Of Nature & Man

Try to penetrate with our limited means the secrets of nature and you will find that, behind all the discernible concatenations, there remains something subtle, intangible and inexplicable. Veneration for this force [that is] beyond anything we can comprehend is my religion. To that extent, I am, in point of fact, religious.

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.

-Albert Einstein

Spring

A Memory

It’s eighty degrees outside.

Pink and purple flowers

fall from dogwood trees,

like snowflakes from the sky.

Dogwood trees

perch on jagged rocks

that jut out at different lengths,

driving away from the lake

that’s been sitting there for years.

Makes me think of that time--

When we went out

with our grandparents

to pick honeysuckles.

We would drink every god-

forbidden ounce of sugar

from each tiny flower.

Grandpa would search for

the right type of rocks

to border up his garden.

Grandma would say something

like, “it sure is hot out here.”

and we would all agree.

Then we would go

inside our old house--

the one with the frigid air

that blew at constant speed.

My wet shirt clung to me

and we’d eat refreshments.

I’d always peer out the window

while I ate, to look at the smeared,

water-stained reflection.

Shower

Silence.

I hear the trees brush,

the wind rush--

With the sound of a million chariots,

The rain hits the ground, the grass, our yard.

“Passion.” She says,

“What is passion?”

Is it like the rain that grazes over miles of land?

Or the thunder, selectively chasing after the light.

The fan turns. It picks up speed.

The blades spin loose on their hinges.

They form the illusion of a unified circle

like the world on its tilted axis.

A breeze

pushes the rain toward us.

The chill thrusts vitality inside my being

as the water brings new life to the ground.

“Smell the rain?”

“No,” I smell the mud.

The root, soils to our foundation

wet, awakened, renewed.

We sit in silence. I stare at her

as she looks through the screen,

to the outside. I expect more,

but it came as it fades now.

It left with one pound of thunder,

the diminishing clops of hooves

and the sun, beaming down on the kissed leaves

letting each tree glisten like the stars they are,

you are, we are.

Waterfall

In the spring,

all the temperatures of Earth seem to harmonize with each other

I sit on a boulder, immersed in its warmth and let its firm back prop me.

One foot away from the falls and its wind wraps around my entire body, spiking

the hairs of my arms. Pixels and holograms is all he could compare it to but I looked at the falls once more and with its spit dampening my face, couldn’t simplify

the beast as much as he could. He called it

White noise, receding and contracting.

I called it ashes. Cold, ashes

that rained down and

dissipated.

I turned to hear your thoughts

but you were busy placing wrinkles into Mother Nature’s pond.

I hesitated before I went to you and watched as you drowned a stick

it arched its back as you drug it across the water, against the current. I smiled,

you were making more ripples in the process. I climbed down from my boulder and, when I went to you, you called it fire. I looked into your brown eyes

with uncertainty. “A fire?” You looked back to the water.

And the arching stick to show me something more

as the rings of water continued

their unceasing

pattern.

Chernobyl

It is bland, we are alone.

There is a stillness in the day,

much worse than the night,

when we close our eyes to sleep.

This time, our eyes are open

and we still see no one,

we still see nothing but

the bland and the empty.

I am of the infected;

a disease grows inside of me

like the steel mixed with dirt,

or grass pierced through cracks

of tarmac. They set aside a place

for us. But not to live, they want

us to die. We want to die.

Or are we already?

The doorknobs to our houses

are cold. The mattresses and

dolls left in buildings, they

have not been touched;

neither have we.

But I remember

how it feels--

being touched.

Summer

Dawn

In the morning, with the dew covering all the tiny strands of green,

I sit mesmerized at the persistence of grass. It pushes up through the thick,

brown soil and spreads its thin roots throughout to make sure that

mankind would struggle with weeding it out of their gardens. Our

hands are no match to their cords that stretch arms length, becoming

stronger and longer as time passes. Like an umbilical cord, I have to think

fast, snap scissors, and yank the tiny green substance from Mother Earth.

The rain comes in and quenches its thirst, the slight relief rain brings

tells the grass to keep on striving and it does. At least until winter

and then it strives again in spring. No, winter does not stop grass for long.

