Fresh Brown Spots

Seems long ago a bottle of Brut by Faberge
On his bureau proved an advertisement campaign
Successful. I don’t know if it gave him any more
Victories on the road or anywhere else I prefer
Not to think about. Was it Joe Namath or some
Other Archetype of Men who sold it to me?

My best friend and I scoured the land
Collecting smooth stones, lucky stones,
A small one and a larger one glued together;
painted into a little dog for him, its hard
head and body garnished with seven holes
punched from paper for feet, ears, and tail.

How do we count our fathers’ birthdays?
I guess it doesn’t matter, anymore. That bottle –
Broken, empty, or lost; just an uncounted thought.
The tiny but cute creature maybe burying bones
In between boxers in the top dresser drawer.
When do we become grateful for the counting?

And when do we become grateful for the last?
At some point, the puzzles prove too difficult,
No more body parts to mend and patch with a kiss.
We still count, but now, we cart the kids. A small hand
Clasped in our own, sprinkled with fresh brown
spots, assures us of the best gifts ever given.

Sunday’s Revisit and Revision: A Greater Cause/Holy Mother (1987: Age 16)

Below is a jumbled mess of a poem originally written in April, 1987 titled A Greater Cause. This revision dates back to January, 1988, and was titled Holy Mother. The format is not intentional, but how it was saved and restored from the original floppy disc. The original poem demonstrates an early effort to reconcile my Catholic upbringing with a growing ecological awareness; a very appropriate theme to carry forward these 30 years.

All in all, it provides a fantastic test case for a Sunday’s Revisit and Revision. This week, the original revisited. Next week, a first revision.

Holy Mother There must be a greater cause On this Holy Mother We feed upon. (All the blood saturates Her skin; All the flesh fills Her lungs; All the gore eats Her stomach. The wounds change The scars still burn) Brother, Brother (Did you ask for a greater cause?) Pleased to meet you, my friend (Won’t you please?) It has been so long (Yes.) We must find a greater cause, Now Across the heavens. Holy Mother spits out parasites Buries us in Her flesh and blood We write Her funeral rite Bury Her with our flesh and blood She laughs jovially She knows we fools Ignore the Father’s judgment; Ignore His children. A family. Hear Her thunder laugh Feel Her acid tears She cries for the fallen I feel Her turn with me I feel His call within Her tears are snow Eternal blizzard- melt, melt Echo lightning words The Grand destruction What will Father say? we betray Him at night we dishonor Him at day Now we freeze Holy Mother’s sacred tears? Fallen rise! Brother, Sister Children Holy Mother, Grand Father- Believe… A greater cause.

“A Greater Cause” written: April 13, 1987
revised to “Holy Mother”: January 19, 1988


“Mangoes, get your fresh mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried out to the world
Like a vendor selling hot dogs at Fenway.
Far from the Green Monster and Pesky’s Pole,
Two lovers walked under the shade of palm trees
Their feet warmed by uncountable grains of sand
That surfed to their rest along the windward coast.

“A mango smoothie will have to wait for later,”
He commented, with grains of sand
Still left to sift between their toes.
The prevailing breeze cooled them
Into a steady pace for a long walk
That could only be measured by not
Arriving at where they don’t need to be.

“Mangoes, get your fresh mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried louder,
A few rows closer in the bleachers
Already past the fans having a pissah
With Southie pals wandering Yawkey Ave
Forgetting the name of the rookie catcher
Called-up from Pawtucket last night.

“Maybe after a burger at Kailua Kona”
She commented, low blood sugar crabs
Beginning to crawl out of hiding
In holes bored through the soft mud
Being licked by the cool blue Pacific
Like a sailor lost at sea wanting to feel
The familiar firmness of any coastline.

“Mangoes, get your fresh Mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried at the end of the row.
He dug into his pocket for two dollars, one
For the mango, one to thank the boy
And watched his retreat back up the steps
A smile wider than the crescent creeping up
Over the horizon to welcome the two lovers.

“Let’s open it and share it now, why not?”
He kissed her on the cheek, pulling her close
No need to wait any longer, the moon smiled.
With a fingernail he gently traced a seam
Around the skin to open the fruit up
Releasing the fresh aroma of juices, then
Slid his finger into the soft flesh to find the seed.

{From the archives, 2014}

Yellow Butterfly (for Emma)

Every moment gives a gift
An opportunity to see
A yellow butterfly land
On the pool deck to give
The daughter a smile
She seemed to have lost.

Happy birthday my sweet girl.

Image: Butterfly Painting – Sunflower Butterfly Yellow Gold by JQ Licensing

Posted for my good friend Chuck at The Reluctant Poet, he has been searching far and wide for this post… here you go my friend.

The Stillness We Know (with Spoken Word)

If I collect all the stars tonight
Mix them in a bucket like paint,
From their glow will a new color
Emerge as yet unknown?

In time I can name it, after
I toss them back scattered
For the gazers to see
In the relit night.

Newness reflects a myth
Like truth on still water
Whose gentle murmur speaks
A code no cypher requires.

Just a short walk in sand
Under the mixed up sky
That decorates our world
And see what I hear.

A bystander eavesdrops and asks
“How will I see what you hear?”
The brush dipped in the bucket
Whistles in the glimmering remains.

We sit down on the sand together
While the water dances to the song
That trickles out of the truth
Naming the stillness we know.

Peaking Through Chrysalis (with Spoken Word)

The butterfly lives
The right
Of time.

(Don’t we all?)

Now we are two butterflies,
Peaking through chrysalis
At a world we once ate
Now we are to pollinate.
Our eyes see God in flowers.
Our flesh carries seeds.
We stick to one another.
We have become:

A world
I cannot imagine
Without you.

Two butterflies
Dancing on air
As was

With a nod to Tom Robbins’ Another Roadside Attraction

9th September 2018 – Come Sit with me at the Go Dog Go Cafe

Please stop by the Go Dog Go this week and share a cup of coffee with Gina.

Go Dog Go Café


Come sit with me at the café. The rains have started in Malaysia, its wet and gloomy outside my window, this sets the perfect mood for me. I have a strong aromatic Americano by my side. Come sit with me for a while. I need you to inspire me today.

I had no clue where to begin this week. What to say or write, don’t you have days and weeks like that too? When you have much to write but it gets all confused and doesn’t come out the way you first imagined it would? I had such a week.

Many things happened this week that slowed my momentum. I frequently suffer from compassion fatigue and it can manifest physically. The burden of grief and sorrow takes a toll and I have to retreat. We had a faculty meeting and a trauma medicine doctor shared how he distances himself from…

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