Last Tuesday
 
I. (Last Tuesday)
 
I’m still incredulous.
At first I could have sworn that it was a joke,
or a highly stupid mistake.
"Nobody misses that."
I said to Mike Trundy
at the Wyndham Hotel.
Jared and I went into the Winsors Bar
where the hotel guests had gathered
and nobody was going anywhere soon.
Everything happened in a flash
a great and terrible flash in the sky
and all I can think is how many people’s lives are wasted,
what purpose does this serve?

High above me
in atmospheric clouds
I saw a perfect circle frame
with a bulls – eye center moon.
She is a white lady,
whom God has provided
to lead my way at night
she is framed
in a perfect circle
that he traced with his finger
over me in this one instant in time.
I have seen my Father’s handiwork
right in front of my eyes, saying
“it will be all right, son.
Just wait and see.”
Even at night
I have a beacon to light my way,
framed in a perfect circle.

Inside the silk bag
where I’ve been recreated
inside the chrysalis
I am resurrected.
Oh, I need no further proof
of my living, breathing God.
Now I need no further proof,
for he has breathed life into me.
For I was dead,
I was disintegrated
inside my chrysalis.
Of many legs and ugly prickly hairs
I was,
inside my silk coffin.
In my old life
I was a greedy leaf eater,
and my appetite was unsuppresable.
Inside my silk womb
I have rotted away.
But lo, what is this
the hand of God touches my face

Just sitting here thinking…….
What’s the right thing to do?
I could think of nothing more,
Than to write this poem for you
You are a great friend to me
No one could ask for better…….
We’ve been through thick and through thin,
And through every kind of weather
I know that I hurt you, and
Regret causing you pain……
I thank the Lord for your forgiveness,
And ecstatic that we are friends again
We have lots of fun…..
You’re always good at making me laugh…..
We look forward to the future,
And far beyond the past

All of the images
Sending mixed messages
Massacring the masses
While we view hindsight through rose-colored glasses
And all the whispers stop
Silence thick as the sound of a pin drops
A moment of silence for all the victims
The same silence amongst use that ultimately killed them
And my mind is still filled with the images
Of tortured beliefs maturing while sanity diminishes

AGE OLD PROBLEM    by Wanda VanHoy Smith
 
The poets problem is she doesn’t recognize her age
who is that stranger in the mirror?
she doesn’t believe that years count.
Feelings count and love counts
The IRS counts to tax our lives.
Accountants count in search of loopholes
Mathematicians count right angles and triangles
Artists try all angles and want to count
Poets work to make every word count
because trite no account  ideas add up
Musicians count to make us waltz or swing
She counts all her hugs and kisses

Battle scars shown, for my steps are ordered to dwell in the world
All ills surround me ….temptation is my drug.
Only escape 16 step like program including joining, confessing and baptism,
Refraining, sustaining, not cursing, not hurting, fasting, lasting, praying, staying, this only to name a few.
No more WWJD its all what would this souldier will do?
 
I am a “souldier” of faith…yet prisoner of the world
Trapped yet still holding on. I walked thru the valley of the shadow of death
No lights so the shadow is dark

Was an impossible dream really,
And the world was without words.
And in silence
The suffering speech of a people
A modest, mouse-colored people
Within a word was
Ghostly gray,
And no one ever hears a word they say.
One by one the Butterflies go off
Drowning in the inkwell.
And a band of gypsy thieves
Sing in memory of their mountains and Heights,
As no one drops out of the sky
And love falls backwards into death.
In a word,a whisper,the final cry,
A melancholic shout!

My eyes in 1982
Did not see the blood drying in the inkwells.
In 1982 the moon was nothing
More than a phosphorous dream
Of imaginary light.
Nocturnal shade, a penumbral light
Of blind gravity.
These eyes of mine in 1982
Did not witness the little boy’s crucifixion.
They waited patiently
In the backwards spin of their innocence

SONNET FROM THE ANGELINO
How do I love thee?  Let us measure the freeways.
My love stretches on the 405 to the 110
to Disneyland, Magic Mountain and back again.
High as the Hollywood Sign and trumpet solos at the bowl 
Wide as the Pacific shoreline from Santa Monica to San Diego
Deep as the submarine channel from Redondo to Catalina
Old as Olivera Street, new as the latest shopping mall
My love is strong as Muscle Beach in California’s Venice
full as crowded downtown asphalt with gangs, angels and saints.