"barbecues" poems
that feeling when (your) finger tips clutch (my) bare skin
veiled in casual apathy
we watch the screen in silence
not knowing what to say
i don't know what went on
behind your flickering eyes
as for me, the moment of contact
sent jumpy tingles up my spine
unexpectedly
my mind reeled forward
to unspent nights in dance clubs or backyard barbecues;
the way your hands felt in mine when we leaned in
lips still intact--
unbroken
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Hello Chicago
Flat carpet-town of corn meal
steel spears at the northern junction
of Cahokia and some unknown dream
No lillies grow here sir,
no tulip fields
though there are many Dutch
a little up north
Wisconsin, dontcha' know?
Family blood rains through the Chicago river
named of the blood of a slain tribal wonder
wanders
with the roaming buffalo
I sat at the top of Sears
(Willis)
Tower and peered into the foggy distance
and made out the shores of Michigan
through Indiana
the leftover rains of a continental freeze
churned the earth to butter and carved the arteries
and bowels
of today's earthly body
And when we drove in from O'Hare
in the late hours on incessant stoplight highways
counting down the streets
thinking maybe they'll go all the way to
Mississippi
just a long row of
Concrete
I saw the brick tower
of a decrepit Frito-lay plant
where they cooked their corn and potato
into succulent
can't eat just one
little snacks
for the whole of america
to enjoy in backyard barbecues
and convenience stores
and grocery outlets
All across the planet
Now with the trucks they come and go
up to and whizzing past Chicago
on to greener states with greater relief
with hills and lakes and winding streams
Different sections of the sculpture
Cities eroding into the pleasant coasts
quaking and breaking into tiny stones
a monumental David
cracked in the gallery
bird **** corroding the silicates
unpolished and immortal
words
Chicago!
oh you mighty city you
built from sod and sweat and dew
of new morning
I see your towers
you dreamer, you
But your towers are in Dubai,
and Shanghai
now
The world moved on
and forgot everything about
that magnificent mile
burned to make you earn
new toys and fancy things
from far beyond your winding river streams
But you didn't die
amazing, how much they tried
to rust you out
to bleed you dry
no,
Chicago,
you keep your ***** rivers flowing
all the way to the Mississippi
flanked by modern Roman concrete
all the way to the great green sea
out into the puddle that surronds
the Amerigo
Chicago
don't you give up that river dream
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.
With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.
To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.
And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.
Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.
The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.
Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.
Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.
I'll keep pushing.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Talk-show queen
Oprah Winfrey with her entourage
is going to Australia
and it’s timely now for a quick Colbert Report
on the state of the colony of Australia
Colony?
Yes, that’s right
Australia is still a British colony -
How else do you explain it?
as the Head of Government in Australia
is still the British Monarchy
and her Majesty, the Queen of Great Britain,
has her representative
a Governor-General in Australia;
and the Aussie national media faithfully reports
that Prince Philip is a God in some remote island
and the TV stations broadcast visions of
which British Prince kissed which of their latest fancy
And so, Oprah, welcome to the Colony
Ah, yes, and the Chinese migrants coming in
are surprised to learn of Australia’s status
at citizenship ceremonies
and the young man explains to his grandma:
“Oh, Foreign Devil still control Australia;
sad, Chairman Mao did not Liberate Australia.”
And Indian migrants, much to their disappointment
are heard to remark:
“Oh no – does this mean we still have
to go through another fight for freedom as in 1947?”
But then they are consoled by the fact
that a Gandhi only comes once in 200 years
so we can all still get on with our lives
and the nation will continue
to eat burgers and enjoy barbecues and hop like kangaroos
until such things may happen…
Ah well, dear talk-show Queen Oprah Winfrey
and her entourage
this ends our report on the sovereign nation down under:
Happy Stay in Her British Majesty’s Colony
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline.
Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried.
Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues.
Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river.
My wife slumbered on our couch,
And wind blew a kite out of my hands.
I fed a goat nectar from my hands.
A crowd encircled the trampoline.
My family purchased a new couch,
And later that day we helplessly cried.
Our wailing could not be heard across the river,
Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues.
Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues.
I looked down at my blood stained hands,
Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river.
My red elephant broke the trampoline
And we were surrounded by infinite crying.
Nobody sat on the new couch.
Many problems arrived with the new couch;
There weren’t any more barbecues,
And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried.
Silky fabric embraced my hands.
Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline.
She was buried across the river.
Some guy drank all the water from the river,
And started living on our couch.
Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline,
And who would have thought I took up barbecues.
Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand
And I no longer cried.
Only the winter wind cried,
Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river.
