leaving the corrupt world behind.

I told the boys—“I’m getting older”,

don’t you dare leave me behind,

wait up for your uncle, I’m the one with the struggle

and its not just about climbing towards the pinnacle this time;

but of seeing my dearest brother slowly wasting away—

Finally, we reach the summit, I want to let out a scream.

Instead, I just sit and stare at the boys youthful-gait as

they climb around and around, exuberant, vigorous,

fired up and aglow;

forgetting for an instant that their father’s moments

are slowly ticking away.

And against this extravagant landscape,

so clean—an Oregon still pristine,

with a vantage point of heavens front door,

a sacred place where eagles make their craggy nests,

I let out my scream:

Daniel, I wish you be here with me and the boys!

Happy Birthday Emily

  

Tarry All Night: Authenticate-Poem

The phallic symbol in my heart

tarries and worries all night,

come to bed, it’s about us,

It’s about us making waves.

Never-mind the noises–

when you’re after the explosions,

let’s find our rhythm and dance

beneath the stars.

It’s the first commandment of

fruit and multiplication

and I need to authenticate it

with you by my side.

Strive For Autonomy

I strive

for autonomy

in a world of slaves.

This Is Not A Pipe

Vindication

Emancipation

Realization

Abomination

Let these words roll off your lips

Like warm jelly

On melted buttered toast.

A warm heart

and top hat,

“This is not a pipe”

Marguerite

painted a

Philosophical

consideration

that brought about

articulation and

scholarly

tribulation–

Like the naked chess players

in Duchamp’s mind.

Hope-Poem

Few things give me hope:

The smiles on my children’s faces.

Dawn’s orange fingers touching the morning sky.

An elderly couple walking hand-in-hand.

An easy conversation that leads to laughter.

A soft blanket on a chilly night.

A delicious glass of California Pinot wine;

and a soft kiss on my neck before I leave for work.

The  

Rhythm Creates Life-Poem 

I love it when conversations and small talk

creates the  right rhythm between two

friends–a connection is birthed,

because the right rhythm creates love,

and love creates life.

La Mancha 

The madness of Don Quixote 

chasing whirlwinds sparks

an ancient dialog:

Who introduced the windmill, water fountains,

and orange blossoms onto Iberian shores?

Rosinante

loves dark chocolate and butterscotch,

even though she’s bony as can be.

Her loyalty is steady as an underfed

Andalusian steed.

Searching for chivalry in the days of the Inquisition.

Holiness has gone missing from the land of La Mancha,

what remains is terribly stained.

Ancient manuscripts sold in long-forgotten ghettos,

where savvy translators once lived.

A story is bought, but no one can read it–

the vernacular is forbidden, unholy

spoken by those who can’t be seen.

What was Saavedra after,

who where those funny

pork salters, the best in the land?

Masked behind the sadness

It rivals the best of Greek tragedy,

turn the pages perchance you’ll find what’s

buried in the behind the text—it’s

the death of a civilization,

the man with the beard and lance

is the only one who perceives.

Riddles, picturesque innuendos, the novel is full of them.

Unless you know the history of that land,

the book remains a story of simple laughs and charms–

sold as hidden mysteries.

.

Cashmere Scarf 

I love this time of year, The weather turns cold,

The leaves blow to and fro.

Brushed flannel feels soft against my skin.

while Jazz plays holiday cheer.

The brisk morning air in my room, I hear

my children talking, then laughing

getting ready for school, it

reminds me of my youth.

Hot chocolate, warm slippers,

and couch blankets, I’m watching TV;

distracted because

I’m soaking it all in.

I breath in the love

cozy like a well worn cashmere scarf;

warm glowing thoughts,

there’s something

about winter

There’s a certain rhythm,

It’s the season of love.