4.25.17 Written a few years ago. aka newbies

In a Day

When my bright moments fall away
When my bursting memories fade to gray
the pages in this book will stay
to faithfully remind me of my day

In what way was this day spent
was it torn, battered or bent?
Maybe it was borrowed, possibly lent.
Either way, it was a day, hopefully well meant.



Tell Your Story

Everybody has a story.
Everybody has a song.
Everybody has a way     to take away the pain that longs.
Each person's tale is different.
Each person's tale is strong.
But how can we make a difference,
   if we do not sing our song?


High Sky

The guitarman came on stage
He strung a cord
He played a phrase
Out in the audience, they did wonder
His peculiar take on the song
They tilted their heads
and twittled their thumbs
Then thought to themselves, this is just plain wrong!

Their ears did quake
And so did his
As the guitarman started to play again
The squeaks and squaks he knew weren't right
But he still smiled with pure delight

For he knew the time would come
When he'd strut on the stage and gleam
in the sun
And the crowds would cheer or so he assumed
That's why the guitarman is so persistant
while practicing in grandmas's living room.


A Hushed Prayer

His prayer was deep
His prayer left eyes
         open wide
He spoke of things most men avoid
The others mumble and fuss and
      lower their voice
But this man said what was on
his heart
He said persecution was on the way
And we really wouldn't know the day
  that it would try to break our bones
And scratch our throats to hear our
             groans.

So we stay inside our cozy homes
Our comfy lives and warm abodes
to push away the outside threats
Try and tell ourselves- it won't happen yet.

But as this young man recalled
Who are we to boast at all
For we all see it's coming soon
  It's coming soon.
And are we ready or are we not?
Because this name is no longer sane,
will we run or will we face?
It's not a hide-behind-the-curtain game,
and then he ends with Amen. and we breath
and open our eyes-to see our two hands and feet
are right where we left them
safely on the wooden desk that prepares to write
freedom's tale as a woman or man that can't remember
   why they were wishing their hair wouldn't get
wet in the rain outside.


The Free Ladybug

Oh there she is!
Oh there she goes!
Look, she's wand'red up a rose
Instinctively she crawls around
To inspect her dinner, to find her ground
Where she can merely be safe and sound

A wing goes up and then comes down
All in making but a sound
For curiosity prevails
As she jumps and flies from
leaf to pail

What if we were all as curious as she?
Flapping our wings and flying free.
Daring to reach the tops of our trees
To see all the wonder and majesty
Of our great Lord and King.

To explore the heights and seas and plains
The shining sun and soaking rains
To bounce from place to place
embracing each stage
As yes, if we were as curious as she.


To the...

To The                   ignored
         Deflat
               ed
    and     bro         ken hearted

 People will tell you it's okey.
 And you know it is.
But no matter what they tell you
       You have to tell you
       What you know
       to be TRUE
       so you can gR0W
    and be you.

Remember God made you
unique; beautiful; loving
in His    image egami

Week of 4.27.17

Sore Desires

You don't see that I grind my teeth all nights
So that my morning spit is tinted red
But I smile instead

I want to be like Roethke and Bishop--
painting with ink
If the pen bleeds freely
maybe my gums won't



America's Children in ENGL

I am a yellow apple writing poems in your class
A slowly dripping caramel voice glides over my cracked skin
I glance to see if it seeps into my neighbor's soul
as it does mine.

But we are in crates to be shipped to factory-less Washington.
To be eaten or displayed
So my classmates sit silently and stoically,
dazzled and bewildered
As they watch the caramel flow in this touch of paradise


I am better

Only once or twice or trice
Am I filled with loathing glee
As teasers from my past-in public- recognize me

Week of 4.17.17

On the page

Words.
Three words
Now five
Equal to the ink. Indescribable to the soul.
Like blood of an alien kind
impressed on our parchment.

This sharp mystery of life abounding from our fingertips
Onto empty space.
That held nothing
and is
Now full
to you.


Look at me

I wave a hand
  and you do too.
Yet off you go to count your shoes.
Perhaps they're green or red or blue.

But I shall never care or know
  You dropped your fingers
much too slow.
And thought to turn around and say--
but then you went the other way.

Week of 4.4.17

"Write down your thoughts"

professor instructs as the time ticks by.

My heart throttles in my chest
beating as a racehorse, ready to leap.
Jetting out this thick black ink onto paper
I describe..... my thoughts.

The task before my hand-and others too.
Contemplative, energetic scribbling,
puffed nostrils frozen in midair.
Brains scrambling for verbiage to dispose
on their cool white sheet.

Each thoughtful soul composed of history in shadows,
the tongues and twists through the pen.

