Poemas de Laton Pulido

Laton pulido son mis poemas,

frotados con limon hasta que brillan.

Intenté tenirlos en mi rebozo

pero el mundo querían ver,

el sustento ganar

Hasta ahora han hecho dos dolares

meno la comision de Ray

Me pregunto,

como sobreviran?

שִׁירֵי פְּלִיז מְלֻטָּשׁ

שִׁירַי עֲשׂוּיִים מִפְּלִיז מְלֻטָּשׁ,

מְשֻׁפְשָׁפִים בְּלִימוֹנִים עַד שֶׁהֵם זוֹהֲרִים.

נִסִּיתִי לִשְׁמֹר אוֹתָם לְעַצְמִי

אֲבָל הֵם רָצוּ לִרְאוֹת אֶת הָעוֹלָם,

לְהַרְוִיחַ אֶת הַחֲזֵקוֹתָם.

עַד כֹּה הֵם הִרְוִיחוּ שְׁנֵי דּוֹלָר,

לֹא כּוֹלֵל עַמְלָתוֹ שֶׁל רֵיי.

אֵיךְ הֵם יִסְתַּדְּרוּ?/

Love Poems

Imperfect Love 

True perfection,

the Persian weavers felt,

belonged to God alone

and so they left

a tiny flaw

in every carpet that they wove.

And that is why I love you,

not for your raging beauty

or your tender Latin heart

but for the blue vein

which crosses your shoulder

like a river going nowhere,

the overripe sag of your breasts

that once let pencils drop,

your spindly legs

which barely hold your frame,

the frizzy strands of hair

that can’t decide

despite the coiffeur’s best attempts

which way to fall.

Tell me your dreams

in a scratchy voice

like old blues records.

Describe the womens

that you met today

and inform me that

they’re coming until nine.

Don’t change one brushstroke,

don’t alter one sound,

don’t polish your grammar.

Stay exactly as you are.

(originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal)

Kite Flying at Crump Park

I searched for you

in early morning reveries

and midnight dreams,

turning in my sleep

until the covers

lay  entangled at my feet.

but you had left

no forwarding address

and there was silence from your grave.

So I composed a poem for you

of all the tender words

that had remained unsaid between us.

I wrote it on the streamer of a kite,

praying that the wind would find you.

Your grandson insisted on drawing

a bright red heart at the end

for the Mimi he had never known

I hoped the purple dragon

with its fire-breathing nostrils

would not offend you.

I knew you would have preferred

monkeys,

the children’s favorite animal,

but the store was all sold out.

we raced across the field,

I unwinding the spool

and your grandson clutching

the last bit of line.

A gaggle of sleek black geese

scattered in our wake.

Let go, I cried.

The kite performed a somersault

and slowly started to climb.

I alternately tugged  and let out twine

until

reaching the end of the spool,

the dragon broke free at last.

Soaring higher still

in the boundless azure sky,

it shrank to the size of

the dot in the question mark

which follows the words,

where are you.

(originally published in The Poet’s Haven)/

Footprints

there was no time to say goodbye

she left him in mid-breath

her letters piled on the kitchen table

unopened

her e-mails choking her inbox         

unanswered

her voice still on the machine

apologizing for her absence

when he visited her grave

he kissed the tips of his fingers

and caressed the stone

as if he were touching her features

her friends placed rocks and seashells

on the gilded name and dates

but he proffered only memories

and his offering grew smaller every year

as he struggled to remember

he travelled to the places where they’d met

seeking traces of their passage

but the footprints were all worn away

the old, familiar faces gone

their quaint seaside hotel now seemed

small and shabby,

its puzzled owner wondering

why he’d come

grey-haired and bleary-eyed

with a photo of a woman

his father might have recognized

had he still been alive

the secluded cove

where they first made love

was littered with bronze bodies now

and watched by tall white condos

with an unobstructed view

of the flat green sea.

it was only when he held

his daughter’s newborn girl

searching for his breast

that he recalled his late wife fully

cradling the baby’s sole

in the palm of his hand

he wondered what footprints

it would make

(originally published in Leaves of Ink)

In Your Hands

In your hands, the fuchsia,

which had never lasted,

survived the winter

and bloomed again in spring.

