Today’s Strawberries from Safeway

The taste of perfectly ripened strawberries is
A sweet childhood memory, and
I never realized how skilled mother was
at picking the very juiciest, ’til today.

When I visited Safeway
on my own, I selected the first plastic cage
of  ‘strawbees’ my eyes laid upon, not being picky enough
to qualities aside from mushiness and color.

At home, imagine my disappointed taste buds,
as the tart blandness of my strawberries
reminded me of infant fruit
stolen from their nest much too early.

Reflecting on the care she put into feeding me
The very plumpest and sweetest,
I wondered how long it must have taken to choose.
Like writing a robust poem, making sure the
words are both full and succinct,
I too must take the time to master
the art of selecting strawberries as treats.

Scars

I woke up this morning to the sound of the Hare Krishna
Getting high on the names of sixteen gods and
Thirty two syllables, Intricately spiced
Incense and high pitched bells
Floating through my window;
Krishna dances on their tongues.
“My perfect god!”
I imagine them crying.
Without scars nor blemish, the Supreme Being asks,
Would you prefer your
scars, in the afterlife,
or without?
Will my scars make you love me less?
Do they make you doubt?











Note: Poems are now open to public interpretation and criticism (comments allowed)</font

We

My coffee is black, bitter, without cream, nor sugar,
Undiluted, it’s sometimes the only way I can take it,
The grinds leftover at the bottom remind me of what I am drinking:
The baristo’s third hasty batch that morning.
On the other hand, yours is a light mocha color, lots of milk,
Sugar, the fluff, and I have no idea how you sip the stuff
With steamed milk smell wafting about.
However, both are too hot to drink yet, not stopping us
From not speaking to one another really.
It hangs, your disapproving
Finger tapping, and my idiot lost
Puppy-dog eyes trying to seek approval.
Am I a dog? Am I man’s best friend?
Onto the table, I empty
My pockets (secretly asking myself as well)
Of items to incite you to conversation:
A chili pepper.
A dove’s feather.
A moneyclip.
Am I collected?

To be small

Inside I ponder, on a rainy afternoon,
What it would be like to be very tiny.
So small that all my friends would need
A magnify glass to see me,
Not that I would be upset,
If they overlooked from time to time.
I am sure I’d have to speak in squeaks at the border
Of their ear and earlobes if I needed a crumb of cheese
For dinner, or maybe I’d request of them to break off the
Tip of a toothpick, so that I can brush my hair.
I would use a single drop of water to wash my clothes, and
A thumbtack for baths, and sleep on the petal of a tulip
Letting its scent waft into dreams like sweet aromatherapy.
Of course, there will be things I miss:
My puppy will ask, where are you? And his licks would mean another bath
Instead of a trip to the bathroom sink,
And I won’t be able to play basketball anymore,
For fear of being squished. Now that I think about it,
I think my size isn’t so bad, but on occasion, I
Still imagine being small, that all the money I’ve saved
Would be just enough to live my life, happy and safe.

only human

they say these moments
1.
2.
3.
4.
are what make up your life
whether frozen, at the end of your line
or hot, winning coming up from behind,
when you’re going too fast or too low
to realize you’re the most you are
that you have ever been.
but is it really the peaks
and valleys
of the sublime, or the medium path
forgotten in the daily
grind?
i can’t think
of a better way to
live than up in flames but should i fail,
accepting responsibility, i
don’t think i would mind the cold.

Playing baseball with Marco

Playing baseball with Marco
Is sometimes a pain, probably because
His Latino blood flows like Native American rivers
His veins carrying the same gold-
Rich water as Sammy Sosa, the
Blood of their Mayan gods passed down.

Laughing, he keeps telling me that
Practice will get you into the big leagues
But my arms are sore from throwing and stretching,
I wonder if it’s like that with poems as well.
I know practice makes it easier for the words to flow
Propped up against my fingers and lips
Like desperate lovers, eager
To give themselves a home with me,
But each time, I drop the ball it seems.

With pen in hand, wondering how can I
Rewrite an orchestra from the little leagues.

Eating peppermint bark and drinking coffee

Eating peppermint bark and drinking coffee
Makes my heart race
Like the wild junkie on PCP,
I feel like I can lift up a trailer
And crush it with my pecs,
But as the banana slug moves forward
At such a slow pace, with heart beats
Flowing
You wonder how far he’ll end up going.