Leaves tumble down
tumble down they do
thrown to the ground in slow motion
they go as fast as a train
through the eyes of an ant.

Lemon yellow leaves long and thin flutter
around and around in a pinwheel descent.
Red maple leaves hang on the still air
generations of tiny things could live there
before a final kiss of the ground.

The sycamore paves the forest in gold plates
a nest for snuggling chipmunks and squirrels.
A long needle twirls down from the lofty pine,
an amber rosin blanket
tucking in the shrubs for the winter.

A hare nibbles on spent summer flowers,
hanging dry, still, dead – grey as her fur.
The carrots in the garden are gone,
hidden away in the cellar,
food for mouse and man.

A red vixen peers out of her hole,
between the roots of a lofty chestnut,
amid the spiked nut casings and
brown, brown waxy leaves.

The chilled air is winter wet
soon the snow will come
the land will slumber deep
robed in white, not unlike bones.

A fat bear ambles by hives a’tilt.
Beekeeper is gone as are the bees.
A rubber ball and upturned rake lay
unemployed and unwanted as so many stay.

Finches eat seeds and huddle amid branches
while a cat’s tail whisks in anticipation.
Somewhere a dog barks and breaks the peace.

The moment is lost
as the first flakes flutter down
to blanket the wood.

We lie in our fighting holes,
in the sweltering Afghan night,
arrayed like the graves our enemies dig.

We dream of home’s simplicity,
of girlfriends and mothers waiting,
yellow ribbons on countless trees adorned.

Rude war interrupts our sleep,
as mortars thump in the near distance,
walking closer like an invisible giant.

A boy with a box died today.
He wouldn’t stop and put it down.
It was a doll for his youngest sister.

Sometimes I wake up shouting,
but I am not the only one with nightmares.
The lieutenant issues pills to make them go away.

I am an unwilling killing machine,
for I need the G.I. bill to pay for college,
so I can escape the ghetto my government made.

Corporal Xerxes lost his legs last week,
to a Taliban man with a grenade launcher,
the Captain had to order us to stop return fire.

I’m going to heaven when I die,
as my faith in God has not yet been shaken,
and because I have already been to Hell.

Oh my dearest love,
life melting off your thin bones,
choked out by disease.

I clutch memories,
which slip away so easy,
my humanity.

The day at the zoo,
when the giraffe licked your face,
and the monkeys laughed,

or the carrousel,
on the backward elephant,
kissing away tears.

Your birthday party,
we ate your favorite cake,
but the dog stole most.

The swing-set is still,
stirred only by the north wind,
which brings omen chill.

Butterfly landed
on your nose with wings flapping
but it made you sneeze.

Riding on the train,
when your nose began to bleed,
I was in denial.

I saw you running
through Grandpa’s fresh spring clover,
but those times are gone.

The doctors pump drugs,
which are more poison than balm,
yet you waste away.

I remember then
my spoken promise to you.
Thus, I do not cry.

When I dream, I float away,
float away into the unclutchable sky.
I dream of shifting shadows,
shifting shadows which call my name.
When I dream I get swept around,
swept around like dry leaves in the wind.
I dream of your face scowling,
face scowling at my existence, annoyed.
When I dream I hear your taunting laughter,
taunting laughter all too real in my waking hours.
I dream of days without pain.
Without pain, you mock me in my misery.
When I dream, I dream of promised paradise,
promised paradise where you are good and kind.

These are mere dreams.
oh, that my reality and dreams were swapped,

I dream of long moments of gentle joy.
Gentle joy and hope’s promise keeps me here
when I dream.

From the mountain of the west
where the sun has set so oft’
a pyre alights the frightened night
with a growling high aloft.

With Sulki’s hand too tight,
and mine on Ravi’s tail
we stumbled through the dead of night
to a siren’s mournful wail.

The ground she shook so much
with the waters on the shore
we scrambled onto higher ground
as the waves came in for more.

I shivered on the rocks
as fiery bombs explode
Ravi licks my face and whines
while the lava eats the road

The mountain says he’s king
he shouts through out the night
his mantle falls in smoking swirls
of bone meal plaster white

When the sun awakes at last
and the sea breeze comes to giving
the mountain goes to sleep again
and our village counts the living

暁早 – Early Dawn
Wake up pink sky shine!
Stretch out and embrace the stars.
Touch the world with pearl.

Give me your beauty,
and bind me to the moment
lest I lose myself.

Fly away red clouds!
Do not bring a storm today.
I await Father.

Let me wear your robes!
So, I may hide from sorrow
and forget the past.

If today brings rain,
let not my tears be in vain,
nor my heart be cold.

早暁 – Dawn
I see the grand star,
the majesty in the east,
the sun arising.

Give me sunlight warm,
to melt my frozen heartache.
I so miss him now.

