More than a Poetic Fix: 2009

Friday, December 11, 2009

Looking Closely

Have you ever looked closely at a flower petal? I have. And this is what I wrote about it.

The petal of a flower

easy to devour

Nourishment for the parasites.

Shaped like my heart
smoothly sliced apart

by careless or cruel hands.

Gentle on your lips

Passionate like your kiss

deep dark

and red.

Complicated beauty

understood simply

Exposed but unafraid

on your bed.

Veins

red and thick

with secrets

flowing in blood

too precious

to spill.

Until

You

My blood friend

I'll prick my finger's

end.

Image from FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Homemade Muppets, Best Friends, and Cocaine

My niece is in sixth grade. Last night I fell asleep trying to remember what is was like and who I was when I was in sixth grade. I started sixth grade with the group of kids I had grown up with since Kindergarten. But when my mom got hired in another city, we moved. I don't remember who my teacher was or what I learned. I only remember homemade muppets, my best friend, and a boy named Paul Cocaine.

We made the muppets (felt puppets) for a class project. The teacher assigned partners and mine was a boy named Tino. I didn't want to be partners with Tino. He was a boy?! But once the glue and yarn were placed before us things started looking up. Tino was mischevious and made me laugh. It was the most fun I'd ever had with a school project.

By the end of the year, one of the girls at my new school would become my new best friend. I hadn't had a best friend since first grade.

On one of the first days at my new school it started to rain at lunch time. We were told we would be eating in the classroom and that the yard duty lady would be checking in on us. A group of girls pushed their desks together and invited me to join them. I was having such a good time! Then a boy with blonde hair starting talking smack. I wanted to smack talk back but the group of girls I was with decided we would ignore him instead. I asked the group who the boy was and they said his name was Paul Cocaine. Seriously?! Then he started spitting food at us. Always tiny and fiesty, I decided it was time to take control. I told him to stop and the smack talking showdown began. We ended up standing up, facing each other. I said something he couldn't think of a comeback for so he pushed me so hard my back slammed against the chalkboard. I didn't have too much time to think about the pain from the chalkboard tray. Suddenly in slo-mo, his arm lifted, fist in the air, aimed at my face, approaching. My big sister reflexes activated, I used both of my hands to block his fist while my right foot slid across both of his legs beneath the knee sending him crashing to the ground and landing on his butt! Silence. Then a classroom of kids laughing at him. He stood up in a rage. Thankfully the yard duty lady had waddled in. We were both sent to the principal's office. By the end of the year, Paul had developed a baffling, albeit sweet, crush on me.

So who was I in sixth grade? I was a girl who had learned not to take life too seriously. To laugh in the midst of striving for accomplishments and success. I was a girl who learned life was so much sweeter when you had good friends to share it with. I was a girl who would not be intimidated into silence. I was someone who was willing to fight and defend. I was a girl who could earn respect just by being true to myself. I was, I am, me.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

The Sound of Laughter

When my mother's mother passed away I wasn't ready to let her go. Even though I knew she was gone, there was a part of me that refused to accept it. In a daze I wrote this poem. My grandmother taught me many things. The most important, was to live my life without any regrets. She inspired me to speak my truth and to do whatever it was that my gut and my heart told me to do. I didn't want to end up looking back on my life wishing I had said or done anything differently. I didn't want to be an old woman who told the story the way I wished it had happened with the things I wished I had said or done. I still miss her. Most of all, I miss the sound of her laughter.

When Grandmother laughs

her earth shakes

Her hills and mountains

undulate

And a river of sound

flows from her mouth

Eh heh

Heh heh

Eh heh

Heh heh

The pools of water

in her eyes

Tidal wave leap

stream to her thighs

as she gasps to catch her breath

Hiccup

When Grandmother laughs

We all join in

shaking quaking

grinning skin

Howling gasping

coughing breath

No matter how much time goes by

It always feels like yesterday

Family gathered

while smiling I waited

Perched on the edge of a chair

My breath bated

Wondering hoping

Who will be the first

to make Grandmother laugh

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

A Wish

I look out my window

the curtains rest against the back of my hand

The glass cold and clear

then cloudy as I breathe

I let my tired head

slump towards the icy cool pane

and wish

I look into the sky

a glistening sea

And find a brilliant fiery star

floating throught the air

swimming in the breeze

I close my eyes

I wish again

I am a believer

of magic and love

But feel like a fool

for wishing I was holding

you

This poem is about 20 years old. I don't remember who it was inspired by, but I remember the cold window pane on my forehead. I remember the yearning and admitting to myself that I was a corny romantic.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Crush

Crush. Infatuation. An intense usually transitory fondness or admiration. I love being captivated and fascinated! Usually the fondness or admiration deteriorates as I get to know someone. It can take minutes or years. In this case, it took a few weeks for intelligence to be revealed as cunning and for sincerity to be revealed as manipulation. Only rarely does the crush - the enchantment - fade away leaving a true and passionate love in its place.

