Summer Mustn't Be Wasted

“Go outside and play with our friends,”

My mother would say,

“Summer mustn’t be wasted.”

Tom, Mike, and I rode away from our homes

On our two wheeled steeds

Searching for adventure,

Or, at least, a cool place to play.

We rode on the sidewalk

And in the street

Whizzing by old pink haired ladies

Who yelled, “Slow Down!”

We sped away, ignoring and not caring.

The blazing sun soon made us sweat

As we peddled on treeless streets

Avoiding the growling trucks and buzzing cars.

On our way to the Colorado Lagoon.

We locked our bikes and

Stripped down to our shorts.

We ran, at full gallop

Racing to see who would be the first

To dive into the water

And be King of the Lagoon.

We swam and we splashed each other

And raced from one shore to the other.

We lost track of time and even hunger.

 Summer mustn’t be wasted.

Where Are You From?

I've been asked, far more than once,

"Who are you?

Where are you from?

Where did you learn to speak English so well?"

I have been asked these questions

Everywhere I've lived,

Except in the Land of Enchantment.

Well, of course,

I should have known.

It is so obvious that

Since I am from the Land of Enchantment

I might not look like,

Sound like,

Or even smell like

Those who aren't from there.

When I was 7, my new teacher, Mrs. Jones,

Asked me where I was from.

And then she told my classmates that I was

The most handsome boy she'd ever seen.

Wow. I guess she'd never been
To the Land of Enchantment.

We moved to California when I was eight.
My accent was strong, and my skin was dark
But my back was NOT wet,
Even if bigger kids told me it was.

The new Japanese wife, who moved in next door
Told my mom she was happy

To live next to another Japanese family.

When I came aboard my new ship

In Newport, Rhode Island, my shipmates asked,

"Where are you from?"

When I told people that I was from Albuquerque

They asked me if I joined the Navy

To get American citizenship. 

As I sailed around the world,

People in other countries would ask,

"How did you get onto an American ship?"

When I was in Beijing, a local asked,

"What part of China are you originally from?"
 When I flew into Moscow, people asked,
"Are you from Kamchatka?"

When I was at a garden party

For African American architects,

They thought I was an African American architect.

When I was in South Africa the native workers

Waved and yelled out,

"Hey, Rastafarian!"

I have had people ask me if I was German,

Or Italian, Puerto Rican, or Greek.

People have thought that I was Native American.

And that is partially true.

It seems as if so few people

Have been to the Land of Enchantment.

If they had been, they would know why

I seem to have a face

That can sometimes fit in

Almost everywhere, almost.

Denise Is a Blessing

I am blessed that I saw her walk

Into the house with her mother;

Or was it her long beautiful legs

Saying, 'Look at ME!'

Beneath her short, little, blue mini-skirt.

That was on June second 1973.

When I had just returned from the Viet Nam war,

and I would be returning again in a month.

I am blessed by her smile

That always makes me smile

In return.

I am blessed by her touch

When her fingers slide into my hand,

Or apply lotion to my back,

Or when they wipe a grieving tear

Off my cheek.

I am blessed by her blue eyes

Who have a life of their own

Who leak out tears

For other grieving moms,

Or for sadness of any kind.

I am blessed by her blue eyes

Who sparkle and laugh when she wins

Whatever games she creates

on the spur of the moment.

I am blessed by her amazing ability to plan

Trips, meetings, organizational events.

I am blessed by her green chili stew,

And the Corned beef and cabbage

That she delights in making.

I blessed by her enthusiasm in telling

Me stories of her grandfather

Playing the violin for her

When she was a little girl.

Or telling me stories of the day's news,

Or how her sister got a new job.

I am blessed by
How she glows with joyful exuberance

When she succeeds in hiding,

Jumping out and

Scaring the bejeesus out of me.

And best of all,

I am blessed that she is my mate for life,

Who cherishes me as much

As I cherish her.

First Daughter - Dad Walk

Happy Little critters fluttered

In my tummy

As I reached out

And took her hand.

Cars hummed their murmuring song

As they passed us by.

Busses sang the bass,

Rumbling, and spewing

Their diesel aroma

In billows of black smoke.

Jin Sook blinked nervously

As she took my hand.

A few wispy clouds

Waved hello.

I tightened my grip

And pulled her ahead of me

By a couple of steps.

She cocked her head,
looking back at me,

Unsure of what would come next.
We had only met

a few moments earlier.

