Closet Monsters

funny how when we are little
monsters sneak out the closet
roaming streets and schools
sometimes our own homes
screaming for lights to be on
eventually we grow silent
hiding tired eyes, weary souls
under layers, layers of clothing
layers of beliefs, layers of makeup
layer upon layer until we are grown
then we shove monsters back
into closets and underneath beds
pretending they are gone

Punk Rock Boy

what can be said about a punk rock boy

at chuck e cheese that would make sense

can you be a rebel without being rebellious

ask only questions without real answers

are you wise enough to be our caricature

crying out against inequality and injustice

pointing out that we gave up our freedom

with the purchase of comfortable recliners

that sit in front of flat screen televisions

grown beyond the original technicolor yawn

no wonder you look angry holding that cup

Cooking With Cousins

i want you to remember
we spied santa on a hillside
our star sang ballads from
psychedelic radio lights
old men that were only
middle-aged crooned and
strummed, sat us on knees
we pelted each other in
crabapple wars when white
flowers fell leaving only fruit
gorgeous flying fruit that 
filled souls rather than bellies
the sting dimmed by laughter

i want you to remember
football in the side yard
where we didn’t let you win
each point you made was yours
holiday shows littered with song
we showcased you, center stage
because there is no resistance
for endless pools of brown eyes
willing innocent’s quiet voice
riding double, even triple on
stingrays, hoping not to fall
being called in to go home
pretending we had all gone deaf

i want you to remember
to let it soak overnight like
frijoles we cook in the morning
simmer like green chile that
brings sweat to brow, grin to face
pull the memories in close
hugged like husk to masa
know that these things, each
rounded us out like bunuelos
refined in the hottest oil
heritage stacked layer upon
layer melting like enchiladas
so our hearts would never know hunger

Elizabeth Gilbert on Creativity

I have watched this video three times today and each time has led me to a smile. It is shorter than a sitcom and has far more to say. Olé!

Freudian Flames

i’ve got a swing in my step
it forced blood from my head  
now my ego has drifted to sleep

all thoughts have dried up
the candle has tipped, now
roof burns like dried up reeds

when the framework falls in
with only skeletons left
i think in the basement i’ll be

finding myself, in id’s selfish arms
so careless and reckless, untamed
i’ll believe i might finally be free

Forgot the Apron (v2)

sitting quietly at kitchen counter
i realize my mixer is stuck in reverse
ideals and antiquated beliefs
fly out the sides of the bowl
ingredients were added

one

at

a

time

individually, as directed

it turned out bland

now I scan the shelf for seasonings
borrow a cup of something bold
sprinkle mirth from the back canister
experiment with a new mixture
always changing and adjusting
the personal blend

hoping to beat the secret recipe

A Kingdom

in the land of socks
there lives a king
that dreams of dryers
and all they bring

the kingdom grows
by leaps and bounds
while naked feet
fall on the ground

but like the crown
upon his head
burdens heavy
filled with dread

for some of them
do arrive alone
looking frayed and
far from home

sees their sadness
no longer a pair
a sovereign heart
out to heal despair

dreaming of dryers
all that they bring
in the land of socks
there lives a king

Indigo Shadows

i come to you wrapped
in crimson speckled gauze
broken spirit my greatest gift
unable to discern the future
hearing only whispers of the
wistful spirits of ancestors
i choose you over crystal ball
standing at summer’s end watching
sunset usher in your indigo shadows
clinging to the wart of carnal vice
seeking easy distraction, shelley, stoker 
like trick or treat housing idle threat
but what of my autumn harvest
faithful fruit and divine offering
can i shed this costume and
return to eden

An Invitation

I recently was extended an invitation by L.K. Thayer to be a guest squeeze over at her Poetry Juice Bar.  If ever a place was filled with creative juices, this is it. Be sure to stop by and check out the inspiring photos by V.C. Ferry, incredible poetry and lyrics by L.K. Thayer, and the guest squeeze spots by visiting poets. You won’t be disappointed. I was really nervous about writing a poem for someone else’s blog – so that’s what I wrote about. Let me know what you think.

SLOW ROAD

i felt a deep panic, like before an academic test
or waking from a dream of being naked in a crowd
that it was silly didn’t calm me, uneasiness remained
distractions with a purpose, this could be the solution

out came a very old file, papers dingy and faded
i began to read, line by line, faster then, page by page
sentimental words of youth, deeply colored clichés
the pee-chee folder was supposed to lend authenticity
serious words don’t belong in flowery notebooks
somehow sporty figures on fields of orange fell short

then i noticed it, up in the corner, looking bold
first initial, last name, was it in times new roman?
onion skinned paper as transparent as the attempts
i looked you up, in a sphere unknown to us then
the about you told me more than i could have guessed
there it was “poetry was a quick road to starvation”
somehow the print more credible, script faded, flimsy
empty praises for rigid writing, clandestine coffee hours

i know now that all the paper held was desire, no skill
passionate youth, misguided by youthful instructors
with curls that fell over banal brown eyes of seduction
arms that reached from behind to jot notes on my paper
begging me, let go, let loose, be free, show me all of you
a young girl, naive, fresh, too lacking in experience for poetry

now i rehash trite thoughts that led me to yellowing paper
letting youthful trepidation fall from shoulders like a red dress
daring myself to believe that words might feed our unclad souls
on slow roads captivating men with dark hair will never travel

Yellow Umbrellas

how would things be
if seagulls were seen as glorious birds
dandelions were hearty flowers
city smells were worth capturing

how would things be
if sad memories didn’t stop us from full lives 
the living didn’t wear black to funerals
old men didn’t send young men to war

how would things be
if we all learned to dance when young
we all learned to sing when young
we all learned to play when young
and didn’t forget when we grew old