LAX

Gateway to the Pacific:
a sprawling web of asphalt stitched
with glowing red and blue and green,
hundreds of thousands of people some
with baggage some without
arriving on airplanes the size of
monuments like the steel carousels
beyond immigration lines and stamps,
a haven for tired travelers from
places far across the sea, all flights
incoming planes circle
above waiting to touch down
while cars crawl along painfully
honking and weaving and loading
the sweet smell of smog and jet fuel
the familiar sound of cars whizzing by
on highways six lanes wide
and roaring jet engines
and scampering feet
the endless beat of LAX.

The Woodsman Watches

as smokestacks spew
burning yellow sulfur
tainted chunks of floating lint
hardly clouds, hazy
streaking across
diseased rivers, winding through
forests uncomfortably warm, clinging to
dry sour soil
gasping
foul air sinks to the bottom
of the chest, it
bleeds through bare feet
seeps out from pores
lurks beneath skin.

Sigh

It is as if the world turns and looks
when the last of autumn flutters to the ground,
a moment suspended in time--
like the setting sun's tenacious will.
Twirling circles in air, with conviction,
sinking in a downward spiral
spin and float and plummet!
play with my heart.
I stand still
I hold my breath--
for the landing marks an end
to unending groves of red and orange,
butterflies dancing to a radiant breeze
and drizzles of magic.

Winter

The last autumn red.
A splash of beauty precedes
the winter heartbreak.

Gaze into the night
as rain patters on glass panes
memories live on.

Lonely in his room
a boy dreams fantastic things
in faraway lands.

Strange solace is found
from the shrill cry of a bird
echoed in clear skies.

But the chill returns.
It's months before spring blooming
and still so we sit.

Collegebound

Walk forward now, forward,
there's no looking back.
Just follow that corridor of ants,
skittering into the distance.
Watch them strain away, pulling on
harnesses dead taut--
Hear the cries of anguished agony,
not said nor sounded, silent.
Look at each blank stare,
course lacking from tired eyes.
On each back a load too heavy, all
filled to the brim with toys;
trinkets that smell like home.

On Living

Hold your head up high, with confidence,
smile and laugh,
'cause it won't last long.
Fill your lungs with lifeblood,
embrace, what is, existence.
Follow where your heart travels,
never look away, never stray.
Gather those that wander,
lead their way.
There's no time to lose,
what is life without the journey
but an end.

Men Who Still Cry at Age Thirty

Gone are the days of old,
of thriving warrior spirit,
of ankles not yet weighed
by the iron shackles of society,
of men who once lived free.

Gone is the time of passage rites,
of free flowing blood,
of boys prepared at fourteen
to earn their prize of manhood,
of hearts hardened into stone.

Here are the days of aged youths,
of glory lost and broken will,
of parents and teachers and pastors
mixing ideal with being,
of spirit lost to myth.

Here is the time of shiftless souls,
of softened skin and mental woe,
of insurance and taxes and bills
all waiting to be paid,
of men who still cry at age thirty.

That Was Then

We used to run the fields together
not a care to imagine
boys and girls alike
laughing shouting playing.

That was then.
Now rigid rules exist.
We're strapped down
and clothed in protocol.
Like jewelry we wear our friends,
not for company, as accessories.
It's always about seeming,
it used to be more being.
Who could've imagined
our sad state today.
Always a stiff hello,
no more laughing together,
no more shouting together,
no more playing together.
And nobody blinks an eye.
Just as I thought.

Sunday

A day of customary work
to clean a week's worth of mess.
A day to do whatever you
haven't been doing
the laundry, perhaps?
A relaxing day, maybe
in your wildest dreams.
Sit outside, yes, on the patio,
read a book
and breathe that musty air.
Yes, constantly think
of that promise you made
to your mom.

To The Moon

A little girl sits on a stool
her head deep in a corner
thinking of memories past,
crying.

Along comes a man of wishes
a suit of silver, a heart of gold,
his every whim a reality,
spying.

He says to her,
I'll hold your hand miss.
Why don't you join me?
flying.

Her head tilts back
to an endless night sky.
Her eyes, like the sparkles above,
shining.

And doesn't notice
the slip of her lips,
What if? She's almost
believing.

I'll hold your hand miss,
he repeats once more.
She feels so special already,
dearing.

Where are we going?
she inquires, still hesitant,
but powerless to turn away,
wondering.

We're going to the moon,
he assures, and reassures,
caressing her hand in his,
smiling.