My feet pushed off

the concrete sidewalk.

A smile so big,

So happy,

filled my tummy

With warm milk,

Or so it seemed.

I ran ahead of her

Still holding her hand

And then I pulled her ahead of me

Yet, again.

And the game began.

The two of us beaming smiles

And then giggling

As our feet danced

And stopped waiting for

The next pull forward.

Her smile widened

As we ran down the sidewalk

Along the cars and busses

Me, holding our new daughter’s Hand.

She, holding a nice man’s Hand

and hoping

That this will work out fine

And maybe,

Just maybe,

He will be a fun

new Apah

For her.

GRIEF BITES

Jeremy’s gold ring glistens
As the sun kisses it with its rays.
And then
Grief crawls up my spine,
Wrapping his fleshy
legs over my shoulders.
“I’m here,” he whispers,
As if his flabby thighs
Rubbing against my ears
And cheeks”
Isn’t making it
Unwantedly obvious.
“BASTARD!
What do you want?”
His thighs loosen their grip.
“I’m feeling lonely.
I know you understand.”
“Screw you!
I don’t care
That you are lonely.”
He slithers down
Around my torso.
He cuddles his face
Against my chest,
And BITES hard.
“SHIT!
What the fuck!”
He rubs the bite
With his fat hands.
“I had to.
I told you I am lonely.
I am hungry, too.”
I slump to the floor.
Tears drip over my cheek.
“I don’t mean to hurt you.
Not really.
I just wanted a little,
A little nibble
Just to let you know
That I miss him, too.”
I wipe the tears
With the back of my hand.
“But you took him!
You bastard!”
He strokes my chest
Irritating the bite.
“NO! I didn’t.
Death took him.
Not me.”
I straighten my back
And clench my teeth.
“Then why did you bite
Me?”
“I told you I’m hungry
And lonely.
If I can’t have him,
I’ll have you.”

House Arrest

Isn’t life strange?

The sun is shining.
The birds are chirping.
The flowers are blooming.
And today,
The Governor put us under
House arrest.
Before we knew
What the governor had ordered
Denise and I shopped
For onions, crackers, strawberries
And mushrooms.
Of course, we need mushrooms.
Cashiers smiled
At the customers
With their worried,
Frightened,
Desperate faces.
Isn’t life strange?
There is no catastrophe,
No tornado,
No flood,
No earthquake,
No hurricane
That would impair,
The supply
Of needed wares.
And yet,
People stop.
Stop shaking hands,
Stop hugging,
Stop going about
Their daily life
And rush to grocery stores
To gather supplies
In case
The governor puts us under
House arrest.
In case
The virus lands on our
Doorstep
And barges in.
In case
We run out of
toilet paper?
Toilet paper?
Really?
Isn’t life strange?
We are told to
Go against our nature.
Told, don’t shake hands,
Do not hug,
Do not go out.
Don’t meet your friends.
In spite of all this
“Sound advice”
I am grateful
I can hold hands
With the one I cherish
And feel her love
Pulse from her fingers
To my heart.
I can hug
The one I love.
And listen to our hearts
Talk to each other.
I can kiss
My mate for life
And slip sweetly
Into a magical
Slice of bliss.
I can do all this
While the governor
Has us under
House arrest.

Mom's Final Journey

Thirty-eight years
Is a long time

To not see,
Not hug,
Not kiss,

Not talk to

My mom.

She was eleven years

Younger

Than I am, now

When she died.
She called me,
Magically,
Thirty-four years ago

From her hospital bed
830 miles away
From Albuquerque,

In faraway
California.
“I’m ready,”
She said to me

As I lie
In my broken body

On the couch

Recovering

From my motorcycle
Crash.
“I’m ready,”
She said again.

The weight of her voice
Sat heavy on my chest.
Tears slid down my face
As I struggled to rise.
I knew my task.
I had prepared for this.
I shook my shaman’s rattle.

And floated out of my body

Following her voice

Saying, “I’m ready,”

Down, down, down
To a riverbank.
I crossed the river
And entered a cave.
She hugged me

Tight
“I’m ready,”
She said.

