Monday, January 24, 2011

Molestache

Oh the greasy stringy bristles on your face.
They call to me.
Like candy calling a child.
Neatly trimmed and sometimes combed.
They deserve more.
More of me and you. More playgrounds.
More 1992 windowless vans.
Oops, I caught you looking, longing, but never belonging.
As you near, my fingers find my phone;
and while your stache, that magnificent furry patch,
hypnotically suffocates me,
I dial 9-1-1.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Toothache

For the past few days I've been suffering from a toothache. It hasn't been too bad, but the throbing pain has been keeping me awake. So I find myself at 2:38am unable to sleep. Therefore I decided to write and dedicate a poem to my toothache.

Root Canal:
French fries, Ice cream, and pumpkin pie.
Extravagant stews.
Milk
Pancakes, and even a few soups.
I'm pretty sure that you loved these foods too.
I tried 1200 milograms, you tried it too.
Vicodin was refused.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Like A Stream

Nymphs and naiads sang, but not out loud, and not to me,

They sang under the stream.

Into the nooks and crannies, eddies and vales of aspen trees.

They sang of leaves changing colors in the sun.

From green

To yellow, with a little bit of auburn red.

Then their song continued to pass through.

I passed through too, but not entirely through.

The echo of their song stopped me.

Plus my feet were stuck in the stream.

Smoothed by the black, rolling rocks, and rooted like a tree.

I wanted to follow the stream, floating like a piece of green

Grass. Half submerged, struggling to stay above the red.

Instead I was well below the red.

Half drowned by the water siphoning through

My stringy, clinging toes, I could hear their echoes calling to me.

I just couldn’t break free and sidle down the stream

Past the quakies and evergreen trees,

That dance a dance in hues of green.

Still the nymphs sang. They sang a sad song called ‘goodbye green”,

About the fish listing in the stream. They also sang about a red

Autumn and a brisk dawn. They sang through

The setting sun. They sang through me.

The naiads sang too. But they sang from the stream

To the forests of aspen trees.

As I listened I felt myself bend like a poplar tree.

And I felt the trees, in all of their green,

Bend like me. My fingers reached out and touched their red

Leaves. Igniting the forest of fallen leaves through-

Out the valley, and the bend in me.

Until the fire reached the cool, darkening stream.

Then rocks began to roll down stream,

Rollicking to the beat of the whispering trees.

And the forest, still green,

Blazed red

And yellow, in the evening’s fading light. Through

This change, the nymphs and naiads sang, but not to me.

The light faded to night and the singing stopped me

From listening to the steam still streaming,

And the creaking of a thousand trees.

Weaver Girl

With a caress of your hands, the spinning jenny whirled a vibrant tune. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see you weave us two.” You smiled a sincere, but concentrated smile. And your hands kept plying and your feet kept pumping, the threads kept flying, and I watched. A majestic pattern of yellows and blues grew. Amazed by the colors, and the hues, I watched. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see your weaving.” Again you smiled that brief and concentrated smile. Leaving wonder to tickle my sighing. Still you kept weaving. Until finally those different hues, filled with yellows and blues, came together to paint a picture so clear and so perfect I couldn’t move. Then I realized it was just you.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

I'd LIke To Dedicate The Following Post To Tara Brock

I don't know you, and I probably never will.

I've never heard your sweat lolling, rhythmic voice.
I'm sure if I did it would remind me of a white sandy beach with whispering waves.
This doesn't mean you are quiet or serious. It just means your voice would make me quake.

When I look in your eyes, if I had ever seen you, I'd see lazuli blue.
Or, maybe they are the color of a muggy day; hard and gray.
I wouldn't know.

I don't know for sure, but you'd make me feel a sudden fear.
The kind of fear that crawls like a slug. Leaving your skin clammy and pale.
And when it gets to the top, all there is left to do is jump. So I jump.

That is, if I knew you. But I don't. And I probably never will.

