He won his election
through lies and deception.
And it soon became known, across the nation,
that all he had claimed was a fabrication.
A web of lies he had woven,
to forge the career he had chosen.
He said he just wished to do his job,
but was hounded by the whole press mob.
He was no rogue, he wasn’t a clown,
and it was the liberal media that was doing him down.
He became a joke, a figure of fun,
his career unravelled, and he was undone.
He then stepped down, he did claim,
to fight for his honor and clear his name.
But with his reputation sunk so low,
his only option was to go.
Though those he did dupe and deceive
were all too happy to see him leave.
He said his opponents had been spiteful and unfair,
and he had merely embellished his resume, here and there.
It was tough to be in the news spotlight,
every day, and every night,
to be constantly doorstepped by the fourth estate,
and asked to set the record straight.
His career was a ruse and a con, on such an epic scale,
that now he’s ended up in jail.
Was it worth it, George, to win your election,
by such chicanery and deception?
To have your name dragged through the mud,
and to be seen as a grifter, and a dud?
To lose, would have been better by a mile,
than to win in such a wretched style.
I crave you, but I forgot
how to want. So I panic.
Distract myself like the days
I flirted death. Like the days
before I found the right
piece of myself to kill.
I yip and dance, shoot the moon,
pop the gum; snap the rubber band
secure around the wrist
once held down.
But the relief of it
Ah. The relief of it.
That toe dip and plunge into the Styx.
I bury into her hollow, into her swell.
Not dirt, nor ash, but a riptide wrapping
of desire of breath and thrum.
Your phantom limbs wired to pull
me out. Your laugh a shimmer
a piece of tackle— and I am caught.
You pull me in and again I forget
her. I forget everything,
every thing, but you.
In naïveté the end begins, not knowing it is the last.
When Saigon was collapsing, my parents were separating.
My father had returned from Vietnam and they tried
to make it work but not all of him made it back.
He was haunted by what he saw and had to do
as were other young men drafted to Vietnam despite
being in college, being married, being fathers.
The fall of Saigon had nothing to do with leaves,
but overripe, sweaty, stifling abandonment that
shuttered facilities, ceased resources, made hollow
urgent official broadcasts to remain calm or steadfast
even though store shelves stayed empty while streets
filled with refugees, belongings left piecemeal
in dwellings and alleys. Soldiers, civil servants, allies
clutched their solid-state transistor radios awaiting
the signal to evacuate, while on the U.S. Embassy roof
powerful men swaggered and prepared for flight.
Finally Armed Forces Radio announced
“The temperature in Saigon is 105 and rising”
followed by dead air, the scratch of static,
as the needle dropped on the record
and a beloved culmination of American nostalgia
spun out over the airwaves –
“I’m dreaming of a White Christmas…”
Evacuate like we learned in school, in a line,
hands to ourselves, no squirming, pinching, hitting.
At this point, anticipating lunch, we are our own
hungry children dreading peas from giant cans
opened with industrial equipment, barely warmed.
We are our own soldiers navigating the lunch line
with our milk, our meal, and end up with a place to sit
before dodging spitwads sent hurling through the air
by some grimy kid through his contraband straw. If fortunate,
lunchrooms and playgrounds were our first battle fields.
“Just like the ones I used to know ….”
Evacuate like we presume the words to the song flowed
from Irving Berlin’s pen, as he sat in a desert hotel,
the temperature rising, his thoughts rising
about what we grip tightest, writing the best-selling song
of all time. On the surface, a song about a blanket of snow;
underneath, a song that pounds pure primal nostalgia –
a fantasy about home and childhood that we crave
and never had. Berlin’s memory of life before five:
watching as hungry flames of hatred devoured his family’s home
during an Imperial Russia Pogrom.
“Where the treetops glisten ….”
Evacuate while Saigon collapsed; military aid ceased.
Thousands climbed iron fences; scaled concrete walls;
did things they didn’t know how to do as panic grabbed
Saigon by the neck squeezing with its red grip
and threat of hard labor. Armed Forces Radio
kept playing the song as Marines flew helicopters
back and forth, pulling people off the roof of the U.S. Embassy –
friendships and families made by war. Their eyes sting from
an aroma of certain death in the frequent wind that blows
from each chopper’s blades.
Inhabit like my father and thousands others who
still fight the Vietnam War from their own rooftops.
His line is desperate, unyielding
as sweat runs down his face, pools in his ears,
drips from his nose, soaks his soul.
“… and children listen”
Children waited to be lifted from the roof,
evacuating like they might have learned from a lifetime of war.
They keep their hands to themselves, no squirming, pinching, hitting.
They aren’t listening for sleigh bells; have no nostalgia for snow
at this point, they long to be lifted out of terror;
their thin hands straining to hold on with enough force,
leaving everything they know behind, hoping to end up
with a place to sit or stand, with family
who would look out for them.
A song that asks if we fought for something
we never quite knew.
Because I don’t speak
it well enough.
Crying into my textbook
because I know I’m going to fail
my oral exam tomorrow, reminds me
of how I cried into my cousin’s
open coffin.
He killed himself.
And I think about how
the letter ‘r’ is jagged
and gets caught
in the back of my throat like a tack,
clogging my air on its way out.
Locking the French in my mind and
keeping me from ever speaking at all.
Pas d’anglais.
Pas de français.
Pas de langue.
I sleep, and in my dream
I try to loosen
the bloodied chain slicing
into my neck on all sides, but I can’t
reach my arms above my waist.
They are tied down by the weight
of my dead. By the weight
of language—or lack thereof.
Demander de l’aide.
I wish I could but the words
are too heavy for me to spit
out. They burn holes
in my throat,
in my heart,
in my brain.
And Madame Bowley only allows
French in class so I can’t even begin
to ask for some extra time or
help because I don’t know how
to say any of that. I don’t know how to
tell her that I found my father dead
a while back, or that my cousin shot
himself in the head a few Tuesdays ago,
because the past tense is too advanced
I woke up dead today.
I woke up with
my eyes still closed,
my heart was barely beating,
my thoughts were
darker than night,
and I could not
feel my face.
I felt like a living
corpse trying to breathe
with no lungs,
because I was tired of
all the pain that had come
and chased my dreams away.
I woke up dead today.
I woke up wanting
to die today.
My blues had consumed me.
My hurt had engulfed me
in a thousand tears,
enough to fill the Black Sea.
There was a darkness
that had come over me.
I woke up wanting to scream,
but could only moan
from feeling all alone.
Depression had settled
in my chest,
right next to my heart,
and made an enemy of
the love that I had for myself.
I woke up dead today.
I barely slept the
night before, but
somehow my physical
was able to endure,
just long enough for
the moon to set and
the sun to rise.
But not without the
need to cry and
oh, how I cried.
I wailed for all the
times I stayed strong and
no one knew deep inside
I was gone.
I poured out droplets
of abandonment, disappointment abuse and broken promises.
A merry go round
of again and again.
I cried until I wanted to die.
I was on the verge
of suicide,
but then I realized
I woke up today,
without an alarm,
in a warm bed,
my household unharmed…
somehow through all the good.
My father would have turned 65 today. There are no words to describe the unfathomable losses, a man dying when his newborn daughter is 4 months old. If you know me, you know that my depths traverse the expanse of the universe… this is because I have spent my 34 years searching for the man who made me, only to feel him closest in the darkness of the starry Heavens above. Outliving your parents is normal. Outliving your parents by the time you are 30 makes for a pretty interesting ride. Knowing that this all comes to an end truly makes me live a life that is of utmost satisfaction to me. There are no rules, there are no boundaries, life is limitless and I take each bold step towards my own personal freedom with the support of the Divine. I am the ultimate creator and director of my own life and with so, so many angels on my side watching out for and guiding me I undoubtedly find my way. I spent the longest time being sad and thinking that I had been the one who suffered the greatest loss but this past year has shown me a life blazing so brightly that I now realize that we are equals- he lost out on watching me grow and evolve into the woman I am today as much as I missed out on having.. whatever it means to have a father. Where have these bold steps and blazing light led to? Right back into the depths. And what do I do with my power, my gift, my intimate knowledge of the Divine thread that shimmers through each and every one of us? Naturally, of course, I share it.. I share this knowledge with anyone who seeks it. I spend my days connecting people into the depths, into the Divinity within themselves. Whatever feelings, emotions, thoughts that come up are all valid, are
all part of this experience of life and as someone who has made the plunge into some pretty dark and scary places, I can tell you first hand that the only thing on the other side is light. So be not afraid of your depths, they have oh so much to teach you, if only you are willing to listen. If you need an ear, if you need a hand, ask and you shall receive. 65 would be a milestone for the living. 65 is a milestone for my dead because on this day I can finally say with a full heart… Rest in Peace
They ask,
Why Pride?
Why march?
Why color the streets with rainbows and song?
Why the need for special days,
for parades that dance and echo long?
They do not see
the lockers slammed,
the whispers sharp like knives in halls.
They do not hear
the silences that follow
when a child finally dares to speak
their truth —
and loses home, and love, and peace.
They ask,
Why not straight pride?
But they’ve never had to hide.
Never had to beg a parent
to still be called their child.
Never been told their love is a phase,
a sin,
a sickness to be prayed away.
We still bury our young
whose hearts could not bear
the weight of being different.
Still see kids sleeping on sidewalks
because they were too brave to lie.
Still see men
in the shadows of hospitals
fading
because no one marched soon enough.
And so —
we march.
We stand not for privilege,
but for presence.
Not for attention,
but for existence.
We are not your invisible inconvenience.
We are breathing.
We are becoming.
We are here.
So yes,
we will be loud.
We will be proud.
Because silence left too many in graves
before their time.
Because every young soul
who doubts their worth
deserves a world that says,
You belong.
And if you want straight pride —
throw a parade.
We’ll cheer with you.
We love a good party too.
But never ask us
to shrink
to make you more comfortable.
Because every time we stand tall,
some kid
somewhere
learns how to live.
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 