Grass fills the empty spaces between my toes. To kids, it would tickle

but for me, it bends; not breaking, in a relaxed sort of way that tells me

it’s all right. It’ll be just fine under the sun, under the shade, under our feet,

it’s still growing strong. Even when the whole rest of the world turns

off their lights, leaving it to grow under the moon, alone in the dark.

The dew will wake us up in the morning and the grass keeps growing.

I.

I wake to find my love waiting for me

And as I peer out toward him,

I hear my door creak, to find her

She looks at me with tiresome eyes.

The planks of wood crack,

As our feet make their way down

Down into the soft seashore

Down upon the blank, silk sand.

II.

By the sea’s side,

Our feet disturb the sand.

As we walk, she pulls me in

And clutches me like a coin,

My value being her constant.

She shivers a bit.

I pull away to run to my love

As he splashes over me, I look

Toward her. She doesn’t understand.

I see her writing this down into

The script of her life

And go to her as my clothes feed

The soft sand with a drink.

We keep on walking.

JAZZ

A tone resonates across our yard. It’s the neighbor playing her trumpet

pulling off beats like those aren’t easy, as you mention how many hours

until the viewing. Then we’ll have to move on, because she’s gone.

And the glissando of the trumpet pours out something like lemonade.

I couldn’t believe it when I found out, she was 26; 4 years older than me.

So the trumpet must be calling out to her on our behalf, singing sweet blues

from Alabama. I told you I didn’t want to hear about it, I guess it’s just easier

to keep it out of my head. I’m all about keeping it quiet or leaving it alone,

Instead of letting pain infect my heart. Trills and thrills and then we die,

leaving people behind as if they were nothing to us, and maybe they weren’t.

They’ll cry a little bit, believe me they all do, but then they all turn around and

walk away, leaving her beneath them in a grave. Soon, there’ll be none of us

left. We’ll all move on, like she did. There will be nothing left other than a

memory of a trumpet that called out jazz in the middle of July’s heat.

Beach

The seaweed tangles in between my toes

and lingers there until I shake it off.

“It got in my way,” I say to you,

“It always gets in my way, disturbing me.”

You look at me and we pause in the middle

of the sand, in the center of the beach,

with flashlights giving us an occasional spotlight

your eyes shine at me with midnight blue

I dive into them, splitting their undeniable

waves, undecipherable pattern, and quickly

look away. The ocean hisses louder.

You take my face and bring it toward your own.

“How can you say that? Do I get in your way?”

“No,” I can’t say anything else. Every other

word is locked inside by tiny mouth,

pushed behind my tongue and clenching teeth.

Let’s never talk about this again,

Let’s pretend I never said those words.

Those are my thoughts, but they’re just thoughts.

We never can go backwards, have a redo.

“We’re supposed to be together with everything,

We’re supposed to support each other with everything.”

“But we’re different people,” maybe too different.

We stand, looking at the shadow of a beach.

As children run around, picking up

Empty bottles, shells, and crabs, I collect,

my thoughts of our children--- your children,

your house, your yard, your job, me sitting up

late nights; I sit and look at the phone.

The clock and the plate of food wrapped

in tin foil was my company that night, every night.

I discard all those memories because

I know we can never go backwards.

But tonight, there’s no moving forward,

no ‘pressing onward’ or ‘moving past this.’

Water pulls itself inward, backward,

away from you, and soon will splatter all

over us. Are you ready? I'm not.

Master of None

Clouded by humanity, broken thoughts

Precede empty words, tedious and full

Oh heed the subordinate art. I write.

Read my words and weep like the copious

Rain drops; you are the rain, fall down and run.

As a dream, these words would fail to smolder.

No, I do not merely dream, I respond.

I look past the storm’s wrath and find focus

On one drop dangling on one blade of grass.

I reveal its reality to all

I revel for its existence with all

I give relevance to all that exists.

I instate truth and within it a lie.

A poet has no home, we are the light

All that is are simple clouds, rain, mud, dark

Nothing but a response to something greater

Feel my wrath as I enlightened the world

Does thunder roll without lightning’s strike?

