Hearse Driving Man

 

Hearse Driving Man

By Mushroom Montoya

 

 

Grief has been sitting in our driveway.

I hear his engine running.

His car's pistons vibrate

In my gut,

 

Shaking tears

Out of my eyes

While I do all I can

To ignore the hearse driving man.

I go and stand outside

Our front room door

Pointing my accusing finger,

Go away.

He lowers his black tinted window

Music flows out to my ears,

Memory, from the musical, Cats

Lets me know

He isn't going anywhere.

 

I send a hammer smashing curse

To slam and squash his cold-hearted hearse

Into tiny, whiney, smithereens.

But it is all to no avail.

 

My hammer is just a useless wish

Making me want to yell and scream

At my inability to make him disappear

And stay away forever.

 

He turns up the volume

On his cursed hearse’s radio

Playing Josh Groban’s

To Where You Are.

 

And then he flings a bloody hatchet

Out of his dark hearse window

Smacking, cutting, and whacking me

In the middle of my chest.

 

I fall to my knees

Begging please,

Oh please!

Go away!

 

I struggle to stand up.

I turn around

And walk inside.

I shut the door.

 

But try as I might,

The door won’t lock

I kick it hard

Exploding a bomb

 

Full of memories of

Me and our son,

He is in my cradling arms.

Me rocking him slowly back to sleep.

 

And then I weep

Seeing his body

Laying the coffin

While bagpipes blaze

Amazing Grace.

 

Grief revs his engine

I hear it backfire,

Knocking me down

Into my own pool of tears.

Audio Link

Rooster Challenge

 

                                https://pixabay.com/images/search/rooster/

Rooster Challenge

 

I sit on the wooden step. 

My teeth are clenched.

I squint my eyes, 

Looking for an opportunity.

 

The huge red rowdy rooster 

Marches guard patrol,
Bobbing his head,

Warning me to stay far away.

 

His cruel callous eyes cut almost

As sharply as his razor-sharp beak

That made me shriek

When he flew onto my face,

 

Biting and tearing my flesh apart,

Scarring my head and arms forever,

Teaching me never to meddle

In a blustering rooster’s business. 

 

But I can’t stay sitting 

On this silly splintery stoop.

I’ve got to run to the outhouse. 

I’ve really got to poop.

 

Why won’t he leave

And go into his coup

And protect the baby chicks,

So, I can get off this stoop?

 

I stare at the rusty wire fence

Surrounding his chicken domain,

Remembering that fateful morning

When I smiled happily holding 

 

A couple of baby chicks,

Who were so soft and cute,

When all of a sudden, he screamed

As he crashed and slashed into my face.

 

My legs are twitching.

My bladder is filling up.

I stand and watch and secretly beg,

“Please, go away.”

 

Wow! He shakes his wobbly wattle,

And puffs out his feathery red wings.

He lifts his head and crows

As he struts along the rows

 

Of flowers leading the way to his coup.

I have my chance.
I mustn’t wait.

I really have to poop.

 

Salt Spray Invitations

 

Salt Spray Invitations

By Mushroom Montoya

 

La Mar sends me salt spray

Invitations,

Love notes for my nose

To read.

 

Sunshine sparkles on tree leaves

All around me.

Wind shakes them and pretends

They are white gloved wavelets,

 

Beckoning me to

Dance on the seashore,

Barefooted and

Barelegged,

 

So, La Mar can hug me,

And soothe

My broken heart.

 

Salty moist breezes

Whisper her song,

"I didn't feed all his ashes

To the fish and clams.

 

I saved a few.

Come to me

With an open heart.

I shall place his smile

Deep inside you."

 

Salty tears slide over my cheeks,

Onto my bare feet.

My toes twitch and whine.

They prefer saltwater

From the sea,

 

Rather than the salt laden grief,

Pouring out of me.

 

To La Mar I'll go

To be soothed and blessed.

To say hello to our son

Forever swimming

With La Mar.

 

Elk Drum Called Me

Elk drum called me, 

From inside her canvas cave.

I swear the bag wiggled a smile.

Of canyons, and valleys, and mountain streams,

With beams of sunlight illuminating the mist

That’s been kissed by the leaves.

“Come,” she cooed. 

How could I resist?

I opened my pack 

And lifted her out,

Giving her a kiss 

With my poem sprouting lips,

That melt hearts and pull tears

From painful years, long ago.

My fingers swirl around the mallet’s handle, 

My hand caresses her leather straps. 

I nod to my drum. 

We are ready to fly.

My mallet awakens her belly

With a light tap and then ratatatat

I am out,

No longer bound 

By the confines of my golden brown skin.

We glide out my window

And bow to the Guava tree.

She giggles open her entrance 

To the path down her roots

Of silk, musty mushrooms, and 

Iridescent crystals of jade and amethyst.

The drums ratatat boom boom booms

Me into a cave with a passageway 

Of yellow and red rose petal waterfalls.

I slide down the chute into a pool 

Of laughing dolphins telling jokes

To the Coyote and grandmother on the bank.

“Sit here,” Coyote howls, “And listen 

To the wisdom of our ancestors,

Relish in their uproarious  laughter,

Eat the guava blossoms of mystery,

Drink from the pond of delight,

Glow with the splash of sparkles,

“Sientanse aqui,” Grandmother beacons,

Patting the green moss on the bench,

I sit down leaning my body against her

Laying my head on her bosom.

Like I did when I was seven years old.

The boom boom boom is gone.

My drum takes a nap on my lap.

We all dream together 

As we fly up, up, and up,

Passed the grinning moon, and laughing sun,

Passed the stars, and planets,

Passed the galaxies, and through a fog,

And onto the top of a ziggurat pyramid,

Where Quetzalquoatl, dressed in a robe

Of stars and flowers, greets me to say,

“Welcome my brother,

I have missed you so much.

