Willful Ignorance (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Willful ignorance is a term that has come to mean turning away from the truth in favor of a lie. But why would anyone wish to remain ignorant, for ignorance leads to mistakes, and mistakes to danger? Why would you trade what is right for what is clearly wrong? The willfully ignorant deny wrongdoing, calling black as white, or in the racist's case, calling white as right. It is not that they cannot distinguish right from wrong, for every man has a conscience that speaks to him. They clearly see the violence and injustice perpetrated in the name of progress. Nevertheless, they turn from it, willfully, claiming they cannot see anything wrong with stripping another human being of their inalienable rights and their God-given sovereignty. They fool others (and themselves) by agreeing with tyranny and call the opposition naive, weak-willed, and fearful, qualities to be despised, because they have proven through brutality that they are superior alpha men and obviously God's chosen people. They claim superiority in courage and boast of genetic superiority, though no scientific fact, not even one, can be produced to substantiate this claim. Because birds of a certain feather flock together, they are reinforced in their divinely chosen dominion over the weak. They are it because they claim to be it, yet none can prove their claim in a logical, factually based way. 

They build a tower of Babel where philosophies so contrary to the order of nature exist, and it reaches to the sky, stinking to the highest heaven. They pile lies atop one another like the bones of their adversaries. In times of war, the soldiers' bones pile up until they proudly stand upon a heap of their countrymen. With bloody teeth and eyes, they scream, "We have won!" For blood is their drink and sacrifice. Rabid like sickly animals they have become. And for what? Why have they forfeited their immortal souls? For power and money, which cannot follow them to the grave. They miscalculated: they forgot in their haste that the truth is what will meet them in their final chapter and require of them an answer. It will require them to look upon the havoc and grief they caused. They will be made to give an answer for their haughty faces and cruel words. They will be made to explain their barbaric actions and policies, which targeted the powerless. The dead will stand around them as their final judgment is read. This, I promise, is the fate of the willfully ignorant.

Each time they pretend not to see the wrong they are doing, remember the end that awaits them. When they justify inhumane treatment and attitudes of superiority, remember what they will amount to. When it seems there is no help from Heaven and no mercy, remember they may be winning the battle, but they will not win the war. Judgment comes for them in the form of death. Until then, they will proclaim victory and revel in oppression. Knowing this, do not hide from the truth that every soul is your kin, no matter how different. All of humanity springs from a single set of DNA, meaning you are all of the same Source. Riches and influence will only trip you up, as Christ warned. Go back and read the words he spoke of treating all as equals and of caring for the unfortunate and needy among you. Why listen to religious pundits when you should be listening to Christ? For Christianity was founded upon the goodness of Jesus. But they prefer to listen to bearded men who tickle their ears with the promise of dominion. Their deceptive doctrine appeals to the male ego and libido, for it promises that the physically stronger will reign supreme, using all, especially women, for sex and domestic slaves. And it encourages the exploitation of (non-white) men and children as cheap sources of labor. This is their idea of "God's order." But never did Christ command such things—theirs is a religion of convenience. Men ordain as holy that which is most expedient and pleasurable to them. 

This farce, which is a willful ignorance of Christ's teachings, will be hailed as God's will, for they, by force and intimidation, will shove it down your throats and call it miraculous. Open your mouth if you are forced, but spit it out when they are not watching, for you do not want to join the ranks of the willfully ignorant. You are better than that; you know better. Appease them to save yourselves, but do not blaspheme your conscience. As for you, love others as yourself, as Christ commanded. For, in the end, he will say to the goats, "I never knew you," and they will be led away weeping. They earned their anguish by calling dark as light. They fooled those who agreed to be fooled, but only for a time. For all things come to an end. Only truth is everlasting and the measure of a man.

Will you measure up? Can Christ say of you that you are part of his flock and you obey his voice? I do not care if you are a religious person— I hope you are not! For manmade religion has done more harm than good. I am asking if the pity of Christ dwells in your heart. If you want to know what is in a person's heart, watch what they spend their time on. If they are contributing to the greater good, good is in it. If it only benefits themselves, willful ignorance is in it, and you must choose a side. Even if you are staying out of it, you've chosen willful ignorance. For ignorance is the choice to look away from the truth, isn't it? You do not have to raise a hand against anyone to be guilty. All you must do is deny the tyranny. Therefore, consider carefully what your response should be, as watching from the sideline is a failure to help.

