And Jesus Said “Hey Dad”

Melba Smith failed to see the irony
In the carpenter’s house aflame.
She wept and glared,
Alternately, as you laughed
And blamed you for damage
Probably caused by an aged hand
Sending too many prayers.

You rocked on your heels,
Fingertips sheathed in denim,
And looked across the parking lot—
Past the red trucks and church buses—
Shaking your head at thoughts
Only you would share at the scene.

Your lips to God’s ears,
And everyone in-between,
“And Jesus said, ‘Hey Dad,
I can fix this.
It’s what I do.’
And as you know,
Through Christ,
All things are possible.”


Published in Creative License, 2008.

Waiting

A sea of brown uniforms swallowed her whole,
And Grace drowned in memories of Johnny.
The band seemed inches from her,
But no sound could mask the pounding in her ears.

Before she had the time to flee, a solider—
A ladies man, Giraulo—fixed his gaze on her.
He stopped her, called her his fire-haired fox
And smiled with deep brown eyes that
Didn’t remind her of Johnny’s blues,
The color of the hydrangeas in the orphanage yard.

Joe didn’t know of Johnny. He didn’t know
Her pain. He might have been a solider, Grace knew,
But he’d not be her hero.
Joe’s olive skin was too dark to be her angel’s.
Johnny, who fell from the sky
Along with the rest of his unit.

She had walked into Johnny’s arms the day she turned 18
And left the orphanage behind.
She walked into Joe’s arms the day she tried to let go.

Joe rode the bus, four hours to, four hours from, Tacoa
To see her nose freckle in the sunlight if only for an hour.
Four Sundays later, Joe came back to Ft. Bragg,
New Mrs. Grace Giraulo in tow.

On the eve of Joe’s deployment,
She lay in her marriage bed, and dreamed of fair-haired Johnny.
Joe would be in the wilds of the Philippines,
His only comfort the thought
of returning to the wife he’d left at home.
Grace tossed and turned, sick with the thought,
Sick with herself.

In the winter months, when the sweltering Filipino jungle
Was the only thought that kept her warm, Grace tread
On swollen feet, pacing at the gate of his family’s home.

Early Christmas mornings, after the orange and hard candy
That were her only presents,
My grandmother had paced before the gates of the orphanage,
Waiting for the man who’d abandoned her
And her siblings and promised to return.

Months gone from the oppression and despair of
that place, Grace stood at gates,
Waiting for Johnny to return from war.
Waiting to be wed.
Hers was a life defined by waiting. Waiting
For her father, for Johnny, for Joe.

The spring came and went, and Grace
Found something to live for.
She thought of Johnny and thought of Joe
While gazing at cotton fields she did not have to pick.

For the first time in her years, her life began,
Slowly. Though I believe to this day,
Grace, Long dead, still waits,
Disappointment and rejection did not meet her
At the gates when Joe returned.

And the husband found
Not only the wife he’d left behind,
But the child he would call his own,
Fair-hair, blue eyes and all.


2008

The Little Mermaid Dates On-Line

First off, my name is Ariel, and I
Have friends who say I’ve got a lovely voice.
I’m looking for a ‘friend’ to make me sigh.
When I find him, the kingdom will rejoice.
I don’t go shoe-shopping or eat sushi,
And, man, am I sick of the color blue.
Slow walks along the beach are not for me,
but there are lots of things I like to do—
like scavenging for old knick-knacks, swimming,
singing with my sisters when dad’s not there.
Honest, what I want more than anything
is a strong man with mussels and dark hair.
So remember, before you give a ring—
for some, having crabs is not a bad thing.



Creative Writing class assignment 2007.
I just like it.

Go Put Some Pants On

I can’t fight with you when you’re naked.
It’s hard to explain the idea
That when you’re shrouded,
My words sink in,
Deeper.
Deeper,
To where you can feel them
As I feel them.

Maybe its that your comments
Can be biting.
Likely,
It’s that I’m crazy, like you tell me,
And insecure.

When we fight, I feel
As exposed as you truly are.
I pull on pants and shirts and sweaters,
But I still feel without armor.
Vulnerable.

I don’t know why
I hate it when you aren’t
Covered,
Donned,
Protected.

When you’re bare, it’s like
I’m not getting beneath your skin.
Where I want my words,
My perspective,
To reside.



Published in Creative License, 2007.

The crazy person

Every once in a while
You go into a place
Where you cannot avoid
The crazy person.

I wonder why it shocks us,
Even momentarily,
When the crazy person
Isn’t dressed in ragged clothes
And smells like sweat and street.

Debating in grocery aisles,
Fuming in teller lines,
Teaching classrooms full
Of unsuspecting,
Cornered you’s and me’s.

Do you smile at the crazy person?
Or look up, down, away?
Do you nodd at their left/right/out there phrases
Or pretend not to hear them?

What would be worse?
Engaging them or having them repeat their
There statements?
Sometimes there is
No lesser evil.

2007

When Kids Go To Wal-Mart

They run around like banshees,
Lurching, clawing,
For that decibel
Only dogs can hear,
Arguing over Faded Glory
And begging for Sam’s Choice sweet things.

Their parents follow them,
Or leave them in their wake,
As if,
As if, I too
Had birthed beasts
And left them un-caged,
Uncouth,
And as if I had no hearing left.

When I go to Wal-Mart,
I can feel my fallopian tubes
Tie themselves in knots
Taking my body’s instruction,
Preservation of eardrum and patience alike.

It’s no wonder the linoleum
Is scuffed and dirty,
For the wildebeests have had
Their sodas and candies
And, hey—better here than at your house.

Better here,
Where you can share
The wonder that is children
With the rest of us.