Who me? the one to read your poetry?
My fingers flit as I beg for a cloud of rain
to drench my inflamed mind.
Not wanting to reveal the ice storm within.

Week of 3.28.17 Ekphratic poem

Around the Round Table ***
From Hannah Banks: "For the Beauty of the Earth" pottery

A feast of broiled chicken
legs with parmesan and deviled
eggs. I'd pocketed some parsley
for the buttery asparagus.

And twisted the table with fondue.
Chocolate strawberries, delicacies.
Hot cider steeped and cranberry
juice -But-each mug oneself brings.

Poppyseed dressing perfectly poured.
Carmel scones and lime pudding,
melons, mangoes, mouthwatering.
Finally, the doorbell rings.

The bronze, embedded mug of fall
October's ease of embrace
and a whiff of that earthy parlor
his fiery eyes delighted at the sight.

My darling April knocks it next
The luscious green of her mug
is filled with May's new daffodils.
A pearly, tender hearted soul.

The blue beauty July, my sister month
Then September with her
glowing auburn hair
August slightly cranky, March a tad late.

And November sweeps in at last
Twirling her smoothed and golden mug
February, January and December never show
We blame it on their ever frightful snow

And down we sit to eat
The year of tabled treats
Chipped, smoothed, dripping and colored
Are the mugs around our seasoned table

Week of 3.21.17 Villanelle

From John at Gethsemane***

When weeping willows have just come in bloom
In heavy heart, the low garden agrees
My maker rests before this broken doom

He says we are the bride and he the groom
An odd way to portray him on his knees
When weeping willows have just come in bloom

Hush'd words of solace will turn glee to gloom
Before a dank and dreary, poignant seize
My maker rests before this broken doom

The others do not know this fate that looms
The only hint- a tear caught in the breeze
When weeping willows have just come in bloom

These eyes have slipped, that I did not presume
Sleeping souls under languid hanging trees
My maker rests before this broken doom

I know he is preparing for the tomb
Yet careless guards have taken him at ease
Weeping willows have just come in bloom
To watch my maker take this broken doom

Week of 3.14.17 American Sonnet

Weather of a Wind Storm***

A lovely mess this raises in the heart.

My splintered trees among roads soon depart.

In orange helmets and valiant suits of gray,

are men that mend heaven’s cool disarray.

Storm travelers watch in wonder at this start

All other bodies play the worried part

They’re bumbling in anguish of the day

Our pansies nearly stripped and washed away

But large lights that flickered and broke apart

Cause wayward people to be rather smart

And countless busy-bodies to me say

“How’d you survive the weather yesterday?”

To which I grin and gratefully reply

“I sat outside and watched the lovely sky.”

Week of 2.23.17 Assignment B

Rice Pudding***

I see that hot sun shining through them pearly clouds.

Squintin to the acres I see the dark men comin in.

Their boots breathin heavy, like that heavy fog from the near mornin’.

The warm wind stingin’ my workin hands, but not as bad as they.

And the cry of the billy goat preachin from the top of hills.

Let me take a look at em’ before I gotta kill’un.

Real close, I see the hair all curl and bleet is goin’.

My little goat as whole as a fresh pitchah of lemonade.

They think him sweet and tangy, served for dinnuh.

Since I was a lil’ un’ the goat’s been good to me.

Singin me songs of whole rice pudding on a half eatin’ day.

Oh his days are numbered this I know.

And so does he, so does he.

Swingin down near my ankles are those tears I cry.

Price paid for makin these words

Known to one kind.

Now chillun’ crying, innocents dyin.

Can we take it slow?

Can we     take   it   slow?

And eat rice pudding till the days come cold.

Rice Pudding (Narrow and long) ***
I see that hot sun.
Squintin, I see the dark men
comin in.

Their boots breathin heavy
The warm wind
stingin my workin hands.

But not as bad as they
The cry of the billy goat
on the top of them hills

singin me songs
Of whole rice pudding
on a half-eaten day.

Oh I knows his days
are numbered.
And so does he.

Can we take it slow?
Can we    take   it    slow?
And eat rice pudding till the days come cold.



Rice Pudding (without intro and ending)
I see the dark men
comin in.

The cry of the billy goat.
Callin out bleets

On them warm windy
hilltops.

It's stingin my working hands
but not as bad as they.

Comin to eat rice pudding
till the days come cold.

Narrative 

     “Dailiah, come an’ roast this pig!” scowled my mistress from the house. ‘Oh Lord, them poor animals are goin to the grave,’ I thought as I rolled up my burlap sleeves. But we all gotta eat. Miss Nancy thought we needed to eat in the next half an hour or else her household would go to Hades. She tapped her clean feet, standing at the door with her long fingers on her hips. Those frilly curls danglin beside that pretty green brooch was swayin in this wild wind. 

