My ego wants to be needed
needs to be wanted
I am facing a fear
It bubbles up from below
I am not longer at the center
at the hub
in the middle of it all
I walked away and they filled my
place and now I am scared the
emptiness didn't hit them
and they won't miss me at all
now that I am gone.
It's my ego speaking, that needs
to be soothed, to feel pity, to
be reassured.
I know I was there and we all want to
leave a piece of ourselves behind
but this world is made of
sand and when the winds blow us away
when the waves wash over
maybe the footprint stays and maybe it disappears
but it doesn't mean you didn't walk
you didn't step
you didn't leave that mark.
8.26.2011
3.03.2011
Assignment 23: Real Place Poem (Home)
Welcome to Walnut!
The world’s best preserved suburb.
Tract housing birthed in the 80’s still looks fresh and new
from afar. The wearing wood and fading brick
brightened by trees that never lose their leaves,
not even in winter.
Our strip malls are the best!
A wide variety of restaurants and grocery stores,
car washes, nail salons and shoe repairs.
Our community is diverse -
Have you tried the nachos at the Taco Factory?
Muy autentico!
Perfect for families!
Pristine soccer and baseball fields.
Our parks are so clean -
no crackheads or homeless or
pedophiles or gangbangers or
other unsavory types.
The world’s best preserved suburb.
Tract housing birthed in the 80’s still looks fresh and new
from afar. The wearing wood and fading brick
brightened by trees that never lose their leaves,
not even in winter.
Our strip malls are the best!
A wide variety of restaurants and grocery stores,
car washes, nail salons and shoe repairs.
Our community is diverse -
Have you tried the nachos at the Taco Factory?
Muy autentico!
Perfect for families!
Pristine soccer and baseball fields.
Our parks are so clean -
no crackheads or homeless or
pedophiles or gangbangers or
other unsavory types.
Assignment 22: Imaginary Place Poem
The Wild East
Tumbleweeds roll by the chicken joint.
Vultures pecking at the bones below.
From a saguaro cactus hangs a pair of shoes.
Their barefoot owner remains unknown.
There is only one street leading in and out
The ladies who stand there aren’t proper.
In turquoise fishnets, they entice you to buy.
Come on now, make them an offer.
The general store carries calico and blunts.
The saloon has a special on malt liquor.
The corner boys glare, with suspicious eyes.
Your exit should be much quicker.
2.19.2011
Assignment 21: Themed Haiku
Jersey Shore: A Season Three Recap
Jersey Shore summer
Third season of craziness
Trash TV addict.
Come, new girl Deena
Play with the wild drunk Guidos
Go to Karma, dance.
Gym, Tan, Laundry done
Situation on the prowl
Don't fight with Ronnie.
Snooki is so short
Tornado on the dance floor
A whirling dervish.
Jen in sexy chaps
Break up with Tom, girl, so what?
Hot local Roger!
Vinny and Pauly
Work together, get girls and
Stay out of trouble.
Ron and Sam, Oy Ve!
Domestic abuse ensues.
Break up now and cry.
Jersey Shore summer
Lost brain cells will not return.
When is season four?
Jersey Shore summer
Third season of craziness
Trash TV addict.
Come, new girl Deena
Play with the wild drunk Guidos
Go to Karma, dance.
Gym, Tan, Laundry done
Situation on the prowl
Don't fight with Ronnie.
Snooki is so short
Tornado on the dance floor
A whirling dervish.
Jen in sexy chaps
Break up with Tom, girl, so what?
Hot local Roger!
Vinny and Pauly
Work together, get girls and
Stay out of trouble.
Ron and Sam, Oy Ve!
Domestic abuse ensues.
Break up now and cry.
Jersey Shore summer
Lost brain cells will not return.
When is season four?
2.12.2011
Assignment 20: Revise an old poem
Temple (Revised 2/2011)
Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are ancient and solid.
From the top my eyes reach
distances hundreds of miles and
thousands of years from here.
Below, the rainforest, la selva.
Llena de arboles, it covers the ground
beneath us like soft, swaying, moss.
Beyond, the lake glimmers beneath a hazy sunset.
It's filled to the shore with crocodiles;
Its shores stretch on and on.
Above, piles of billowy clouds meander
across a deepening sunset sky. The purple-grey
of a far off rainstorm threatens.
Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.
Their fathers are no longer with us,
but a legacy, built brick by brick,
now lifts me into the sky.
Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are ancient and solid.
From the top my eyes reach
distances hundreds of miles and
thousands of years from here.
Below, the rainforest, la selva.
Llena de arboles, it covers the ground
beneath us like soft, swaying, moss.
Beyond, the lake glimmers beneath a hazy sunset.
It's filled to the shore with crocodiles;
Its shores stretch on and on.
Above, piles of billowy clouds meander
across a deepening sunset sky. The purple-grey
of a far off rainstorm threatens.
Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.
Their fathers are no longer with us,
but a legacy, built brick by brick,
now lifts me into the sky.
Assignment 19: Sentiment vs. Sentimentality
Inheritance
I don't remember you ever wearing this bracelet.
Don't remember admiring it's smooth exterior,
running my finger along its curve; feeling the Guyanese
rose gold warm as it rested against your paper skin.
Don't remember rolling the two bell shaped ends between my fingers.
Don't remember squeezing it around your thinning wristbone,
trying to make it tighter as we lay on your bed buying R's on Wheel of Fortune.
Don't remember it getting caught on your apron (the way it catches my purse straps)
as you sauteed chicken livers for gumbo roux.
