the lost boys | National Poetry Month

In a distant but uncomfortably close land,

an uncivil war created them.

They tried to recall their lost years

like brothers reminiscing a family vacation.

They remembered the soldiers that hunted them.

But they couldn’t agree which was more dangerous,

the lions that stalked children on land

or the crocodiles that snatched them in the rivers.

Dominic shielded his face in his hands becoming 
that 10 year-old lost in the dessert.

As he looked up raising his head,

his slender fingers wiped his confusion away,

a mannerism he said he developed long ago.

Simon sat still as his lost brother spoke,

and smiled uncomfortably the way I’ve seen others do

when they can’t sign their names

or don’t understand English.

Speaking of hunger and horrors I’ll never know,

They described their tearless trail.

Tears required water they didn’t possess

and energy they couldn’t spare.

Their silence told stories they couldn’t share
with those who aren’t of the Lost.

Their dark eyes eternally roam,
assessing and searching 
even in serene surroundings.

Yet despite their conditioning,
they reached out to connect

another gift from the desert.

This poem was inspired by an article I wrote for The Campus Ledger

he sat | National Poetry Month

Inspired by Google Poetics, created my own found poem:

thank the work of our hands | National Poetry Month

“Thank the work of our hands …”

            -Richard Blanco, One Today

                           

I never thanked the work

of my mother’s hands

that sewed clothes for my sisters and me

that made comida out of a sparse pantry

that prayed and hand-crafted rosaries,

hands that cleaned other people’s houses

and other people’s children.

I never thanked the work 

of my sisters’ hands

that dutifully cared for me

when my mother could not

and that helped me with my homework.

Often it was their young overworked hands

that scraped together the rent.

To this day, it is their hands

that mean most to me.

I never thanked the work 

of my father’s hands

that sliced the flesh from fresh carcasses

in a chilled meat packing plant,

hands that helped me move,

that changed my oil.

Tired hands that say, “I love you”

when his words cannot.

I never thanked the work 

of my Tia Noche’s hands

that showed me how to work efficiently

in my first job out of high school

at the explosives factory.

Her hands invited me to work puzzles

spread out on the dining room table,

the one only used for special occasions.

I never thanked the work 

of my friends’ hands

that offer welcoming handshakes

enthusiastic support,

and comforting hugs.

Their talented hands show me

what is possible.

I never thanked the work of the hands 

of the men I loved

skilled hands that tilled soil, picked fruit,

danced across keyboards,

and augmented machinery.

Hands that caressed my face

and whose gentle fingers

traced my lips.

Hands that, in public and in private,

searched for and enfolded mine.

All these loving, working hands

that wipe countertops,

chalkboards, and windshields,

as well as sweaty brows

and mournful tears,

reach for me when I am lost.

They proudly pat my back

or gently take my arm.

No, I have never thanked the work

of these many hands.

Nor I have ever thanked the work 

of my own hands

that clenched a garden hoe 

as I walked uneven fields,

hands that blistered, cracked,

and bled under an assiduous sun.

These hands labor so my soul can search

and my mind can reflect on and thank

the work of our hands.

muse | National Poetry Month

Her long-empty eyes unlock
the potential energy inside words.

Her sequestered soul stirs
searching for meaning.

Her languishing mind awakens
connecting and creating images.

Her invigorated tongue converts
these deliberations into language.

Her simple hands, inspired,
complete the transfiguration
from thought to word
making the ethereal
physical, visible, literal.

Now, her meditations await
another set of long-empty eyes.

day off | National Poetry Month

I’ll rise early upon the morn,

strip the sheets from my tranquil bed,

take them down to the basement

to the wash.

I'll gather the hanging clothes

off the treadmill,

plug it in, and exercise.

You know, because once I start doing it, I feel better.

After, I'll have a breakfast

of warm oatmeal and whole grain toast.

Then, with sheets in the dryer,

I'll start a load of towels.

While I'm in the basement,

I'll clean my workspace and desk

and sort through all the materials

I brought back from the conference.

I already threw away the junky stuff,

this is the really important stuff I need to read.

And I can use this bag again. It’s cloth and I could take it to the farmer’s market

and buy fresh … I don’t know what they sell ... but I should go ... this weekend.

Coupons will be organized.

Old pens and batteries discarded.

The stairs will be swept

and I'll make a healthy grocery list.

The refrigerator will shine, inside and out.

Paper towels and toilet paper

will fit comfortably in their holders.

Seriously, why am I the only one who changes these things?

I mean, he see it right there. If you’re gonna open a new pack,

just put it on the roller thing, right?

And throw away the empty roll.

Hello? Is that so hard?

I'll have a nice salad for lunch.

I really do like salad but I have to have put extra stuff in it.

It’s gotta have walnuts and maybe some apple.  I can’t just eat lettuce by itself.

On my way to the grocery store,

I'll stop to wash the car and run by the bank.

Dammit, I have all those boxes in the trunk.

Those two bags in the back seat have to go to Goodwill.

That other stuff needs to go to the basement...

Ugh! Are you kidding me?

I'm gonna spend my whole day off in the basement?

No, no, no.

That's what the weekend is for.

It's my day off. I'm going to a movie.

And I’m gonna see a movie that I want to see.

Uh, but I have to get the oil changed,

oh, and the wiper blades too.

God, I hate those blades.

Oh wait …

Crapity-crap. I can’t do any of that stuff.

I have to go to that thing.

I promised I’d go to that stupid thing.

Upon day’s end, I’ll retire to my welcoming bed

knowing I shall rest comfortably and safely

amongst the thoughts of my loving family and friends.

Then I go back to work the next day

and see all those people with their faces.

But I do have two sick days left …