Smooth and strong

words

falling from your mouth

tenderness dropping into my ears

like a warm rain

falling from chosen clouds

decorating the sky

A smile

like the beautiful sun

warming my heart

and making my body moist

I will adore you

gaze upon you like a beautiful

unpredicatable cloud

But like the sky

I cannot touch you

Like the clouds

I cannot hold you

Only admire and wait

for a drop of rain to touch my tongue

or a ray of sun to warm my face

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Handing it Over

When I write a poem, I write it for me. If someone has inspired a poem, they will probably never see it or hear it. This is one of the first poems I scrawled on a fresh piece of paper and handed to the person who inspired it. I was growing up. I was ready to share myself emotionally.

There's never a moment

without you on my mind

Your eyes lips hands heart

are all too kind

How I long to have you

Safely swept into my arms

To kiss hug hold love

Oh how your body warms

When we talk

your attention on me

That laugh smile

How can it be

Only your presence

has the ability

to drop my guard

setting me free

Thursday, April 16, 2009

I Bite Into the Apple

Once upon a time I was dating someone who was more religious than I was. He was hesitant to begin a sexual relationship. I felt like the biblical Eve in the Garden of Eden - coaxing, tempting, seducing - yearning for him to take a bite out of the apple.

It wasn't just the "apple" that I was thinking about when I wrote this poem. It was the act of reaching up and out, bringing it closer to me, and experiencing it with all my senses. The freedom to grasp life and enjoy it!

I bite into the apple
Pierce its shiny skin

I moan in delicious ecstasy

as its juice slips down my chin

I close my eyes and savor

the pieces on my tongue

My eyes slowly open

once the chewing is done

I gaze into the flesh

where I have left my mark

I lick the sappy sweetness left

from being torn apart

I open my lips

and close my eyes again

Anticipating the pleasure

the next bite will begin.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Home

To be home

in your warm

strong hands

my heart

lays

Safe

Entrusted

Loved.

To be home

smelling the spices

in your cooking

as you

Nourish

me.

To be home

Deeply

Sleeping

Rested when I awake.

I carry home

with me

inside my blood

Flowing through my body.

I carry home

with me

inside my thoughts

Penetrating my mind.

I carry home

with me

inside my soul

no matter

Where

I may

go.

Home is my mother. Her smile, her voice, her imperfect perfection. I spent several years looking for a place that felt like home. Nothing felt right. I hadn't realized that my mom was the key to the door that opened into a home of unconditional love and unwavering support. Discovering that home can be a person, instead of a thing, is beautiful and terrifying. The moment I recognized that feeling again for someone else, I knew I would spend the rest of my life with him.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

The Cat

Sometimes I write a poem that is instantly one my favorites. I can't wait to share it with a friend thinking that they will say, "Yeah, I really like that one!" It's always a bummer when instead of telling me how much they like it I get a, "Meh," and a forced smile.

Then I'll try reading the same poem at a poetry reading thinking that maybe this time a crowd will like it as much as I do. But when a crowd doesn't even give you a, "Meh," and the echo of bored silence bounces off the walls of the room, it's time to give up, right? WRONG!

While the cat's away

she will play

Stalking

in the moonlit night

the prey

to whet her appetite

Eyes open

Ears alert

Her padded feet

barely touch

the earth

How to control

her instinct to kill

Would be a difficult

impossible skill

And yet

this cat

with prey

in sight

Retracts her claws

Withholds her bite

It would be too easy

to follow through

to fight

to control

is harder to do

This poem is one of my favorites because it marked a turning point in my life. Instead of manipulating and attacking out of fear and anger, I started to want to give and receive trust and love.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Race

When I was 18 and starting college I was amazed at how people who were not Latino, Black, Apache Sioux etc. thought they were experts at what it meant to be Latino, Black, Apache Sioux, etc. Not only did they think they were experts, they thought they should share their expertise with entire classrooms of fellow students.

I would sit quietly, not understanding how so many people could share the same opinions. How could they not know how offensive and ignorant they were? How dare they assume to know anything about my ancestry, my history, my raza, my family, my experiences, my thoughts, my motives? How many times were they the only white person in a room, at a grocery store, at the movie theater, at a retail store, at a social function? Was I the freak to think this way?

