Dia de los Muertos

Happy Sunday, everyone (or whatever day it is when you give this a read).

Also, Happy Dia de los Muertos, everyone!

I’m not Latin by blood or heritage, but orbit this holiday a lot through my mother. For as long as I’ve been old enough to pay attention, she’s loved everything about this holiday, from the aesthetic and colors, to traditional dances and rituals, and the spirit the day encapsulates and represents.

There’s a local museum in our city that hosts events and exhibits surrounding Dia de los Muertos’ history and cultural art that we make sure to attend every year they’ve done so, and this year will be no exception (safely, of course).

A bit cross-cultural, but in the spirit of the holiday, I figured I’d share a few haiku I put together some months ago that center around the ideas of the day. I hope you like ’em and maybe find something in them that resonates. Mm’wah!

Death
Stories deserve ends
Beautiful incarnations,
return among dreams.

Memories
Precious currency
Echoes which reflect values
Hum, eternal bones

Being
Sudden miracle
Awareness behind the thought
Phenomenal spark

…

Anyhoozle, take care everyone. Give somebody a hug while you’re at it.

Three Haiku

I wish I could say this was inspired by something more monumental, like a big life event or existential epiphany, but the truth is far simpler: The Ghost of Tsushima is just that great.

In every way, the game is an (A+) work of art. While the duels among cherry blossoms and battles amid flames are thrilling in their own right, I’m in it for picking flowers, petting foxes, writing poems. If it weren’t for all the swinging massive razors and duty-bound murder parties, I’d HELLUV been a samurai. But since those things are kind of a package deal…oh well.

May I present, some amateurish poetry…

Haiku
Pause, breath, and reflect.
Flower on a windy cliff,
breathe and be nourished.
Moon
A light amid dark
Silent, blossoming brilliance
Gate to the cosmos
Supper
Food in my belly
Warmth spreading through my body.
This is just the best

Ah, we have fun, don’t we?

Til’ next time, everyone.

War Paint

When cries are cut by the sounds of gas,
When voices beg into the pavement before they pass;
When two can kneel, one on a field, the other on a neck,
And it’s given no mind at the sanctity of a check-

We shed tears.

When illness takes hold and truth disappears,
When the house sunders and folds divided,
bullets, bombs, and curfews replaces parks and dinner plates,
In these harder to say truly ‘United’ States,

We shed tears.

But soon we’ll look up from the dirt,
and those mud-scribed tears become our war paint,
it will dry and crack with roars
that will penetrate any House, any Tower – a voice for all ears.

We are Here.

(Inspired by the words of Amanda Nicholson.)

On Ravens’ Wings

Black, majestic, with the bluish, opalescent shine off the sun.
The bluster of wind, the soft down of the feather, the impossible freedom of being alight in an empty sky.

Even perched atop a lonely tree. Alone on a hilltop, overlooking an empty valley. Dominion over sky’s reach, bird’s eye view.

Black of feather, black of night.

Omen, teacher, watcher, hunter.

To be so small, to ride on ravens’ wings, to see a vast world and erase bounds, may be to learn the lesson of rivers and valleys, which know no maps.

“Drip, Drip, Drip…” – A Poem

The toilet has a leak.
It’s been nearly a week this toilet has had a leak.
The towel on the floor’s begun to reek,
and the future remains quite bleak,
but I will not retreat!

A clamp of the wrench, and the valve starts to creak-
SNAP!
Alas, the plastic cap was weak, perhaps my approach ought’ve been more meek.
So now it’s worse, the leak.

This vicious blood-rage is reaching its peak!
A solution to this goddamn toilet is all that I seek!
…what is this…?
Ah! An idea! Eureka!

A bird doesn’t need tools, it uses its beak!
I have two worthy hands, a mind that’s unique,
I’ll work with what I have, quit shouting at porcelain like some kind of freak.
Some tape on the threads, refit the flow valve’s seat…
Boom! Air-tight! Suck it, toilet, I won’t be beat!

At last, the drip is gone, the floor is dry, me- a heroic, fix-it geek.
Repair Skill: 100, “Jury Rig” perk, (as the kids say) on fleek!

I climb into bed, enjoying this first victory in a To-Do list winning streak.
Mandy walks by, bathroom door closes – *Flush!* – WIIIIIIRRRUUUURREEEK!

I bolt upright, my eyes shoot open at the toilet’s new, banshee-like screech.
The covers fly off, my knuckles crack. “Alright, toilet. Round two, bitch,” I heatedly speak.

END

The Take: So, among other things, that’s been my week. Rhyming sort of fell a part towards the end, but I was determined to make sure that, even though it was the freest of freestyle in format, I wanted to keep the same rhyming sound. But, like faces, there are only so many words that share similar sounds. That all said, I like it.

I pray that none of you ever need know the same struggle.

Enjoy your weekends.

Roses are Red, Violets are Blue…

…Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself.