Mohe 'Aho

Mohe ‘Aho


One, two, three, four, five, six, seven times around, then back through the hole. The fishing line and my lure sparkled in the late morning sun. Pull it tight, and done. As I lifted the knot to my mouth and bit off the extra line I looked out over the ocean. It was a beautiful day. I stood on the edge of one island, looking across a small channel to another island. The clear Pacific water reflected the raising sunlight from the right of the island. In the distance I could see the breakers, but couldn’t hear them. With a light breeze ruffling my hair, I waded, thigh deep into the ocean.
“Dear God,” I said, “I know I don’t always do what’s right. I know that I don’t pray as much as I should, and I know I doubt more than I should. But I’m trying to change, and you know that. Today while I’m fishing I just want to catch a fish. I know that with your help anything is possible. So let me catch a big fish. I promise if you do this for me I’ll be thankful and I won’t waste any of the fish.”
I’d been fishing six or seven times on this same beach. I knew there were fish. I’d seen them. I hadn’t caught any. My Tongan friends laughed at me every time I returned without a fish. When they went fishing they caught six to eight fish, easily.
I’d tried everything I knew. Live bait, lures, bare hooks, I altered my rate of reeling, I didn’t reel, I called the fish; I tried everything. That’s why on this day I prayed. It was the one thing I hadn’t done. I wasn’t sure that praying to catch a fish was right. I wasn’t starving. I didn’t need it. I wanted it. And my bruised pride wanted it. But I figured Christ was a fisherman, or at least he liked fisherman. So today I prayed.
I finished praying and cast my line. Nothing. I did it again. Nothing. Maybe my faith wasn’t strong enough. Even if it was strong enough I still wasn’t sure if this was the type of thing to have faith about? I cast again. Nothing.
By this time I started questioning how much faith I actually had. Did I really believe that God could catch me a fish? Who is God anyways? I knew my family believed, my friends too. Did I believe in God? Was I praying to God because I’d been taught to pray, or, because I believed in him? I cast again. Nothing.
I started to get angry. Not with God, but myself. It was silly to put so much meaning on catching a fish. And even if God did exist my faith wasn’t strong enough for his help. So why should I pray?
Suddenly, when my lure was at my feet, a sliver of a shadow darted from the sand. It struck my lure, and darted away. I laughed. “Okay” I said, “so you have a sense of humor.”
Rejuvenated by adrenaline and a shadow, I kept fishing. Nothing. My doubts returned. Maybe that wasn’t God’s joke; maybe it was a coincidence. Even if there were a God, why would he care about me catching a fish? I cast again, and again, and again. Nothing. My lack of faith was making me sick.
Wait, what was that? It looked like a fish had been following my lure. Was it a fish? Or, was it a shadow. Definitely a fish. I stopped thinking about faith and cast in the direction the shadow had gone. There it was again. That is if it wasn’t just my imagination playing off my hopes. I cast again. It came a third time, but it still didn’t bite. This shadow fish just followed my lure. I cast again. It didn’t’ come back.
I decided my faith was the problem. I once heard that a man, in a time of famine, called in hundreds of fish to the beach. And they came, hundreds of them. They came all the way up to the beach. Just his prayers, and his faith caught hundreds of fish. My shameful prayers couldn’t even catch one.
I changed my lure. Fishing wasn’t meant to be so stressful. I was supposed to relax and stop thinking. I was thinking too much. For a while I stopped thinking. I fell into a casting trance. One, two, three times. Patience. I just needed patience. One, two, three more times. Nothing. One, two, three times more. Nothing.
All right I’d had it. Clearly my faith wasn’t strong enough. Clearly I wasn’t going to catch a fish. One more cast and that was it. Nothing. Just one more and then I was done. Nothing. But I had a feeling that I just needed to cast one more time. So I did. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to catch anything. I’d had enough; I was just being silly now. I decided to quit right then and there. Even before I’d finished reeling in my line I started to walk back to the beach.
When my lure came within ten feet of my humiliated, trudging retreat, there was a bump on my line. I turned. Was that a fish? I kept reeling in the line. It was a fish. I’d caught a fish.
Maybe snagged a fish was the more appropriate term. My hook had caught it just behind the gills. It weighed three ounces, and was only four inches long. It fit in the box my Rapala came in. I took it home anyways. My laughing Tongan friends said they call the type of fish I caught Mohe ‘Aho. They also said it was too small for a Tongan to keep.
I’m pretty sure I heard God laughing.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

White With Blue Stripes

Like most people, I wear my faith on my sleeve.
So I weep.
Not because of faith. Although at times, I believe.
I weep because my shirt isn't white enough.
When my brothers button on the starchy white of atoning sacrifice,
I wear a white shirt with blue stripes.
But at least I'm not that guy with the black necktie.