Then I would remind myself to breathe, and raise my hand to speak and attempt to educate from an actual Latina's point of view.

I would get so frustrated and angry at these "experts" and also at the apathy of the other Latinos, etc. They would sit at their desks like good girls and boys. As if the master had told the dog to "sit" and that dog wasn't going to move. My poetry usually focused on Sex, Love, Heartbreak, Lust (get the picture?). For the first time, I wrote about something else.

Ignorance raises its hand

"Call on me, I know the struggle of the colored man

he is where he wants to be

it's not my fault he is not free

I give him whatever, whenever he wants

Why can't he let go of the memories that haunt

That was then, a long time ago

Now it's not the same why can't he go with the flow?"

(Because the hammer that shattered his face

has made a strange, mutant race)

"They think and look interesting

Subjects to be studied, not human beings."

(He learned to speak without a tongue

his language understandable to none)

"I'll talk for him

I'll help in his plight

We can be friends and I can use his fight

to try to satisfy the rest of them

maybe a morsel of 'victory'

is what he and them really need

then their fight will end."

(He watches as his race forgets

all turned into domestic pets

who sit and roll over upon command

slaves to the bait of the ignorant hand)

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Out with the Bad

I heard your name

Saw your face in my mind

Smiling
lying

I'd hoped you'd been erased
from my memory

But like a strange dream
I remember you

what it was like
when it was good

what it was like
when it was through

I could go through my journals and figure out who this poem was about but I won't. It's amazing to me how I could have felt hurt, deceived, and disappointed over someone who finally was erased from my memory. It really is liberting to heal, to forgive, and to let go.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Dating Your Boss

While I was working my way through college, I worked at the same company for a few years. Always on the prowl (I'll admit it!), it didn't take long for me to want to break that rule about never dating your boss. Technically he was my supervisor. My crush took a turn when I invited him to a Halloween celebration. Maybe it was the blonde wig. We started a relationship that we tried to keep hushed for as long as we could. But, you know, when you're in love you want the whole world to know.

I don't think you realize

the power you have over me

I know you'll never understand

the changes you've inspired in me

I was determined to prove

I could do anything and everything alone

And I, so scared of being abused

Kept my heart to myself.

On the day you leave my life

I'll savor each memory

Cry into these own two hands

and smile at what used to be

I will, just one last time

hold your body so close to me

Then I will open my arms

and set you free.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Just a little one...

Touch my hand
steal my heart
take and break
my world apart
Let your hands
clutch my hair
moans and groans
escape to the air

Friday, February 20, 2009

Self Discovery

Woman does not need man

Her own strength and fire

she easily commands

To help her conquer

day by day

man made obstacles

in her way

She is Nature

Powerful and Wild

Beautiful, Unpredictable

Wise and Mild

Her pleasures are created

by her seemingly delicate hand

Her destructiveness controlled

by a promise to hurt no man

All woman needs

is herself.

One morning I woke up and felt, well, frisky. After bringing a smile to my face, I realized that the time I spent with myself was more satisfying than the clumsy experiences I was having at the time in my early twenties. It was like when my friends told me about how great a movie was and then I couldn't wait to see it. When I finally did, it wasn't as great as I had expected. Then I started to think about how distracted I had become once I started having sex.

Instead of focusing on my education and walking around feeling confident, I had allowed myself to think that my value was related to how often I was having sex. This was disturbing to me since I had always valued how smart, and capable I was.

I became angry with myself. How had I allowed this to happen? Inside my head I screamed, "Forget about men and sex! Remember the power of being a smart, capable woman free from the idiocy and distractions of the mainstream! There is nothing a man can do for you that you can't do yourself - even in the bedroom!"

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Anticipation

When I fell in love for the first time I thought the relationship was going to last forever. At 19 years old I felt like I had waited a long time to finally meet "the one." It was an exciting and unforgetable adventure into the heart and mind of another. I looked forward to the emotional and physical intimacy that would come with this love.

To walk with you and hold your hand

Thrills me like no other can

To feel your fingers through my hair

Drops my defenses leaving me bare

Your soft warm kisses mixed with passion grow

Until shivering and quivering I have lost control

Sunday, February 1, 2009

The Way I Like to Remember You

I thought of you today

I thought of what to say

But not one word filled my head

I dreamed of you last night

I dreamed you held me tight

Then the words seemed to drift

from a source in my bed

they said

Perhaps it's better this way

To only dream of you each day

In my dreams we have no end

No pain from a breakup so then

I quickly shut my eyes

And hurried off to sleep

despite the moonlit skies

and bright moonlight beams

Now close your eyes my love

I'll see you in my dreams

I recently joined Facebook and I can't believe how many people from my high school days are members! It's fun to see the faces of people I grew up with. I can still see the teenager in them.