She released her hug
And shapeshifted
Into a butterfly
Small enough to hold

In my arms.
I carried her to the entrance

And paid the gatekeeper
With a ball of light.
I stepped into a  boat
And rowed across the river
With my mom
In my lap.
Swirls formed as the oars
Splashed into the water
Gliding us
To the safety
Of the other side.
I held my mom
Snuggly in my arms
As I jumped up
And flew
From the lower world,
Through this world,
And through many layers
Of the upper world.
I didn’t know
Her final destination.
I didn’t know
Where
I was taking her.
An Eagle flew along

My side.
“I’ll take her from here,”

The Eagle said.

I placed my mom
In the Eagle’s talons
And cried
As they flew away.
On my return
To my body,

On the couch,
In Albuquerque,

The phone rang.
The nurse said,
“Your mom
Passed away
Just now.”
My tears slid
Across my cheeks.
“I know,” I said.
“Thank you for calling,”

Thought

Thought.
What exactly is it?
Who creates it?
Do I?
From what?
Why?
When I
Become aware
Of a thought,
Is it my creation?
Can it be
Someone else's
Thought
That I am thinking?
Do I retrieve thoughts
From some
Thought storehouse
That belongs to only me?
Or do I create each
And every thought
At the moment
I became aware
Of it?
If my awareness
Senses it,
Is it always mine?
Can it be an orphan
Thought?
Do thoughts float,
Or flash
Across space and time
Intruding on my mind
Or body?
Thoughts are things
That take up time
And space.
They touch,
Influence,
And control
My mind
And my body.
How?
How can a thought
That has no physical structure
Have that much power?
I've had thoughts
That couldn't
Be of my making.
Whose are they?
Why am I aware
Of thoughts that
Are not mine?
Thought.
What is it?
Am I a thought
In someone's mind?

Magic Is Who He Wants

It be 43 years back when me son, Jeremy, answered the phone. "The man on the phone wants to talk to Magic. I think he's got the wrong number."
I held out me hand for the phone. It be one of me shipmates. A nice chat we had, talking about old times on the ship and current events.

When I hung up the phone, me little Jeremy squished his little face. "Why did he call you, magic? I never saw you do magic tricks."
A big smile warmed me face. "I don't do tricks. I do real magic," I said to him.
"Real magic?" he be asking with his wee little mind trying to figure out what his dad be talking about.
"I use the magic in me finger, here," I said as I pointed to him with me right-hand index finger.
"What kind of magic can you do with it?"
I wiggled it at him, and said, "I can make you laugh."
He ran away from me, laughing and saying, "That's not fair!"

Mosquito

Mosquito

Humans don’t generally enjoy Mosquitoes. They are bloodsuckers, after all.
Although we may not understand their purpose, they are earthlings with as much right to life as we have.

A mosquito buzzed around my ear when I was at a shamanic council meeting in northern California. I was tempted to smack it against my ear. But I chose to see if I could negotiate a mutual agreement. I relaxed. I shut my eyes and went into a shamanic trance. I told the mosquito that I would not hurt her. I told the mosquito that she could take all the blood she needed. In return, I asked that she tell all the other mosquitos to leave me alone for the weekend. I could feel her sucking up my blood. She flew away and I noticed that my ear did not itch, as it usually does after a mosquito has struck. No other mosquitos bothered me over the weekend. Many of the council members complained about being bitten all weekend long.

Sometimes we just need to remember that all earthlings have a right to life. And we can sometimes negotiate a mutual agreement.

Pain

A sing song tune

Along with a woman’s voice

From my cell phone 

Wakes me up this morning,

“Don’t move," Pain says.

"Ain’t I hurting you enough,

Already?”

I grit my teeth,

As I lift the blankets with my

Weaker, clumsier, less dominant

Left hand.

I wince.

The woman is still talking,

Telling me the morning news.

“Shut up!”  

I don’t care right now.

I pull my legs over the side.

How the hell

Am I gonna get up

While I’m lying

On my only good arm?

I shove it out

And then push

Against the mattress.

My arm shakes as I rise.

I sit and breathe,

And breathe some more.

My feet reach out.

Pull one moccasin closer.

I breathe as I insert my foot.

I pull the other moccasin close

And put it on.

Pain bites my arm,

Burns my back,

And punches the inside,

Far inside of my chest

When I cough.

“You bastard!”

I want to yell.

“Ya can yell if ya want,”

Pain says from deep inside

My ribcage.

 “But it won’t do ya any,

Not one teensy bit

Of good.”

I breathe slowly in

And stand up.

My right leg tells me to wait

Just a minute.

My right leg doesn’t want to

Let the pain

Know it is going to move.

I lean over to turn off the alarm,

To shut up the morning alarm’s voice.

