I Saw the Queen at Taco Bell

I saw the Queen at Taco Bell on a Sunday afternoon.

Being served a Coke and a Burrito Supreme

by a man in a tall, furry hat,

 a rifle polished on shoulder slung.

Why here?

She saw the question through my

upraised eyebrows.

“Love was killed in a palace

built of stone and wood.

Appearance, that finely-dressed fascist,

stifled freedom with a boot to the neck.

I am finding freedom in a burrito.

So here I am, but I brought protection with me.

Thank you, Reginald.  Could you bring me

some taco sauce please?  Hot.”

And so went the furry hat and rifle - 

hunting condiments.

On that Sunday afternoon, I had just attended

a church

built of stone and wood.

So I sat down at my table,

bowed my head,

thanked God,

for a burrito.

  

The Sun is in a Precarious Spot

The sun is in a precarious spot

            hardly hanging on,

            sickly shining on,

            fading fast,

            trying to turn

                        off.

And here we walk on dirty streets.

And here we breathe in bus fumes.

I look at my hands

dirty like the gutter.

Everything meets the horizon - running or falling - too fast.

The Moon takes her spot suspended

above the rooftops.

She looks older than she is.

Like a whore overused…

                        by poets’ pens.

Her and i will die together one day –

            after Mr. Sun collapses

            in a crashing cacophony.

Ours will be silent.

drag me

This one is different.  I assigned my poetry class to the task of attempting to write a style of poem called a villanelle.  It is tough to do, and this is my attempt number 1.

drag me

Drag me into your love before i fall

Upon my knees to draw blood from the scrapes,

Upon the unclean hands Mercy enthralls.

Instead of giving in i tried to stall,

And the voice of defiance: it escapes.

Drag me into your love before i fall.

Do not refrain from sending down the call,

Amid the scoffing laughter and the japes,

Upon the unclean hands Mercy enthralls.

There is no sin surpassing others all,

it is us guilty of murders and rapes.

Drag me into your love where i may fall.

To stand up straight i do not have the gall.

The only hope is you to send some Grace

Upon the unclean hands Mercy enthralls.

I cannot move unless it is to crawl.

Shame like a robe across my shoulder drapes.

Drag me into your love where i may fall

Upon the unclean hands Mercy enthralls.

These Hands

Writing sonnets can be difficult.  This one took a while in order to make what I wanted to say keep intact while fitting in a form.  So here is "These Hands."

These hands of mine looked different years ago,

When I was younger and the world was new.

I never really watched when time did flow,

And carried away all I thought was true.

These hands of mine worked hard and never tried

To serve an int’rest other than my own.

Ashamed, ashamed when I look back.  The tide,

The ebb and flow, that made weary these bones.

They never wanted to put up a fight

And ball up into fists - these hands of mine.

Nor did they want to set the wrongs aright,

Nor did they want the wisdom earned in time.

And now that there is more to love than me,

These hands of mine have never been more free.

Effective lives and loud splashes

The challenge went out as it always does.

A cannonball contest is always

inevitable.  And everyone assumes

the fat guy will win.

It really is a simple matter

of water displacement.

For the larger the object, the more surface area.

That means a bigger splash.

But how do you judge this splash?

Height?  Width?  Waves in the pool?

So that one guy gets “clever” and jumps off the diving board

in “jackknife” formation.

“Thomp-whoosh!”

Yep, the water sure went high.

Then there’s the guy who tries for the

“belly flop” method. 

“SLAP!”  Ouch.  Not as big.

But you have to applaud the effort.

Enter the fat guy. 

Through the air, nothing fancy.

Knees held up high with a tight grip…

It really is a simple matter

of water displacement.

It might not have gone as high,

but we were all splashed.

The bigger the man, the bigger the effect.

The Language of You

You speak Music.

Harmony is the way you woo me –

and I dance.

Forgetting gravity…

but it remembered me

and pulled my feet to the earth.

But you speak Art.

Color is the way you painted me.

Brushstrokes by the painter of the dawn,

forgetting black lines…

but they remembered me

and put me in a box.

So in darkness I reside

         forgotten dance

         forgotten color.

But you remembered me…

         and you speak music,

         and you speak art,

         you speak… life.