When will you stop pretending

That you are not powerful and beautiful too?

It’s time to accept the truth of the mystery 

That you can sing songs of magic,

Twirl worlds with your pen

To soothe a crying world

And make it love and laugh again.”

Bibimbap - A Metaphor for Life

This is an excerpt from my book, Köln Letters:

“Bibimbap is a traditional Korean meal,” Tong Ku said. “I take pleasure not only in how it tastes but in how it’s a metaphor for life. The ingredients are placed in an orderly fashion into the bowl. Our parents try to make our lives orderly. They give us our foundation. Over the top of a bed of rice, which represents our daily routine, we add the meat and vegetables. Those are our lessons and our practice. We arrange them fanning out from the center of the rice. The last thing to enter the bowl is the sun in the form of an egg. But, it doesn’t become a meal until you mix it up, taking the sun all the way through, illuminating the meal, so to speak.”

“The egg mixes with everything,” Ani said. “Metaphorically, it gives new meaning to our life’s lessons. When we take the time to see deeper, we become wiser. As we continue to mix and eat the bibimbap, all of its ingredients meld together, in much the same way that all of our life’s experiences meld together and make us who we are.

“That’s pretty good. I can see that,” Thorsten said. “Do you always look at your meals as metaphors?”

“Most things we encounter can be teachers,” Tong Ku said. “We need to shift our awareness away from the ordinary and routine to the hidden messages and lessons that are all around us.”

Thorsten wondered why were they having this conversation and where would it take them. He swallowed a bite of bibimbap. “I see your point,” he said. “I can see why I need to challenge my beliefs when it comes to being a private investigator. I’ve learned that things are not always what they appear to be; therefore I have to be open minded. But I fail to see what that has to do with my religious beliefs.”

A ray of sunshine poked through the trees and illuminated Ani’s hair. “All of our beliefs play their part in shaping our perception of reality,” Ani explained. “If you hold onto religious beliefs that tell you that something is bad, can’t be real or true, then you will put on blinders in the face of evidence to the contrary.”

“Remember what happened to Galileo when he tried to say that the Earth was not the center of the universe,” Tong Ku said.  

You can purchase my book at https://www.amazon.com/Koln-Letters-Mushroom-Montoya/dp/0999074806/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1600750480&sr=1-1

Being an Adult Is Dumb

by Mushroom Montoya

Being an adult is dumb sometimes.

Why are we expected to behave,

To be responsible for ourselves

For our kids, and even for our pets?

We are supposed to act like adults.

But what if I don't or won't?

What if I want to do a cartwheel

When I am 43?

Or sing a song spontaneously?

What if I want to sunbathe nude?

It wouldn't be rude

If I was a clothesless dude

In my own back yard.

What if I want to ride my bike?

Or go on a 2600 mile hike

Along the Pacific Crest Trail

Will I be condemned to hell?

How can I do a decent job

Of raising happy, and mentally healthy kids

If I don't act silly and play,

Enjoying life each and every day?

Where Do My Poems

 

Where do my poems, 

My stories, and my imagination

Come from?

Perhaps I’ll sneak into my office

And secretly observe 

What he, 

The me 

Who writes and types 

On my keyboard, does.

His fingers tap the keys, 

His eyes cheat by looking down 

Every now and then. 

Wow. How does he do that?

Leave his body, 

Whirl up and out?

 

He puts his hands together, 

Blowing ever so softly 

Into his palms, a secret.

 

When he unfolds his hands 

The room evaporates 

In a flashing mist.

Mountains with waterfalls 

Of tears come smashing 

Against the rocks below.

 

Leaves rustle at his feet

On the river’s banks

As a mushroom sprouts 

From the dirt under his toes.

 

He laughs and giggles 

Like a little boy 

Enthralled with the magic of the forest.

 

He bows to the trees 

And thanks them for their beauty, 

Their shade, for their fruit.

He compliments them 

On their swaying dance, 

As they bend down with their leafy limbs.

 

They pick him and and whisper

“We have stories to tell, 

Go dig by our roots and find them.”

He picks up a burlap sack,

A shovel and a guitar,

And runs along the river path

Asking “Who am I, really?”

“I know I am not my body

It can live just fine

When I travel on my own.”

The river gurgles over the rocks

Singing its gravely song,

“I am here in this moment,

And I need you to feel it,

Every single pebble under my toes,

Every single cold and wet raindrop, 

Every single stinging nettle.”

“Hey!” I whine

“Yes, you can snivel,
But only for now.”

I stop and stand like a tree, asking,
“Why are people mean?

To the trees, the bees, the dogs

And especially to each other?”

The river gurgles,

“Turn inward and dig inside.”

I turn and run down a path

Over rocks,  sticks, and broken glass.

A furry palomino prairie dog stands erect
Pointing to a spot at its feet.

I plow into the muddy soil

With my twirling questioning shovel.

I dig while sweat rolls down my face,

Pooling goo and sludge 

Into the hole I’ve made.

I hear a clank

I cry heavy tears of grief

For my son, my mother, my dad,

And for myself who has died 

A thousand times.

I reach in to the muddy sludge 

And pull out a rusty metal box

I clean off and read the label

Which says, ’Mean people suck.’

I already know that!
The winds bellows laughter

Through the trees.

“If people were never mean,

You wouldn’t know how blessed you are.

You wouldn’t know how to forgive.

I fall on my back,

Laughing, 

And laughing,

While the prairie dog uses my 

Bouncing tummy as a trampoline

Doing flips and flops.

“Just be here,
Happily playing with me.”

He says, as he flips and adds,

“Of course mean people suck.”