To Mare de Lis (Poem)

To Mare de Lis

The night runs silently

behind my windows.

I stare at my ceiling,

eyes wide,

feet fiddling.

I am thinking of you.

Are you sleeping?

I wonder.

What do you sleep about?

Do you sleep in pastels

and canvas and acrylic?

Do you sleep in brushes

and colors and white lilies?

Do you dream at all?

Do I take a peek at

 your dreams.

Me?

I dream of stars and travels.

Of children that where never mine.

Picket fences, moonlights

at la Puerta del Sol.

My pen besides your brush.

I dream of you.

I am thinking of you.

In my head

visions form anew.

That amazing expression of

pleasure and delight

you unwittingly call your smile

is forever burnt in my mind.

And your eyes...

I close my eyes and I see

flashes of you and me.

(2001)        

Driving (Poem)

 (Note: Yesterday, I was looking over some old poetry and found this piece. I wrote this poem over a decade ago. I was still a grad student with no real idea of what I wanted to do with life. What strikes me now is that, today, I am one of the two heads stuck inside a shiny SUV talking about diaper brands.)

Driving

Driving along the

silent long road,

two walls of glass

between the back of their

heads

and me.

They’re tucked inside

the new, shiny security

of their blue SUV.

Hands flutter, I wonder.

Their conversation, perhaps on rings,

perhaps on diaper brands,

perhaps simply on chess.

All planned out,

            the map laid out,

sure of the road to take

ahead.

A flashing of yellow.

A turn to the left.

I am alone

driving along

with my rusty Fox.

Going home

to ponder the future.

Tomorrow I have a paper

due.

(2001)        

Lunch (Poem)

 (Note: This poem is simply about sitting down and eating lunch at a crowded foot court in a mall.)

Lunch

The decibel level is

extremely high.

Nothing coherent.

Just a loud murmur

of voices

melding together.

Everywhere

colors and gizmos,

jingles and slogans.

Only 99 cents,

Anything else

with your order.

Dozens of choices,

lining up like

an old fashioned

firing squad.

There is an

bright orange tray

before him.

He carefully opens the

greenish yellow paper just

using his pale fingertips.

He picks up the bun

and with a surgical touch,

like a NATO airstrike,

he picks out the onions.

White shirted

high-school kids

sprint towards the arcade.

He’s trying to eat healthy.

Charbroiled chicken in his

hands.

Small coke.

Small fries.

His nose wriggles.

The air smells of

cheap perfume mixing

with expensive perfume.

Hair spray, gel and mousse,

quarters in pocket, new dresses

open boxes and happiness in a

bag.

Of burnt out plastic,

and too much makeup.

The crowd growls slowly

in unison.

Heads bobbing up and down,

like prairie dogs in a hot

summer morning.

He chews his chicken sandwich,

carefully counting each bite.

Conversations jumble:

“This pizza is good,”

“Are you gonna eat that last

fry,”

“. . .that guy is hot,”

“. . .think she’ll go out with me?”

Sip the Coke,

read the little copyright on the

side.

There is greens and creams,

pastel colors.

Indirect lightning,

soothing tones.

Mixed with moving flesh

and grinning tones.

He stands up, his meal is

finished.

No sundae today. . .

Maybe later.

(2001)

Confessions of the First Son (Poem) & Loki Bound (Poem)

 (Note: These poems are an homage to Neil Gaiman's fantastic Sandman: Season of Mists. The first is inspired by Lucifer and the second by Loki. Confessions of the First Son is written in blank verse and Loki Bound is a sonnet. These are among the few poetry pieces I've written with specific meter.)

Confessions of the First Son

The evening dissipates before my eyes.

I’m sitting isolated on this beach

examining  the dying summer sky.

I want to fly again, I want to hold

the clouds, the rain, the birds and make them mine.

But I cannot. I’ve fallen and may not

see light again. The irony! These souls

call me the light!  These mortal fools. They say:

“The devil made me do it.”  “Selling souls

to Satan.” What is that? How can I own

a soul? Their souls belong to them, not me.

The poet Milton said with great disdain:

“It’s better ruling Hell than serving God

in Heaven” But that Milton was so blind,

so Puritan. There is no Hell. There is

no Heaven. None at all. A Hell?  I laugh!

You make your own. As I did when I Fell.

I tire of the loneliness, so dark.

Behold disgrace! The Fallen firstborn son—

the fool who thought about rebelling once.

But how can I rebel, the choice was not

a choice I could make mine.  No, I am part

of fate. The greatest game of all— The Fall,

the War. We were all pawns without a voice.

But we now know that I am not the one.

I had no say, did I? So I will have

to accept my life, but not my fork, my horns.

You might dare say: “The death of evil’s roots!”

So I will sit and watch the dying day.

And yes, the sunsets are spectacular,

you pompous hack. I ask: You happy now?

(2001)

Loki Bound

It drips so slow. It burns my face.  The pain

is so unbearable. The snake even grins

at me.  My son’s entrails replace the chain

that holds my arms, my legs, until my kin

begin the final fight.  The fight where I 

will die. It is inscribed in stone, it does

not matter what I try to do, I’ll die.

They said this is my punishment. It was

so long ago. Who wants eternal pain?

I want to scream and cry out at my wife:

unleash me now! But how can I have gain!

My blight will end, and then so will my life!

How can I live with my own death foretold?

How can I die without a life at all?

(2001)