Cooking for My Ancestors

My ancestors, with stomachs rumbling, 

reached an uncertain shore

greeted by a green, gleaming goddess 

lighting their way to promises.

They stood amongst the huddled masses

were stripped of their names.

Called foreign, detested.

They settled in burrows, finding comfort

in the remnants of the Old Country.

The Medicine, Folklore, and Our Lady.

Five generations from them

I pray, I cook, I sing,

I pray, I cook, I sing,

I pray, I cook, I sing,

so my ancestors can live.

The Flames

We were a fireball of light.
A crackling whisper of wishes,
dancing among the stars,
floating freely through infinity,
with the promise of forever.

Yet, forever wasn't infinite
and we were torn apart.
A cosmic storm pulled me
from you and I still carry
the mark of your departure,
branded in the center of my chest.

We are now flames flickering,
sending light into the darkness
while whispering wishes of oneness
to the cosmos hoping they hear us.

My flame, when we meet again,
we will quiver, like candle wicks
freshly lit, rejoicing in the reunion
of two lovers lost, and then found.


We will reignite our ancient passions,
and reclaim our stolen forever.

Afterlife Afterhours

When you became a ghost,

I became the night. 

Stars inviting you home,

I left on all of the lights. 

Hey there, Jack!

“Hey there, Jack!
Can you cut me some slack?

Listen, the apothecary's outta town
and I got this stuck on stupid frown.
I need some of your magic beans
and some of that bubbly kerosene.”

So, Jack pulled out a brown bag
made of cloth and old stitched rags.
He looked to the left and to the right,
then shoved it at the man who sang in delight,

“Thanks, man! Listen, I owe you one!”
“No, no, no,” Jack said, “have some fun.”
Jack climbed his stalk. The deed was done.
“Won’t know what hit him. Poor, old bum.”

The Restless Universe

I’m restless. Things are

calling

                me

                                away.

                                                                                This space,

                                                                                                                This time,

I’m not of it.

                                I’m not from it.

                                                                So what is it? Can someone tell me please?

                It hurts when I crash into my body—

this cramped shell confines all of the universe

into one beating heart. A meteor on fire,

                 it charges like a lithium battery.

                                                               My eyes blink opening nebulas. Exploding into black holes. 

                                            My mind is a planet. Floating silently into infinity. 

I am stardust. 

                           A string of theories sewn together into a web

                                                                                                    of existential breath and light. 

I'm restless, things are

   

calling me away...

                                            it seems that my hair is being pulled by the stars again.

 Inspired by Anaïs Nin, Fire: From "A Journal of Love" The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937

Sonny's Song: A Villanelle

Big money still ain’t got enough money
So they con, steal and rob us blind.
People are dying and they think it’s funny

In corporate buildings it’s always sunny
The Big Whigs plan trips to relax and unwind
Big money still ain’t got enough money

So they fatten their pockets with milk and honey.
Outside, Sonny shakes his can hoping for strangers to be kind.
He sings, "People are dying and they think it’s funny.”

“We’re starving, cold indentured slaves, their poor ol’ dummies,”
“Nothing’s free, so food, water and shelter we gotta find.”
“Big Money still ain’t got enough money.”

“We’re sick saps with noses runny,”
“So we go to the hospital, but service is declined.”
“People are dying and they think it’s funny.”

“They say, we can’t treat you, so sorry, Sonny.”
“Then they say, sorry we’re just doing what the law’s assigned.”
“Big money still ain’t got enough money.”
“People are dying and they think it’s funny.”

Reflection

Gazing into your eyes,
my bright white skin
lights up the dark spaces. 
A star in the night. 
The sun at dawn. 
I am not greater,
I am not less.
I am merely
a reflection of you.

My City...The One With Big Shoulders

Yay! I've been published! View my poem on elephant journal.

Rush Hour Variety Show

Have you ever hugged your teddy bear so tight,
his marbled eyes bulged?
I have.

Have you ever sobbed so heavily,

you couldn't tell snot from tear?

Well, I have too.

Have you ever wished to be thinner, thicker or just plain different altogether?

Hell, I know I have wished that too!

Haven't we all?!

So, heres a salute to:
my bald headed, pink-wearin', cancer bashin' soldiers...

A nickel flip in the cup, to the jazzy gent soothin' Chi-town streets with his sax.

Big, wet 'n' sloppy puppy kisses welcoming us home.

Grannie dancin' herself outta those high heeled shoes at the wedding.
(Why did she wear 'em anyways?)

The star-gazers.

The protesters.

Tax collectors,

con-men and street artists.

Hustlers.

Hippies.

The homeless and never home,
Wall-street suit guy. 
The BBW's, dainty petites and average Joes. 

Grill masters. 

Vegans.

Meat-heads, models, gym rats,

army brats and ministers.

And you too! The introverts and outcasts. 

I see you.

I mean, I really see ya.

From your vibrantly drooling grins...

to your denture-filled mouths.

I see you.

Because, most importantly,

I am what I see in you.

Life...of the human variety...

Forever different, but always the same.

Ebony and Ivory (Dust & Debris)

His smirk hungrily stares.

Ebony skin scorches my solitude,

reducing me to an ivory ash.

Sprinkled atop his flaming flesh,

I gently smolder inside embers

upon his chest. Yet somehow,

I am more whole this way,

even as a million particles—

dancing debris—settling like dust.