Best Predictably Poems
It's the summer of my third year.
Dad is driving us to the seashore.
The sun follows us, a happy fellow,
beaming in the mid-morning’s azure sky.
In the back seat with my two sisters, I’m looking out the window
as I crunch on Mom’s homemade salty Chex Mix,
anticipating the warmth of salt spray
from the waves I’ll be jumping on this beautiful day -
Life is a beach not yet even in my vocabulary.
We are now at the shore, a large blanket laid out,
Mom with her bright red hair tied back with a brighter red check scarf,
and my dad, dark-haired and handsome, smiling.
So rare is this happy countenance he wears today!
For a while I sit as if entranced, watching the waves roll in.
But eventually, and predictably, my joy ebbs like the tide.
Dark clouds are gathering; gray begins to envelop the sky.
I look over to my dad; the gray has recaptured his face.
In the vanishing sunlight, familiar dark thoughts invade my mind -
Dad, can I see you be happy just once for a whole day?
Rain . . . always it rains when we go to the seashore.
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
The Punching Bag - Through the Eyes of a Child
Each day the pattern was the same,
for all Dad’s shortcomings, my Mom got the blame.
WHACK! He cursed her for all his lost dreams…
WHACK! For missed opportunities, and failed schemes.
WHACK! Dad would hit his punching bag again,
to release all his pent-up frustration and pain.
When he felt inadequate and couldn’t cope with life,
he resorted to battering Mom, his “beloved” wife.
Of course, it was always her fault that things were bad;
so he made her suffer for all the troubles he had.
Inflicting her with insults, black-eyes, concussions, and cuts,
he claimed that she deserved them because she was like all sluts.
Craftily he played on her bully-enforced meekness,
getting down on his knees to beg for her forgiveness.
Moods swinging like a pendulum from night to day,
his promises were empty - he would never change his vile ways.
Predictably, he continued to torment her as he pleased,
degrading and abusing her…he never ceased.
He figured low self-esteem would prevent Mom from leaving;
and that she was a nobody, he really had her believing.
He was oh so convinced that needed audacity she lacked,
to ever think of opposing him, or of fighting him back.
Besides, with no family around, no job, and no dough,
he smugly concluded that she had no place else to go.
God knows she was weary of existing in this hell on earth;
and I was tired of seeing her endure all that unbearable hurt.
I had had enough of being terrified by that despicable monster,
who had ruined her and made our lives an utter disaster.
After convincing Mom that inevitably I’d suffer the same fate,
one night, we finally escaped to a shelter before it was too late.
*** Note: Thank God, nothing like this ever happened to me. But this piece is dedicated to those many women and their children who are victims of domestic violence.
08-31-2015
Contest: Through the Eyes of a Child
Sponsor:
Placement: 2nd
A twinkle in her eyes tonight
evokes the thought that they invite,
though I recall, not long ago
my absence seemed more apropos.
The laughs that linger on her lips
bare more than many verbal slips -
the times they pierced me, sad and grim,
lie in the past, though far from dim.
She flayed me once... nay, more than twice,
she flayed me both with flames and ice,
and once again, predictably,
she primes me for catastrophe.
Our friends and foes naively watch
her try to carve a deeper notch,
for even they don't seem to know
the depths to which she'd really go.
Upon my face a pose appears
which hides my thoughts, obscures my sneers,
for now I too have learned the rules
from her - ah, yes, the best of schools.
Because I'm acting somewhat cool,
thus pouring on her fires, fuel,
she burns and yearns and wants me more
than when I was her cuspidor.
She (unbeknownst, I'm not the same)
pursues again her guileful game.
But when her tears descend and swell,
will she be proud she taught me well?
The others leave, I stay behind
(they all know what she has in mind) ,
embrace her in my arms once more,
beguile her through her bedroom door.
She whispers secrets in my ear,
as I once did (she didn't hear);
I listen, flash some mirthless smiles,
my thoughts adrift to desert isles.
The night is passed, her trusting grows;
I leave before the morning glows.
Aroused, she'll seek a waking thrill
but find instead a dollar bill.
My name, it is Reginald,
and I’ve got a story to tell,
some folks, they will not like it,
they’ll cry out,”Go to hell!”