      The ocean was bringin in the high tides about now, which hovered over our rice fields. The smell met my nose ‘fore the sound of the squished mud did. Swamp. That putrid grassy mush, mixed with the blood of mosquitahs. A smell that penetrates yo’ thoughts before you eyes even see it. The dry whip whistlin along with that bitter salty wind. Not bustin anyone’s back today, but a threat that it coulda have been. 

     Miss Nancy cringed at it too. I saw her, and she thought hard. And spoke to me again, sayin, “I don’t want the pig anymore, I want that goat instead. Yes, that’ll make a fine supper.” My baby goat! “Oh no, Mz. Nancy, you don’t want that goat, he’s got a bad bleet, and he’s a gettin old, not fresh meat no more,” I said tryin to stop her. “Uh, uh,” she said shakin her head. “I want him, even better, he’s not good for anything else.” Now movin’ down the steps she set off to stand in the little bit of sunshine left, right next to the barn. 

    “But Mz. Nancy…” I pleaded. “You questioning my orders? You are to listen to what I say!" she yelled. She grabbed a lil’ whip from the side and started to me. I turned, ready for my back to be stingin. It would match my hands done from the wind. But she sliced it across my ankles. Still bringin tears to my sorry eyes. “Now you go get that goat,” she mustered, droppin the whip and movin back to the house.

Week of 2.16.17 Assignment A

Invading my city***

Mr. Charleston from the floor above, gets ratty tat-tats on his door

If friends do accompany him, a light knock would suffice.

Teetering chairs they lean back in. scrape through my ears, right to my core

Clenching teeth, weary eyes, I totter upstairs carrying my neighborly advice.

Broom still in hand from my chores, leading as my gallivant sword

Words brewing in my mind, as I huff and puff up all seven stairs

Ascending to the battle grounds, ready to settle this disturbing accord

My hand extended to carefully knock on account of these eerie chairs

Grabbing his cane, step by step, he comes to the peephole to explore

What this visitor from below would discuss, perhaps she would be rather nice

Dusty broom, and unkempt hair, she stares at this man then past him for more

More people do not show themselves, he coughs once, she flinches twice

She swore she heard them bustling about, scrapping their chairs, that creaking board

Apologizing for his time, she turns back to her own cares

Returning to her household work, she figured it would better be ignored

But before the sun stoops below horizon’s belt, “I’ll find that noise” so she declares

Her broom in hand, she climbs again, to Mr. Charleston’s musty floor

Hearing tap- tap from within, before she lets go of all her vice

She waits patiently at his door, perhaps an hour, maybe more

Disgruntled, tired, she opens to see his body surrounded by- enlarged mice 

Article: Dr. Manny: Rat epidemic in New York a dire warning for other cities

Many of our country’s major cities have severe infrastructure and housing challenges. This has led not only to poor living conditions but also places individuals’ health in grave danger. In New York City, among our many housing woes, we have a rat infestation epidemic. Rats have become so common to our residents that the media celebrated a rat carrying a pizza from the subway, and even gave it a name. An important message gets lost in the hoopla over something like “Pizza Rat,” and it’s about the danger that rodents pose to humans and our health.

Remember the Black Death? It was one of the most devastating pandemics in human history that swept through Europe in the 1300s claiming upwards of 100 million lives.  The cause was the bubonic plague, which is an infectious disease caused by the Yersinia pestis bacteria that humans can get through either infected flea bites or direct contact with an infected animal. Human-to-human transmission is rare, but an infected person can transmit plague pneumonia to another through cough droplets in the air.

Plague can be successfully treated with antibiotics, but a suspected case requires immediate medical attention. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), patients must be given antibiotics as soon as possible to avoid death. The most common vector of the disease during Black Death was rats.

And here we are, in 2017, in danger of another bacterial disease linked to rats called leptospirosis. Already in New York’s Bronx borough, the disease has killed one person and left two others clinging to life. Sure, the city’s deputy commissioner of the Health Department wants you to be encouraged by the two patients’ recovery, but what you should be is concerned that these three people were infected because of where they live. All three cases came from a one-block radius over the past two months.

Leptospira bacteria thrive in warm, moist environments, and most human cases are associated with exposure to rats or rodent-infested environments. Disturbingly, humans can become infected through contact with rat urine or water, soil or food that has been contaminated by the urine.