Father will come soon
to take me to the ancients
and lay my incense.

I hear the monks chant
up on the temple mountain
preparing the way.

If I do not go,
will my heart always be lost
and my love wander?

行列 – Procession
A stone pounds the nails,
to close the ornate coffin
and hide the dead flesh.

The monks walk with care,
that body in its wrappings,
empty and alone.

Seagulls greet the day,
but I have no joy within,
as the gong marks time.

Father bows his head,
Sister wears her Kimono,
Brother is not here.

The temple is rich
but our village is so poor
for new spirit names.

式葬 – Funeral Ceremony
The casket emptied,
the body is in flames now
burning with blue light.

The monks chant and bow
Sister falls and cries weeping
Father’s eyes are moist.

Chopsticks pick through bones
Sister and Father at once
put them in the urn.

First the toes go in
so the body is upright
and last is the skull.

The dust of ash flows,
as the village stands close by
to cover the bones.

墳墓 – Tomb
Father and the urn,
Silent, the village watches
his walking uphill.

Alone, he will place,
what is left inside the tomb.
There he cries alone.

Brother will not come,
until he leaves Tokyo,
a two day train ride.

Sister comes up next,
to lay the incense upon,
the rain speckled stone.

As she walks away,
I feel myself rising up,
At last, I am free.

I hold her hand upon her bed, bones brittle, skin thinning and clear.
Tubes and wires about her head, my whole body is shaking in fear.
Cancer came for one so fair, robbing and wrecking her life.
Chemo took her curly hair, and soon she goes under the knife.

“It isn’t fair,” I cry in the dark of night, when my soul lays bared to my God.
“Why her and not me,” I mourn for her plight, “I should walk the path that she’s trod.”
But she doesn’t complain at the needles and pain, as the doctors prepare for theater.
and she quietly goes where nobody knows and she doesn’t rebuke her creator.

It is said that saints young and old are not always the valiant and bold.
Yet, I disagree as I’m forced to see her courage as she’s laying there cold.

Imagine waking up, if you get to sleep at all, and remembering your vivid nightmares centered around one theme: pain.  When you awaken the pain is not gone, it is still there, dogging your every step and preventing you from enjoying anything.  Simple things you took for granted, like the sunlight or a child’s laughter become instruments of torture.  Music, conversation, and socializing are ordeals you endure rather than look forward to experiencing.  Pain negates every pleasurable visitation of life and penetrates deep into your core, tainting all of the things of beauty you love so much.  You aren’t the only one suffering from your pain.  Family and friends drift away or hide at the sight of your agony.  You find yourself slinking away to spare them the vicarious pain.  Even your pets learn to manage their lives around your torment.

If it were a terminal illness that could end your life at any moment to spare the rest of the world of your presence, then you could endure it, you think sometimes.  However, is not a terminal illness, it is a perpetual acute migraine which remains for years.

This is my world, yet I remain through it all an optimist.  I haunt the night, unable to go outside during the day.  I hobble around due to neurological problems on my right side.  My tremors and seizures occur daily and I am only able to write for at most an hour each day before fatigue forces me to rest.  I am a physical wreck.

However, like I said, I am an optimist because I believe no matter what happens to my body and my mind, God will preserve and protect me.  Am I naive in this world of so much doubt and depression?  No, I have faith.  When I look at the icon of the Theotokos (Virgin Mary) and contemplate her life, I realize how much better I have had it.  King Herod wanted to kill her and her child because of a prophecy.  The Sadducees wanted to kill her because they didn’t believe in divine intervention.  Even as a young woman, she knew the cost of agreeing to what the Angel Gabriel asked of her.  All Hebrew girls did.  Still she accepted.  Despite all of the trouble, it caused her, her family, and her community she said yes.

Thus, despite all of the pain I am enduring, many martyrs endured more.  I am not fit to join their ranks.  I will endure and when I can’t God will help me endure.

Well, maybe it isn’t so top-secret.  I have so many book projects going I have lost track of them thus far.  Nevertheless, I endeavor to stay the course and complete this novel first.  You might ask what makes this project so top-secret.  I haven’t been able to think up a name that describes it well enough to give it that breakout bang.

Let me start from the top.  It has a tree a half-mile tall who is one of the main characters in the book.  The novel has two opposing wizards, one good and the other evil, a fey realm and a kingdom in a far away land.  Amid all of the turmoil, and struggling to survive the attacks of their pursuers are a mother and her two children.  This family is a key component in the Prophesy of the Blue Coin.
 
“Blue coin on red tower totters
    White moon on black sky slung
    Green fury on flowing red waters
    Young hand on white staff hung
    Fey spirit becomes mere mortal
    Mere mortal comes revealed as fey
    Black staff breaks in temple portal
    Red hair sits on throne that day

Blue coin floats in blue pool.”