My feet move forward,

Down the hall,

Across the living room,

To the dining room table,

To the little plastic bottle

With the blue pain pills.

I sit.

I breathe.

I dump out three blue pain pills.

“Damn it!”

Where's the water?

I hold onto the table.

Lift myself up.

I Breathe.

I walk to the sink.

I lean in

And push the lever

With my non-dominant hand.

Water pours.

I grab a cup

I Breathe.

I fill it.

I Breathe.

I turn off the water with the cup.

And take a sip.

I Breathe.

“Why do you have to be

So cruel?”

I ask pain.

“I ain’t cruel.

I just am what I am.”

“What is that

That you are?”

I ask pain.

“I’m your protector,

Your warning

Of impending

Harm.

I’m your alarm

To do something.”

“I don’t like you,”

I say to pain.

“I don’t expect you to.”

Childhood Xmas

When ye were a wee lass or a wee lad, did ya wonder what Santa would bring ya on Xmas morn? When I was a wee lad, Xmas morn was long and painful. Me brothers and I would awaken early and peek into the living room, staring at the presents under the tree. Our parents, who, on any normal day, would be up hours before we would, would be nowhere in sight. They would be in their bedroom getting dressed for Xmas mass.

No presents would be opened until we came home from mass. And would they take us to an early mass, like the 6:00 AM, or 8:00 Am, or 10:00 AM? NO! They took us to mass at noon. Cruel that be.
I would pray, "Please dear Lord, Make Father Flannery say mass really fast.” The good Lord must have been hard of hearing or he was too busy enjoying the choir singing Xmas songs. I couldn't pay attention to the sermons, or the readings. I’d forget when to stand or kneel.  Me thoughts were on wondering what was in the box under our Xmas tree.
Tell me about your Xmas morns when ye were a wee lass or a wee lad.

Jeremy's Orange Sky

Many years ago our (then six-year-old) son, Jeremy, was sitting at the kitchen table with Crayons and a coloring book. I saw him grab a blue crayon and start to color the sky. I stopped him. "What color is the sky, Jeremy?" I asked. 
Annoyance scrunched his face. "It's blue," he said. 
"Are you sure?" I asked. 
Irritation pulled up his shoulders, as he returned his attention to his coloring book. I asked him to put his blue crayon down and come outside with me. The sky was similar to the one in this photo. "What color is the sky, now, Jeremy?" I asked. He made a failed attempt to suppress a smile. We went back into the house. He colored the sky orange. When I saw him grab a gray Crayon I asked him, "What are you going to use that gray Crayon for?" 
He narrowed his eyes at me. "I know that clouds aren't always gray. But that is what I want to color my clouds."
"That's fine," I said with a smile.
Orange skies remind me of Jeremy.

Donde Esta Tu Lengua?

Donde esta tu lengua?

Where is your mother tongue,
Your birthright,

Your badge of honor?
Where is the song

Of your soul,

Those heartfelt words

Your mother sang to you,

Even before you were born?

Why do you call your abuelo

Grandpa?

He barely speaks Engles.

You insult him, que no?

You toss his gift,

In his face,

That most precious gift

He has passed on

From generation to generation

Polishing it to shine

So that you, tambien,

Could say with pride,

Este lenguaje es mio,

This language is mine

Yo hablo Español.

Donde esta tu lengua?

Where did you lose it?

Did someone steal it?

Why did you believe

Your White teachers,

Who falsely told your parents

Speaking Spanish will hurt

Your children.

It will make them less.

It will identify them

As other.

Que? Other?

No hay otro

There is no other.

solo estamos nosotros

There is only us.

Why did you believe

Your neighbors who threw

The rock through your

Front room window

With a note attached

Scrawled with the words,

Wetbacks go home.

Go back to Mexico,

With other words of hate

Your mother would not,

Dared not, translate

From hatred English

To understandable Español.

Donde esta tu lengua?

Que no te acuerdas?

Don’t you remember?

Donde esta tu lengua?

No One Should See

I hope no one

Is watching me,

No one should see

Pain stained tears

Sneaking out

From my eyes.

No should see

The ICU,

The coffin,

His ashes

Floating out to sea.

I'm hidden in a closet

Of my own making.

No one should see

The reams of paper

Each page starting

With if I had only,

If I would've,

If I had not.

No one should see

The boxes of reams

I've hidden in my closet.

I hope no one

Is watching me.