At the first sign of frost,

you took them in and placed them

in a warm spot by the window,

caring for them daily.

Just as you’d brought me in

and sustained me through

a dark part of my life.

Just as you’d sheltered from the storm

a Maine Coon cat

who showed up at our door

like a hefty matron in a thick fur coat.

You called her “Misty” for “mysterious”

and while the wind shrieked,

she birthed five healthy kittens

in the upstairs bathroom,

who you named Bello, Cloud,

Neblina, Asteroid, and Spunky.

There was so much blood

I thought at first that tiny rats

were gnawing at her stomach,

but you knew better.

You stroked the mother

with your willowy fingers

and smiled at the thought

of all that new life.

(originally published in Literary Yard)

our world

our world consists of this and

nothing more:

our clothes co-mingled on the floor

your toothbrush next to mine

our coats on the same peg

our bodies intertwined 

like figures in a Mayan frieze

I can no longer tell, my love,

where you leave off and I begin

if you grow cold

a shiver chills my bones

I pause to ease your weariness

you drink to quench my thirst

your slightest wound

marks my skin with

clusters of tiny blue blossoms

I take your troubles

keep them in a recess of my heart

and turn them into swallows

which circle round the chimney

and fade into the blackness

of the night

(originally published in Alba: A Journal of Short Poetry)

Scrabble Love

A passion for language

brought them together,

not only for the bingos like ecstasy

that earned an extra fifty points

but for Chinese words like Qi

a force inherent in all things

and Ka the Egyptian sense of soul.

They loved the way letters linked together,

forming and reforming words,

After her car crash and his accident at work,

they sat at their respective screens

She admired the way he coaxed new words

into spaces they could barely fit.

Where they couldn’t possible fit,

He liked the way she challenged

his bogus words like abey and painterly

They began to use a Webcam,

dressing up for each game

and suddenly they found

the words they formed

had grown more tender.

He linked her word dearest

with his word heart

And by the time the game was over

They had agreed to meet.

When he arrived at Starbuck’s

she had already set up the board.

He leaned across the table

and as his lips met hers,

their glasses got hopelessly entangled.

and the velvet tile bag went flying

a solitary X and Z landed at their feet.

Zax they thought a tool for cutting wood.

That would be the name of their first child.

(originally published in Blue Hour Literary Magazine)

If ever we should meet again

If ever we should meet again

it would be on the beach in Cozumel.

I’d follow the footprints in the sand

that snaked between the raked

piles of seaweed and plastic bottles

and the milky turquoise sea.

I’d pass the grand hotels,

their rows of yellow stucco balconies

lined up for the show,

the orange-tiled villas

with their barking dogs,

the abandoned fishing boats

rotting like beached whales

and at the place where

the shore is choked by tangled growth,

and the jangal begins,

I’d see you wading in the water,

a book of crosswords in your hand,

the waves lapping the bottom

of the blue batik wrap

I’d bought you in St. Kitts.

You’d flash the gracious smile

everybody loved and say,

you’ve had your glimpse,

now go resume your life.

I’d reach out to take your hand

and find you spirited away

by the lively morning breeze

(originally published in River Poets Journal)

A Lonely House

A Lonely House

My heart had become

a lonely house,

abandoned at lands end,

deaf to the complaints of the wind

and the clamorous cries of the terns,

its empty rooms echoing only

the tumultuous roar

of the surf at midnight

When you came

the doors swung wide

the shutters clattered madly

The halls became       

huge inviting arms

which drew you in.

You removed your shoes

and the sand-strewn floors

caressed your feet.

The splintered window panes

multiplied

the blazing kindness

of your eyes

Your presence flooded

the darkest corners with light,

The thunder of the surf became

less frightening.

You came into my heart

like a guest

who fills a place left vacant

at the table.

You stayed as the secret sharer

of my cloistered dreams.

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

A Marriage Poem

Young hearts in old bodies

produce beautiful bouquets.