You see my wife beside me?
it wasn’t always this way,
’cause for the past ten years now,
I’ve been living an ex-gay.
If this makes no sense, relax,
some days it barely does to me,
all I can say is that it started
All the way back in puberty.
In the locker rooms in high school,
I gazed with hungry eyes,
never tried to deny it,
I was attracted to guys.
My first time was senor year,
with a friend-of-a-friend,
in the backseat of his car,
where we did not have to pretend.
And when I went off to college
it was just like a vast buffet,
with professors so accepting,
good lord, how did I play…
But later in my junior year
something strange happened to me,
I found myself staring hard
at a woman of great beauty.
She was a junior professor,
and oh, the shape she had…
but I shook it off as crazy,
maybe I’d taken something bad?
And although I brushed it off,
a week later in came again,
this time an Asian cheerleader
when over she did bend.
All senior years I’d catch myself
sneaking girls a lusty glance,
but I kept seeing the fellows,
convinced I was a gay man.
After college it grew slowly,
found myself going on the net
to admire the female form,
but I couldn’t admit it yet.
Predictably, my relationships
never traveled a sunny path,
and at twenty-six I met a man
but knew it would never last.
Three weeks in he was out of town,
I went down to a local club,
got real drunk, picked up a girl,
took her home and we made love.
And still I couldn’t say it,
I kept on putting up a front,
but when backs turned I went out
to get myself some…fun.
Finally that boyfriend left me,
and I spent the next two years
going to shrinks, talking to priests,
confused and full of fear.
It was only sitting in a park,
on a bright and crisp morn,
that I bumped into a woman
who’s eyes promised so much more.
At first I feared she’d run from me
if she heard the messy truth,
but then years later we stand here
still bound by a love true...
Surely just a little, freak accident,
a foolish thing not actually meant,
Jack and Jill after a first meeting
ended up in a shotgun wedding.
Childhood sweethearts Sue and Bart
for each other meant from the start,
theirs was a match made in heaven
that friends long ago had foreseen.
Fast forward...
Sue and Bart, married for two years,
are in court with bitterness and tears,
sure that divorce is so much better
than living in hell hating the other.
Accidental mates, jolly Jack & Jill
draw pails of water up on the hill,
with little grandkids trailing them
in that oft repeated family game.
Boy, what a joke this life can truly be,
hit it or miss it there is no guarantee;
only one thing is predictably sure -
an appointment with a head doctor!
The unpredictable yaw of rolling seas,
as in life pummels us from side to side
randomly dictating its capricious ways
lacking logic the tossing grips us and seeks to take our lives
Death, like the ghost of Christmas past,
comes and expresses a tale of coldness and desolation
under the guise of light the dues it extracts from the living
accumulate like wrinkles on our faces the years pile on
The uncertainty of pandemics sends people into despair
mental frenzy engulfs societies
people wring their hands with worry
what happens if I get sick and lose my income?
At night I hear the sound of eighteen wheeler trucks rumbling
On the blacktop toward companies that make copious profits
past the foothills where coyotes cry nature's lament
exacerbating my approach to a precarious and worrisome future
Sometimes, I feel like a watermelon cut in half
exposed to the desert heat slowly drying up
or a taco at Christmas time or a paraplegic in a footrace
exposed in those places where I don’t belong
Leisure time for the working stiff is so elusive
yet now all I’ve got is time and plenty of it,
but there’s no leisure in it only worry
and does not give me needed rest
The yaws of life
seldom deviate from its variant course
but like ships at sea rising and falling in a tempest
our minds proceed at an ambiguous yet dangerous speed
With our hearts frozen in a delirium of past disappointments
they vanish the happy times into the ether of regrets
still we cling to those cherished happy time memories
when Life was more accepting of our youthful indiscretions
Our Ship of Life moves predictably toward an unknown horizon
unsteadily shaking us from side to side, up and down
like loose apples bobbing in an ocean
with our paths uncertain unfolding as we hold on.
Copyright © norberto franco cisneros
The Power of the Tron
Said the Big Computer to the Human Computee:
“Without me, sir, you must concur,
Wherever would you be?
I tally all your numbers, and I even give advice,
Unlike you, I’m objective and predictably precise.
