Mike

I cried a little with these memories.
I met you first when I was seventeen.
You, forty then, an age discrepancy.
They mattered not, those sev’ral years between.

The hours I drove for you behind your wheel.
Discussions that would never make me snore.
You told me how to use a vegetable.
Zucchini, in a way not heard before.

Your women, those relationships described.
Despite your art, were strongly hetero.
You open, honest, how I would define.
A young adult, I, stuck in utero.

To south of Lockhart, back and forth we go.
Your family’s farm, the cows that you would feed.
The city as the only place I know.
Exposure to some basic husbandry.

Your humor and irreverence displayed.
Would tell me of that beast most mythical:
Hilocometoot, not Sasquatch (so clichéd).
You father’s bedtime tales, original.

On our first trip, menudo was your rave.
The rest’rant, Mexican, where we had stopped.
An opportunity to me you gave.
The stomach-turning tripas, onions chopped.

Your humor made me, from my shell, emerge.
My laughter at your charming, clowning ways.
Now for a while, our paths seem to diverge.
Eternity, together all our days.

I used to cry each time I thought of you.
On this side never would I see again.
The dearest friend of mine I ever knew.
You stood alone, unique, this world of men.

The method of your leaving, no disdain.
Six years ago from this world did depart.
Your own life took, the overwhelming pain.
I found today you living in my heart.

Forgot how much, Scarlatti, you enjoyed.
He wrote sonatas similar to Bach’s.
For solo piano, instrument employed
to make your music. Joy, that you unlocked.

This ancient author of melodic verse.
Appreciation, now, I understand.
The many hours, for concerts, you rehearsed.
Each Christmas time, inviting all your friends.

Biography of Horowitz upon your shelf.
His album that I’m playing while I write.
Scarlatti played no better than yourself.
To my trained ear, the differences are trite.

Your seizures, at the keyboard, were allayed.
Your padded Steinway bench I have still haunts.
In Greg’ry Gym you saw Van Cliburn play.
You told your dad, a seat like that, your want.

Ascending scale, reminds us of our goal.
The resurrection where you are for sure.
The life you lead to me was charmed and full.
From minor turns to major, Christ our cure.

The Thief On The Cross (Rhyming Luke: Chapter 23.38-43)

With Jesus, too, were two thieves crucified.
The crowd, their insults, loud, hurled up at them.
One thief, as well, at Jesus, this he cried:
“If you, the Christ, then rescue us condemned!”

The other, in rebuke, to him these words:
“Do you fear God? Our sentences are just.
This man, his sentence, not what he deserves.
An innocent, the Romans should not touch.”

Continuing, these words, he desp’rate plead:
“My Lord, your kingdom, when you realize,
remember me.” Responding, Jesus said
to him: “This day with me in paradise.”

Sacrifice To Science

A giant beetle lying on his back.
In Texas larger never have I seen.
His writhing legs. I’m fearful of attack.
His jaws might pinch my finger in between.

Back to abode, container to retrieve.
With flip-flop scooped into the Tupperware.
New bioethics that I must conceive.
A seal excluding any further air.

No cotton ball, my toilet paper wad,
absorbs this toxic liquid I possess.
The killing jar with beetle not quite dead.
My insect murder, guilty, I confess.

Not only my aesthetics to fulfill.
My kids, the ones I demonstrate the norms.
The values in them that I would instill.
To value life in all its many forms.

To take a life for art? Impossible!
Consider ethics of activities.
To satisfy what is insatiable:
our scientific curiosity.

Ella

The other day returning from the pool.
Upon the sidewalk where it was we walked.
The end of summer, going back to school.
About some random subjects that we talked.

Upon the ground a beetle had deceased.
I pointed out the largeness of his size.
Not quite as big as him I’d found before.
My Ella, teasing, gave me this reply:

“Why don’t you pick him up and save him, then
some further poetry that you can write?”
A hearty laugh was shared by all of us,
but no one’s laughter, harder, than was mine.

I knew that Ella did not disrespect.
I understood the teasing she intends.
The laughter shared, this way that we connect.
I knew their hearts, my love, they understand.

Parenting Through GTA

We own two Xbox Ones so we can play
together, Grand Theft Auto, mode: online.
Good parenting, there may be other ways.
Together, with my son, we spend some time.

Not only we, but sometimes, too his friends.
Earn in-game cash in ways, nefarious.
In fiction, we pursue illegal ends.
Some aspects of the game, hilarious.

Avoid misogynistic elements.
They really aren’t what makes this game so great.
Aware of simulated violence.
We all know that the haters gonna hate.

One weekend, Cormac’s friend to spend the night.
Was he and Noah formed a joint intent.
No playing ‘til the early morning’s light.
Would only play until their somnolence.