Screaming Meemies

(Previously published in The View From Here, Issue 25)

my stomach is the hollow air

of an elevator shaft

pushed and squeezed

tightly and confined

moaning a constant

tone

the sound of tension--

my mind is the bell

ringing

the opening of doors

letting any

and everybody

dictate the future

a future that could fall

with gravity weighing

too much to fight against

a future that may rise

with just the right

touch

Pool

My parents told me to stay in our yard

but I saw my neighbor standing alone.

I went to him, to see what he was doing.

My nose turned into Rudolph’s, my throat

was burning too. He was beside his pool,

I went to him for company. I guessed he

was cleaning it because he had a pole in

his hand. At any rate, I went up to him

and said something. In a flash, somehow

I ended up in the pool, cracking ice

on the way down. Every inch of me stung,

I could only breathe-in water and quickly

choked. I felt I was in mid-air, going so fast and

flailing about, not being able to break

through the surface of the murky green

water and the stiff icy frame. When I

came to, I was shaking as the water was evaporating

and laid inside my neighbor’s house. Dripping.

All I could think of was how much

trouble I would be in when I got home.

I attempted to sneak into our house,

trying to find dry clothes. But my Mother

was soon at my doorway, looking at me

with hurt and curious eyes. She asked

why I didn’t tell her. I couldn’t answer,

drowning in excuses that didn’t add up.

Dinner

The hibachi

hisses at me

like a rain shower

slapping pavement.

Knives slice,

splitting one

object

into many.

Master chef

speaks Japanese,

as he cuts into

the herbs.

He’s making

a volcano

that will

soon erupt.

After that

he’ll throw shrimp

at one of us.

It’ll be me.

Meat burns

as the flames rise.

I flinch and sweat beads

down my forehead.

All of this for food...

Fall

Halloween

Leaves fall as if they’re burnt by the sun

The warmth of their colors will all too soon fade

As I step, their dried skeletons crunch under me

Thin air scolds my nose as it enters my lungs

I release.

I was once an Indian galloping down streets

chanting trick or treat to ghosts and white people

I believed in spirits and jumped when people booed

Covers and fires hid me from the cold.

I knew how it felt to be a pumpkin,

I wobbled around in orange, and smiled

I couldn’t stop smiling as my father picked me up

And said I was the perfect size.

Now I gut their insides out and eat their seeds

I carve what I want to see into them

I am as white as a ghost,

I am hollow and still.

Widow

(Rondeau Redoublé)

She saw nothing but her future,

Joys of rest she could not perceive,

She’d no time for aimless hover,

Border after border, she weaved.

With every arm and leg she heaved

Entrancing, silver-lined texture

Which had strong holds most misconceived.

She saw nothing but her future!

She’d no want for times of leisure,

She thought of only satin weave.

Gave no time for games or pleasure,

Joys of rest she could not perceive.

She felt the silk she interweaved.

Soft, smooth, string unlike another

Her tender lines, to prey, deceived!

She’d no time for aimless hover.

Made for vital, venom captures

For all the prey she could conceive,

Her motif drawn like white suture

Border after border, she weaved.

But when her design was complete,

Her masterpiece made to allure,

She looked to see what she achieved---

In looking back, she felt unsure

She saw nothing.

Fire Flies

Little sparks of Fire

never seemed so hard to catch.

Like the flame from my lighter,

the blazing ashes tapped into your tray.

The child squints slightly,

aiming his eyes to catch them...

Fire, glowing Fire, like our house

so many years ago.

Against that cold, October sky

they held me captive from that house of mine

my screaming, my shouting,

my torment-- It’s gone!

The band around your finger,

the one that Mitus touched,

welded, melted in the Fire,

the child doesn’t know your name.

Your name is burned into my head.

your touch, scorched into the forefront of my mind.

Those nights outside were made for us,

until the night of the unexpected Fire.

Now the glowing sparks of Fire,

light up each summer night

I hear the joyous screams of children,

as Fire shines in the grip of their pale hands.

Epilepsy

Static interfered with the words you said and broke your voice

up more than your tightened throat. But what I did understand

is that I needed to be home that second, perhaps moments before

one thing I noticed on my way home is that hazard lights are dim

compared to my phone, constantly being lit by missed calls. And

the drivers were oblivious to your tears, my fears, and our needs.