Where gnarled roots cross

mimosas bloom.

We wed as players in a romance

who awake to find

all pain and longing vanished

like an insubstantial dream.

Here a daughter long thought drowned

is reunited with with her father.

There Caliban sits caged,

no longer able to wreak havoc

on an unsuspecting world.

Even if a tempest were to reappear

it could not budge us,

locked as we are in each other’s arms.

Marriage is the balm

that heals all sorrows,

restores the rightful order

to our temperate isle,

uniting Jewish princes

with lovely Spanish ladies.

As the lutist sings an air

of cuckoos and May flowers,

we gracefully join hands

and take our vows.

Everybody loves a happy ending.

Let’s not disappoint them.

(originally published In Leannan Magazine)/

Places I’ve Been

Alberto Has Visions

Alberto has visions.

You can see them mirrored

in his eagle eyes,

set in a face so finely etched

he might have carved it out himself

with the sharp edge of his chisel:

White bushy brows, unruly beard,

high forehead and prominent jaw

with two remaining teeth.

the face of a prophet

preaching in the wilderness,

his half-buttoned shirt

billowing in the wind

as he scales the rock face

with the sheer force

of his convictions.

The visions float like orchids

on the moonless night.

La Llorona howls in the pines,

weeping for her dear drowned children,

La Cegua in her corn leaf dress

stares through her long black hair

into your very soul.

He bars the door but still they come,

an endless succession of

serpents and wild beasts,

gentle Virgins and jilted brides,

wily devils and radiant saints

who hover over his sleep.

In the early morning mist

the jagged mountain peaks

are only faint blue shadows.

red-combed roosters

strut across the finca

like haughty lords.

Alberto rises from his bed,

a small cross in his hand.

He surveys the boulders and the cliffs

until he finds the perfect shape.

Then stroke by stroke, he engraves

upon the bare unyielding stone

the outline of his dreams.

His carvings line the wooded paths

between bromeliads and vines,

He points them out to us,

the towers of Jerusalem,

the volcanic lakes of Nicaragua,

Joseph and Mary in the manger,

one stately elephant

lumbering through the jungle.

Finally, he places in my hand

a white stone egg,

a rose marble sphere.

Here is the birth of Christ,

he says, here is the world.

(originally published in Buenos Aires Reader)

Yungay

This is not Pompeii

where the dead are on display

like plastic sculptures,

their last horrific gestures

frozen for the ages

while the guide drones on

with scholarly precision.

This is more recent,

more frightening, more real,

an entire city crushed beneath

the flowering mountain plants,

blessed by the downturned hands

of the towering white Christ

who stands atop the ossuary

like a groom on a wedding cake

The serene nevadas bear no trace

of the fury they unleashed.

Children circle around the monuments.

Finches alight on

four remaining palms.

As if the screams at the circus

when the earth split its seam,

of the people hudded in the church

when the avalanche roared down

were only the screams of a feverish child

awakening safely in his mother’s arms.

As if the coche de Ancash

were heading back to Huaraz as usual,

As if the premonitions of the good doctor

Were only the ravings of a loco.

No this is not Pompeii.

If it were our andino guide would not be

hiding her tears beneath dark glasses.

I would not be hearing

the cries of my lost son

as he slid beneath the truck.

Your best friend would not be

calling out to you

from the rubble in Managua.

(won second prize in the Reuben Rose Internation Competition in Israel)

Nautilus

I found you on a beach in Fiji,

a spiraled nautilus

which floated up from depths 

that even avid divers

could not reach.

Through years of ebb and tide

your countershading

kept you hidden

from all predators ,

Seen from above

your undulating pattern

blended with the deep

while from below

your perfect whiteness

blended with the sun.

Like the Argonauts

for whom you’re named

you propelled yourself

with perfect ease 

pumping in and pumping out

and dined but once a month

on small crustaceans

within easy reach.

Lacking a single change

in your design 

you endured through epochs of time

cloistered in your chambered shell

invisible to your enemies

impervious to pain

immune to all sensation

How I envied

your splendid isolation,

What incalculable bliss

to withdraw into

the elegant spiral

of a pearlescent shell 

close off the opening

and sink 300 metres deep.