A Giant Rice Crispy

Crunchy on the tip of my teeth,
the first bite.
Soft and sticky
as it's passed side to side,
making rounds in my mouth.
Sweet, then just a tiny bit bitter,
It's resting on my tongue now.
I hear my stomach
beginning to growl,
impatient for the next.

See this giant rice crispy
is home-wrapped in saran with love,
different from ones enclosed by foil
and stored on shelves of stores.

My World

In that radial world of mine,
where the beats drum and pulse
the melody rings high in the sky
crisp staccatos tingling under my skin,
I can feel Sound's slow saunter
bouncing to and fro.

In that empyreal world of mine,
light speeds and slows
through water and trees and concrete
illuminating and reflecting
all corners of our existence,
I breathe the aromatic energies of life.

In that celestial world of mine,
feelings are smells
and sights are sounds,
I am one with the sun and the moon
with the endless expanse of sea
and the earth on which I stand.

In that ghostly world of mine,
I can see the connected flow
all of God's divine creations
and man's mortallic things
intertwined in a sea of space
as One.

The Mariner

He sits
on a vessel
with sails
to horizon.

He smells
and tastes
of sweat
and brine.

He hears
the beat,
the pulse
of deep.

He shuts
his eyes
and feels
the sea alive.

Wildflower

I see a budding rose-flower
a slender, graceful figure
within my grasp, before me.
Her rosy lips open so slight
as if to entice the warm of mine.
Her scent so beautiful an attraction,
a love so unbelieving.
And so my heart beats troubled satisfaction.
I've seen her like before,
and perfected looks age quickly.
Passion seeks a change of color,
that sky-blue wildflower yonder.

Life's Rollercoaster

A teacher once told me
that the ups and downs in life
are just like a rollercoaster track.
A good analogy I thought at the time.
Each emotional skyward surge
bound to an inevitable fall.
By now I've ridden plenty of coasters,
risen and fallen, again and again,
I always know the ride will end
and bring me back to safety.

But never before have I seen
one of life's steep descents.
A ride into the dark, into the unknown;
Always a journey with no end in sight,
a headlong rush along a perilous track.
Never before have I slept assured
knowing misery will end.
It's more than just a simple set
of wheels on rigid tracks.

Big Adventures

“Hey, lets go!” she screams,

her tiny figure beckoning.

Her hand is rested on her hip,

her eyes look of boredom, gleam of impatience.

She can hardly stand and wait.

“Okay,” he yells back

with a hint of seeming reluctance,

but I can see the shine in his eyes,

the skip in his small strides.

He drops the ball, and sweeps off his mitt.

“We’re going climbing.”

I, too, remember a time

When knotted trunks were scaled,

hills were conquered, and trails were blazed;

When the adventurer spirit

still surged through my veins.

When I used to run into the distance,

searching for big adventures.

The Rott

He growls, he snarls,

leaps and twists and fights.

He’s from the streets,

and that’s his nature.

He’s got a jaw that bites

with a trapping, steel force

and a strong broad build;

he’s all muscle.

Look at his ragged fire-eyes;

he’s got nothing to lose.

Pulling on the leash

with a strength unyielding.

“He’s not one for captivity,”

they think, they say.

I remind myself,

“Be patient.”

Forgive Me

He carries to her,

a gift of promised love

to rebuild the bridge

from his heart to hers.

But he worries unnecessarily.

You see, her doubts

were long forgotten,

washed away in tears

of muddled affection

days ago.

And such is

the story of Love.

Reminiscing

Love’s lost and gone,

departed with the last rays

of the setting sun.

In a fleeting moment,

burning red lust disappears,

left behind is a murky dusk,

then a cold dark.

A lukewarm kiss on the cheek,

only a dying imprint

of the warmth it used to be.

Fond memories carry tears,

and unpleasant memories, anger.

My world is changed, forever—

With the rising sun, a fresh day

has dawned upon my soul,

A new beginning.

And now, when I read your letter,

your first profession of love

to me, I can only smile.

For it invokes memories of

our childish puppy-love fun

of yesterday,

forever close to my heart.

As Seen Through My Eyes

With each turn of the lens

my camera eye changes,

Sometimes I see the trees afar,

Looking out from my flowery meadow

Sometimes I see the bright red petals

Inches from my eye.

I stand at the base of

Great monuments that soar into the sky

New buildings, of glass and polished steel,

Ancient shrines, of weathered and crumbling stone,

All radiating a glorious magnificence,

Looking up, I always feel so small.

Then there are the landscapes,

Earth’s beauties, stretched into the horizon:

Fine desert sands, rippling like waves with the wind,

Forests of gold pierced by silver rays of light,

Lively jungles, where the unseen roars loudest,

And arctic lands frozen in serenity, ever-alluring.