I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand,
Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch.
I bored my wife with barbecues
So she went to jump on they trampoline.
Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried.
No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river.
I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
you are right to not believe
for you
the silent cries
that carry into the night
do not existence the volume
of your tv is adjusted
& everything becomes
a mute apparition
illuminated
but not heard.
you are right not to believe
for you
the sounds of gunshots
are the popping of fire crackers
after holiday barbecues
& the screams
come from parades of people
cajoling down side streets.
you are right not to believe
for you
the only hanging you know
exists in laundry whites
bleached towels are a must
for wiping hands
clean
& unstained
from the bloodied bodies
of loved ones.
you are right not to believe
for you
the world doesn't exist
beyond these bordered white picket fences
& bakes sales
until your mexican comes
to clean
suburbia
when will you realize
the war to be fought
runs beyond 5’o clock rush hour
& taking away your son’s ps4?
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
I SIT in a chair and read the newspapers.
Millions of men go to war, acres of them are buried, guns and ships broken, cities burned, villages sent up in smoke, and children where cows are killed off amid hoarse barbecues vanish like finger-rings of smoke in a north wind.
I sit in a chair and read the newspapers.
2.8k
I got tired
Of proving that my dreams are valid,
That the diameter of the me that you see in no way predicts what exists inside
I got tired
Of whispering my words so that those around me could feel tall
Taking up space was a sin and
I got tired
Of hearing my sins repeated back to me
I got tired
Of the burning in my heart as it became ash
Because they like their barbecues
I got tired
Of distracting myself from what I hated most
Because I was scared they might be right
I am tired
Of holding on
Because I forget how to let go
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 4:53 AM UTC
People with plastic smiles
wave to me over their
white picket fences
I avoid their gaze
but they just smile as I drive
past
Back and froth
twice a day
every day
at minimum
I fear their cheerful greetings
there invitations to barbecues and
parties where I'll only be singled
out
I do not need the hive mind,
the men who we envision
in dark suits with red
eyes but who are really
just you and us down deep
inside
I drive by the
face of evil every
day
And as it chuckles
and laughs as I drive
by in my old beat-up
Volvo I avoid looking into
the empty-pits where
a soul is supposed to
be
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 5:50 AM UTC
Her eyes, your solemn witness
are so unlike mine
I am untamed!
a loose humanoid chained
in gold
always spinning
under high beams
like it's no big deal
(while you reside
in your mind)
but why
can't I dream too?
I wanted you
to stay
you energized me
(every contact
left me broken yet intact)
Hallelujah!
You're outside!
Traced your face
in refracted light
Stand-still silhouette
Crop her
out
Fill the void
with blackened foil
while she makes nasty
public announcements
(and loves the attention
creating irrelevant banquets
and barbecues)
This was never my war
so hold fast to us
or crawl or
meet me at the door--
Wherever the blame feels
a little less
and confess
I was the one
you were looking for
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
Hallmark greeting cards
Family barbecues
A brand new tie
A few "I love you's"
The one day a year you tell Dad how much he means to you
I'm spending it in a cemetery this year
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Coffee and cigarettes. Barbecues and ball games
An unordinary lifestyle. Is this the aim?
Doing 9 to 5's and friday nights with friends
Eating, being merry, drinking away weekends.
Routine is good. Routine is healthy.
This is the right thing. This is becoming wealthy.
Financial success. A roof over our head.
Three well balanced meals and an inviting bed.
A partner to care for and who cares for you.
So grow up, you dreamer. Get over your post grad blues.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
The hundrum existence of millions of lives suddenly ceased
as did their obedience to the drudgery of habit -
taking to the sea, to their gardens, to boats, cool drinks,
sun-tan lotions, ice-creams, cool dresses,
to light and shade as dictated to by desire.
Sand scorching to the naked foot glitters like gold for the having
and every square of every town shelters under a haven of umbrellas
and lazy liquor assisted sensuous talk.
The farmers work on a Sunday too
and weekend traffic jams sweat it out
to the blaring of radio cheerfulness in the extreme.
Spotless blue skies progress to star-lit canopies
and barbecues are the dominant feature of the early hours.