During high school I had some really good friends. One of them was a guy who was younger than me. I loved him (in a deep friend way). When I started to date my first boyfriend, my friend was upset and expressed feelings I didn't know existed. I entertained the thought of ending the relationship with my boyfriend to start something new (and terrifying) with my friend. I thought the boyfriend thing would run its course but that my friendship would last my lifetime. I didn't want to lose my friend. I chose to stay in the relationship with my boyfriend and unfortunately, lost my friend.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Desire

I was a late bloomer. It's not hard to deal with the peer pressure of whether or not to have sex if no one wants to have sex with you. Even if someone wanted to have sex with me, I was raised a Roman Catholic and wanted to wait for marriage. Plus, I didn't want to be known as a slut. I went to a small high school. Everyone knew each other's business. At my 20th high school reunion my boyfriend took a poll. When he asked people what I was like in high school the number one response was, "She was real smart."

Once the bloom hit I felt like a superhero with a new power. A smile and a low cut shirt could accomplish anything. I didn't need to talk much to get out of traffic tickets. I could go anywhere (which came in real handy as an aspiring newspaper reporter) and the free meals and cocktails kept me fed and social in college. I couldn't believe how easy everything suddenly was.

I was fine until a look of real desire was directed toward me. I would become uncomfortable. I spent some time trying to figure out why and found the answer - I was full of desire and I wanted to have sex.

That look

used to scare me

when I was young

Old fairy tales

remain in my mind

of a flesh-starved werewolf

hidden in a man seemingly kind

And as I got older

it made me take offense

"Love is not lust"

said Catholic ignorance

But I saw that look again

and smiled and realized

That look from you was the

reflection from my eyes.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

My Favorite Things

The smell of a flower

Camomile tea

A smile from my lover

The shade of a tree

The crash of blue crystal water

against rocks on an unknown beach

The echo of my mother's laughter

on the phone, when out of reach

A dragonfly in flight

The dance of a bee

A warm hand in mine

A midnight treat

The taste

of homemade food

secret ingredient

love love love

The touch

of silky smooth fur

on my loving cat

rub rub rub

The beat of a drum

A sincere embrace

Grass on bare feet

Your strong sweet face

At one point I realized that most of the poems I liked best that were written by me were not so upbeat. I wondered what happy topic I could write a poem about. Everything came out corny so I decided to make a list (an homage to The Sound of Music).

I checked the date I wrote this poem. I was certain the references were things I shared with my boyfriend who I will be celebrating a 5th anniversary with (he's a drummer who gives great hugs, loves late night snacks, and knows of a secluded beach). Instead, this poem was written a couple of years before I met him when I was single. According to my journal, the "strong sweet face" belonged to someone I hoped I would meet who would embody the characteristics most important to me. Someone with strength of mind and body and a sweetness that guided his heart and actions. Someone who would stand up to me using logic and humor. Someone I didn't think existed - until 5 years ago.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Dreams Can Come True

frantic dream

wanting

we lick bare skin

our sweat smooth

shining

Luscious heaving breast

moan pant shake scream

You me fall

say love

stare in beauty

Together

say soar

like a sea

under spring sun

Blood like music

red symphony

swimming through you

and me

Our New Cat

My houseguest has become a part of my family! She's not the scrawny cat who came to visit. She is a strong, fluffy, playful cat! New pictures coming soon ...

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Phil G.

When I started reading my poetry in front of other people I felt exposed, vulnerable, and free. The thoughts and feelings that I had shared only with myself in an indescribable state of creativity were being spoken out loud. It was intimidating yet liberating.

My first reading was in Sacramento. I was excited and terrified. The owner of a clothing shop in downtown encouraged unknown poets to come by and read their work. Towards the front door a man with a head full of grey hair was standing. His smile was so kind that I almost convinced myself he was some kind of angel that only I could see. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and began. It felt great! After each poem I would look up and search for his eyes. Each time I'd see that kind smile and my confidence would rev up for the next poem.

When I was done reading, my friends and family were quick to surround me and congratulate me. The man with the grey hair approached me and handed me a piece of paper, told me he liked my poems and silently walked away.

I looked at the green piece of paper that had been folded in half. He had written something...