Far away places, cultures of the past,

The essence of history captured in photographs.

From the merchant-ruled city on water,

To the imperial forbidden city of the east.

Hidden communities, nostalgic shore-side towns

And warrior-ruled Saharan plains.

The camera is an extension of my eye,

One that opens up the creative soul.

Parting a path into the artistic world,

my mind’s imagination,

Of beauties never seen, never heard,

Never before experienced.

The Fiend

Like gloves, it wears my skin,

hiding its own calloused fingers,

I feel it rubbing, leathery against

the insides of my hand alive.

It changes the beat of my heart

to rhythm unnatural. Pounding

away my despaired screams for help.

If only they could hear its frenzied laugh,

If only they could see.

Why don’t they hear me, rescue me?

I’m screaming loud, but in here,

there’s nothing louder than silence.

They can’t see the invisible tears

streaming down my face,

the very visage of Sorrow.

Oh how I am confined, enveloped,

wrapped in a musty curtain, out of sight.

Hours of darkness never end.

I am but a prisoner looking out

through cold, barred windows,

Free to think,

but powerless beyond my bounds.

The fight in me grows weaker,

I’m a puppet to its will.

For days, months, years, I live

confined within my head and heart.

Until one day, the calm settles.

I am left wondering if there is,

and ever was, more than

a fabricated web of self-deceit,

having imaginated within.

Perhaps now there won’t be screams.

Perhaps now, the fiend is me, and I,

The Fiend.

A Game for Young and Old

Life's jigsaw--
a puzzle of deliberation,
searching for pieces
in the dark of night.

Connect the corners
to create foundation,
methodically building
into the missing heart.

Image takes form,
stale dreams become reality,
A single piece, separates
what is and what could be.

In the palm of my hand
lies that keystone piece,
the missing link
to a whole, incomplete.

Yet hesitation numbs,
sweet outlook turns sour,
With the jigsaw entire
Life’s game is no more.

A Kind Cigarette

It's nights like these,
when shaded heavens
and frostbitten skies
upset my mind unstable.
Buried beneath false despair,
rescued by the glow of shadows;
thoughts of action breed inaction,
as a specter-raven tears
the delicate weave of reason.
The weight of heavy heart
and the unraveled mind--
victimized by tired senses.
With a sigh of relief,
I sign away resolve,
embracing sinful pleasure:
a kind cigarette.

Advice (From the Shadow of a Man)

When I see the young ones...
Drinking all their dreams away
Careless in everything
Never thinking past today.

Sometimes I plead
Hoping one will listen.

They always say, "Don't worry,
We're smart, We'll find a way."
Off they go, snickering,
Ignoring every word I say.

Each time my eyes
Flood with tears of grief.

Years from now
They won't be men
But mere shadows of who
They could have been.

Man's Burden

I have often questioned,
are the troubles of man
of mannish trouble?
The intellectual cursed
with intellect,
The wealthy afflicted
by weath,
The anguished consumed
in anguish.

Overhead, a bird;
flying above burdened man
amongst clouds unclouded.
An entire existence
fixed upon the horizon,
to reach the unreachable.
Soaring into the setting sun,
One wonders...

Twilight Gloom

As dusk falls,
The green of trees replaced by shade,
silhouttes against the graying sky.
The world around, simplified.
With withered daylight amore
pushed aside, the heart is
forced into a prison mist.
Nighttime chill
permeates the gloom,
consuming thoughts of happiness,
trapping Frolic's tune
in a cage of shadows.

Admist the twilight gloom,
admist fright and uncertainty,
a steadfast spirit lives.
Constantly spinning, re-creating
the delicate threads of reason.
Though vicious fog envelops,
the soul within bolsters
an eternal hope--
though confined to the
faint radiance of stars--
for warmth once again.

Delusions of Grandeur

In the hustle-bustle of city life
a countryman seeks to find
fame and fortune.
Lured by promises of wealth
he casts aside
family, friends, love.

"These things can wait,"
he tells himself
looking into a mirror.
An emotionless face
with a skeptical grin
stares back,
but refuses to see.

Long hours, sleepless nights,
spent in pursuit of gold.
Not a happy thought
nor a moments rest
can wry him from
delusions of grandeur.
Family looks away,
friends move on,
and love slips by...

"What have I become?"
he asks himself,
his heart filled with grief.
A gold watch, suede shoes,
and a pocket full of cash…
all meaningless as
he walks an unlit alley
in one hand
a bottle of whiskey,
in the other
a loaded gun.