They raced, did missions, stealing cars and planes.
With Noah playing with my character.
At first, not as familiar with game.
His practice made him a competitor.

The cash he earned for me, the thousands count,
in hundreds, I soon knew there was enough.
How I could use that cash, such great amount?
With cash, in-game, I want to buy cool stuff.

The cash he earned, enough, I must explain
for me to buy some in-game capital.
Facility where I can make cocaine.
Our in-game morals must be flexible.

I purchased, too, a Motorcycle Club.
I made myself initial President.
My empire, criminal, this as its hub.
The distribution means I implement.

So thanks to Noah, I now generate
some passive cash achieved through industry.
By contrast, morals, I elucidate.
Some application to reality.

Summer ‘79, or Fleur-De-Lis

The afternoon cicada’s tenor drone.
Mechanical, an unrelenting tone.
The way the sunlight disembodies me.
Transcendent movements through its burning stare.
The chain link fence, my window, visible.
A narrative you think incredible.
The demon living in the furniture
and in the walls, the paper that adheres.
The paisley patterns, birds, embroidery.
The curtains on the windows heavy hung.
The window dressing, cotton to the glass.
A multilayer fabric barrier.
Just like her clothes I used to fumble with
when I attempted to, my love, undress.
Impatience she so frequently expressed.
“Just let me do it; move your hands away.”
Just as with all my careless fumblings.
Unpleasant really; desperate to please.
The pleasing of myself I hoped to gain.
The unforgiving Texas August sun.
The special one, inside the window pane
was where he must have lived because
his spirit cast, the wall, its flickering.
The sunlight shadows from the overhang,
the tress, its branches, blowing in the wind.
The demon dancing, sunlight shadowings.
Embroidered birds in style, rococo.
I think that maybe peacocks in the flock.
Their feet upon the tendrils, spreading vines.
A droplet motif, Persian origin.
The leaves and paisleys, more embellishments
included solely for their own extravagance.
Into that bird, I cast the demon, vile.
Hot summer tears upon the pillowcase.
The twisting tendrils, flowers, fleur-de-lis.

I Worship With The Pagans Sunday Morn

I worship with the pagans Sunday morn.
Where dancing constitutes their liturgy.
All good churchgoers look at me with scorn.
Accuse me of barefaced apostasy.

I read with int’rest of his narrative.
The ark recaptured from the Philistines.
To worship was his sole imperative.
Of course, dismiss as myth from olden times

or that their customs then were different.
King David, naked, danced before the Lord.
His wife named Michal, she was diffident.
Condemned his actions as most untowards.

If Bible story what you would believe,
because she looked on nakedness with scorn,
no more the royal member she received.
I worship with the pagans Sunday morn.

Psalm 101

The title is “Of David. A psalm”, thus:

Your love and justice, that of which I sing.
To you, Lord, by my singing, praises bring.
A blameless life, I will take care to lead.
When will you ever come to visit me?
Conducting all my house and its affairs.
Of sin, my blameless heart is unaware.
No gazing with approval on what’s vile.
Those faithless actions, never worth my while.
Perverse of heart, from me, are far removed.
With evil, won’t have anything to do.
Their secret, sland’rous words I silence now.
Their haughty eyes, and heart: so very proud.
These things I will not tolerate.
My eyes upon those ones who full of faith,
that they may be the ones who dwell with me.
The man whose blameless walking constantly
is one who serves as minister to me.
The man who practices his vain deceit
inside my house is where he’ll never sleep.
False speech will never in my presence stand.
When will I silence wicked in the land?
Each morning. Where, the place off which they’re cut?
Your city, Lord, to them, its gates are shut.

Psalm 100

A psalm we sing for giving grateful praise.
For joy, the Lord, to him our shouts we raise.
The time to worship him with gladness: now!
With joyful songs: the method that is how!
I recognize the Lord’s divinity.
I know that he is who created me,
and ownership with creativity.
We are his people, likened unto sheep.
And he, a shepherd, to a pasture leads
his flock. Our hunger, that is what he feeds.
His presence in a castle with tall gates.
A ruler who, reality, creates.
His subjects gain admission to his throne.
Our praise, thanksgiving, offer him alone.
The Lord is good. The time his love endures?
Forever. To the generations sure.
His faithfulness, all we will ever know.
Just as in heaven, here on earth, below.

Confession

Today dear Jesus, this, my prayer to you:
that you forgive my constant faithlessness.
My faithlessness denies your mercies, new
each day you show despite my carelessness.
My restlessness, as an impatient child.
If lusts aren’t gratified without delay.
Confess, I start to go a little wild.
From my temptation, take me far away.
Consider that location of my pain.
The place where I feel keenest, most distressed
My groin, its constant groaning, I disdain.
All I can do, my torment, here confess.