I am an ostrich, hiding deep within myself,
My head submerged in murky moods,
Screaming in a vacuum.
No, not a vacuum, but a sound-proof room,
With walls of ten-foot stone,
A fortress,
Clammy, cold and, dimly lit,
That admits no sound,
But the monotonous percussion,
Of a heart that knows the one eternal truth:

We are born dying,
And every breath that we take,
Every beat of our heart,
Brings us one step closer,
To the grave.

It is easy to forget a world exists outside,
My diminutive cell when my teeth chatter,
Not from the absence of warmth,
But from the absence of meaning.

Perspective, perspective, perspective,
Echoes through my fruitless cell.

I am a foolish,
Ugly bird,
Cowardly bird,
But needlessly.

I heard a song today, a soothing melody,
Sung by an angel dressed in woman's clothes;
Oh, sing again, dear love, I had
Almost forgotten your sweet voice!

You'll never find truth,
However hard you seek it,
In extremists' words.

Fledgling,
Broken wing,
Carefully nursed,
Shielded,
Nourished,
Loved,
Healthy again,
Vantablack wings,
Powerfully beating,
Propelled skyward,
Fueled by,
Benefactor's eyes.

Its five a.m. and still I cannot sleep,
My world’s been shattered and peace will not come,
Turning a light on shadows buried deep,
Awoke the past and now I am undone.

Scars once thought healed have opened up anew,
Pain thought forgotten rises to the fore,
Lies I believed wanting them to be true,
Are now the cause for me of endless war.

What would I give if I could change the past?
Avoid mistakes fatal not just to me,
But to those I love best from first to last,
No price too high for redemption would be.

I’ve done grievous wrong trying to do right,
And now there’s no solution to my plight.

Memories assault my mind,
And make me drink a draft of darkness all my own,
The once-filled corners of my mind are empty now,
And though accompanied, I am alone.

I’ve given all I had to chase a dream,
Which haunted me for much too long a time,
Shards of reality now cut the empty refrains of what might have been,
Of shattered truths and dreams gone awry.

I seek with the hunger of a dying soul,
And am rewarded for my foolishness,
With an endless void where the only meaning to be gleaned,
Is from the shadow cast by my dying mind.

What of Don Quixote and his faithful Sancho Panza,
When the dragons begin to take their true form and windmills appear?
He fights to hold on to the dream and failing to do so,
Dies from the crushing weight of his reality.

When I wake, I will redden profusely,
And put down my ragged lance,
To take my rightful place,
Beside the great dolts of our time.

Yet still I sleep, though I know the uneasiness of incipient wakefulness,
I cling on to the dream, knowing it a dream,
For in its sweet promise lies the only truth I can accept,
My only hope, the evanescent reverie of an immature mind.

I have a ten-page curriculum vitae,
And a one-page life,
Footnote my regret.

Five years since we last spoke.
Five years since I last hugged you.
Five years since hearing you say good night on the phone.
Five years since our last dinner together.
Five years since our last daily talk on my long commute.

The time has passed so swiftly.
And so slowly.
The pain has abated to a constant hurt.
I need you dad.
I always knew I would.

I took you for granted too often.
I said I love you often, meant it always.
But I did not feel it as strongly as I should have--
Did not appreciate how very precious every moment was--
Did not comprehend how truly blessed I was to have you in my life.

Mom is now gone too.
The years after you passed were profoundly painful.
She did not realize you were gone--a blessing.
Eventually she forgot me too.
But I so miss our weekly visits too.

I always kissed her for you.
Three times on the forehead before leaving.
You always kissed her three times.
I hope you were there sometimes.
And I hope you were not.

You are both together now.
Resting side by side.
I will join you both when God calls me home.
And will miss you both every day meanwhile.
Until we meet again.

Hear their approaching hoofbeats,
See the destruction in their wake,
Know it is we who summoned them.

The poison of our hatred draws them,
As does the indifference in our hearts,
And the darkness in our souls.

As we've sown, so now we reap,
Division, acrimony, and ill will,
Harvests that nourish our inner demons.

War, famine, pestilence, and death
now march,
Trampling freedom, hope, and truth,
Co-opting and mocking God's grace.

The tipping point is visible on the horizon.
Soon there will be no turning back,
If we succumb to our collective madness..

I've never taken acid,
So why is the world melting,
All around me every day?

When did 1984,
Brave New World, A Clockwork Orange,
Fahrenheit 451,

Animal Farm,
Lord of the Flies,
Become historical works?

Proudhon, the French Anarchist,
Declared, "Property is theft",
A pity he is long dead,

He'd be another rock star,
With a meteoric rise,
And likely be president,

"******* leads to
Salvation" his quote too,
Would make a catchy slogan.

