Parable Of The County
A farmer planted an orange grove
and he and his children took care of it.
He had more children,
and they planted more orange groves,
until the whole county was full
of orange trees.
A town in the county decided
its symbol would be an orange.
Eventually many of the children
forgot about their father,
cut down the trees,
and built many homes
Oh, there was still an occasional
orange tree in someone’s backyard,
and a few loved the fruit,
but most knew nothing
about taking care of orange trees,
or harvesting with their father.
The cities grew larger and larger,
till there wasn’t an orange tree
to be found.
Like the rest of the county,
there was just a sign,
with the symbol of an orange,
welcoming you, to their town.
To Sjonna D. Hermanson
Suck it up little pufferfish.
You died in the net
suspended over dreams or love,
and now are hanging in a moment.
An image of life that dangles
with so many other shells,
that she all took for granted.
Were you ever real?
Or were you molded
from an imagination?
Like consumerism that promises fullness,
but is a bloated spiny shell
of something hollow and empty.
Suck it up little pufferfish.
You still must digest
A Poet’s Image
I struggled with the meaning;
time condensed, flash frozen.
At the end of the day
a page turned of another life.
A bit older perhaps,
but in some ways not dissimilar;
a face of lines that may or may not
punctuated with a point like a pixel
lost in an image.
but not understood.
A snapshot of the colors of existence
that once flew past in a moment,
now blurred in black and white.
Casting A Chance
Kneeling before the tree in greed,
I cast a lot on the stained ground
hoping to hold on to so much more.
For luck I throw the cubes,
fulfilling my destiny.
My hope has multiple sides
and falls towards a number,
as I fail to look up at the one,
who gave me a chance.
among other words
we didn’t understand,
like prophecies we thought we had
Under a blackened sky
we scattered in fear,
like orphans of God,
who didn’t know we belonged.
The veil of an old promise
that hid our understanding,
torn into another agreement
Kinship was signed in blood,
and credited by acceptance,
of the price of the pardon.
Stretched out as far as east is from west,
leaves unfold about the tree,
and crimson verse flows down,
saturating my attention.
The portion pierces my thoughts,
cutting on the wounded image of the word
bleeding scarlet on the pages.
My endeavor is to view the red
amidst the black and white;
an attempt to understand when
the colored hue
of the wood, penetrated the earth.
A post stuck in the ground, vertical,
pointing towards the heavens,
with a horizontal beam,
describing His new relationship,
Divinity accepted mortality,
so we could acknowledge,
He hung with the crowds and stretched
out His arms, to embrace us.
The Cost of Suffering
Grief looks into the pool of His own tears
that reflect the garden of life’s heartbreak.
In an age past He had died for the dishonor He would commit
this time, when He returned to His childhood,
again learning submission in suffering.
Existence persists to hang on death between
the thieves of naiveté and experience,
abandoned by the cradle of love He had conceived;
life’s withering grass that had forsaken Him.
His blood has an affinity
for this world.
The perfect vintage had aged thirty-three years,
and was poured into the cup of the world.
The libation was inherently bittersweet;
blackness now stained purplish-red,
cascading into some vessels of clay
gathered below Him on the hill.
His Father lifts Him up thus swirling the chalice,
and a breath of fragrant forgiveness
makes us forget our sorrow, as we partake
of this unquenchable indulgence,
cheerfully toasting the groom;
His bride blushing with enthusiasm.
No expense was spared to prepare
for the wedding,
as this time the best was not saved
this miracle now contained in pottery cracked;
an offering satisfying our thirst
with its sobering intoxication.
Parable Of The Window
There once was a church
with a beautiful stained glass window
of Christ crucified.
The light would shine through the window
and convict the people of their sin.
Some of them would leave,
and some would repent,
and the church was full of light.
As time went on, the old would die
and new people would come.
The light would shine
through the window, but they would not
repent or leave.
They threw their Bibles at the window
and it cracked and fell.
They made a modern window
of blues and pinks and subtle shapes.
The light shone through the window
casting a dim pattern on the floor,
of blues and pinks that mingled
with their own kind,
and shifted as time went by.
So the people saw,
what they thought,
was a beautiful picture,
Eden’s gone, because
we’ve peeled our orange beside the sea,
discarding nature and humanity,
in the compost of multiplicity.
Fumes rising from our own disintegration
blur our vision in their hazel haze,
and color the evening,
in the only similarity left
to what we’ve destroyed;
the bright tangerine falling over
a memory of age still living in youth,
as we seem to pluck it from the sky too,
and harvest it as our cash crop,
a memento to the garden few remember,
in our cultivated ignorance.
To Karen Menchner
I was lookin’ for the proof,
as her intoxication
transformed the moment. God made
wine like that for a wedding.
A young vintage for a sacrament. A whisky
with a taste for purity, like a distilled miracle.
A vice of virtue. A
that should sober me up.
The Real Thing
To Karen Menchner
like pop and fizz in a bottle;
she opens up
releasing the pressure,
and excitement rushes to the surface.
with the curve in her side.
perhaps with a hint of cherry.
I’m going to pause for cool
and press her, to my lips.
Attraction often turns me a few
degrees from the truth.
Shifting with the seconds,
the certainty of heaven
is hidden in the haze of the present.
A few degrees,
and I’m lost in the current,
looking back at the wake
of decisions I’ve made.
Constant adjustments must be made
in the moments I see the sky.
What seems to be right
is often just off the point, of reality.
Once Bright Stars
They would attempt to leave
the wheel and achieve, immortality.
Semitransparent images fed
through the machine
and wound again.
Strips of stars used for their splendor. Now
fallen on the sidewalk
and cemented mostly into forgotten history.
Once flickering in the dark. Now
joining points of light.
Still virtually streaming,
through society’s film.
Flowers wither and fade,
as we all do.
A generation bloomed
and showed its wonderful colors.
Who could protest their flower power?
Carnations in the barrel
was such a nice gesture,
if only to be discarded on so many,
six feet under.
They still pull the petals one by one,
if someone loves them.
Cruising on the other side of the hood,
where La Toltĕca makes children of mesa
wrapped in corn husks. Some sweet with raisins inside.
The Aztecs are out of school and using
the wheel for more than a toy.
Rolling across borders with unseen divisions,
except for their own signs
sporadic’ly scribbled on their walls;
Spanglish oxymora, which,
I know you don’t understand.
This little group of San Gabriels now
blow their horns to the tune of a Corrido;
modernizing their legend.
A town laid out in squares
of green plaid.
Some of it pressed and trimmed,
although a couple edges creased
and frayed with age.
The twill line used to be more
The sett was a written color pattern they all knew,
between them and other families in town.
These days associations are more accepting,
although the habit is to practice tradition.
Still, San Gabriel’s set of pipes
dress in more formal attire,
or like to appear that way. Black and white
sometimes divided by the scarlet,
of their own humanity.