The first fifteen years of me, you were there, then gone.
In your place, this bracelet, the kind of thing you rarely wore
(a gift from your in-laws), but saved away, one for each of your granddaughters
when you died. It's presence in my life a result of your absence.
I have worn it every day since then; I never take it off.
They will remember me wearing it before I pass it on.
I don't remember you ever wearing this bracelet.
Don't remember admiring it's smooth exterior,
running my finger along its curve; feeling the Guyanese
rose gold warm as it rested against your paper skin.
Don't remember rolling the two bell shaped ends between my fingers.
Don't remember squeezing it around your thinning wristbone,
trying to make it tighter as we lay on your bed buying R's on Wheel of Fortune.
Don't remember it getting caught on your apron (the way it catches my purse straps)
as you sauteed chicken livers for gumbo roux.
The first fifteen years of me, you were there, then gone.
In your place, this bracelet, the kind of thing you rarely wore
(a gift from your in-laws), but saved away, one for each of your granddaughters
when you died. It's presence in my life a result of your absence.
I have worn it every day since then; I never take it off.
They will remember me wearing it before I pass it on.
2.09.2011
Assignment 18: Find old Poems
These are poems I wrote on my 2007 trip to Guatemala. At one point I put pictures with them.
Templo
From the top of a templo
I see
the rainforest, la selva
llena de arboles
covering the ground below
like soft, swaying, moss.
I see
The lake, glimmering beneath a hazy soft sunset
And filled to the shore with crocodiles
Stretches on and on.
I see
piles of billowy clouds meandering in el cielo and
the purple-grey of a far off rainstorm threatening
To join us.
Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.
Their fathers no longer with us
A legacy built brick by brick
now lifts me into the sky.
From the top of a templo
my eyes reach distances
hundreds of miles
and thousands of years
from here.
Ruinas
In the U.S. when something is
old
and ruined
we fix it like
new
or we tear it down
Here
they plant flowers and fruit trees around its existence
leaving
holes,
cracks,
and wounds
centuries deep to heal in the sun
How kind to appreciate something
for what it has been through
as well as what it once was.
Agua
Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
with its swath of clouds
covering its top like a veil
except on clear days
Madre gallina to little chickens
My constant companion
making sure I am never lost.
Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
proof that the earth moves and breathes
beneath us, despite ourselves.
Provecho!
In America, I am running late for work
In Guate, I am always late to eat.
Desayuno, Almuerzo, y Cena
Almuerzo, lunch, the most important one.
Bowls of pepian, tacos chapines, and moles
squish onto my plate with platanos, tomates, pepino,
yucca, patate, arroz, y frijoles.
All waiting to be wrapped
in fresh hand pressed tortillas made just that hour
as the sound of women slapping maize dough in their hands
echoes down the street
Ana Beatriz, my senora, shops at the market
walking down dusty rows where our Mayan neighbors,
come down from the pueblos, sit and sell
the brightest carrots, the juiciest jalenpenos,
and the brightest tomatoes I have ever seen.
Giant bags of spices all shades of red, brown, and yellow
beckon: smell, touch, buy.
She cooks all day, asking “Como durmiste?” How did you sleep?
How are classes? How are your friends?
We talk politics, religion, culture, news, and recipes
around this deliciously aromatic table
where family and food become synonymous
I say “muchas gracias”
“Buen provecho” calls the table
“Good appetite” they wish me.
May I join their table again.
Templo
From the top of a templo
I see
the rainforest, la selva
llena de arboles
covering the ground below
like soft, swaying, moss.
I see
The lake, glimmering beneath a hazy soft sunset
And filled to the shore with crocodiles
Stretches on and on.
I see
piles of billowy clouds meandering in el cielo and
the purple-grey of a far off rainstorm threatening
To join us.
Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.
Their fathers no longer with us
A legacy built brick by brick
now lifts me into the sky.
From the top of a templo
my eyes reach distances
hundreds of miles
and thousands of years
from here.
Ruinas
In the U.S. when something is
old
and ruined
we fix it like
new
or we tear it down
Here
they plant flowers and fruit trees around its existence
leaving
holes,
cracks,
and wounds
centuries deep to heal in the sun
How kind to appreciate something
for what it has been through
as well as what it once was.
Agua
Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
with its swath of clouds
covering its top like a veil
except on clear days
Madre gallina to little chickens
My constant companion
making sure I am never lost.
Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
proof that the earth moves and breathes
beneath us, despite ourselves.
Provecho!
In America, I am running late for work
In Guate, I am always late to eat.
Desayuno, Almuerzo, y Cena
Almuerzo, lunch, the most important one.
Bowls of pepian, tacos chapines, and moles
squish onto my plate with platanos, tomates, pepino,
yucca, patate, arroz, y frijoles.
All waiting to be wrapped
in fresh hand pressed tortillas made just that hour
as the sound of women slapping maize dough in their hands
echoes down the street
Ana Beatriz, my senora, shops at the market
walking down dusty rows where our Mayan neighbors,
come down from the pueblos, sit and sell
the brightest carrots, the juiciest jalenpenos,
and the brightest tomatoes I have ever seen.
Giant bags of spices all shades of red, brown, and yellow
beckon: smell, touch, buy.
She cooks all day, asking “Como durmiste?” How did you sleep?
How are classes? How are your friends?
We talk politics, religion, culture, news, and recipes
around this deliciously aromatic table
where family and food become synonymous
I say “muchas gracias”
“Buen provecho” calls the table
“Good appetite” they wish me.
May I join their table again.
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