Ask yourself: what are my talents, skills, and abilities? Use these to serve the cause. You may not be able to march in protest, but what can you do? Do not wait for someone to tell you what to do, for this is your fight, too. And if you do not see it as yours, that is the problem. Humanity belongs to you, because you belong to it! You are like one wave in an ocean of waves; of course you are part of the ocean! This is the biggest impediment: that in an individualistic society, you feel disconnected and not a part of it. And they know this! They are counting on you to sit on the sidelines and say, "This is not my fight." Consider yourself as having been invited to join the fight! 

Do not be duped by their religious philosophy, which promotes dominionism while minimizing Christ. Do not be threatened by their power to harm you. Be more afraid of being counted among the ranks of the willfully ignorant. Do not be dismayed if they prosper and flourish now and call it God's favor. In the end, the truth will have the last word, for God is truth; it is all and everything that God is. Be in the truth, and the truth will be in you. 

With Love,

Frida

A Good Vs. a Bad Leader (Dedicated to Frida Kahlow) by Devi Nina Bingham

It so happens that when a person is deeply troubled and carrying pain, it manifests in anger. Rather than stew in that discomfort for long, they will turn it onto the world. They will externalize what they themselves suffered, such as rejection, humiliation, name-calling, and the like. Keep this in mind when you see this behavior in strongmen, that their actions are not the result of strength but of an injured animal. Injured animals lash out when you attempt to help them; isn't this so? They know no better. But adults know right from wrong; their conscience tells them so. You may surmise, "Maybe they haven't got a conscience." Everyone knows right from wrong, but not everyone listens to it. Criminals have gotten good at turning away from their inner voice; they override its warnings. They can see the red light flashing but turn away from it.

What then is this most powerful force, which drives them, called the ego? It is not all bad, but it can be used for bad. It is like a knife—it can be used to help or to harm. The ego can do good: it gives you an idea of who you are and defends you when you are attacked. In this way, it is helpful in defense, so you are not overwhelmed by others. However, it will boast about who you are and be judgmental. It can be haughty and demand attention and recognition. The ego is your sense of "me." When the ego has puffed itself up like a balloon, others see this and are repelled by it. Or, curiously, they admire the pretty balloon. Why would they admire a self-inflated person? Because people who struggle with a sense of self, or of feeling good about themselves, admire false bravado. They wish they could believe in themselves and have the confidence of a balloon. Opposites attract, don't they? They admire the balloon's confidence but confuse the ego for strength. Thus, the name "strongman" is used for dictators.

How do you tell a genuinely strong person from a dictator? The litmus test is very simple. Dictators inflict pain; they enjoy sadistic pleasures. Conversely, a strong leader tries to relieve pain by taking pleasure in helping others. Dictators refuse to care about other people's pain, while real leaders consider the least painful solution. Dictators are not empathetic and warm, while leaders are caring and compassionate. But you may argue, a strong leader must do whatever is best for the whole; they cannot be swayed by individual sentiment. It is true; they must decide what is best based on all of the people they serve. At times they will need to make decisions that inconvenience a portion of society. But overall, a good leader will avoid causing injury just as a good teacher will be fair and impartial when giving grades. Impartiality is an important quality in a leader, for, if they do not treat all people the same, they show favoritism, and beyond that, they will persecute a group of people based on characteristics unlike their own. 

And persecution is the ego's specialty. A person's ego will lead them to lie, deceive, slander, and enforce generalities or stereotypes upon people they dislike. The ego will go so far as to elevate itself as superior. Yet, when you look for actual superiority, you may not be able to detect any. Such people are desperate for affirmation, for admiration, and power gives them a sense of superiority whether it is justified or not. If their group reinforces their commonly held belief in racial superiority, being part of that group confirms what their ego has been telling them all along—that they are a superior specimen. It is a warped mirror that shows them what they are desperate to see. Groups like this gain momentum because these people are craving importance, belonging, and reassurance that they will be part of something that makes them feel great again. History is a list of such desperate groups of people.

If you point out that their autocrat lacks the hallmarks of a good leader, they will make excuses for him: "He's only trying to..." because they see him through the lens of their own hopes and dreams. They will continue to make excuses in the face of facts, even scientific studies, so their dream of belonging to the ruling class is not smashed. They will hold their delusional beliefs tightly until the leader has utterly betrayed them, and even then, it will be difficult for them to believe that the man they put their faith in only thought of himself. Societies the world over will continue to repeat such dysfunctional patterns until such a time as they tire of it, until they can see that empathy is strength and cruelty is actually weakness.