Sun and good humour, honest abandonment, salads and heavy foliage rule.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
*here they go again , these experts
telling us things to sadden the heart:
game may not be that safe to eat
running river water is never a treat
for it carries upstream decadence
here they go again, these stuffed-shirt experts:
water is two to one hyydrogen and oxygen
boiled, the oxygen steams away into the air
and your cappuccino has a hydrogen flavour
we endanger our lives when it we drink and savour
here they go again, the learned heralds of demise
they tell us that nothing we can ever devise
can avert the armageddon that's surely coming
the entropy or second law of thermodynamics
transforms physicists into latterday prophets
here they go again on prime media, the erudite experts
talking about free radicals, anti-oxidants, titanium utensils
and the havoc that excess proteins, fats and carbohydrates can cause
it’s time to go puritan and vegetarian in this new poisonous present
where fun is frowned upon and barbecues are a deadly pastime
in this age of dietary enlightenment and forced moderation
we must eventually go raw in our cuisine and be natural about it
or perhaps be as creative as possible before the nutritionists come in
to tell us how not to cook our food and how not to eat it
living was great fun before this age of detoxification and cancer!*
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
A dog is for life
A duck is for dinner
A dragon is for barbecues
A friend is for inspiration
A fish is for relaxation
A frog is for kissing
A cat is for ever
because it has
nine lives that make
it ideal for experimentation
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:13 AM UTC
Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******** clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
I'm sorry courage took a longer time for your hair to grow out past your shoulders
Maybe I regret the coveted gazes that took residence in the threads of your muscles now precinct, hardly noticed nor remembered
You're the seventh page of my diary, as well as the eighth, the ninth, the tenth and it goes on till the edge of this cliff you call home
There are things I don't know why I do
Like the time I gave myself bruises on my shins just because I liked the colour
Has anyone ever thought of how bruises are actually a metaphor of everything unsaid?
Capillaries bursting under the surface of your skin and not flowing, like the words that ride in submarines in your head but never brave enough to say them out loud
Things sound nicer when they come from your lips anyway.
I laugh too much
Is the passion carved on your skull as deep and carefully thought out as the things you say?
Warmth from you is as untrue and synthetic as your boxing gloves strapped tightly on
Punches with the soul of death, you pretend your stares are empty
I’ve watched sunsets more times than I have seen your smile
The darkness that swallows the harbor isn’t something we’d talk about over steaming cups of coffee
I don’t drink coffee anyway
I heard you make lovely icy rainbow popsicles and hand them out at barbecues
But nothing’s colder than your hard gaze, as hard as your cheekbones
I wish you’d grow your hair mid-back so you can finally braid it
I am not so sure what waiting is supposed to do except breed hope and a whole lot of misery
Silhouettes are me and you and everything intangible, just like me and you and black and white, just like me and you
I am in love with you but I do not love you.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Home for me is somewhere over the rainbow, at my great grandparents
house. Well it was once my home before I left the family gathering place. When I
think of home it's the place: I can rest, feel the best and live life without stress.
Today I do not come home without stress because I don’t feel the best or get
enough rest to help my days go by. There are days I come to this house where I
get no reply, it even gets to the point where all I can do is cry. Where am I at, this
house is not a home, its just like I'm trapped up in this dome yelling to these four
walls “there is no place like home. There's no place like home.” In this house I
do not feel the protection I seek, if anything I only feel weak. Is this disturbing,
can you picture it now? Well guess what times up, time to go, see you later, ciao!
I got to find way back home, back to the place where me and my cousins use to
roam. However where are we now, separated trapped in this house with no
where to go, no family to see, OH HELL NO! I can not take it anymore, I really
have to go. Tic-Toc Tic-Toc, My brains about to blow! Get me out of this place
take me away, I want to go back, not tomorrow but today. Where are my loved
ones? They have gone to soon, now to a better place now up in the sky with all
the balloons.
Its been a long time since I've walked through doors of this place I call home.
Home is much less than it used to be. Where is all the laughter, the joy, you know
the family? Come on, jokes over you've got to be kidding. What happened to all
the barbecues, the 4th of July's and all the thanksgiving? Is this what we have
come to, a family with no more tradition. Just because Grandma and Grandpa
aren't here we start to lose our ambition. This is not right, this separation the
divide that only leads to total deprivation. I scream to up beyonder “Grandma and
Grandpa you've got to come back come help before the foundation you’ve
created begins to crack.”
