vine covered castle
along a winding bike route
past progress now lost
Road Trip Haiku #5
vine covered castle
along a winding bike route
past progress now lost
recession
Cast Away
my moon was awake
full and bright
casting my stress
with hands of night
the breeze came out
shunning the heat
on the swing i sat
dangling my feet
my thoughts swirled round
a storm in my head
while my pup rested gently
under covers in bed
if only the screen
could wash away fears
make the work worthwhile
and cast away tears
Unemployed Words
if words could work
i could buy the right food
food to feed them
food to nurture the Earth
rather than strip her of
her natural beauty
if words would work
we could respond yes
throw our three-dollar-dinner
into the wastebasket
and forget the one week and
ten dollars left till payday
if words could cure
the tears would be smiles
and they could have
the ice cream cones of their dreams
instead of the cheap flavorless popsicles
that melt before they can get a taste
of the world with my words.
Puncture Wound
you are the hole in my tube,
tiny as a pin prick,
a puncture wound,
not for one second
able to hold the air
i fruitlessly pump.
your removal is tedious,
leaves road remnants
and layers of unwashable dirt
on my palms and fingertips,
takes an extra set of hands
and real strength to complete.
i haven’t the strength
to discover how you ruined my day,
only the muscles to move on,
to accept that you’re now
lying on the floor of my garage,
a haunting shadow
that tries to follow me everywhere.
Whisper
funny how you mask yourself
for their protection
and i wear the button
proudly on my jacket,
picture-whispering
my beliefs for all to see.
when your thoughts
bubble up out of you
in an eruption of disparity
from the tight-necked clothes
you’ve kept around you,
the lava stings my view
of who i thought you were.
you wait for molten rock
to form as ash settles,
but i am trapped underneath
the red flow from your mantle,
unable to break through the crack
in the crust you chose to expose,
unable to even whisper what i see.
Candidate
you were born for this.
where are the voters?
i’m waiting for your
slanderous commercial
against candidates
who can’t compete.
it will surely follow
your quick quips
and intelligent,
well-read responses.
your video clips
and “inspiring messages”
are lost upon us, however.
please keep in mind
that your three-minute experience
with Mandarin Chinese
does not compensate
your obvious inadequacies.
we see your vision.
it’s as bright as the sun
on the first day of summer,
reminding us why we shed
these hard-earned skins
and spend those glorious months
with our children.
that time is something you,
10-month-old and all,
couldn’t possibly fit
into your perfect PowerPoint.
don’t worry, Dr.
we’ll watch the video
of today’s presentation
on YouTube.
after a few beers,
your words will be like the Mandarin:
foreign, bubbles burgeoning
out of the sea,
waiting for the moment
when the commercial will end,
when the reality of your ignorance
will shine in the summer sun.
Underbelly
we are here now,
sister, brother-in-law, niece,
grandparents who have filled
the underbelly of the tree
with Wal-mart’s
explosion of Chinese reality.
he and i lie in the dark
on our basement floor mattress,
the tint of the waning moon
lingering light upon his whiskered face.
Santa has already arrived,
stripped down because
the underbelly of the tree
regurgitated its recklessness.
i will never forget,
i tell him,
this time at my own
grandparents’ house,
when my mother,
her measly salary
half of my father’s pittance,
after seeing the
gifts my grandmother
inundated us with,
turned to him and said,
‘I hate being poor.‘
i try to remember this
as we rise before the sun,
set up the camera
in anticipation of their anxious faces,
and spend hours
exchanging money, goods
from the underbelly of the tree
that seems to mock,
wealth, wealth, wealth
with its shedding branches
that drop needles
like tears onto the hardwood.
Public Library
Dear Self-Absorbed Republicans,
Thank you once again
for denying public interests
and literacy
and all that is good
to us lower-class citizens
who can no longer use
the “public” library
that you voted down.
Go ahead and take your
free cards in
so you can stock up on
rated R movies
ignoring the masses
that surround you
and can no longer
check out thirty-three books
a week for our children
to benefit from.
One day,
just like Karl Marx predicted,
we will rise up
and show you that,
despite your measly offerings,
we are still strong,
still united,
and always willing
to fight our way to the top.
Birthday Party
it is her first invite
(i wish it was her last)
and we sit in awkward silence
exchanging knowing looks
we’re surrounded by excess fat
skimmed off meat
once set aside just for the rich that has
oozed into our barely-middle class neighborhood
in gluttonous globs it surrounds
even the youngest rosy cheeks,
tripping and slipping their every step
as they unwrap, unwrap, unravel.
by coming here today, we are guilty,
and though our portion size is smaller,
it sits at the edge of the heaped-to-ceiling plate,
torn to bits in minutes by a ferocious four-year-old.
we take our leftovers in six baggies home,
but they are not for the dog. they are for us,
our girls, to chew on all evening, to try and
fill the growling hole in our gut-wrenched stomachs.
Everything Included
we could walk
but we prefer to ride
they hop in
with three pennies,
jubilant voices,
and a mission.
we arrive at the
perfectly painted plastic horse
covered in vinyl saddle
where they climb up and down
riding like pro cowgirls
when five minutes have passed
they head for the cookie aisle
where disappointment sits
plainly on the empty tray.
instead, we pack on our helmets
to continue our weekday adventure,
the wind blowing allergen-ridden dust,
remnants of summer’s sun
beating down on our backs.
i follow the oldest, who
weaves like a drunk driver
through the sidewalk,
into the street,
everywhere her heart takes her.
a giant, loud-mouthed dog
greets our arrival. we reach
with skinny arms into
the abundantly fat-with-fruit trees,
pulling down ripe green pears,
apples with red dimples.
the dog continues to carry on,
and just as i wonder if he’s here
as a warning for us to leave,
a woman’s voice calls over the fence,
“Take as many as you can.”
And we do, the tangy juice
of tiny homegrown fruits
sliding down the girls’ chins,
dripping into the pile at the bottom
of the trailer, sweetening
our end-of-summer afternoon,
sweetening our time here, now.
everything included:
the bikes,
the horse,
the absent cookie,
the fruit,
for three pennies,
jubilant children,
and a mission.
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