A man ahead of his time,
And a sad symbol of ours,
How the hell did we get here?

When clowns can be elected,
To Congress and the White House,
And truth has lost all meaning,

We've gone through the looking glass,
Fallen down the rabbit hole,
And I fear there's no way back.

We alone in the universe?
Inconceivable! Absurd! Illogical!
So why the silence?

We’ve been screeching “We’re here!”
For the better part of a century,
Sending our best and worst broadcasts,
(Mostly the latter) that have now traveled,
Nearly 100 light years in the Milky Way.

A-bombs and H-bombs also send out clear signals.

They know we’re here.
So why the silence?
Could it be they did respond and are here?
Perhaps.

But two other options are likelier, I think.
One, that they saw, heard, examined our broadcasts,
And did as we might if we discovered,
An island populated by billions of rabid baboons.
Unpleasant. Dangerous. Irrelevant.

Another possibility is that they cannot distinguish,
Our primitive signals from the general background noise,
And natural radio emissions of a static-filled universe,
Any more than we could hear the most ardent efforts,
Of a paramecium vigorously thrashing its cilia,
In an effort to let its existence be known to the universe.

No, we are not alone.

We can’t possibly be.

We are just not worthy of acknowledgement,
Or perhaps of notice.

Worse yet, we might be like a cancer cell,
Attempting to communicate with the body it inhabits.
Whether it succeeds through its efforts,
Or is discovered by independent means,
Is there any question as to its likely fate?

Opinions are made of flexible cloth,
That can adapt to drape any body,
Regardless of how strange or fine its shape.

Truth is made of rigid, hard, brittle cloth,
That must be worn exactly as it comes,
Alter it for comfort's sake, and it breaks.

If you speak the truth,
You won't need to remember,
The lies that you've told.

Some came back home with scars that would not heal,
Some were welcomed with ticker tape parades,
Some spit upon by cowards with much zeal,
Some draped in flags to rest in early graves.

They fought in all our wars asking not why,
For country, family, brothers in arms,
They fought that freedom should not, would not die,
They fought in cities, forests, fields and farms.

They bought our freedom with their sacrifice,
Paid with their blood, their limbs, their innocence,
They sought not thanks, though no thanks could suffice,
As payment for their great munificence.

Remember them, today and every day,
For those who live and all who died please pray.

"I know that I know nothing" said the wisest man who ever lived,
"I know that I know everything" said the dumbest of them all,
The rest of us fall somewhere in between the two.

Wisdom comes from knowing that the smartest humans,
Are like amoebas trying to understand the universe by examining,
In minutest detail the drop of fetid pond water they inhabit.

When you don't know what you don't know,
And realize you are as ignorant and insignificant as an amoeba,
You will have begun the long journey to enlightenment.

Started writing it two decades ago,
Using a pseudonym for first/last time,
To protect the guilty and innocent,
In this autobiographical work.

Life got in the way of reliving it,
Work, wife, parents with health issues, now gone,
Back burners full of overflowing pots,
The sands of time quickly sifting through my fingers.

Serious writing projects completed,
A dozen plus books published,
Others yet to come, new lectures to plan,
New courses to develop and to teach.

My story untold, lessons learned unfurled,
But not not written down to pass down my truth,
About things I know much more than I'd like,
And others should learn, in old age and youth.

Place bound for now on an imposed lockdown,
Chained to my desk like galley slaves to oars,
Taping lectures, attending Zoom meetings,
Depression abounds, if not joy or sleep.

So I'm back again, reliving the past,
In memory still green, though browning in parts,
Taking poetic license where I must,
But gently as a child's butterfly kiss.

Nearly nine thousand words today for just,
One day's events that sowed a thousand seeds,
That sprouted, flourished and died or were pecked,
By hungry vultures out of existence.

Remembering a day in my career,
When I still viewed the world with bright, clear eyes,
And had not opened doors I could not close,
Or walked by closed doors I should have opened.

My world and heart were then innocent, pure,
Full of good intentions waiting to burst,
From a chest that could hardly hold them back,
Foolishly thinking they could change the world.

The painful memories I now drown in,
I will not disclose. The pain I've given,
The pain I've received, I'll whitewash away,
To protect myself and those I have loved.

I'll limit my journey to work alone,
Describe what I've learned that others should know,
Weave the personal with transparent thread,
The professional with thickest red yarn.

I'll search for an agent when it is done,
As I'd like it read, unlike indie books,
And I believe it will find a market,
For it will reveal some essential truths.