Was all that had happened just a lie? The tiny voice in my head keeps
screaming who am I? Is my home today, what it used to be or is it just me? What
am I to believe, when I sit here just trying breathe an process the thought as to
where my expectations should be in reference to the place I call home. Its like I've
become so numb and its hard to look in the mirror to see what I have become. Its
hard to believe that the place I once called home is no longer what it was, and
just by looking at me you cannot tell the damage that it does. Remember when I
said, “ home is where the heart resides,' I left out one part, its for you to decide. So
to me I am homeless with a heart in search of a place. Now all I have to do is
figure out how to keep it on a stable pace, because without a home there is no
safety. All that is left is for me to walk alone bravely.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
One must take charge of his or her own life
Someone once wrote that
Life, like marbles block is given to all,
However, everybody doesn’t know how to layered such blocks
Even if they read the manuals on life and survival skills
With careful observation, it seem that the local
women spirit cracks so easily on the small Island of Bim
as the men moves on to other women’s
Leaving many on suicidal watch
I visited my old friends, on the island as time permits
And nothing seem to change, they older folks
Weakness still shows:
they lives seem to be on a standstill,
The little island girl in me Grieves within for them
Over the years, I have grown into a stronger woman
I demand respect from my friends,
especially the men
Its more women and not enough men to fulfill
Their ****** appetites, so life on the island become a *** war,
Infidelity is higher than ever,
where the flying fish is plentiful
whereas, some of the women seem so pitiful.
Older men with younger women
The middle-aged women either have to join a church
Or unfortunately,
lined the walls of the dance hall,
or pubs
While looking for love in all the wrong places,
The nights slowly moves into the wean hours of the morning
while the Barskeepers promotes the beer three for ten dollars
Snip snaps sounds is heard throughout their establishments
It seems more like humiliation than enjoyment
In the meantime broken hearts merges all over the place
The only patronage that seem to be having a time of
their lives was the tourists from abroad, who show
signs of unsteady gaits; but were having a wonderful time
On the Island of Bim
The barbecues grills filterers golden spark,
the music
Entices the air
the salted breeze, balm our lips even
Merging with the taste of the Bank beers,
and it was all well
on the island for that short period.
However, with all my finding and frustration, nothing
Can beat cold, cold coconut water
or a refreshing Bank Beer
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
Firework explosions dance
across the midnight sky
sparklers swirl about
lighting up the air
The night is spent
in the back of your truck
with the blankets from my bed
and your body to keep me warm
Barbecues and fancy drinks
and atrocious amounts of food
everyone laughing and drinking and singing
and right by my side is you
The sparklers and the fireworks
of red and blue and white
cannot compare to the light
that shines from you and I
And in those moments
it seemed silly to me
that this holiday was spent alone
so many years before you came along
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
I hear the breeze of days gone by
with the whisper of long days, long nights
and with a sigh,
I strain for the echos, the signs
of loves lost, of games played
of all the grass and dirt and grimes.
Remember the times?
Merry-go-rounds and nursery rhymes?
That one first kiss that opened your eyes?
To the world of our minds, our maze
couldn't make out the beginning or the end
of those days
To no surprise,
They're comprised....of swing sets and slides,
jump ropes and bikes
and just when it was the end of the day,
the wind blows the smell of freedom your way.
Barbecues, fires, and the onset of night
to remind us of the times when everything was right.
What a sight!
As the grass and trees rustle in the wind
remember these days,
Of coloring books and crayons, markers and paint
paper planes, plastic trains, and origami flowers so quaint
running around so long that the blue in our jeans had gone...
faint.
Back then, our friends lived close and the games we played
in the sandbox and blacktops left us drained
So we sat on the hill and let the wind give us chills
under the trees, in the shade, from the heat we were saved
So much time was killed!
And yet, we were thrilled...
when our birthdays came,
and our family came,
and our presents came,
And we never felt lame, playing the same games
Making silly names, growing pains
Kissing Jane and dancing in the rain....
And as the wind blows through the silt
and the echos pass us by,
Cry!
For the whispers of the wind have taken flight
Reach out and hold on with all your might
as it is on these memories that your spirit can again fly
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
Snoozing quietly on a sunny day,
with eyes half closed, breathing relaxed,
listening to the sounds the sun brings out.
Children screaming with play, lawn mowers cutting,
bees buzzing and singing birds.
Languidly lost in time bemused at the thoughts
running free in my mind. I start to muse on
ridiculous things:
Why liquid soap?
Why a date of birth but no date of death? (That would be helpful like a use by date on food, fit in that bucket list or miss your deadline)
Why do ice lollies only come in packs of three like condoms?
Why are children so ultimately free?
Why does the sun make us feel so safe?
Why does road rage come out in the sun?
Why do we insist on eating burnt carcasses and underdone chicken?
At barbecues that take forever to organise with people you'd rather flail alive?