The problem, as I stated, is developing a name for the book that will attract readers, young and old alike.  The bad wizard is named the Toad Wizard (Treoraí Buaf Glas) and the good wizard is called the Earth Guardian (Treoraí Garda Cré).  I’ve decided to use Gaelic names to add to the fantasy atmosphere.  The book also has a red tower that is central to the entire story, as mentioned in the prophecy.

If anyone has a suggestion for a title and I like it, I would be happy to give them a sneak preview of the first few chapters.

Holding me as close as anyone can try
falling through the abyss
her radiance an inner glory
Not thinking of my yesterdays
nor gnawing on my tomorrows
feeling just the now
knowing only this moment
branching no where, no when, no how

She is a light illuminating my present.
angelic feathers spread about me unseen
She is the tranquility of the moment
calming the frantic chaos of my mind
She is the dweller in a still deep pool
inviting me to wash away the world.

Tight to her I fall through the abyss
spiraling about a singularity in space
stuttering about a moment in time
the radiance from her center
casts shadows passed my darkness
a darkness which gnaws away
an oily blackness in the pit of my heart
hiding every where, when, and how.

I am the bitter seed and core of the past
knuckles dragging on the pavement of sin
lurching from rotten age to age
venting against the pure without sense
raging against the kind, good, and sincere.
inviting the sweet to reprobation.

Held close by her as a sacrifice
falling into the eternal abyss
she gives of herself so others may live
she binds her fate to mine in a final act
an act of obedience and charity
two things I had never know
until her last shining moment
relenting no where, no when, no how

Oh, empty unfeeling heart
that thumps within my chest.
A pump for blood of gristle
pounding as I await death.

His money I lost –
lost at the tables.
Now I see a steel blue tube
as cold and unfeeling as  my heart.
I smell the gun oil of the 9mm
pointed at my nose
I hear my breathing
fast and panicked.

I thought it would be different.
this moment
my world-line eclipsed
but no –
I am just a fool who fell afoul and now will fall
and the saddest thing of all
I have turned a desperate friend
into a murderer of his best friend

and yet,

my heart feels nothing.

Zebra, jy gebalk te veel.
Zebra, jy gebalk te veel!
Jy raserige zebra!  Jy gebalk te veel!
Ek is die naaf in die natuur se wiel.
Ek sal eet jy, kom die aanbreek.

Esel, jy gebalk te veel.
Esel, jy gebalk te veel!
Jy raserige esel!  Jy gebalk te veel!
Ek is die naaf in die natuur se wiel.
Ek sal eet jy, kom die aanbreek.

Twee bene, jy praat te veel.
Twee bene, jy praat te veel!
Jy raserige  twee bene!  Jy praat te veel!
Ek is die naaf in die natuur se wiel.
Ek sal eet jy, kom die aanbreek.

Ek is die leeu, wie moet sy slaap.

Zebra, you bray too much.
Zebra, you bray too much!
You noisy zebra!  You bray too much!
I am the hub in nature’s wheel.
I will eat you, come the dawn.

Donkey, you bray too much.
Donkey, you bray too much!
You noisy donkey!  You bray too much!
I am the hub in nature’s wheel.
I will eat you, come the dawn.

Two legs, you talk too much.
Two legs, you talk too much!
You noisy two legs!  You talk too much!
I am the hub in nature’s wheel.
I will eat you, come the dawn.

I’m the lion, who should be sleeping.

She dances around the meadow
whirling in circles of light.
She dances around the forest
giving the woodsmen fright.
She dances through out the village
chasing them from their home.
She dances up to the sea
dying when touching the foam.

She cannot be hugged nor kissed,
when she leaves she hardly is missed.
She is needed by all who must eat,
especially by those who love meat.
When winter is cold,
she brings comfort to old
with a spark on lintel and stove.
When summer hot,
her comfort is not,
as she eats up the forest so bold.

Steeped in the butterwort
Soaked in the tea
Mumsi is an Herbalist
And so will be me

Tinctures in the bottles
Tubers on the shelf
Mumsi makes our village hale
And so I will me self

Sulfur in the boxes
Copper in the tin
Mumsi made the chieftain well
And so his son I’ll win

Lion in the parlor
Cubs upon me bed
Mumsi made me run away
And now I fear she’s dead

“Crunch!”

Marissa Maldonado heard the sound in the distance but continued walking toward the lights of home. Choir practice had run late and Papa was drinking again. One more year and she would get her permit and be free of her life as a pedestrian. Taking the shortcut along the edge of the swamp was her usual routine, but she’d never walked so late before. The willows swayed in the brisk autumn wind, leafless branches rattling together. A storm was coming. She held her wool coat closed with one hand to keep in the heat because the two top buttons were missing. She carried her book bag over her other shoulder gripped by her other hand.

“Oh great! Now I’m gonna have to walk to school in the freezing rain tomorrow! Could my life get any worse?”