It will teach much more that all need to know,
Than my life's work: Lectures, books, articles,
Poetry, fiction, blogs, presentations,
Hope I can write it before my life ends.

My sand's running out, tick tock cries the clock,
Hope lockdown provides, end to writer's block.

Opinions fly free,
But are worthless noise when not,
Supported by facts.

A three-ring circus,
No animals/acrobats,
Just pathetic clowns.

Flores florecen junto a latas de Pepsi oxidadas,
Regadas por la saliva de los traficantes de cocaína,
Y el ***** y el fluido vaginal,
De amantes en celo manoseándose bajo mantas,
Bajo estrellas débilmente brillando a través de niebla tóxica.

Refugio en la oscuridad para asaltantes, violadores, y otros maleantes,
Cuyo aliento profana las misma especies,
Que tan mal representan,
Degeneran la definición Platónica del hombre,
En pollos muertos, desplumados.

Abominación. Horrible no en sí mismo, si no en el uso que se le pone:
Un hueso lanzado a perros que nunca han probado un bistec,
Y se conforman en festejar,
Los trozos de carne fétida,
Restantes en huesos bien roídos.

Parque Central, el hueso que debemos roer,
Sonriendo complacientemente al ver los rascacielos,
Crecientes a diario donde las flores podrían haber brotado,
Nuestra humanidad hundiéndose en proporción,
A las alturas que alcanzan.

Si parezco ser de mente estrecha y cruel,
O ciego a la belleza de "Central Park",
Es porque he caminado en tierra virgen,
En verano, invierno, otoño y principios de primavera,
Y no puedo llevarme a amar a una puta.

Little, cuddly, smart,
And in the fullness of time,
He will move mountains.

If you'd like to hear,
A reading of my new poems,
Click the link below

Cut and paste to your browser:  https://youtu.be/CacB8e-UT_4

No escribo por dinero,
Y aún menos por fama,
Escribo porque tengo que hacerlo,
Es simplemente quien soy.

Soy competente en muchos oficios,
Con maestría en algunos,
Pero no me definen,
Es simplemente lo que hago.

Lo que escribo no perdurará,
Gran parte no se leerá,
Poco de lo que publico,
sobrevivirá mucho tiempo cuando muera.

Yo escribiría si nadie me leyera,
En tinta, en la arena o en sangre,
Mientras la razón perdure,
Sé que no voy a parar.

Es así para todos quienes somos,
Escritores en nuestro núcleo,
Escribir es nuestra esencia,
Es lo que somos, nada más.

Captura el significado,
Del tapiz fluido de la vida,
Interpretado en un fotograma.

You won't change the world,
Regardless how hard you try,
Work to change yourself.

Life is but a prelude to that which is to come,
Our pain and ecstasy are just ephemeral dreams,
We dream along the journey through the birth canal,
That leads to our emergence draped in glory's light,
Of our true birth in the arms of eternity.

Another version of myself last night,
Visited me in a true lucid dream,
To share some news I could not first believe,
About the workings of the universe.

He told me what I already thought true,
That there are an infinite number of
Universes in the vast multiverse,
I smiled as though he’d said the sky is blue.

Then he went on to tell me that in all,
Live only different versions of ourselves,
On identical versions of each world,
In which self-aware beings with souls exist.

All versions of my other selves that live,
On infinite numbers of other earths,
Share but one soul identical at birth,
Shaped by the choices made in each lifetime.

As we all know each choice we make in life,
Can change our future both for good or ill,
And every version that exists of us,
Has made every possible choice in life.

No fork in the road has been left unwalked,
No door unopened in life’s long hallway,
An infinite number of each of us,
Has made every possible decision.

Free will reigns supreme in each universe,
And sharp blacks and whites in each human life,
Blur to diffused grays when viewed as a whole,
With pure good or evil hard to discern.

My other-self proved this by showing me,
A thousand samples of my other selves,
From across the multiverse, each different,
The result of their lifetimes of choices.

I was disappointed to find I am,
At best average among the others,
Better than some, worse than many others,
In no way exceptional or special.

Some of my other selves have cured cancer,
Some are junkies, alcoholics or mad,
Some are con men, thieves, some honest judges,
A few are homeless, more than just a few.

Some are wealthy and kind, or poor and cruel,
Some loving husbands and fathers, some not,
Some are healthy, strong, happy and prosper,
Some found life too hard to bear and checked out.

Some are the kind of men I love, like dad,
Some are the kind of men I loathe, like me,
Somewhere I’m every kind of man there is,
That was the true lesson I learned last night.

There are no degrees of separation,
Between all my other selves and this one,
And there’s no degrees of separation,
Between all human beings on planet Earth.