If you find yourself in the midst of such a struggle, caught in a struggle with a misguided "strongman," do not be surprised when his followers do not heed your warnings. Remember, they are deluded into believing that he is the answer to their problems. Arguing will be a waste of time, for to them it will seem it is you who are not seeing correctly. The dividing line is a good leader is fair, while a bad leader is cruel, and it is as simple as that. That is all you need to remind them of, and the less said, the better. 

I advise you to try and look down the road to what seems to be the logical next step and prepare for the future. If it looks bleak for you, prepare now to meet the challenges. Do not wait for others to tell you what to do. Think for yourself. Get away from the calamity, if possible. Prepare for the worst of what could befall you. A smart person looks and sees what is coming. Use your common sense, use your head, and not your emotions. If you see a storm coming, prepare your home. If a hurricane is building, do not wait until it is upon you. Prepare now; then you will be glad you took my advice.

With Love,

Frida

How It Ends: The Prophecies of Saint Michael the Archangel by Devi Nina Bingham

 

                How It Ends

The Prophecies of Saint Michael the Archangel

Copyright

How It Ends: The Prophecies of Saint Michael the Archangel, 2025 by Puerto Penasco Publishing. All rights reserved.

Author retains the right to reprint. Permission to reprint must be obtained by the author who owns the copyright.

Distributed in the United States of America.

Cover Design: Devi Nina Bingham

Essays at Twilight-Free Poetry by Devi Nina Bingham

Forward from the Author

As youngsters, we naturally accepted our defects before the superman concept took hold. We knew our buddies had flaws. But we'd resolved to enjoy it all. Before we had complicated lives, before we looked too closely, before life was unduly cumbersome and perfectionistic, we lived each day one moment at a time, which is why time appeared to go on forever. Imagination constructed our reality and we dreamed, unconstrained. We were awed by nature's secrets and allowed ourselves to be lost so we could be found and tossed so we could laugh. We still risked and reached, stumbled, but easily forgave. We became pirates who braved the sea on our bikes, and scouts who moved through the brush easily using our machete hands. Like Sherlock Holmes, we sought our friends who were hiding. We lived in quiet, unspoiled environments. Our bubble would collide with another child's bubble and pop for a split second before the fragile membrane would close around us as it was supposed to, allowing us to move unharmed and with our innocence intact. When that bubble was broken, we lost touch with ourselves for we were not made to carry adult imperfections that burdened us with sorrow. How can trauma not fundamentally change us? Yet family and society insisted that we be happy! Only because they do not want to remember when their bubble burst, and the disenchantment it brought. As children we could see through the grownup mask of comedy and tragedy; adults were no more than bubble-breakers and troublemakers who bowed like unbending mannequins, refusing to reveal the severity of their inner devastation.

I have spent a lifetime looking for the superhuman in myself and others, and have concluded that there is only one way to apprehend beauty, and that is to find it in nature. The trees, the flowers, thunder, and the rainbow simply are, letting the seasons flow and ebb. The tree never stops doing its thing: growing tall, blooming, and bearing fruit. A simple recipe for living. The apple has always hung like a gift from the same ragged tree. It is our decision whether we will open our eyes and see it. That is all. We don’t have to grow trees, or buds, or apples. We only need to apprehend the beauty that is on display. Mercifully, our innocence comes around again in old age and once again we see the simplicity and peace nature offers.

Twilight is an auspicious time. It heralds the finish of one day, and the start of the next. It is the curtain falling after a play, the sunset quieting after a summer scorcher. It is a time for reflection and slow moments. It is an opportunity for a cool drink in a sweaty glass, or a modest splash of red wine in an orbed goblet. It is that instance when sighs over the day’s trivialities escape, and grunts over the day’s gravity grab a seat and let their hair down. Twilight affords us the good fortune of taking stock of our day. We say of seniors: “They are in their twilight years.” Having traveled our whole lives in the sun, twilight is what has been waiting for us in the shadows.

These poems attempt to describe life lived in the twilight state where the air is sweeter, silence is the preferred language spoken, and the world moves unapologetically in a slow and unhurried dance. The final phase comes on slowly and exits quietly. These poems reminisce like the elderly who prefer to recall not the high and mighty things accomplished, but common, everyday realities we share and know so well: what’s for dinner, our childhoods, even our failures. In retrospect, failures look less like shame and more like courage. Mistakes are, in the end, only hard lessons we learned. These poems reveal the darker shades of my life because twilight has one foot firmly planted in the grave while the other foot struggles to remain in the light. They map life’s dichotomy and represent our shadow selves.  I hope they will speak to you, exposing the beauty hidden in every error and the grace of every line carved on our indomitable features.