“Crunch!”

This time she jumped and increased her pace. The sound seemed far off yet getting closer as she walked toward the small summer cottage they called home. She smelled a metallic odor she couldn’t place as she drew past the old swamp oak with its tire swing and hornet’s nest. Some good and bad memories lay there. Papa would be at Frankie’s Cabaret until after midnight if Marissa were lucky. Mama worked at the emergency room as a nurse until then. Marissa and Mama were at a détente and were on speaking terms but wouldn’t discuss some of Marissa’s complaints despite their true urgency.

“Squish, Crunch!”

As she came closer to her home and could see the large picture window, Marissa noticed the drawn blinds. Backlit by the flicking blue of the television she saw somebody sitting upon the couch.

“Oh, man! He’s home. Why can’t he just stay at the bar like every other drunk? Now I’ll never get my homework done,” she whispered to herself, lest he overhear her.

There was little chance of that, because the wind had started whistling between the trees and dangling vines. Papa became a different person when drinking, somebody she didn’t want to know. She hated him just as much during that repentant stage after his binges where he acted sad faced and bought her gifts. Mama wouldn’t listen, but she never did – nobody ever did! Marissa had to take care of Marissa.

She went around the back of the cottage and opened the storm door hoping its rusty hinges wouldn’t creak. She had to struggle with the wide door against the rising gale. Slipping into the basement, she groped around for the light and found the dangling string. She then went back to the open storm door, closed it with utmost care, and threw the lock.

“If he wants to roam the house, then I will just stay down here for the night,” she thought to herself. “Everyone will just assume I’m at Juanita’s.” Creeping up the stairs leading to the inside of the house, she threw the lock to the inner door so he couldn’t come down. She then flopped onto an old mildewed couch, put her headphones on, and listened to Nelly Furtado while she read her History assignment. Marissa worked hard to get good grades because the alternative was too horrific to consider. Her plan in life was to get a scholarship to a good university so she could escape Podunk-villa and its dirty little minds, once and for all. Her first year in high school was harder than middle school so far but she was adapting as she’d done with so many other problems in her life.

She must have been more tired than she thought because she woke up to a disturbance upstairs. Papa was dragging what Marissa guessed was the couch across the room, which made dust filter through the floorboards, along with making quite a racket. Removing her headphones for a moment, she listened intently while he did whatever crazy things his liquored up brain told him to do. Lots of grunting, stomping, and other sounds of effort accompanied Papa’s activities – almost as if he were wrestling a bear instead of moving a couch.

“¡Santa María! Now, he’s taken up redecoration!” she thought to herself. For a moment, she was tempted to bang the broom against the ceiling to get him to stop but thought better of it. There wasn’t any point in drawing attention to her presence. The house quieted after a few minutes, with the exception of the perennial television. Replacing her headphones, she set her player to loop all night, pulled the string to the light bulb dangling from the basement ceiling, and laid down on the mildewed couch to sleep.

Marissa woke with a start. In her sleep, she had heard something loud that had awakened her, something so terrifying that her body shook of its own accord. While she questioned whether it had been just a nightmare, the sounds she had heard in the swamp resumed.

“Crunch!”

This was not out in the swamp – this sound was upstairs in the house. To keep from screaming, Marissa put her own hand over her mouth and sat in the darkness afraid to breath. Something dripped through the floorboards into the cellar near her.

“Drip, Drip, Drip,” it went slow and steady.

“There was that smell again,” she thought to herself. She still couldn’t place it. While she lay on the couch trying her hardest to be silent, she heard Mama’s car pull up into the driveway.

“Thump, squish, thump, squish, thump, squish, slam!” she heard as Papa ran to his bedroom. She then heard the ticking of the old Dodge’s engine as it cooled and Mama walking on the sidewalk with jangling keys in her hand. Mama would be tired from her twelve-hour shift and in no mood to tangle with Papa. He knew she would call her brothers Carlos and Juan over to teach him a lesson if he ever laid a hand on her. Marissa wondered why such protection didn’t extend to their niece.

The door opened and Marissa heard Mama enter the house and close the door behind her. She’d seen her do it so many times she knew exactly what Mama did when she came home. She would close the door, go to the kitchen, pour herself a cold glass of milk, and go to bed, without talking or seeing anyone. As far as Mama was concerned, problems could wait until morning. However, Mama did not follow the script.

“Aaaaaiiiiiiiiii……” went the primal scream of Mama in horrific shock.

“Thump, squish, thump, squish, thump, squish, CRUNCH!”

A deep and heavy breathing and nothing else followed Papa’s running sound, if it was Papa in the house above her.
Wide-eyed and terrified, Marissa sat up trembling all night in the dark, as the dripping sound of blood resumed, unable to sleep and unwilling to make the smallest noise.