love on father's day

ears that have never heard a father’s voice

arms that have never been lifted onto dads lap
never felt that strong embrace
and a heart who’s never felt a father’s love

we cry in obscure corners, in isolated dark spaces

wonder how it must be
to walk hand in hand with our idol
looking up to a face of security of strength

could I have been mentored

directed in a different loving path,
gone fishing, shared a hammock in the
back yard while reading together,
strolled in the park talking about a man’s journey

a dad could have corrected my misdirection,

maybe disciplining me but constructively
not with unforgetable punitive unrestraint or
a clenched fist and angry destructive voice
unleashed by a male figure known
only by cboice on a first name basis

happy father’s day to the responsible dads

he who drove his kids to school
who came home from a long days work
then lovingly lifted his child high up 
sharing that caring paternal smile

to those abandoned children who

didn’t know their 'dad' and
those that did yet never shared
a common space or caring momentts
now only left with a distrust of love:

 

love has no role, no gender,

it is not selective and is selfless.
stand in front of a mirror, smile at him,
smile at her, you are loved by the
face looking back at you

happy father’s day, mamasita

cherub on a weed

at the height of my incalculable query

of life, of me existing in it
in my quiet noise as I stand alone
i hear a violin play a diminuendo
then a soft bow lined with hair of mane
brings me back

i see a bird is perched in a lowly weed
in a field covered in a mist of gray

it sees me looking and lifts into its nest
of where it resides, the air, the sky,
it gathers the wind underneath its wings
and flies on

i stand there breathless, in awe

why can’t i do that, I ask
then i recall,  i think i have
sometimes in my dreams by night
sometimes in my reverie in day

then I see this winged cherub

return to that lowly grass weed
where it had perched upon before
this time it sits looking at me
tilts its head, its crown,
in this moment, i exist   
  

*inspired by photographs from a white space: one brave soul awakes

   and her reference to Olafur Amalds “Faun”

light and dark of day

dread the sun and the day

people will see me in my disarray
at least in the dark of night
some may trip over me and most
just see me and they just
walk away.

i curl up, cuddle with my blanket
and all that i own in my plastic bag
my shoes a shirt and socks kept dry.
when my stomach rumbles loud
people sneer at me with words "disgusting".
when the sun brings the light, i sit up,
i don’t lie down during the day because
people kick me, throw their trash
on top of me thinking they're throwing
it away. i guess it's because i use a trash
bag as a cover to keep me dry.

i don’t want to be like this but

i now can’t get up because my army
fatigues, my pants, are now crusted on me.
the stench of relieving myself.
(had to do this, in the bush, in Nam)
they retain the water and a digested roll 
a woman threw down while walking by. 
she was scolded by ‘the man’…don’t
give them anything you’re just enabling
their ways. i think she was just throwing
it away but thanks
 
shared half of this roll with a young mother
and her young daughter who hide behind
a trash bin. mother doesn’t speak english
daughter doesn't speak just looks down.
they're too proud to be seen as homeless.
mom's afraid someone will take her child
away, separate them and deport her

wish i could get up without disgrace,
without offending anyone around.

i would try to find a faucet some place,
freshen and clean my face,
greet the sun as it brings the day
 
where i used to sleep before,
a river flowed nearby. it was a paradise.
it had grass and a bush to sleep in,
a tree to lean against, it felt of home.
a place where the young mother and
her todler would welcome and appreciate. 
i can’t recall where it is, though.

it’s hard to find my way in the dark.
my eyes no longer young, my muscles
now flaccid, don't want to be seen in daylight.
oh well that’s life. back to my darkness and
dream about food, about water, the bush and tree
and maybe a nice little clean dress
for the mother’s daughter

*for Susan @ Poets United using 'light and dark'

*dedicated to my brother passed away in the streets of los angeles,
  hopefully while dreaming. Also, to forgotten homeless Vietnam Vets.

honey in a gray day

the diurnal calm and then the peril

angst and pain then soothing in its wane
warming embraces makes feral the day
pushing toward the edge of insane

like stubbing a toe as most have done

we elevate it placing a bag of ice
the throbbing subsides but not before
spontaneous cursing comes once or thrice

the stubbing is a metaphor to the

challenges of the day that we face
but small in comparison to those
who must run in life’s real race

Pablo Neruda said ’…the journeys go and

come between honey and pain…’
but I’m reminded of those who
are condemned to days where never
is it sunny only the stormy rain

like the mother in Afghanistan

wailing out her cry of where she
had to barter her daughter for food
so her other children would not be
left unfed to die

of watching her husband’s beheading

the burning of their home the tearing
of her body in front of her son by Taliban
and raping of her daughter by more
than one

so in the challenging moments of the day

seemingly filling the sky in clouds of gray
think of the land where birds no longer sing
no longer fly, the only thing heard are
a wailing mother’s cry

 *written for Kerry O'Connor's challenge in Imaginary garden to
   a day of honey and not the sting