We are the same in every way that counts,
Save for the choices made in a lifetime,
That sculpt our souls into saints or demons,
And all the fine gradients in between.

Leave to all your heirs,
The one priceless legacy,
They can't buy: Honor.

An excess of pride,
Paves the road to perdition,
As does want of it.

Intentionally,
Avoiding productive work,
No guilt, no way, nope.

Pure hearts never die,
They stop beating and ascend,
From whence they have come.

Que tragedia es el hombre,
Pies plantados en el fango,
Con su mente en el cielo,
Anhelando a volar.

Que triste es una vida,
Repleta de recuerdos,
Y una luz se apaga,
Y se borran al final.

Que cruel es la esperanza,
Que como un espejismo,
Desvanece en el alba,
De nuestra realidad.

Que injusta es la vida,
Que honra a deshonrados,
Y otorga a almas puras,
Eterna oscuridad.

What a Tragedy is Man

What a tragedy is man,
With his feet planted in the mud,
His mind in the heavens,
Yearning to fly.

How sad is a life,
Full of memories,
A light goes out,
And all is erased in the end.

How cruel is hope,
That like a mirage,
Dissolves in the dawn,
Of our reality.

How cruel is life,
That honors the dishonorable,
And rewards the purest souls,
With eternal darkness.

You can read my novel free,
Though fiction, it's about me,
Come walk with me for a while,
Shed a tear, laugh, or just smile.

Fiction that is based on truth,
The man I'm now in my youth,
Fighting windmills every day,
Twelve hour days for little pay.

Triumphed where told I could not,
Pyrrhic victories the lot,
Valuable lessons learned,
Optimism scorched, not burned.

Round robin I danced with love,
Seeking guidance from above,
Scars thought healed yet bled anew,
Writing this book, sleepless too.

Now it's published and on sale,
But through August I'll regale,
New and old readers of mine,
With a free version online.

And I've traslated it too,
You can find it free there too,
In English or Spanish read,
Let not for naught be my bleed.

And if novels you disdain,
And would not its wisdom gain,
Of other things I do sing,
That may pleasure to you bring.

You'll find my short stories there,
No need to read them change spare,
Until August thirty one,
They're free for you, every one.

In English and Spanish true,
I hope some bring joy to you,
And with this I'll leave you, friend,
As this poem has reached the end.


[  To read my complete novel or latest book of short stories free of charge through the end of August, you can copy and paste the following link to your favorite browser:
https://www.royalroad.com/profile/368939/fictions ]

La libertad es tu legado,
Comprada con tu preciosa vida,
Lejos de casa y de la familia,
En guerras sabias e imprudentes.

Camino a la luz gracias a ti,
Enseño, escribo, hablo, pienso sin miedo,
Y nuestra bandera vuela libre sin tocar el suelo,
Faro de esperanza a través de los años.

Estoy orgulloso de nuestra bandera,
Mi mano sobre el corazón mientras canto,
Nuestro himno nacional,
Mientras mi voz se agrieta y los ojos lagrimean.

Siempre me emociono,
No de orgullo tonto y vacío,
Sino porque en ella veo,
Tu sacrificio conmovedor.

La libertad no viene de un deseo,
Ni la paz de las oraciones por sí solas,
Viene de soldados como tú,
Que desinteresadamente lo dieron todo.

Te llevo en mi corazón,
Todos los días de cada año,
La deuda que te debo no puede ser,
Paga con palabras ni con lágrimas.

Descansa en paz, amado muerto,
Que Dios te conceda honores debidos,
Hoy voy a enarbolar nuestra bandera,
Y en ella siempre te veré a ti.

The Things for Which I am Most Grateful

- A God who loves me despite the many faults that make me unworthy of His love;

- A wife who has been my best friend for more than three fourths of my life, even when I have been so much less of a friend to her than she deserves;

- Parents who have given up everything that I may have a life better than they enjoyed and never made me feel the weight of their sacrifice and who now watch over me from heaven;

- Grandparents who imparted unforgettable lessons through their example that include: prize your good name above all other things; there is no shame in poverty but for poverty of spirit; hard work will see us through any adversity; and there are many things far more precious than our own lives;

- Friends who have helped me get through the most difficult times of my life;

- The opportunity to serve others through meaningful work;

- Exceptional colleagues with whose help anything is possible;

- Teachers in public and private institutions that instilled in me a love of learning through high school and beyond;

- The men and women who put on a uniform every day and voluntarily undertake the dangerous work of policing our streets, putting out our fires, rescuing us from harm and ensuring our freedom through their selfless sacrifice in places far from home;

- The privilege to live in an adopted country that has welcomed, accepted and nurtured me, bestowed upon me the honor of its citizenship and to which I am most proud to pledge my allegiance above all others, grateful beyond words for the opportunity to live in the greatest country that the world has ever known.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

My love was most pure,
Wish it had been strong enough,
To have set you free.

