Father's Way: Tell me a story, Dad

What power we possess,
when the innocent demand,
at the time of cozy bed and sandman,
"Tell me a story,"

To gentle the monsters
in the closet of their heads,
grant them a peace naive that's lost after
they learn the D words, disappointment, death,
Till then, promises unfettered, the best yet to come.

The story, you, grantor, they, grantees,
Scent their dreams,
perfume their dreams,
sprinkle their safety net, blanky, rag doll:
- scent with mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam, gasoline and body odor

- scent with cherrywood falsehoods to caress,
till morning's burnished glory ascends,
thru window, tenderize the cheeks of my babes,
prep them for the truths to be learned that day.

In tones most imploring,
glances fawning,
tis us, they do deceive,    
for adult arrogance demands
in God we Trust, that they,
will believe our words,
will indeed, make them rest
till new day's slow and subtle dawning

Tis the same tomfoolery that leads us
to drink repeatedly from the trough of
best laid plans and self-deception

You believed your own narrative
will be the one he scripted,
while standing day-dreaming,
sweating on subway platform,
admiring beaches and beauties
from station walls lifted,
waiting for the train
that only eventually comes,

that train, that station, whose smell reminds you
of mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam and motor oil, and body odor,
a cocaine reminder of dreams yet uncrystallized,
and stories your father told, unrealized,
tho train has come, they have not

Write me a narrative, Dad,
and please advise
if tinker or tailor will be my trade,
fix my details, dear pater, par example,
pick my institution of higher learning,
my future alma mater, on my day of birth,
promise me gentility, no harm no foul, mirth,
All the days of my life.

Please advise if I shall be a
wife abuser, communist, or a damn
junkie poet/user,
word rich and pocket poor,
stealing ideas from everyone,
red blooded or blue~green,
a true believer, a born again,
an agnostic, my own truths, to disabuse

tell me father, will I die warmed,
surrounded by generations of my progeny
or in pauper's grave, a life long ward of
one true mate, in loco parentis all of my days,
a child, a dependent, of noster paternal state?

Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...


June 11, 2011
Updated on Father's Day 2013

Three hot tears rolled down my face
and I think they were what's left of you.

The sky darkened as we drove home.
Somehow, even the locusts knew not to chirp.
In the damp grass the ants did not stir.

I guess that's the trouble with memory.
It makes things static,
makes them malleable,
makes them like
one of those stress-relief stones that you carry in your pocket
and rub with your thumb when you're feeling
lonely or anxious,
all the while boring a whole straight through.

You were solid but not designed to give strength.

You were my favorite mountain.
Nobody could replace you--
Except a new version of yourself.
But even in your Everestine heights,
I did not know you.
A mountain, yes--that is what he must be!

I would have preferred a man,
because when I fell down
you could not bend to catch me.

I hope you eventually forgive me
when I make myself happy outside of your shadow,
but the whisper of a new light
is enough
to call me out.

As we pull into the driveway, I slip silently onto my feet.

I found myself wandering this morning
lost in a long hallway
white walls, no character
I feel I've been walking for days
my eyes feel heavy
I'm unshaven and covered in dust
this hallway has doors
brightly decorated and welcoming
but when I walk through them
I'm back in the hallway
I need a cigarette
to help clear my head
I reach for my shirt pocket
and find only broken
pieces of something
trying to figure out what
I squeeze the crumbled mess
and feel a sharp pain in my chest
I have to get out of this place
I need a cigarette

I'm not quite sure
how addiction grabbed me
I picked it up slow
but it grew quite vastly

Started with booze
which turned to puffs
then came the pills
both downs and ups

I'd have one in my hand
two more in my pocket
effects don't matter
just want to skyrocket

Please, take me away
to the places of unknown
help me escape
sober feelings, I've outgrown

No happy soul
been broken to pieces
the puzzle repairs
each time the weed hits

Hiding away
from both friends and family
deny every time
so please stop asking

A boy, once joyous
now fell from grace
peace of mind only comes
from numbing his face

No pride, sheer shame
pure feelings of failure
thoughts run wild
'Will it all end here?'

Partners in crime
now long deceased
a harsh realization
of succumbing to the beast

Praying for help and
pleading for power
rise and prevail
stop trying to cower

There's a want and a need
plus strong will to succeed
to turn life around
since devoured by disease

Now I stand here humbled
with apologetic eyes
for my selfish acts
under life self prescribed.

the difference between man  and man white as paper white as shoe lace black as ink black as pocket  inside people are pinkish brown yellow red tan not much difference to see between man to man

A mature heart has a lifetime of heart break within it's pocket..
A constant cycle of break ups and break ins within it's cavity..
Of feeling the sum of all loses surmount..
Of feeling the peak of everlasting love over spill with ageless wisdom..
we close to re-open,
and close again
to pour open even more vulnerably..
and we come full circle
to know that only a cracked heart,
can allow a deeper love to seep through,
to permeate even more profoundly.                                                  
That only an empty heart
has the capacity
to fill itself to it's fullest once again

I wish I could keep this moment
Put it in my pocket and save it
For a rainy day
When the world reflects my mind

I wish I could save the sunshine
As it glints golden off
Emerald leaves
That dance and whisper
In wind's soft caress

I wish I could save the silence
As it wraps it's fingers
Around my swollen heart
And holds me close
So I don't feel so alone

I wish I could save the grass
It's expansive touch
Enfolding me in a blanket
Of sweet memories
To ease my mind

I could stay in this moment forever
But if I did
I might lose the next one
And who knows
It might be better

Let me take your name,
and stamp it on my hand.
Let me take your story,
and thread it in my sweater.

Let me freeze your photograph,
the colors of your eyes.
Let me hold your scars and palms,
and compare the lines to mine.

I'd like to steal you quickly,
and place you in my book.
Let your heart come to your sleeve,
and only let me look.

I know you love honesty,
you rub it in your hands.
You carry all your stories,
in the pocket of your jeans.

I'd love to listen to them,
watch them paint your lips,
that will never tire me,
it will keep me hooked.

Please, just let me trace you,
even if it's quick,
I'd love to capture such a pretty thing,
before it leaves my finger tips.

i don't know how to write poetry without
using cliches because
i don't know how to write poetry.
i know how to write poetry about as well as my mother knows how not to drink
so it should be rather obvious that
i don't know how to write poetry.
i form sentences that wouldn't sound any worse being pushed through slurred maternal lips.
i paint images that wouldn't look any better being viewed through hooded, blurry eyes.
these jumbled sentences and images are proof enough that
i don't know how to write poetry.
i write like she speaks - in muddled messy bursts of nonsense, sometimes stopping right
in the middle of a thought before picking back up, or maybe quieting into nothing and switching
topics completely lost is my sense of direction when it comes to mapping my thoughts,
as lost as the key she's had stuffed in the pocket she's checked a dozen times already.
i'm sure this mess makes it clear, clear as her tequila, as its empty bottle, that
i don't know how to write poetry.
i may never know how to write poetry.
i may never, ever learn.
but god i hope i try.