Doctors want anyone with suspected symptoms to report them to the health department and seek immediate medical attention. You could experience a wide range of symptoms, like fever, headaches, nausea, vomiting, muscle pain and other awful ailments, or you may experience nothing at all. If you’re in the latter category, how would you know to seek treatment? Without treatment you could suffer kidney damage, meningitis, liver failure, respiratory distress or even death. Infection during pregnancy may result in severe fetal and maternal morbidity or mortality.

I know I talk a lot about the importance of disease prevention like getting vaccines and keeping up with routine care, but this time, we can only blame city officials.

How did they let the rat infestation get this out of control? How could they not have known during routine health inspections that rat infestations could lead to death? I’m well aware that in a budget crunch, things like pest control are the first to be cut, but we are talking about the hygiene of our city.

Big cities’ health departments, especially in a place like New York, cannot continue function the way they do today. They are always reactive, never proactive. The city health departments should be the first ones to ring the bell to alert city officials and citizens that there is a health problem brewing. We should not have to wait until people have to be removed from their homes and hospitalized before anybody begins to think about how to react.  

Dr. Manny Alvarez serves as Fox News Channel's senior managing health editor. He also serves as chairman of the department of obstetrics/gynecology and reproductive science at Hackensack University Medical Center in New Jersey. 

Week of 2.14.17 Valentine's Day Poems

I didn't expect you 
No appointments made
for August 23rd
No introduction planned
my table unconcerned
My hand not prepared to embrace
This abundant warmth in this
unplanned fate


If We Were Made A Movie ***
They stamped my heart, left it for dead
You swooped it up
And then you said-
Come here my darling don't you sway,
live to see another day.
Off we rode into the night
A silver lining in the movie's light


My devious left hand
My left hand spills the
                     table salt
And then goes for the
    water glass
Seeping onto the
         softened ground.
The devious move in revenge
to the right hand that shook yours.


Spinning
The numbers wrap around my mind
like peanut butter on a spoon-
mixed with honey
a fluid swoon.
Of the number of times, I've thought
of you.


Tripping over my tongue
Streams of sunshine
Blondish-orange specks
Faded blue eyes spilling into your soul
"Look-you-good"
fathoms my words
As my mind trips into your
swirling oceans

Week of 2.7.17 Expanded image poems

The Cabinet Filer's Den 

Peering out basement windows
The lady in the astute suit-
Gazes to skies of gray.
Those glistening papers
and golden pens
shimmer on her dignified desk.
Crumpling the paper onto the floor
she heads for the door

Book Picking

Like licking sweet cream
on morning donuts

Browsing through these luxuries
Fiction, art, bibliographies.
Wrapped in one chapter,
a delicacy for me

Trophy Wife***

Shiny cookie sheets
Rampant heartbeat.
Timer dings, doorbell rings

Hurried feet rush to the door
To greet the man who owns the floor
Dripping coat brought to dry

A muffled cough, a stifled sigh,
A twitching smile at the smell-
of soft sweets baked too well

Week of 1.30.17 Still images

The Cabinet Filer

Basement window
Gazing to the skies of gray
Glistening papers
Golden pens
cannot phase this prison den

Swimming in the Closet ***

Parting the sea of blues

Doing laps around the metal hangers

the turquoise blouse

slips over my hand

The jagged crash of morning 

Book Picking

Cover to cover

Glaze over

Like donuts roasting

in the fire

Felt, flipped, tossed around

Until a delicacy is found

Trophy Wife

Shiny cookie sheets
Rampant heartbeat
A Twitching smile at the smell-
of soft sweets
Baked too well

Boredom's Elevator 

White painted room

Stripped wall paper

Open windows

A nearby tree

Hand and foot need to be free

Hand in Hand

Slippery boots

Slippery sighs

The tears of loneliness have dived-

Your outstretched hand
My tears smash into
Mixed in with the rain's cortege

You see my heart in one tear
Entwined with the cry of heaven
Honing the brevity of life

Grass that breathes for another
Our outspoken tears are

Cradled in the foreigner's land

Farmer Stubborn

He casted the plow

into the Earth.

Seagull's squawk,

Barefoot in dirt.
Raw, sweaty hands
He pushes forth
Padded green gloves squat by the house

His tilted glance, averted eyes

At the wife's garden advice 

Week of 1.24.17 First poem

Houghton's Still Emblem ***

Pride rock.

Clothed in paint of purple and gold.

A fortress divided,

A symbol of battles fought on fields of grass.

Stamped with gray lettering.

Dents and dimples coat its layer.

Impressions on the cold surface that begin to fade.

Scuffs left from commoners that have pranced on it in victory.

Immovable, still, a robust character.
A specimen that sees generations create dreams and failures of themselves.

Astutely, dutifully sitting as the representative of the soil.

Slowly sinking into the soul of the well-known foundation.