(Sorry, I’ve been seeing these all over the place and felt a responsibility to add to the mix. This one’s a bit more of a diary entry than anything of super substance, but it’s been a busy week. Started a new carpentry gig, putting the finishing touches on getting my mom moved in, but there’s some good news! I’ve mentioned the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge before, but this year’s different. Previously, my entries never gained any traction, but THIS TIME WE’RE ONTO ROUND TWO [which is pretty dope].)

(And if I can just confide in you guys for a second, I’ll be real: I thought I shit the bed with my second story. I wasn’t even all too crazy about my first one [in a competitive sense; in my heart, I was in love]. They’ll make their way on here eventually after I polish them up a touch, but the first was a Romantic Comedy featuring a slice of pizza and a tourist information center and the second was a Spy Thriller that had to involve a beach ball and a nightclub. That second one was rough especially because I went to a Renaissance Fair that weekend so was pretty…indisposed for most of it. But hey, good things come to those that get daytime wasted in costume among strangers far from home, am I right?)

(Anyway, that’s the wrap-up. Now that I’m working daytime hours again, I’ll be smarter and schedule these to upload ahead of time rather than bein’ a La-Z-Bones.)

(Catch y’all fancy folks Tuesday! M’wah!)

I Wrote a Poem!

Happy Tuesday, you silly bunch o’ waffles.

I wish I was cooler, mostly because I wish I was the type of person that liked coconut water. I really, really do, but every time I try, it always tastes the same: like fart-water. It’s kind of like that scene from Doctor Who [WARNING: If you’re a fan, you’re about to be mad] from that one season where he revives or whatever and is being fed by a little girl.
“What do you like to eat?” she asks.
“Oh, I very much like fish sticks!” he replied (according to my super reliable memory).
-she feeds him fish sticks-
“Oh! Yuck!” he exclaims.
“I thought you said you liked them!”
“I suppose I don’t this time.”

It’s kind of like that: I want to like it, but my tongue, throat, nose, and whole physical being disagree. And it’s the same way with water chestnuts, painting (don’t have the patience for it, even though I wish I did and sometimes even think I do before I’m quickly proven wrong), and finally…poetry.

That last one especially gets me. I’ve written a few poems in my day, but none that are ever stirring or resonating. Poems are supposed to resonate and make you feel and think deeply, right? I’ve read and listened to people read their own poems that stir all kinds of terrific and terrible emotions, but my own never really come close. Now, of course, all that said…

I wrote a poem.

The Red Sun Looms

The sky is blue, but its plumes are gray,
and behind them, the setting red sun looms.

Reporters and Facebook warriors post and relay,
from the comfort of our living rooms,
fire map borders, evacuation orders, and impending doom.
But my map is white. My lights are on. Though, my nerves are frayed.

It’s the taste of survivor’s guilt, watching lives be rebuilt,
the silky sand that slips away.
Within every grain, the whispered promise of a day,
when luck’s run out, and it’s your turn to lose.

FIN

The Take: See?
Insider tip, when I wrote this, I had the butterflies, the trembles, the watery eyes. But reading it back, even now – nothin’. Albeit, it’s an early draft, ever-incomplete in all likelihood, but still, you’d think some of the original shivers would linger.
All of that said, I do seem to only get the inspiration to try my hand at poetry when confronted by really real feel-y feels, and the above is a reflection to having a house full of refugee-friends while on the border of an evacuation zone for a week.

So…there’s that, I suppose.

Anyway, see ya Thursday. Hug a firefighter. Ciao.

PS – Started a job as a carpenter’s apprentice today. So there’s that.

Roadside

There was a body on the roadside.

Kyle stared at it while the flashing of her hazard lights illuminated it like the strobe of lightning during a storm.

“Get your headlights fixed,” is what had been so easy for everyone to say. Easy advice to offer. But a busy work week and a mechanic’s shop that was across town makes that “easy” advice harder to follow. She hadn’t known she was going to be out that late, how could she have? The canyon was a back road, and there wasn’t supposed to be anyone out there but her.

And now there was a body on the roadside.

Two sounds, each like a shock from her stomach to the tingling edges of her scalp, one right after the other. The first was a groan from the supposed corpse, and the second was the sound of tires coming around the bend.

The clack of a gavel, the slamming of bars, and Samantha crying where all that filled her ears after that.

Then, lights came around the bend. Lights that approached fast, then slowed. Lights that turned off to the roadside behind her.

“Everything alright?” said the Good Samaritan.

“Yeah,” Kyle said back with a wave. “Headlights gave out on me all of a sudden. Can’t see an inch ahead of the grill.” She motioned to the clear space of gravel on the roadside.

“Oh,” said the voice. “Good thing you found the turnout. How ’bout you follow my taillights back to the main road. Dark out here.”

“You. Are. Awesome. Thank you!”

She stayed focused on the two red eyes that guided her out of the dark, not giving a moment’s concentration to the steep hills beyond the roadside.

FIN