Selected Poems

Falling Down the Escalator at the Mall

My eyes widen to better see
what's swiftly speeding towards me;
I wouldn't want to miss the sparkle
of teeth on the edge of the stair
before they nip off a chunk of my chin,

and as my spontaneous tumbling flight
comes abruptly to an end, I hear the crunch
of my head as it smacks the well-waxed tiles,
sounding not unlike Newton taking a big bite
from a crisp, though slightly bruised, red apple.

A gathering circle of shoes unspins into focus
around me, and I suddenly know why
I pulled the bed sheets tight against me,
two weeks ago, and cried,
when I awoke from a dream
that I could fly.

---

Vertigo

I wonder if Jesus is dizzy like me
as I watch Him swirl, hanging
from ebony beads, dangling
from the waist of Father Julio,
who in turn spins my mind
with his words:

. . . accident . . . angels . . .
Mommy's now in heaven . . .
won't be going home today after school . . .

Me and Jesus continue our twirling,
as the world that I knew
ceases turning.

---

Doors

I stand alone at her closet door,
not wanting to perform this final chore
for the woman who selected the texture of threads
and crocheted me from boy into man . . .

"Cod day requires pickled beets."
Grandma says, and opens the cellar door.

Light from the kitchen radiates around her,
and shines upon the ground below.
Unblinking eyes of potatoes peek
through their baskets' weave; they watch,
along with Grandma above,
my progress down the wobbly stairs.

Dust disturbed from earthen walls
is seasoned with odors of apples and onions,
tickling my twelve year old nose.

Fingers find the beet-filled jar
and wrestle it from the grasp of cobwebs;
they snap and wave their broken threads;
I trudge back up the stairs . . .

Closing the closet, I clasp to my chest
her maroon church-day dress—
spiced with cedar, and lilac sachet,
salted with sprinklings of tears.

---

Adoration

I awake to find her dancing,
swirling with the attar breeze,
aglow as dawn blushes
through the open window.

On the phonograph, Ave Maria;
Placido holds his last note
for what seems eternity . . .

She folds,
like night-blooming jasmine
suddenly sensing the early morning sun,

while the song fades,
replaced by pops and crackles,
keeping time with her rosary
dangling from clasped hands.

---

Morning At Cuppas

Settled over coffee concoctions,
I hold your thumb under the table
and gently squeeze to tell myself
you're really here.

You say something about bears in the desert,
but I'm really not sure of the words you speak—
for I'm contemplating the many hues of blue
that mingle and twirl within your eyes,
reminding me of peacocks on parade.

You lick cappuccino cream off your lip,
and squirt that smirky smile to let me know
that you know I haven't heard a word you'd said.

Guitars strum from hidden ceiling speakers;
you boldly tug my hand and lift me from my chair
and as Dickey Betts sings of blue skies,

I fall again into your blue eyes.
You wrap your arms around my neck,
as my searching fingers find your hip swaying
to the beat of the bobbing of the college kid's head,
while the smiles of the old men sitting in the corner
shine as spotlights on our spontaneous performance.

And as at you, I gaze, they start to fade from view;
you see, every day's a grand adventure with you.