My Dad’s Uncle Wore a Zoot Suit

“He dressed,” my dad said,
“in silk threads of black and red,

his pants hung down his legs
wide and tightly cuffed,

a gold chain slung from his high waist
securly tucked into the pocket of his trousers.

He wore a coat, a long black drape,
accented with wide lapels,

His hat with a wide brim
had a brightly colored band

then a pencil thin mustache
just above his upper lip.

He was dressed to go out on the town,
to dance with the local girls

and bust up a few faces of sailors
who disrespected him.

Those strangers didn't respect
this don of Spanish history

from the line of explorers and conquistadors,
now ruler in his barrio,

flush in the rich heritage
of family traditions and sweet serenades.

Anywhere USA

A foreign country in a familiar land
yellow flag flying eliciting loyalty
from strangers to a long lost home
speaking a language I don’t understand
didn’t I grow up here?

Signs in graphics I can’t read
immersion in a culture
that doesn’t include me.

They stare at me as the intruder
I live in the outskirts of their society.

They embrace America
as a place where they can get rich
and take advantage of a free education
and crowd the pharmacies and doctor’s offices
with faces like their own in the spaces
where faces like mine used to look back at me.

Where are the stars and stripes of my memory?
Where is the loyalty to my country
in this place I still call home?

What Makes Me Happy

The days all seem like one,
routines and the familiar
become more important.

Each sunrise brings fewer surprises
I am able to control my desires
fluttering leaves and changes in the weather
fascinate me and I can watch for hours.

My focal point is not what’s in front of me
but the memories they evoke of other times

when youth and vitality
were always a dimension to the unknown,
adventure the element in every foray,
curiosity and passion the catalysts.

Clouds gathering before the storm
last year’s spring falling to the ground
swept into life’s compost
now a fertile space for new life to begin.

I pull my sweater over my shoulders
take the tissue out of my pocket
to wipe the tears that fall
then I laugh out loud

Life has been good,
my bones ache and I long for bed.

Last Night’s Dream

I woke up from a dream this morning
I was at a meeting at work,
which was strange since I’m retired,
but the mood was sinister.
Secrets were whispered
and the leader was
forcing her own agenda.

I slipped out of the meeting unnoticed
and met with a coworker
in the privacy of her car,
She said, “It’s really gotten bad
nothing is like it used to be,
I feel scared, I don’t know what to do.”
There was nothing I could say to comfort her.

I returned to the meeting
and saw a blue candle appear on the table
the image of the Virgin Mother burned
a golden hue, and I felt the peaceful warmth
of a mother's love. I knew that prayer
was the only solution to the trials that were ahead.
The message was clear, “Mary loves us and through her
we can transcend suffering and be closer to God.

Upon awakening I knew the rosary
was the necessary tool for the days to come.

Take It or Leave It

Choices are made each day
one I chose to stay, another to go away.
What will I eat, too much or too sweet?

How shall I dress, casual or formal?

Which road should I take
the highway or the side road?

Each of these choices causes a change
and everything else falls aside.

It is like playing with building blocks,
a strong base creates a sturdy structure
not easy to topple a good choice to make
yet even the strongest one can end up
all over the floor with a well placed hit.

Yesterday’s troubles wash to the sea
new challenges arise and awaken me
to new possibilities and opportunities
to become someone I don’t recognize.

Laughter and tears look the same from far away
pearls are created from a grain of sand
diamonds the result of coal under pressure.

Everyday choices are mine to make
glory can come from simple mistakes.
Pies made from mashed fruits
alcohol from fermented ones
amazing treats awaiting anyone
who looks beyond the obvious
and finds the treasures
where there were none.

Elementary School Pictures

I got a text message on my face book page,
“Hi, I’m Eddie, do you remember me?” is all it said.
Included was a picture of man with four young daughters
and a wife, a woman I’d never seen before.
All six were dressed in green, two days before St. Patrick’s day.
I looked through pictures posted on his home page
and there was a boy of seven I recognized, except his name was Paul,
long bangs covered his eyes and a crooked grin that looked like a boy I knew.

It has been thirty years, now he's thirty-seven and
all grown-up, do I remember him?
Yeah, he was the one in the back row, tall for his age.
I recall how he used to laugh when he spoke
like everything he said was suppose to be a joke.
School was okay but recess was his favorite time of day
and after thirty years it didn’t matter because he turned out okay.

Other teachers, other schools, some college and a few jobs
and today he can support his family.
Funny, how things seemed so important back then
the scores on his spelling test, completed homework,
his book report and did that red haired girl ever notice him?

Back then there were no fears of classroom break-ins
and crazed murders on campus, or inane scores from
standardized tests that threatened failure to leave him behind.
He turned out okay and as one of his teachers I’m happy for that.

The Beat

Every story has a beat
an internal rhythm
all its own
like a tribal drum
it pulsates
louder and softer
as the tension
changes,
faster and slower
indicated by the breath
of the story teller,
synchronizing the
listeners, so like one,
they weave and rock to
the cadence in each detail
hearts and minds
pulsating in unison
until the story ends.