Full Speed Ahead

A tornado is she
With varying speed and force
The better the gift
The faster her speed
The more forceful her impact

The day she received her Mustang

A day of deep reckoning
Taking the stairs severally
Screaming her own siren
Louder than all three combined
The fire, the police, the ambulance

She took the stairs

Three at a perfect time
Full speed, full throttle
Coming at me forcefully
If I hadn’t braced myself
Against the impending storm
Would have been knocked down
Ever so joyfully
--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

For Those Who Have No One

They say the holidays are the hardest

Solitude is pronounced, shouted

No one hears the cry of the lonely

Watching families thronging in, hugging

Singing, eating, laughing, kissing

No one sees the loneliness of the alone

Far away from loved ones who miss

The joy, the laughter, now a memory

The heart longs for what the heart misses

The silent cry of the lonely resonate

No tree to decorate, no turkey trimmings

No stockings stuffed, no embrace

Inner light's extinguished for now

The ache is so deep it cracks dry land

Take heart, you who are alone this season

Find a comedy show on that channel

Plug in a comedy movie to laugh-cry

But laugh, really laugh to alleviate the pain

Laugh, really laugh to gladden your heart

Laugh, really laugh; you have no choice

Bundle up, eat ice cream; fill your diary

I understand dinner for one; I've been there

See the flip side of that: all that's for you

Write songs, dream of the New Year

This, too, shall pass, I promise

Make your heart feel and see tomorrow

TRY to be happy, be merry, be joyful

This, too, shall pass, I promise     

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Gestures of Love

I talk too much for no cause

He writes, “Shush,”

With manliness on my lashes

Butterflies flutter nonstop

My breath evaporates on his face

My heart runs a cross-country race

Do not ever let my lips be free

Cover them with our future

Entwine my fingers with luck

Entwine my feet with haste

He carries me on his lap

Eyes talk when lips refuse

Permitting magic to infuse

Pour bumps on my receptive skin

Arm holds my back to his side

A way he found to make me helpless

My breath catches me unaware

Hold my hand for no reason

Let the electricity sizzle

Let sugary words drizzle

I am here to stay   

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Motions of River

Vibrant river strong in faith
Motions of colorful nations
In prayer
In hymns
In adoration
Glorifying
Kneeling streams run as one
Standing in unified fluid motion
Coursing in one grateful chant
Sitting rivers ebb and flow
Moved by the tides of devotion
Without undue clues and prompts
Like breathing air, knowing when to glide
Unlike television audience’s cued applause
Genuflecting
Shaking hands
In prayers
In hymns
In adoration
Glorifying
Place that camera the world over
Capture motions of fluid rivers
My Catholic motions of river
Regardless of continent
Regardless of language
Countries glide simultaneously
Like abundant rivers of the world

Flowing gracefully at God’s command

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

See Through

Glasses said to see through them
Windex clean and causing head bangs
I spied what nature hid from me
Months of feelings of abandonment
When fall comes, leaves fall
Exposing see-through forests
When fall comes, trees undress
At the slightest, gentlest breath from air
Prance about in mild winds turning cold
When fall comes, shrubs and bushes cry
Exposure lays bare all guarded secrets

Newly arrived in this boisterous vicinity

Unaware of concealed activities

Famous cars zip up and down the hood
From unknown origins, sweeping streets
They had unwarranted, unfair advantage
My house of a corner lot laid me bare
Nothing to hide, no seasonal mystery
No running around of hide and seek

I spied what nature hid from me

Via see-through prescription glasses
By means of see-through windows
By way of see-through forests
I spied what nature hid from me