‘Way down my epicenter, I’ve a calculating brain
That can compile, compute, compound, expound, explore, explain.
Oh, don’t you wish you had my wits, if only an iota,
For I’ve more news than I can use -
I'm programmed to my quota.”
And on and on it carried on, continuing to scoff,
Until the Human Computee reached down and turned it OFF.
And now The Big Computer sits there idle all the day,
Without a boasting, bragging, calculating thing to say,
While on the chair, beside it there, the Human Factor lingers,
Computing trig and calculus by counting on its fingers,
And when its used its fingers up, it can simply transpose
And still deduce, deduct, add up, by counting on its toes!
Take heed, you Mighty IBMs, and other pedigrees,
Before you get too taken with your capabilities –
You may have stores of knowledge;
You may be an Alpha Tron,
But it’s the Human Digit
Ultimately
Turns
You
ON.
I've noticed,
As our economic and politically empowered
too consistently lead with their Right,
All us non-elite women
people of color
LGBTQ
and indigenous people
predictably lean to our Left
To find a space
where we feel safer,
and a sacred place
where we might imagine
our lives actually matter.
SINGLETON
Why do memories always make me cry
Many are old now, after so many years
One would’ve thought they’d run dry
But predictably, always yet more tears
Familiar melody or maybe even a lyric
I can see it now, part of a scene I recall
In context it’s so very real, not esoteric
As if it’s here and now, not history at all
But how can it always have this effect
Despite a mature and balanced mind
There must be brain circuits to detect
And secret nerve connections to find
Sometimes it’s a face in a photograph
A snapshot of how we both used to be
When even a smile turns into a laugh
As if calling up a loss-tinged memory
I also can feel it strongly in my heart
Also in my gut, as a familiar tension
When I remember then, I fall apart
A loss that I find so hard to mention
But such responses I cannot control
A strong reaction I still can’t figure
Yet rising from so deep in my soul
They never do take much to trigger
Sun sets predictably each day in the west
Painting pictures as it drops behind the hills
Each one a kaleidoscope of ever changing colors
Captured in the mind and heart of men
Teasing us with their brief appearance
Again and again we attempt to hold on to its message
Calling out in despair as they slip away once more
Useless this quest it always seems
Lest we forget, these colors are heaven sent
And this gift is not of this world
Rejoice and enjoy and wait for tomorrow’s spectacle
1/18/16
So, I guess a 12 year old
American brown male playing by himself
with a toy gun
is outside your boundary
for normal early-adolescent activity.
Well, I can see why you would need
to draw your boundary
for healthy rationality
outside his grassy field of fire-armed play.
I can see why we need to draw this line
of "only predictably SWM domesticated life matters"
the way we do
to look our friends and children in the eyes
while saying,
"I can accept this loss
as one caused by an unfortunately timed
dual act of accidental wildness;"
But is it not significantly wilder
to fire ballistics at youth
than for youth to fire only ballistic imagination?
I can see that we need to doubt
reasonable risks of public recreation
for some lives
differently than other lives
and times
to gaze into our social-cultural mirror
with both eyes
fully comprehending compassionate integrity:
"We accept that Black Adolescent Lives Splatter
loss across our leaking shared loves and livelihoods,
thereby wilting our collective mental health,
starving our social wealth for future regeneration,
and yet hope we still dream
of somehow re-transposing,
All Lives Matter
in current US ReligiousRight culture.
Now that is egocentric mendacity;
not even Anthro-centric integrity.
We each and all must hunt our way
toward facing our fear of ourselves
our lack of empathy
and mind positive passions
and body healing pleasures
surpassing our neglectful lack of fully activating
Win/Win panentheistic wisdom.
Some hunting ways bring further AnthroSupremacist
Business As Usual
cognitive-affective dissonance;
further failure of Earth's polycultural integrity,
further degenerative ego-traumatizing stasis.
Some hunting ways promise more co-operative co-arising ballast
for culturally active hope.
It is this ballast we seek
between our self/other-reflecting eyes,
hoping to discover peace within as justice without,
and not more enslaving reductive addiction
to ballistics of overly-automated violence
Silent souls
full-will impassioned pleasures
without sufficient time to assess full-intent,
responding to fear of fear ourselves,
right between our blindered eyes
So it becomes challenging to see
a brown male playing by himself
with a toy gun
as well within our mental health care boundary
for normal early-adolescent activity.