Freedom is your legacy,
Paid for with your precious life,
Far from home and family,
In wars both wise and unwise.

I walk in light thanks to you,
Teach, write, speak, think without fear,
And our flag flies proud and true,
Beacon of hope through the years.

I stand proudly for our flag,
Hand over heart as I sing,
Our Anthem whene’r it plays,
As my voice cracks and eyes tear.

Emotions run high for me,
Not from empty foolish pride,
But because in her I see,
Your most poignant sacrifice.

Freedom comes not from its wish,
Nor peace from prayers on their own,
They come from soldiers like you,
Who selflessly gave their all.

I carry you in my heart,
Every day of every year,
The debt I owe you cannot,
Be repaid in words or tears.

Rest in peace, beloved dead,
May God grant you honors due,
Today I will fly our flag,
And in it always see you.

Deontology was the canary in the coal mine,
Whose death and replacement by teleology,
Opened the gates,
To the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Love does not die of just a single blow,
Its life flows out quite slowly over years,
One drop follows another as love flows,
From thousands of unfatal cuts and tears.

A thousand little stings from tongue or eye,
A thousand unkind words from me and you,
A thousand "I told you so’s" piled on high,
A thousand battles lost, refought anew.

Each wound a scab that grows harder with time,
Covering festering hurts that won't heal,
An unwise word morphs to betrayal sublime,
Suppurating reminders all too real.

Simple kindness is lost from lack of use,
And what remains just a facade in truth.


My podcast reading of this poem is available at https://open.spotify.com/episode/7tRrW46ovkUfmLknjvhmGn?si=ipvg74hOQ3iWbWWlPfhDKw

Love does not die of just a single blow,
Its life flows out quite slowly over years,
One drop follows another as love flows,
From thousands of unfatal cuts and tears.

A thousand little stings from tongue or eye,
A thousand unkind words from me and you,
A thousand "I told you so’s" piled on high,
A thousand battles lost, refought anew.

Each wound a scab that grows harder with time,
Covering festering hurts that won't heal,
An unwise word morphs to betrayal sublime,
Suppurating reminders all too real.

Simple kindness is lost from lack of use,
And what remains just a facade in truth.

You were only seven when you went blind,
But could see again in less than two years,
Two years later you were seeking to find,
Full time work to help your mom ease her fears.

Eight brothers and sisters home, and dad dead,
From fascists' caresses in dark, dank cells,
You rolled up your sleeves without tears or dread,
Worked full time packing fish and working wells.

At sixteen you left for a foreign shore,
Worked hard, learned to read, saved all that you could,
To pay mom’s passage and two brothers more,
Keeping a promise as you knew you would.

Of your son you were as proud as can be,
But one of your cells was worth ten of me.

El amor no muere de un solo golpe,
Se desangra lentamente a lo largo de los años,
Gota a gota se desvanece,
De miles de cortaduras y lágrimas no mortales.

Mil pequeñas picaduras de lengua u ojo,
Mil palabras desagradables de mí y de ti,
Mil "ya te lo dije" apilados en lo alto,
Mil batallas perdidas, y reiniciadas sin fin.

Cada herida una costra que se endurece con el tiempo,
Cubriendo daños encanados que no sanan,
Una palabra imprudente transformada en traición sublime,
Supurando recuerdos omnipresentes.

La simple bondad se pierde por la falta de uso,
Lo que queda, sólo una fachada en realidad.

Respect must be earned,
It is not bestowed by birth,
And cannot be bought.

Do writers who cry,
Unread in the wilderness,
Ever make a sound?

when did we forget,
the guiltless joy of reading,
comic books in bed?

Saturday cartoons,
breakfast--Oreos and milk,
while mom and dad slept.

the past comes to life,
in minds that can still recall,
simple joys of youth.

Poetry is a dangerous siren’s song,
That calls the soul towards a chasm deep,
Dulling the mind and making the heart long,
For that which it may touch yet never keep.

A Sonnet is too much the friend of truth,
And leaves no room for self-deluding lies,
It conjures up the honesty of youth,
And artifice through artifice soon dies.

Essential truths will spill onto the page,
Transpiring through the pores of consciousness,
Leaving exposed the battles that we wage,
To build facades of hope for hopelessness.

I can deny the painful song I hear,
But it’s too late; its message is too clear.