2007

The Secret to Productivity

Unplug your TV. Do it.
Layer your bed with clothes that
need to be folded. Put every
conceivable thing on your
desk or at your feet that you
absolutely have to deal
with. Promise yourself you'll
take a short break in-between
tasks. Relax. You can get a
lot done in an hour. Just
don't look at the clock. Other-
wise, you might realize that one
hour has just become five.

A poem for my Grandmother

Waiting

A sea of brown uniforms swallowed her whole,
and Grace drowned in memories of Johnny.
The band seemed inches from her,
but no sound could mask the pounding in her ears.

Before she had the time to flee, a solider—
a ladies man, Giraulo—fixed his gaze on her.
He stopped her, called her his fire-haired fox
and smiled with deep brown eyes that
didn’t remind her of Johnny’s blues,
the color of the hydrangeas in the orphanage yard.

Joe didn’t know of Johnny. He didn’t know
her pain. He might have been a solider, Grace knew,
but he’d not be her hero.
Joe’s olive skin was too dark to be her angel’s—
Johnny, who fell from the sky
along with the rest of his unit.

She had walked into Johnny’s arms the day she turned 18
and left the orphanage behind.
She walked into Joe’s arms the day she tried to let go.

Joe rode the bus, four hours to, four hours from, Tacoa
to see her nose freckle in the sunlight, if only for an hour.
Four Sundays later, Joe came back to Ft. Bragg,
new Mrs. Grace Giraulo in tow.

On the eve of Joe’s deployment,
she lay in her marriage bed, and dreamed of fair-haired Johnny.
Joe would be in the wilds of the Philippines,
his only comfort the thought
of returning to the wife he’d left at home.
Grace tossed and turned, sick with the thought,
sick with herself.

In the winter months, when the sweltering Filipino jungle
was the only thought that kept her warm, Grace tread
on swollen feet, pacing at the gate of his family’s home.

Early Christmas mornings, after the orange and hard candy
that were her only presents,
my grandmother had paced before the gates of the orphanage,
waiting for the man who’d abandoned her
and her siblings and promised to return.

Months gone from the oppression and despair of
that place, Grace stood at gates,
Waiting for Johnny to return from war.
Waiting to be wed.
Her’s was a life defined by waiting. Waiting
for her father, for Johnny, for Joe.

The spring came and went, and Grace
found something to live for.
She thought of Johnny and thought of Joe
while gazing at cotton fields she once had to pick.

For the first time in her years, her life began,
slowly. I believe to this day,
Grace, long dead, still waits, even though
disappointment and rejection did not meet her
at the gates when Joe returned.

And the husband found
not only the wife he’d left behind,
but the child he would call his own,
fair-hair, blue eyes and all.

The Death of Hope

Though the shrieks come from my chest,
my ears not six inches from the wails,
I mumble prayers the screams will persist.
In America, if a dog had wasted away to this
there would be police and lawyers and activists shouting.
There is no shouting for the boy, no raised voice but his own.
Seven months of frail bones draped tightly by spotted skin,
marred by infections a sick mother could not heal
barely fill my arms. The boy’s shrunken chest
heaves with each pained wail,
the sound growing weaker with every passing minute.

The boy has a name, I’m sure,
but his mother could hardly push open the rusty iron gates
that squealed her arrival long after
the sun had set and the air begun to cool.
The nurses brought her in, each at arm’s length,
touching only as much of her as was necessary
to keep from dragging her feet on the rough stone floor
of the clinic. She collapsed in a bed,
legs and arms strewn about like so many of the
black-skinned men and women dotting stark white cots,
lining the clinic like a string of dominoes.
Each would fall before their time, like the mother,
who did not wake for water or to the cries of her child.

It has been four hours now,
and the boy has been given a name.
Tumaino, I call him. Hope in Swahili.
The nurses shake their heads. There is no hope here,
they say. Here is where the sinners come to die,
the ones who do not follow God’s will,
and keep their bodies for Him.
She is with Him now, I said, still cradling her son.
What sin has Tumaino committed, being born
to a woman in a country ravaged by AIDS,
where people are taught only to abstain, told that
condoms carry HIV, and only the wicked will be stricken?
Tumaino is not wicked, I tell them,
but I am ignored. America, they say,
has poisoned my mind. The medicine I have returned to share
is welcome, but not my thoughts of our God.

Love is left turns

If I’d ever ask my dad what is motto is,
I imagine he’d smirk at me
and toss his broad shoulders in the air,
or maybe force a raspberry sound
out from under his mustache.
I imagine his motto to be something like
The past is the past, what’s done is done.
Why else would he shrug off questions
and leave the stories to my mother?

When Dad was a boy, and would go on trips
with his family, they’d bypass stores,
restaurants and attractions that billboards
would announce miles from their coming.
His father would go to the Shoney’s, but not
the In-N-Out across the street.
They’d go to the hunting lodge up the road,
but not the tackle shop they’d just passed.
Hotels and bathroom breaks were always
ahead, never behind, and always
on the right side of the road.
But now, years later, our
‘Dad, go back’, is always met
with the turning of the wheel.


published in Creative License

How

How am I supposed to tell you
that the mistake I made last year—
the one that you forgave through tears—
will never be a memory?

How can I prepare you for
the pain of loosing loved ones?
Should I tell you, Remember—
know that I will be with you,
help you shoulder stigma
that I have given you.

How can I comfort you when
the family that loves you
fears the thing, the label that
you will always be known for?

How can I apologize
for taking away your hope?
And now, how can I ask you
to stay with me, love me, and
care for me until we’re done?

How am I supposed to look
in the mirror every day
only to see our judge, jury,
and our executioner?

All because of one mistake
I made and brought home to you.
How can I say I’m sorry
for taking the lives we had
yet to live? I never meant
for this to happen to you.