Inspired by Nepalese Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma

Himalaya

You are my mule,
my companion, my friend,
my communal bastard brother,
born of stallion and ass.
You teach me to walk proud,
carry the burden of others
while levitating my own
troubles to take residence
in the mist of cloud, later to rain
down on me when I am
stronger.

You are my buffalo,
my protector, my guardian.
You teach me of sacrifice,
how to love outside myself,
to shed my skin to blanket
my sister in warmth, to quench
the hungry with my own blood
before finding my place
in the sun.

You are my goddess,
my idol, my mother,
whose alabaster bosom
shields me from harsh winds
howling in the night. You
challenge me to follow in
footsteps of my brothers,
so I may one day find
my own path.

Imagine the End of Autism

IMAGINE

Imagine
thoughts of a stranger
scattered like pussy
willow seeds taking
flight in the wind,
landing in the desert
of his mind, no soil,
no water to nourish,
nurture them, never
allowed to bloom.

Imagine
your brother chanting,
incessant counting,
and calculating, your
sister humming, rocking,
twirling to a dizzied fury,
often ended in injury,
your childhood partner
unable to hold onto your
hand.

Imagine
never sharing the first
smile of your baby, your
son never looking in your eye,
your daughter not recognizing
your face or her name,
your child forever lost in
a world where you’re
not welcome.

Imagine. We imagine.
At times it seems all
we can do, so
frantic to understand,
so desperate for
a cure, so helpless
in this fight with another
invisible enemy, hidden
perhaps in clear sight.

Imagine
their escape from solitude,
the songs of laughter, all
of our children at play,
a belt of smiles stretching
round our world. Just imagine
the end of
Autism.

Inspired by article in Sac Bee Jan 29, 2010

Welcome Home Richard Nary

He’s like a tiny ship,
a scrolled message
a sea, trapped in
the confines of a glass
bottle, and now his only
companion. Over rocks,
his soul stirred, shaken,
lost.

Absinthe or rye, pick
your poison to propel
the pattern of pain, numb,
pain, numb, the pain, numb
the pain, ‘til no one
remains.

Every last bit of hope,
dignity, desire, drive
gone. One
hand of a stranger
upon his shoulder,
reaching out offering
a warm embrace, warm
food, and a warm place
to rest the tired bones
of the forgotten.

One stranger setting
the ship a sail, uncorking
the bottle, answering
the S.O.S. One man
opening the door
for another, the door
to a new tomorrow,
the door back to his
daughter, back
to his life.

A poem for a Survivor of Breast Cancer

PINK RIBBONS

One lump or two?
Such an innocent question
uttered hundreds of times
at the tea room.
Today, those words
had the power
to bring her to tears.
No amount of chamomile
or honey capable
of soothing her pain.
She was drowning
in a sea of sorrow,
fearful of what
tomorrow would bring.

How could she face
this new reflection,
scarred, disfigured?
What would she see
reflecting in his eyes?
He said he would always
love her, no matter what.
He said she would always
be beautiful to him,
but this....this
isn’t what crosses your
mind, vowing in
sickness and health.

Each day she’ll carry on,
with a stiff upper lip
and pink ribbons in her hair ,
stuffing the prosthetic
into her bra, no longer
adorned with sheer lace.
She’ll march with any
army of women.

She’s grateful to be
among the living,
a survivor as she’s
now known. But she misses
her curves, even if sometimes
they sagged. She misses
the tingling of her nipples
when her husband held
her in his arms. She
misses feeling like a woman.
She misses feeling
whole.

For those who have lost their way......

FINDING MY TOMORROW

Today.
A face I hardly recognize
stares back at me in the mirror.
Fear of failure, worn like shackles,
keeps me paralyzed.
Fear of success, having its rug pulled,
has stolen my spirit

Bubbles bursting all around,
country run into the ground
brought about an onslaught,
a victim-minded parade.
Waving this white flag,
stained blood red from my blues,
temporarily brings me comfort,
in the company of misery.
But even there,
I find no one really gets it.
No one understands.

If I stay here
I’ll be kept safe
from the light,
from risk, from success,
from letting those who love me
get to close.

I know I can only stay afloat for so long,
overwhelmed, drowning
amid the sea of uncertainty,
letting old habits lap against the shore,
only to be carried out to sea again,
fearful there exists no more life vests.

One of these tomorrows,
there will shine a light house,beacon of hope,
illuminating a clear path,
renewing a sense of purpose,
and I won’t be afraid of its light.

I will find the insight I seek,
a partner to keep me focused,
a plan to re-energize,
a renewed sense of confidence.

And on that day,
staring back in that mirror
I’ll be greeted by an image of empowerment,
a face in control of its destiny,
ready to weather any storm.

And I know this day will come
because I am loved,
because I am deserving,
because I believe.

HOPE FOR HAITI NOW----Please Give What You Can

SHAKEN

He doesn’t sleep at night.
Any attempt to slumber
squelched at the hint,
mere squint of his eyes.
His closed eyelids merely
a backdrop, a screen replaying
the horror of recent days.
So many children.
So many children.
So many bodies in heaps.
A nation weeps.
The world weeps with him.

Toll of death rings higher.
Days and nights pass.
If you sit quietly
and wait for the roar
of earth movers to subside,
you can hear the saddest
of all songs, a mother’s cry.

Fathers, brothers, sisters,
and wives frantic,
in panic, walking among
mounds of Titanyen,
wondering if below
their feet, lie the hands
they held seven sunrises ago.
Fearful of what the next
sunrise may bring.

Aughts to Ots.... we oughta know by now

"Inquiring Minds Want to Know"

The year,1999.
The date, December 31st.
It was THE party of the century,
even wilder than Prince could imagine.
Which let’s face it,
is saying A LOT!
She wore her body hugging
dress in black,
sexy,
yet apropos,
paying her last respects
for a century passed.

Less than five minutes
remained,
frantic wait staff
filled champagne flutes
to the rim.
Just as Dick Clark
cued the ball’s descent,
the room went pitch black.
She felt a soft tap.
Then another.
And another.
From lips, to hips,
from tips to toes.

Auld Lang Sine
blasted from the Bose.
Room now illuminated by
a mysterious purple glow
All she could see were
glowing white circular stickers,
adorning each tit,
freckling her ass,
sparkling on her body
like cosmic beacons
on a crisp winter’s night.

The man next to her
playfully inquired,
“What do polka dots taste like?”

She simply smiled.
----------------------------------------

And that, my friends,
is how this decade
became nicknamed the “ots”,
short for polka dots
of course.