Then i remembered that

for drowning sailors

the darkness of the sea

can also be a shroud.

I want to sleep but not forever

I crave the dancing light

on the surface of the sea  

the glimmer in my lover’s eyes,

the sea breeze on my cheeks,

my lover’s healing touch,

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords publishing)

The Cavers’ Bash

I picture my friend Allen

Knee-deep in the river,

Clad only in a derby hat,

Black bowtie, thong and gloves,

Serving  wine and canapes

From a silver tray.

This aint no dress rehearsal,

Allen used to say,

This here’s the real thing.

In the Grand Doodah parade

He’s holding a milk carton

With Batboy’s two-fanged face

Above the caption,

“Have you seen this boy?”

While a sidekick in a condom cap

Flings Trojans at the crowd.

At 3 AM he’s making

Naked beer runs from the sauna,

Wrestling pretty women

In a tub of ramen noodles

And playing

One last game of volleyball

Where everything jiggles.

You would have thought

The Randy Gandy Run

Would kill him,

50 cavers without a stitch

In a frigid river passage,

But it was cancer,

And now his spirit roams

The campground,

Still attired like a racy Jeeves,

Still carrying his silver tray.

(originally published in Blue Ridge Literary Prose)

our room in Hvar

from our bed in Hvar

scented with silk bags

of crushed lavender

you can discern

a pot of red geraniums

balanced on a white marble slab

below a thin blue band

of Adriatic sea

a composition worthy of Matisse

your portrait is more byzantine

black hair splayed against the pillow

flecked with gold venetian light

a venerated icon

cloistered in memory

and I a faithful pilgrim,

lips pressed against your cheek

praying that this morning

lasts forever

(originally published in Artvilla)

Desert Views

 
Thronged by children
banging on the doors,
we’ve left the last bled
in our dusty white Renault
and turned onto a piste
that hugs the canyon rim,
bouncing from rock to rock,
watching the copper vistas open up
at every hairpin turn
like desert flowers
thirsting for winter rains.

We’ve wandered off the map
with no one to direct us,
not the silent Bedouins
astride their camels,
mummified in their brown burnooses
or the gold-toothed women
in purple robes and silver chains,
clicking their tongues
like disapproving hens.

This very night
we’ll make love
for the first time
in a hut of woven reeds
with moonlight
streaming through the chinks.

But we know nothing yet
of warm wool blankets
piled against the chill
of desert winds.
We haven’t seen the stars
above the gorge
incised in the pitch-black sky.
We know only the rock-strewn road,
and the fear of not reaching
the grove of date-palms
by nightfall.

(originally published in Knot Magazine)

Berber Song

sometimes the heart

is a dried up oued

nothing but stones

sometimes the olive trees

are arthritic old women

with twisted limbs

unable to bear fruit

sometimes we spend our nights

huddled close to the coals

our burnooses  drawn tight

against the cold Saharan wind

and then the rains pour down

like a gift from God

flooding the river beds

filling the valley with roses

so beautiful

they make the stones sing

the gardens are showered

with small apples

the sparrows flit

from rock to rock

in search of fallen fruit

the knowing storks

perch on the adobe walls

one leg tucked

under their wings

and nod as if they had

witnessed this scene

a million times

from the roses

we distill the perfume

which young girls

rub on their skin and

spray on their crow-black hair

and slowly love returns

(originally published in Knot Magazine)/

Carpets

A beautiful carpet brings a smile to your face each morning

(Persian saying)

The skeins of yarn

deftly wound around the warp

in Turkish or Persian knots

have survived the tread

of children’s feet

the hurried pace of the dog

the clawing of the cat.

Their hastily sewn repairs

resemble the scars you bear

from falls and surgeries.

Their pile has worn thin in spots

like the balding pate

you hide beneath your hat.

On the merghoums and soumaks

the ends are left dangling

like all the unfinished business

in your life.