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

In-between Thoughts

My mind slides to home base

Verdant roses and hydrangeas

Bud and bloom in happiness

Wasps of delicate vines entwine

Wrap around my fecund mind

In between rows of thriving verses

Barren land asks for seeding

That they may germinate with abandon

That they may bloom into prosaic wisps

In between thoughts, dryness stares

They cause doubts of ability

Cast burdens of writer’s block

They say I should sit and write

Unworthy thoughts not my best creations

Vacant lots welcome all travelers

The house of lackluster prose

The house of distressed property

My mind hits home runs

When silent cheers rebear energy

I prance around like Ali, the Greatest

Delivering uppercuts and jabs

To in-between thought vacancies

Swift moves away from ensnarement

Attempts to grab arms by in-between thoughts

When my mind refuses to bloom

These are any writer’s nightmares

 

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

An Irony Grabbed Me

Preface to Poetry: I wrote this poem several years ago when the injustice of immigration laws hit home. The irony of being a "citizen" of the United States of America is that all are foreigners or foreign born except Native Americans. They and only they have the right to ask anyone to go home.

As the new wrangling continues about immigration reforms, I went into my "portmanteau" and pulled out this poem that makes a mockery of "citizens" (what I call residents) harrasing those who are deemed not to be. America is a melting pot for a reason. Mitt Romney (whose great-great grandfather was an immigrant) stated that foreigners will be sent back to their countries of origin. Sean Hannity (whose grandparents--both maternal and paternal--were immigrants) is allowing himself to take stock of his ancestry. Republicans (who are still first generation, second generation, third generation, or fourth generation Americans) are finally agreeing that something has to change regarding immigration because Romney lost them the election. They are allowing common sense to prevail.
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An irony grabbed me

Rolled me on the floor

I kicked out, kicked out
The hilariousness of it all
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out

My eyes beheld a man

A first-generation American
Handcuffing the foreign born
Accusing the foreign born
Harassing the foreign born

An irony grabbed me
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The ludicrousness of it all
Your parents you are arresting
Did you know, did you know?

A second-generation American

Chasing foreign-born people
Demanding citizenship proof
Your grandparents you’re chasing
Did you know, did you know?

A third-generation American
Deporting foreign-born people
Demanding immigration papers
Your great-grandparents you’re deporting
Did you know, did you know?

A fourth-generation American

Instituted tough immigration laws
Passed merciless decrees, mandates
Enacting anti-immigration laws
To keep out those foreigners

An irony grabbed me
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The selfishness of it all
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The ignorance of it all

American residents pontificating

Had your parents been sent back
You’d not be here today pontificating
Had your grandparents
Been sent back years ago
You’d not be here pontificating
Had your great-grandparents
Been sent back years ago
You’d not be here pontificating
How far back would you like to go?

Ignorance and greed blind

The bridge you have crossed
On your way into America
You've demolished now that bridge
Future immigrants dare not come
For you have made it through
Into these United States

This land is not your land

This land is not my land
By any name you calll HIM
This land is God’s land
For all to fetch milk and honey
All lands are nature's lands
Greed erected borders and inhumanity
After crossing bridges and oceans

An irony grabbed me
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The avarice of it all

All are comers from other lands
All are usurpers in this land
This land is not your land

This land is not my land

By any name you calll HIM
This land is God’s land
All lands are nature's lands
Nature shall remain forever
When humanity is gone forever

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Doctors Know a Praying Soul

Baffled by medicine's numb edge

Confounded by mysterious healing

Doctors marvel at who miracle saves

Despite themselves, physicians in tune

with the metaphysical allow introspection

Accept performance beyond their gift

Science unravels but has limitations

Conditions medicine fails to cure

Conditions physicians fail to erase

Point to a higher salvation

Doctors marvel at what miracle saves

Accepting that they and medicine cannot

heal all who throng through their doors

Doctors and nurses know and accept

A praying soul has hope of healing

A praying family surrounding a patient

Has hope multiplied a millionfold

Wrapped in hope’s miraculous aura

Doctors and nurses know piled evidence

Prayer’s efficacy delivered with no rhyme

Channeled through faith with no reason

When all efforts fail, we sigh and resign

Accepting the time has arrived

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.