STICKS AND STONES
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Every epoch has its own bone chilling word
Causing great trepidation when ever its heard
If you wanted to destroy a group or anyone
This choice word would get the damage done
A thousand years ago it was heretic or heresy
Accuse if you had a grudge or coveted property
The catholic church was aware of dogma revision
So in circa 1232 the pope authorized the “ inquisition “
It started out as a process to unify the church
But morphed into a system to extort and besmirch
Corrupt authorities held trials on their own
Their final verdict guilty, was predictably known
The papal trials were mostly honest and fair
If found guilty the accused could pledge his repair
To follow the teachings and dogma each day
Do penitence, pay a fine and swear never to stray
Locals were more drastic with penalties applied
Burned at the stake even if the person had died
Males were accused of fornication with succubus
Females willingly sleeping along side the incubus
No one was safe from the envious of being accused
Tortures with painful devices were commonly used
Confessions obtained with torture an outright farce
Easy to admit anything with a hot poker in your ****
Forward to the present, does the devil even exist ??
We’re too sophisticated to believe in satanic trysts
But we want our own word to accuse and destroy
Being politically correct is the perfect ploy
One word can make anyone cease and desist
Just point your finger and yell “ racist”
My voice
Alive with tone
Yet sharply censored
By a mind's take on years
Of historical notes
Tongue no longer sweetened
By optomism
Or spiced with
Mischievous humor
Suddenly all I taste is
So dry
So predictably dull
Night steps forward quickly
Like a woman whose
High heels carry her too loudly
Over hardwood floors
I hear her sharp
And definite approach
Darkness surrounds me
Like mink
Soft to the touch
But cruel in creation
I lay my head down
And begin to dream
My lonely place in the
Darkness opens
Like a curtain
To reveal a carnival scene
Where pale pink cotton candy
Weaves itself gracefully
Around paper cones
I taste the
Incredible sweetness
Its pure reminiscent aroma
So filling with the
Portrayal of childhood innocence
A time lost and
So light in texture
I draw the moment in deep
To remember it well
My grandmother is with me now
Baking her rhubarb pie
Picked fresh from the garden
I'm sitting at her table
A bright-yellow vinyl tablecloth
Neatly drapes itself around
Oval-shaped wood
Loud carnival music
Compliments my meal
I open my mouth wide
Grandmother, serving the perfect balance
Of sweet and spice,
Says softly
"Eat child...Eat"
And then walks away
Alone now
I see the faint outline
Of a crowd in the distance
Lining up to take their turn
On the Ferris Wheel
I'm driven to the
Perfectly straight horizon
Vividly painted beyond
And to them
A wise-cracking clown
Accompanies me
Telling off-color jokes
And showing me "the ropes"
On how to effectively
Cut in line
I see my lover
Jeans torn and hair
Perfectly backlit by
The midday sun
He is at the front of the line
He is waiting
For me
All those behind him now
Have grown impatient
After all
It's been
A very
Very
Long time
The clown presses my hand
Firmly to my lover's
Like a rose forever saved
Between brittle pages
And with a wink
Waves goodbye
The crowd is cheering now
As brightly-colored balloons
Lift up
Released
They have found
Their rightful place
In the sky
Like drunk hicks playing with knives,
Sometimes more deadly than others
Wind-whip tornadoes are your lives
Getting cut never a matter of druthers
Two dust devils of the same mother
Cat house drama is how you like to play
Such undignified swatting and hissing
Did your mamma really raise you this way?
A means of leverage, whining and pissing
Threaten to walk, I won’t be missing
Gotta wonder if I'm watering flowers
Seems you choke my garden like weeds
The historical misuse of superpowers
Overly wound up toys that never heed
Predictably driven by unfilled needs
See, I know you well enough to get you
Your own blood you’re too happy to let
Just try not to let that weighty door hit you
When you quit with the idle threats
Guess there’s no traction in “forgive and forget”
Cut-and-paste train wreck I saw a mile away
Nothing new, easy to dodge the attack
Scant genius required to stay out of the way
Just have to make sure I don’t walk back
On this particular set of tracks
5/12/16
© Thomas W. Quigley