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
I am dreaming of a white Christmas
I say stop, cause it's too **** hot for that
You see instead of skiing and skating on ice
We are having barbecues and swimming in the pool
And instead of Santa coming down the chimney he goes through the computer screen and uncle robbie and jim bob
And Jacob lying on the beach getting a tan and if they are dreaming of a white Christmas well stop cause in Australia
It's too **** hot for that
You see kids are riding their surfboards
On Bondi beach and santa will join us
Everyone is having fun
And robbie pulls out six pack
And said lets get out backpacks
And hike through the kangaroo island bushland
If you dream of a white Christmas
Well stop cause in Australia it's too
**** hot
You see we go off the Queensland and sere the big pineapple and then go down to Coffs Harbour to see the big banana and mum is sweating in the kitchen cooking the Christmas bird
And we go to jamberoo to slide down the waterslide
And uncle Freddie said ** ** ** look at me go
I am dreaming of a white Christmas
I should stop cause in Australia it's too **** too ****
Too **** hot
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
America is an idea
that "all men are created equal,"
with working definitions of "human", "created", or "equal."
America is freedom for our grandchildren
in a manner we will never understand.
It is the founding fathers who died for liberty.
It is the darker brothers who fought for justice from kitchens and pulpits.
It is the poor, the huddled masses,
And their children who have forgotten this.
It is green cards that become blue passports.
It is unlearning the language of our grandparents.
It is knowing how to pronounce Arkansas and Illinois
It is enjoying barbecues on somber national holidays.
It is unbridled enthusiasm.
It is unbridled arrogance.
It is rugged individualism;
It is passionate paternalism.
It is hellfire that scorches deserts.
It is a gust that has fanned flames.
It is a cool rain that puts out fires.
From sea to shining sea--
It is Manifest Destiny
from Louis and Clark to Wounded Knee.
It is Topaz, and McCarthy,
and hundreds of things we would rather forget.
It is D-day, and Neil Armstrong,
and thousands of things we forget to celebrate.
America is a dream that rings from the red hills of Georgia
to the curvaceous slopes of California
to New York Island.
It is patriotism;
it is progress.
It is the blind worship of our past.
It is red. It is blue.
It is red, white, and blue.
It is what half of us say it isn't.
I say it evolves constantly;
others say it was created in His image.
It is everything I hold dear;
it is everything that infuriates me.
It is the warmth that makes my eyes tear
when I hear the Star Spangled Banner
at football games,
on July 4th,
or on September 11th.
It is hope.
It is the promise of a better tomorrow.
It is what ever I am.
I, too, am America.
*I have posted this to another website under the pen name Anamika Nair. I wasn't sure if this was okay. If it isn't, I can submit something else.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
It began with
************
A powerful black man
And a hot babe
Making passionate love
It made me have a strong ******
I can't quite remember
What I had for breakfast
I ended up doing
Quite a few dishes this morning
I ran three miles
At the gym
And did some
Other exercises there
I left the gym at two
And pulled up to the house
Said goodbye to a house guest
Who had stayed for two days
Then I was off
Off for my Thanksgiving drive
And isn't it beautiful
Isn't it wonderful
To see Americans
Celebrating Thanksgiving
As I drive up one street
A family barbecues
On the front lawn
Smoke rising in the air
I drive through
My favorite mountain
Suburb
There are many walkers
Out this Thanksgiving afternoon
A man leaves
What I believe
Is his father's home
I see them part
I see a group of men
And women
Well dressed
Walking together
I play classical music
In my car
And play it loudly
So they can hear
I hope they think
"Why that is lovely"
Emotional I am
In my car
Not wanting to be
In my own home
On Thanksgiving
Having lived there
Since 1997
I've had all the family time
I could ever want
So it's good
It's wonderful
To be alone
On this Thanksgiving
I wonder what it would
Be like
To join these people
On their walk
Beneath the trees
In this beautiful neighborhood
I drive by and see
What I think is a father
Say goodbye to his son
I look at the father
On his front lawn
And he waves
Kind of him
To do so
I wave back
As if he might know
That I wish
I had friends
To spend
This day with
A man
Also stopped me
As he walked by
And asked for directions
I gave him directions
I asked him how he was
And wished him
A Happy Thanksgiving
He wished me
A Happy Thanksgiving as well
I don't know what "happy" is
And yet I say it
Like some line
From a hallmark greeting card
But my intention was good
I guess a happy Thanksgiving
For me would have been
To have a dinner
With some friends
Or to play croquet
Or another lawn game
Like the games I saw people
Playing on their front lawns
Underneath the beautiful trees
In this mountain suburban
American neighborhood
And as I drove
I saw people of different
Ethnicities
African American, Asian
And Caucasian
And they were enjoying the day
Living in peace
And I felt grateful to live here
In this country
And I thought to myself
I hope we are always
At peace like this
Because difficult
And trying times
Often come
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC