Long Puberty Poems
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One of my sisters believes I chose to be *****.
Did you remind her
you had no more choice about chasing guys
than she did?
Yes.
But her favorite televangelist
says I must be mistaken,
or just lying,
because who wouldn't choose to be hated
by all the hetero homophobes
like televangelists,
and evangelical radio heads,
right?
That makes no sense.
She can't really believe
you would choose to belong
to any repressed and humiliated minority,
especially during early onset of puberty,
when every girl and boy in any culture
is terrified of becoming different,
or special,
or weeded out of the clickety-clak pack.
Well, as she sees it,
she is in a LoseLose double-bind.
Either I chose to be *****, and am thereby demented,
or God graces all forms of WinWin sexual expression,
which would be contrary to her homophobic enculturation,
so it is easier to believe I am nuts
to choose perversely
than to consider herself nuts
not to choose more graciously,
especially with regard to God's creative capacity for love,
rather than simplistic judgments
which look and smell and sound like patriarchal sexism
more than radical compassion of God's healthy pleasure
of regenerative love among all gendered children,
red and yellow,
black and white,
gay and straight
and shades of grey transgendered,
each is precious in our polyamorous
Gaian Hypothesis sight.
What about your other sister?
Oh, she agrees.
With what, or whom?
She agrees we're all nuts.
Nuts
not to choose healthy love
over pathological hate
and fear
and anger
and greed,
craving to keep all the hot men
for one's own privileged clan.
"Oh little one, how soon you'll be
In turbulence of puberty.
I will hold tight your days of youth
And share with you my honest truth"
First Verse of Connie's number one poem TRANQUILITY, also a POTD back in 2017. See link above.
Connie was a dear, sweet friend of mine.
On May 3, 1946, to earth this angel came.
Not too many people have I met with her shine.
Now she’s gone; those who cared won’t forget her name.
In addition, we recall the kindness of her heart.
Empathy she practiced, along with forms of art.
Multi-talented, she could both read and see
Aurus of people, and she was a master of
Reiki, and of course, she adored poetry.
Commenting to poets, she expressed such love,
Uplifting and inspiring poets that she knew.
Managing “Poetryforthought,” she helped poets too.
Winging her way around the globe, as a stewardess
On many a flight dear Connie went.
Needed and loved as a sister, mother wife, and friend;
Gone too soon in ‘22, to heaven an angel was sent.
I can never comply with fastidious hygiene
Try as thee most persuasive person might,
he/him, she/her,
they, them... can never wean
yours truly always objected
being told when to bathe/shower
particularly when puberty
found yours truly a tween
and my mother (deceased eighteen
plus years - sess her bowl),
she exerted authority
and told her "take a bath,
or no supper"
analogous to a queen,
strict disciplinarian to boot
who wedded her king
(my late father) at age nineteen
the latter (day saint) quite keen
nevertheless both experienced
love towards each other
and tricked out their progeny
(myself included) with halloween
getup, I vaguely recall Amelie Beth
(their eldest daughter -
older sister of mine)
donned as an angel
lighting up night sky, an empyrean
permanent heavenly fixture
popular through Byzantine
epoch, which blinded
her brother (me),
cuz yours truly, the devil in disguise.
Here I sit scores of decades
now edging closer to the edge of night,
and approaching those twilight years
remembering protesting vehemently
(way past the bewitching hour)
not wanting to wash myself
in the tub (water frigid cold), I write
how mother dearest,
whose presence I wanted to smite
this puny progeny
grappling as a neophyte
whose Lilliputian stature
(when a prepubescent)
a over five feet in height
who when constantly
teased courtesy bullies
ran back to ma mommy
whose son totally affright.
If employed in social services field, why
the above might justifiably
smack of insubordination
hashtagging me as Pigpen thereby
wharf fare prompting me
to cleanse myself diving off a Quai
in an effort for Peanuts gallery
to accept yours truly well nigh
but unfortunately
getting mistakenly captured
as a prisoner of war
forced by Japanese to construct
two parallel bridges spanning
the river Kwai
as part of Burma Railway,
also called the Death Railway,
for the many lives
lost in its construction,
but my daring do,
(and boyish good looks)
found yours truly
whisked away to the island of Hawaii,
where hula dancers
choreographed, entranced, and finessed
their seductive routines
a native lass smitten courtesy
one wily word wizard
whose courage bucked up
after munching powder milk biscuits
taken as mistress
helped beget our daughter,
who became apple of mine eye.
I know this amazing lady
Her high heels, made of steel
A fraction, she can solve it
Diffusing the ordeal
Either you love her or despise
There is no common ground
She's frank with good intention
A sweet or bitter sound
She adopted me when we met
Took me under her wing
Puberty was an evil time
A calmness, she would bring
We're growing older as people do
She helps me to understand
I can survive the ugliest storm
Even one not planned
She asks me how I feel
Listens intently to my reply
Doing all she can
To ensure that I fly high
People like her come seldom
She is an angel in disguise
Guarding my evil surroundings
Quieting my cries
3 children of her own
Full time job and trying times
But when I need her gentle words
It seems, her troubles all align
Once upon a time, this obstinate beastie boy
(i.e. yours truly, or none other than me)
fought tooth and nail,
(hence the reason I wear dentures)
against maturation, and sought
self starvation as modus operandi.
Adept at balking,
plus delaying, stunting and thwarting
transitioning toward adulthood
(mine spindle shank legs
to show and tell as proof positive),
yours truly fell short
(and stymied physical growth
regarding lame rascal
with size nine little feet to boot)
never to attain requisite
emotional, financial,
and spiritual independence.
When mysterious processes
courtesy puberty foisted
one garden state variety
(think generic) *****sapiens
transformed puny young slip of a lad
into adolescent long haired
pencil necked geek,
the genetic blueprint
already sabotaged prospect
for musculoskeletal framework
to attain maximum potential.
As an extremely shy,
(nay socially withdrawn prepubescent person)
strong aversion awoke toward segueing
from docile average non prodigal son
into grownup with
attendant responsibilities thereof.
Fast forward decades later
namely July fourteenth two thousand twenty,
when self condemnation
laments forsaking positive growth processes
(ordinary run of the mill bodily changes)
indeed nsync with linkedin social development.
Mekhela chador
I was too hurry and overwhelmed
To embrace the attire
"mur maa rr mekhela chador" ( - "my mater's Indigenous Traditional Assamese Dress")...
The days in kindergarten,
I cherish the attire, in her wardrobe enhanced and ironed
The dining hours,
I often queried her, to own the attire
And in festive tyrant,
She dressed herself in the silken weaving attire
The onset of puberty;
My body and soul celebrated draping of the attire
From my breast to my waist to my ankle
For the first time, I engulfed the feeling of being a woman (and beautiful)
All coyness and tenderness are ornate as my fragrance
The attire was made of silk in creamy white and cherry thread
Like droplets of cherry-red blood unfurling the snowy linen
And the ears heard joyously whispering me
"mur maa rr mekhela chador" ( - "my mater's Indigenous Traditional Assamese Dress")...
IV.
Lia called himself a woman,
though his chromosomes disagreed,
inside he felt he was female,
he made that his identity.
In the second year of high school,
the woke faculty played along,
but Lia would not face the knife,
even if his body felt wrong.
Now Lia was fond of running,
and he went out for track and field,
some of the girls didn’t like this,
but the coaches made them all yield.
At the first race he outpaced them,
breaking the records as he ran,
the teachers all declared him ‘brave,’
but beyond that he won few fans.
Parents showed up at school meetings,
decrying how this was not fair,
a man who’d gone through puberty
simply had no real business there.
Their daughters who had trained so hard
were now cheated, no chance to win,
since a man racing meant it all
was over, why even begin?
What was the point of women’s sports
if it now was open to men?
soon enough guys would rule it all,
like the 1950s again.
Lia was shocked by all this talk,
how dare they rant and misgender?
She went online to call them out,
but most just called him ‘pretender.’
Declared he was an ******* who
couldn’t compete against the guys,
that his ego needed stroking
so he flipped to the other side.
The female runners hated him,
and refused to associate,
rhe male runners thought him a joke,
their mockery stung more than hate.
Lia found out, when all was done,
that nobody really was ‘trans,’
a man cannot be a woman,
a women cannot be a man.
I faced alarming paradoxes
as I headed toward puberty.
First,
my King James Bible-belting parents,
extended family,
and all-hopelessly-WHITE farm community
taught me
God loves me
and all the children,
red and yellow,
and black almost as much as white.
That felt good
but then I learned God hates me
because I became queerly obsessed
with hot guys,
and not hot girls.
So, God restoratively created me
so He could retributively hate me.
That seemed like poor justice and peace planning to me,
and I was still in fifth grade.
Then I learned that God had given me two extraordinary gifts:
Possibly unmeasurable intelligence,
and so,
my grade-school principal warned
my evangelical farmer parents,
we were not to be surprised
if I was and saw this Earth
in a somewhat different way.
My second gift
was the envy of all good Bible-belting out and still-in teenagers.
I could sing with the angels.
So,
the God of Infinite Love
is my Creator
and I am His Frankenstein *****
with a mind and singing voice to soar,
full of Grace.
You and I might both be surprised
how long it took to figure out
Something is very wrong with this picture,
and I don't think it is just me.
It was merely everyone else I knew and trusted
in that Bible-belting time.
So I sang for them in full voice
but gave as little voice to my sexuality as possible.
I wrote papers and test responses
in full A+ voice
but told no one
I knew they were asking wrong questions
for me to answer with full-versed integrity,
Free to sing with David and Jonathon
free of magic superstitions
standing in for mythic polypathic wisdom
of Solomon
Not to divide innocent organic Promise
God has conjoined as Love
of and for children,
red and yellow,
black and white,
gay and lesbian,
bisexual and transgender
And, yes, even straight-faced
Bible-belted out and inward Hate,
Supremely Evangelical Christian Colonizing InBred Correctness,
while continuing to give birth
to hidden,
shamed and blamed ***** Grace
of a Loving God
polypathically immense,
deep and wide,
future through past
regeneratively just
and peaceful
and wickedly funny
Because if we cannot laugh at our egocentric stupidities,
then we must cry out for cosmic tragedy.
I've tasted and
opened my eyes
to the world's
Crossroads;
I've walked
in puberty,
hungered for
maturity.
Love showed
me the purest joy;
an enthusiastic thirst to attain
this worn-out nonfiction chapter book full of bent pages
has had favorable dawns as well as priceless rough endings.
Trust in God and his word has healed the pain of heartbreak;
once, I closed
the book never
to be opened
again except
in my joyous
memories.
At the cross,
at times
like a child
I'll fall in
sorrow,
weep, and
question.
God forgets
and forgives
us for all
of our sins
and mistake.
9/22/2021
Crossroads Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Unequally yoked didn't deny
common grace in an atheistic womb.
Half of the prayers were enough for him.
Blessed in health and time,
but reckless in his early years.
Under other tapestries laid all those fine linens of Egypt.
In each embrace, I placed a wager on just how slow your anger.
The hypocrite damns their own house.
Demons perched on the edge of puberty,
filled my son's eyes hopeless and left his rare word—flat.
Paper towels the papyrus of superficial coping
lines of scabs formed sleeves of braille
as the wages of sin reached for my son's throat mocking
two inpatient stays hanging in a precarious chemical salvation.
Another orphan from faith and repentance disobeyed,
juxtaposed with Job who lost ten.
Fear cultivated the prayers that grew
the humility that put your Son on the Cross,
and wouldn't gamble with mine.
Your general call turned effectual
A new volition has moved my son to gather
with those that feed the hunger
from the table of the Word.
When the hand of Grace shakes the elect
from their own slumber
in The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.
Taken back from Rembrandt's thieves,
no longer hidden away.
Beyond Jonah's anger that killed the vine,
and desecrated memories of seized temples
roam those ghosts of the giants of Lebanon.
Every idle word winnows the threshing floor
forever the wheat from the tare.
The solace that the chosen
are given in this life's labor
under The Cross that the world must hate,
divine regeneration gives the measures
of reverence and gratitude
for every thorn on this side,
and your Heaven full of treasures.