You and the carpets

have acquired a certain patina

that comes only from experience,

the saffron and pomegranate dyes

mellowing with age,

your hair taking on

a silver luster

your skin a jaundiced tint.

You’d like to think you’ve both

aged gracefully.

The almond blossoms and jasmine

on the baktiari

still fill you with love and longing,

The tortoises on the kashgai

continue to hold out

the promise of long life.

(originally published in The Fable Online)

Las Vegas, 2011

In Vegas you can get

Tori, a comely co-ed from L.A.

delivered to your door

in twenty minutes flat

or else she’s free.

Twins are only fifty dollars more.

But I’ve got Irma with me,

Tigress of the AARP

And living proof that spandex

iIs not only for the under fifty set.

A Dead Sea facial cream

has miraculously removed

every last wrinkle from her face.

Her latest boob job has restored her figure

to its pre-childbirth splendor.

When we get back from

the midnight sex show,

I am blue-pill ready.

I imagine I’m a

Cirque de Soleil artiste

dangling weightlessly

From two red streamers,

My whole body transported by

paroxysms of ecstasy.

Then suddenly I hear the scrunch and feel

the first rapier thrusts of pain.

By the time the paramedics come,

I’m  crawling like a centipede.

They insist on being paid in cash

so Irma grabs my poker winnings

from the pocket of my Gucci jeans

and sends them on their way.

I can hear them laughing in the hallway.

Who did Grandpa think he was,

they snicker,

the daring old man on the flying trapeze?

(originally published in Every Day Poets)

blue ice

the fog crept in

like a stealthy cat

balanced on the mountain tops

and swallowed up the view

the evergreens and snowy peaks

vanished like illusions

and he felt he was

the last man on earth

stranded on a swinging bridge

above a raging river

he could only hear

slowly methodically

he set off from each cairn

tapping the ground with his staff

like an old blind beggar

in a tale by Grimm

once he slipped

his fall arrested only

by his boot

lodged in a crevice

between two rocks

and it was then he saw it

a field of blue ice

as pure and clear as heaven

curled around the mountain

like a dog’s tail

he reached the cabin

just before the night closed in

and sipped his brandy by the fire

trading stories

with an English couple

who’d been lost for hours

when he finally nodded off

he dreamt of a beautiful Swede

with ice blue eyes

who held him captive

in her ice blue heart

(originally published in Lake International Journal of Literature and Arts)

The Young and the Old

Just A Number

When it comes to age,

we’re all in sweet denial.

A jury bribed to overlook

the evidence

has ruled that we’re still young.

It’s just a number, right,

says Tommy, my Greek barber,

don’t count the summers,

you knock a quarter off.

Il Kwon, the Korean grocer,

dyes his hair jet black,

José, who paints our kitchen,

takes a younger lover every year

and conceals her from his wife.

We all light up

like pinball bumpers

when we’re carded for

our senior discount

at the ticket booth

or when the huckster at the fair

misguesses our age

by a full six years

and we walk off with a kewpie doll

for which we have no earthly use.

Can’t they see the furrows

ploughed by sleepless nights,

the six-months paunch

straining against the belt,

the hair combed a little too artfully

across the barren plains?

God bless your failing eyesight, sir,

won’t you drop a coin or two

in our tin cups of vanity

before you travel on?

(originally published in Paradise Review)

Snipe Hunting in the Blue Ridge

To hunt for snipe requires

a pirate’s cunning

and a child’s willful suspension

of disbelief.

No adults need apply.

One whiff of them,

the creature slinks away,

crinkling his snout

and hoisting his tail

in undisguised disdain.

Nor is snipe hunting for the faint of heart.

It’s best done on an autumn night

when the oversized moon

makes mountain boulders seem

like alien forms of life

and windswept limbs reach out

to draw you deeper in the forest

than you really ought to go.

Since you appear to be

a plucky little lad,

I’ll furnish you

With everything you need:

a chunk of moldy cheese,

reliable flashlight,

ten feet of rope

and a sturdy canvas sack.

The trick is to meet him

rodent to rodent,

crouched on all fours

as he enters the trap.

You yank hard on the rope,

voila, he’s yours.

Any questions?

what’s he look like?

I can only guess.

A cross between a squirrel,

weasel, chipmunk,

and badly fitting toupee.

There’s none in captivity

and the testimony of six year olds

as we all know

can be highly suspect.

you’ll recognize him

by his scent, though,

worse than Uncle Joe’s limburger

and his dog’s most pungent farts.

Still care to go, my friend?

or would you prefer

to spend this evening by the fire

toasting s’mores?

(originally published in Big River Poetry Review)

A Dream of Flight

From early on

I dreamt of flight.

By day I was a puny schoolboy,

by night a man of steel,

cape billowing in full sail,

ears ringing with the wind

as I soared over

toy cars and houses and stores.

From far below

my tiny mother waved at me

and I waved back.

In my super tee,

emblazoned with a bold red “S”

against a field of gold,

I could outrace the fastest train,

overleap the tallest building,

corral the masterminds of crime

as if they were stray mongrels

destined for the pound.

At least by night.

My cousin Lee,

who seldom ran on

all four cyclinders,

determined he would fly by day,

and so he pulled his dyed red undies

over blue pajamas

and climbed up to the roof.

“Don’t do it Lee,” I cried

but he had already jumped.

We found him face down

in the sandbox

with a broken collar bone

and two bruised arms,

telling anyone who’d listen

that before the ground rose up

to meet him like a bully’s fist,

he had tasted for

one brief moment

the miracle of flight.

(originally published in Poised in Flight)

Mohsen

Beautiful kid,

in yet another drunken rage,

your father’s locked you out again.

You show up at my door

at an hour when

only feral dogs

roam the cramped streets

scavenging for food.

Beautiful kid,

your swollen face,

a ghostly apparition

of blood, dirt and tears,

still bears the imprint

of your father’s fist

I’ve been warned about

your truancy,

your petty thefts and lies,

but your pleading eyes,

made larger by your

close cropped head

deloused the other day at school,

gain you safe passage.

Beautiful kid,

you’re a quick study.

in rudimentary English

caged from foreigners,

you ask to spend the night.

and when I smile in assent,

you make a beeline for the shower

where you linger for an hour

in luxurious warmth.

Beautiful kid.

you devour two fried eggs,

baguette and jam,

three cups of tea,

then stretch out on the pallet

I’ve made up on the floor,

clean, fed and happy,

you dream about

a brilliant new life

of cowboys and tall buildings

in your own private

America

Beautiful kid,

if I were the twelve foot Salha

in the Tunisian song,

I would put you in my pocket

and carry you away

to distant lands,

but when you ask to come with me,

I hesitantly answer that “we’ll see.”

One  look tells me that

I’ve stolen all your dreams

and that you’re not

the only thief and liar

in the room.

(originally published in Knot Magazine)

Family, Friends, and Me

keys

they hang on a bent nail

in the garage

or lie scattered

amid matchbooks and loose change

in the nightstand drawer

bright brass and tarnished metal

clustered on rings or solitary

their sets of ridged teeth

like miniature sawed off

mountain chains.

you no longer remember

what they open,

but hestitate to toss them

into last night’s

bones and peelings,

in hope that one of them

might unlock

the door to your house in Queens

and you come sailing

fresh from school

into your mother’s arms

pressing your face into

her warm damp apron

scented with onions

(originally published in circa magazine)

Little Worlds

In Jonah’s  little world

my aging SUV’s

a crusty dowager

named Goldy,

whisking him away

to a thousand magic places.

At the pond where Mr. Turtle

and the heron share a log,

the turtle nods in our direction

and says, I do believe he’s grown.

The heron flaps his giant wings

in thunderous assent

and bids us both adieu.

An endless freight train

struggles past us

at the crossing,

its engine painted with a

straining human face,

its boxcars crammed with toys

for patient girls and boys

on the other side

of the mountain.

Hi Thomas, Jonah waves

and Thomas winks.

At the pool I am a great white

nibbling at this toes

and he a hammerhead

lunging at my chest.