They were slow like the ambulance pulling out of the driveway when

I arrived home. The lights of the sirens were flashing red, but they

were inaudible, enough to keep me cautious. Firemen were gathered

around the front yard like trees, silhouetted and still. One approached

me, trying to tell me everything was fine but if everything was fine,

there would be no need for me to be there, all I heard was white noise.

I was tense, my feet were heavier than elephants filled with lead. I

dashed into the room and you told me you were going to the hospital

to see him. I wanted to argue, to tell you he’s my twin brother,

but he was your lover at the time.

One thing they don’t tell you about is the scene of the incident.

When everyone leaves, the fear and panic stays. The room

remains cold, icy enough to make every hair on your arms

stand up, constantly replaying the event. Blood is still on

paper towel and the carpet. A Coke can lay down on the table,

spilling out its insides. Pillows are left on the floor, the ones they

moved his head on to after he blacked out. The room is uncertain,

I look at my phone but for the first time, it’s still and no one tells me

what I am most worried about, I have to wait the night or however

long it takes for someone to tell me how he is, what is happening.

Another thing they can’t possibly describe is your unpredictable

reaction. Some, like me, are unnervingly calm as they soaked up

all the Coke and blood off the table and carpet. Unable to cry as

they vacuum, move the pillows, wash the dishes, mop the floor.

Some like me will sleep. They will sleep as if their sleep should

last forever. And then when they can’t sleep any more they might

just very well break through their static reaction and cry. Every

time they feel no one sees them, they’ll cry. It doesn’t have to be for

any particular reason to cry. They’ll just feel their eyes weigh down

with pain and their insides cave and they’ll cry for days or however

long it takes. You and my brother sat calmly on the couch that I

cleaned, two days later. It was over and I drove back to my apartment,

away from him, having to live my life and trust that it would never

happen again. And when it did, I cried once more. My life never really

did return to the static that it used to be.

Winter

Moment-um

It’s like this--

The gun was shaking.

His hand, one loosely gripped it

and held it up beside his head.

One propped his entire body up,

holding onto the kitchen table

so that he wouldn’t faint.

And he knew the kids weren’t home,

the sound would be drowned

by the passing train’s howl

so his neighbors wouldn’t know.

Steel wheels pulled the long,

heavy, cargo carrier by.

Occasionally he would hear

the pressure placed between

the tracks and the cycling circles.

It scraped, buzzed, whistled, hissed,

and blew.

Family Tree

Single file line

I wonder if he knew them

Cars people lines and verse

Tied to them by blood

Nameless faces all know me

Forced myself to smile

I stand in a group

Making jokes about my age

Death has no humor

Tight room suffocates

With several people watching,

I lean against the wall.

My Father walks in

I tell him I like his tie

He calls sister ‘Bitch’

Grandma forgets years

She asks how her dad died

My Grandfather died

Mom hops between rooms

I try to help her calm down

I am no rabbit

I play middleman

Problems all stem from people

Ice in cups dangle

I held a white rose

Dropped my rose in Grandpa’s grave

Stared at walls of dirt

We sit on plastic

Grandma sits on a cushion

My shoes pierced the ground

The guard has 21 guns

The tent shaded us from sun

Another leaf falls

Snow Globe

The days, the months, the years

it seems have passed me by so quickly.

Now I’m left holding remnants

of a glass figurine I admired once.

If dreams didn’t disappear from reality,

and love never lost a battle,

if hope was all we needed

to have faith and faith

to have what we’ve always needed;

if tears were always of joy

and glass didn’t break on hardwood floors,

if flowers failed to wilt

and wrinkles diminished into nothing,

then age and change

and the bitter sweet endings

would mean nothing more.

What shapes the shadows on the wall,

shapes the future that we hold.

The world shrinks in size,

music fades in a jewelry box,

the floors and talk change undetectably.

Paper may burn fast or slow,

but it still will go,

and nothing but ash will remain.

The art of childhood

for a child, is seamless.

The child doesn’t realize

that when she sits in her room,

wishing she could be older,

she’ll sit in a much different house later,

wishing she could be younger.

The light burns on the wick of a candle

and in a wink of an eye, it’s all gone.