Gina En La Tarde

The third time

Leaving her alma

Open to the world

words like espantos

That no person

Has Seen

As she lets

Them fly the air

For a short time

Of trust

11/29/92

He signed it but I didn't recognize his name. It wasn't until years later that I saw his name again and learned who he was. He had passed away, and I'm convinced, was finally given a pair of wings.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

The First Time

I don't remember what it was like to not be able to read. Before starting kindergarten, one of my favorite things to do was to cuddle up next to my mother as she read to me. A book junkie herself, my mother would take us to the library when they hosted events for children. When I started kindergarten I was bored. My boredom stopped the day my teacher asked the class to write a poem about our favorite color. I knew what a poem was but I had no idea how I was going to pick one color to write about. I liked all colors! The classroom was buzzing with the sounds of ideas, questions, and grown up voices giving suggestions and answers. I looked across the room and the buzzing faded away. For the first time I had locked eyes with a boy who made me forget about everything except the blue in his eyes. We stared at each other the way little kids do - shameless, curious, and innocent. I didn't have the knowledge or words to know that I had just realized my first crush. I knew my new favorite color was blue and I wrote this poem.

BLUE is the color of the sky that spreads over the earth

BLUE is the color of jeans and all those wonderful jellybeans

BLUE is the color of water we need for our thirst

BLUE is the color of eyes that stare first

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Remembering Katie

Happy Birthday

to you

ashes scattered by the fingertips of the wind

A collection of faces silently wondering where you've been

Together they sit and remember your name

Uncomfortable laughter uncomfortable pain

And here I am

alone with you

Your formless breath

settles like dew

upon the surface of my heart

once drenched in sadness

and in anger torn apart

I breathe out and I breathe in

Your presence carried

by the hands of the wind

Happy Birthday

to you.

I remember the day I met Katie. We had a mutual friend who couldn't wait for us to meet. We drove out to the coast where Katie lived and it was a sunny, breezy day. The three of us laughed all day! Katie was intelligent, insightful, and wickedly funny.

I knew her casually for the first couple of years and fortunately got to know her better during what would be her last year. I knew her health was getting worse and that there wasn't much time. I asked myself if I was ready for this kind of a loss. I decided I was more ready for what she would bring into my heart by becoming a closer friend.

The day of the funeral was brutal. I admired our mutual friend for her composure and grace in what was more painful for her (she had been Katie's friend since they were children), but that is her nature. I'm different.

I have a red hot button labeled "anger" inside me. When a specific person approached the podium to talk about Katie I was outraged. There was a history between Katie and this person. I knew Katie loved this person and had made her peace with said individual long before dying, but I had a harder time forgiving and forgetting. I was sitting near the front of the church. I stood up in the middle of what my rage considered lies, disrespect, and general bull****. I noisily and roughly made my way down the row of seated mourners to the middle aisle of the church. When I reached the door I swung it open and slammed it behind me with all my adrenalin powered strength.

I was in a rage. I paced outside the building, shaking and making little animal sounds, trying not to scream. When the anger passed I felt like I had been the one who was disrespectful. Why couldn't I be more forgiving like Katie? Why couldn't I hold it together like our mutual friend? I felt guilty for what I had done. I sat inside our mutual friend's car with her dog and cried into his furry neck.

A year later Katie's family and friends organized a get-together to remember her life. That's when I wrote this poem.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

New Houseguest

I woke up this morning wondering if the cat was still visiting. I looked into her green eyes and knew her status had changed from "Lost Cat" to "Houseguest." After spending time watching her enjoy her lunch and sitting with her spiraled in my lap, I am covered in her soft black and white fur. I just finished completing the application to volunteer at one of the local shelters that focuses on women and their children. It's a three step process to become a volunteer. I'll need to pass the interview and complete an orientation and on the job training.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Lost Cat

Tonight when I came home from work a black and white cat was sitting on my front fence. I hadn't seen this cat before. It didn't belong to a neighbor and it wasn't part of the usual feral crowd. As soon as I started to walk towards it, it started to meow and approach me. I'll admit I started talking to it asking who it was and where it came from. I stretched out my hand and it rubbed its white fluffy head against my fingers. The cat is now curled up in a cardboard box on the porch with an old towel and a belly full of food.

Earlier today I discovered a blog by Nick Mele, a former diplomat and current Peace Activist. His entries about the homeless were in my mind while I found it so easy to care for a homeless cat. I live in a community that cares about its homeless so well that I have neglected to ask, "What can I do to help?"

I've written poems in an attempt to promote awareness but tonight that doesn't seem like enough.