On his grandma’s Yahrzeit

when he lights the wick

of the wax-filled glass,

you can see her reflection

dancing in his eyes.

It must be the little world

they share.

(originally published in cahoodaloodaling review)

Now That Yakov’s Gone

The world wakes up a sadder place

now that Yakov’s gone.

The firehouse where he staged his shows

is boarded up,

the red brick turret where he slept,

above Steamer Number Five,

is empty.

Now that Yakov’s gone,

you can no longer hear the squeals    

of laughter and delight which met

his puppets as they swayed across the stage,

bowing to the muffled applause

of little hands.

They’re sealed up now in cardboard boxes,

a jumbled mass of sticks and styrofoam,

unable to say a mourner’s prayer

for their beloved Yakov.

They found him in an alley

crumpled up like one of his creations,

his delicate head posed on one shoulder,

his slender legs spread out,

as if one jerk of a string

would spring him back to life.

Floating down like an autumn leaf,

was he pushed by Russian gangsters

whom he’d mimicked in his funny puppet voice.

or reaching for a star, did he leap too high?

Now that Yakov’s gone,

what shall we tell the children waiting for

Fasha the dog to blow them a goodnight kiss?

That Yakov’s looking down at them

in their untroubled sleep,

plucking his strings so that

the constellations dance across the sky?

(originally published in Two Bridges Literary Review)/

Remember

Despite a notice in the paper

requesting contributions

in lieu of flowers,

they continued to arrive,

like uninvited guests,

the buds of bereavement,

the petals of sorrow,

peace lilies with their stylish fronds,

thorny bushes of miniature roses,

daffodils like prissy schoolgirls,

the flimsy pots swaddled

in crinkly green foil,

the senders identified by

brief notes of consolation

clipped to plastic stakes

pressed firmly in the soil.

At the first heady rush

of temperate weather,

he planted them in his garden,

the roses beside the mailbox

the daffodils in the rear,

encircling the massive oak

which towered above the deck,

and the lilies by the birdbath.

He marveled at their

rare exuberance,

returning year after year,

thrusting their stems

insistently

through the hard clay soil,

their blooms growing

ever more exquisite

even as the faces

of the ones he’d loved

grew fainter,

as if the dead were

reaching out to him

and saying,

we once were thus,

remember us.

(originally published in Every Writer)

A Beautiful Wife

Ed looks at the photo and says,

your wife is gorgeous,

as if she were a snazzy Rolex

I picked up for next to nothing

on the Net.

You should see her in the morning,

I reply,

with traces of Kubuki cream

still clinging to her face.

All my life, Ed, I steer clear of

Jewish princesses

only to marry a Latin one.

Like a conquering army

her clothes and cosmetics

have occupied

every corner of my house.

If she’s not busy cutting,

curling, coloring her hair,

she’s polishing her nails.

the  bedroom reeks of acetone

and you could finish War and Peace

just waiting for the bathroom

at times I think she’s died in there.

Beauty doesn’t run in the Tablada family

it gallops.

Did I tell you about her royal blood?

Her great great great grandma

who was quite a looker too

seduced an Injun prince

and converted him to

the one true taith.

In return his Injun pals

carved a happy face under his chin,

leaving her a grieving widow

with a mestizo in the oven.

Next time (if there is one)

I intend to wed

a sensible Norwegian

plain- faced

but punctual to a T.

When we saunter about town,

The barmaids will whisper,

“Inge’s husband is soooo hot.”

Still, I won’t deny

I love her raging beauty.

Pour me another double, Ed,

And we’ll drink to it.

Then I’ve got to go home

to see if she’s ready yet.

(originally published in From the Depths)

His Grandma’s Breath

Everything at his grandma’s house

sighed with the burden of

advancing age,

the sagging sofa with its

threadbare antimacassar,

the chipped Italian figurines,

the peeling grey linoleum

on the kitchen floor.

Even the parakeet

hovering on his clipped wings

had an ugly growth

on his green breast.

                        .

His grandma’s breath

bore  the sour scent

of black plums.

He averted his head

when she bent to kiss him

as if he feared

her toothless gums

would suck his youth away.

