For Leilani

May 14, 2018 § Leave a comment

Erupting Volcano credit Steven Hager

Photo credit Steven Hager

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am an active volcano
Beneath my mantle is magma fommented
Sulphur roils into toxic venting clouds

Seams tear through my crust, opening
Furious pools of boiling crimson, spitting
White, scaly ash in the air, landing
All over everything like oily snow

Capricious Pele is offered sacrificial ointments, salves and creams
Pacified, the inflamed goddess sleeps
Dormant for days, erupting again with no warning

And yet I am not Paradise rising
A gift to Heaven from the Sea
Covered in flowers, fruit, and trees

9 Word Football

November 24, 2012 § 1 Comment

“Dynamism of a Soccer Player” by Umberto Boccioni

I have always enjoyed “Dynamism of a Soccer Player” by Umberto Boccioni. I have visited it many times at the MoMA here in New York.

In the painting Boccioni breaks down the form of a soccer player into pure energy that moves out into the surrounding atmosphere.

I have never been very good with a paint brush, as many an art teacher and the dingy walls of my apartment can attest. I did, however, attempt to deconstruct a soccer game I saw recently. Here’s to all you strikers out there who like to keep your game simple.

9 Word Football
Kick, Kick, Kick
Head…Head
Kick, Kick…Foul…Card
Throw…Head…
Kick, Kick, Kick…
Miss!
Frustration.
Exultation!
Kick, Head…Kick
Score!
Exultation!
Frustration.
Kick, Kick, Kick

Violence

October 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

Violence is a terrible thing for a child to carry around

When I was young I often saw my parents fight

My father would tell my mother he would kill her

Then he would threaten us kids

My mother would threaten to leave

And he would threaten to kill himself

 

Mrs Wilson lived two houses down the street

She would come over for coffee

Sometimes her face was puffy and discolored

We would be sent outside to play

Once I hid in the laundry room beside the kitchen and watched them

Through the wooden louvers of the door

My mother comforted our sobbing neighbor

Like she would one of us after falling off a bicycle

 

Violence is a terrible thing for a child to carry around

Like receiving a shining silver dollar

From the moldy purse of a distant relative who smells of mothballs

They don’t understand what it is or its purpose

Until one day a playground bully turns them upside down

And shakes the coin from their pocket

Other children scramble to pick it up screaming

“Money, get the money.”

Their circle tightens around the gleaming profile of Eisenhower

Little fingers with dirty nails claw desperately

To be the new owner of this hypnotizing treasure

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