Her dentures floated in a pink solution

on the bathroom shelf,

grinning back at him

every time he went to pee.

She served him tea

in slender clouded glasses

that he mother rinsed out twice

in scalding water

As he ate the unfamiliar food,

he imagined that the cows

were licking him

with their pickled tongues,

that the glassy eye

of the whitefish

was looking up at him

accusingly

as he picked its bones.

He watched his grandma’s eyes,

magnified by lenses

thick as old Coke bottles

roll back and forth

like giant marbles

as she studied him.

So, boychik, she said at last,

take a good look,

this is what it’s like

to grow old.

Now give me your hand.

She placed a silver dollar

on his palm and

gently closed his fingers.

But you, you have a while yet,

so go enjoy.

(originally published in Writer’s Haven)

Teaching English as a Crazy Language

They sit like exotic plants

estranged from the African sun,

a little battered from the journey,

still bundled in college sweatshirts

and woolen hockey caps

against the snow

which surprised them this morning,

falling like spores of cotton

from the silver sky.

They laughed as it landed

on their noses, in their mouths,

the taste as unfamiliar

as the new names

printed on their notebooks,

Mary and Alice and Donald and Bill

or the new words

they try to wrap their tongues around.

How many brothers do you have?

the teacher asks.

Three, all died in Darfur,

one missing in Egypt,

two maybe in Holland.

How much sugar do you need?

One kilo to make our lives here sweet,

three to erase the bitter war.

Please teacher, Mary asks,

why do you spell it N-I-G-H-T?

Because English is a crazy language

where knights go forth at night

and chickens are mistaken for kitchens

(originally published in Vayavya)

My  Father’s Scars

My father’s scars were carved

so deeply in his back and arms

they formed

an unforgiving landscape

of pitted valleys

and dried up river beds.

I gazed in fascination

as he shaved,

wondering if they still hurt.

When he wasn’t home,

I removed the purple heart

from its velvet-lined box,

and pinning it on my chest,

tried to imagine the war.

I pictured him spread-eagled

on a field in Italy,

so badly wounded that

he begged a passing convoy

to finish him off.

They carried him to hospital instead

and one year later

I was born.

His shattered nerves

never quite recovered.

When he ordered from a menu

his upper lip began to quiver.

He foresaw a fatal injury

in every cut and scrape

I suffered.

A phone call in the night

presaged almost certain death.

Still, he managed to survive.

His left hand wasn’t any good

but with his right he drew for me

fabulous winged horses

with pipes in their mouths.

He played the violin so badly,

it became a form of punishment.

I spent Sundays at the beach,

eating sandy tuna on Kaiser rolls

and riding on his stomach

in the surf.

It was my mother’s illness

which sucked the joy

out of his life

and left him gasping

like a fish on the dock.

By the time they carried

her jaundiced body

down the stairs and out the door,

you could say the cancer

had consumed him too.

He forbade me to whistle,

he forbade me to laugh,

And though he always

blamed the onions

or a cinder in his eye,

for forty years

his eyes teared up

at the mention of her name.

The war and mother’s death,

those were the twin disasters

of my father’s life,

the ones which left the scars

that never really healed.

(originally pushed in From the Depths)

Crew o Semicrew?

Crew o semicrew?

the bald Sicilian barber asked

with a stern regard  

that warned the high school toughs

with Elvis pompadours

and duck’s ass backs

they’d best go elsewhere.

I no hurt you kid, he promised,

drawing the sheet around my neck

like a hangman’s noose          

and stropping the razor

with the practiced motion

of an executioner.

You scared, you gonna cry?

he asked derisively

and spat into the sink.

I lay back in the chair

and clenched my eyes,

preparing for the monthly challenge

to my manhood.

I felt the warm scented lather

coat my sideburns,

winced as he pinched my nose

and pushed my head back,

shuddered as the cold steel

scraped my skin.

Unpinning the sheet,

he shook the hair out ,

flourishing it at a freckled boy

like a toreador

taunting a great horned beast.

Next, he cried.

(originally published in Synaesthesia Magazine)