Devi Nina Bingham

 

ADRIFT

I had been holding my breath 

until you remembered that you loved me. 

Upon remembering, I forgot what it is to be loved. 

Tears are where love should be.

Grief, a tight-fisted placeholder

hardly knows touch, and turns from two

towards one lone observer, bystander, onlooker.

When lost at sea, once the hope went,

I was only waiting for sweet death

to finally claim me.

Even it refused to come too close

and so, I knew

even death would not have me.

It has been only I,

adrift for a thousand years.

 

A FOOL'S DEATH

We were a puzzle
that fell apart

once, a perfect couple

star-crossed sweethearts.

But time has a wicked way

with handsome hearts

our bright blue turned grey

and promises left to rot.

It didn't happen all at once;

a string of let-downs

unfeeling fronts,

and childish meltdowns.

Our rainbow turned to rain

though I still can see.

It never looked the same

what it was meant to be.

A map we didn't follow

a key not used

when we had won love's lotto

stubborn ego was the noose.

Now it seems so obvious

what we failed to do

fate so glorious

demands the diligence of two.

Given a love heaven-sent

guard your gold

lest you die a fool's death

true love grown cold. 

 ALL I DIDN'T DO

I try not to think of you,

for memories too close impair me.

Just a song about how you flew

or a butterfly on my knee

 

and the pain spurts like regret

for all I didn't do.

Can't forget as of yet

a hole my conscience chewed.

 

Your note said I did my part

but all I see is my refusal to

be present for your bleeding heart

too busy with my can-dos.

 

How I wish for the melody

of your voice hounding me. 

ANCIENT ABYSS

To let you go I'm moving on

will find another to welcome this kiss.

Art was the muse I threw my passion upon.

Why are you so hard to dismiss?

 

I see your smile but it's for her now.

It's high time I fixed the holes in my heart.

How easily you left when I didn't know how.

This time I'll play the vanishing part.

 

The past is gone, so face the truth

though the memories spilled out everywhere.

We met in a time of carefree youth

seizing a torrid love affair.

 

Why are you so hard to dismiss?

I must rescue myself from this ancient abyss.

A NEW FRONTIER

Dreampt I of how the world will end,

of robotic aliens with guns.

Alone was I, without a friend,

waiting for the morning sun. 

Why didn't you come?

 

If you had been there by my side

no fear could grip my heart and soul.

My last breath would be glorious,

even if I died.

 

When Saint Michael cracks the final seal

that makes our deeds vainglorious,

when it is dangerous,

will you be courageous?

 

Distance cannot part kin souls

no matter what we say or do.

In the end, we severed wholes;

what was one rent into two.

Tell me it's not true.

Time has made a fool of me

waiting for you to awaken

as the earth trembles furiously

and sanity flees

it has left me shaken.

 

If my heart was gravely mistaken,

I shall watch the metallic sunset from here.

A new frontier

as I shed a tear.

 

A THOUSAND DEATHS I DIED

Cold, blase words like stone

Your selfish self does say

A torrent of praise for you alone

Announcing evolution while you go astray.

 

Why do narcissists only see

Beauty in their clouds, and never the rain

I died a thousand deaths because of thee

Love once pure, given in vain. 

 

I took my brokenness to the sea

Floated away with the soldiers slain

Millions of dead lay by my side.

 

Rest I now in the hanging tree

While you drink champagne

A thousand deaths I died. 

 

A THOUSAND YEARS

You're tucked in my heart

so far into the future that none can see,

a picture of your dear face

frozen in joy, pain, and ecstasy;

a precious treasure chest of such tender magnitude.

Unyielding my heart's picture, it's no platitude.

 

I can't let go, though time marches on and the sun keeps rising high.

No matter what you say, I will believe in us until the day I die.

Your fine face and smile are locked in here for a thousand years.

A thousand blind hopes will bring you my love as time flies.

Then be soothed, and dream of the wild time when we loved without tears.

 

A WAY

A way must open in me 

that goodness can flow through 

So words can move through

And not stop-up the natural flow

Which is gracious in its effusion.  

A fount must be released in me

A wellspring of music

So my heart can skip again

Can be weightless

Floating above the memories

I see them below, but they cannot touch me.

A way must open in me.  

 

BATTERED LOVE

Is it possible to stay in love?

We were so carefree at first

People change like clouds above

 

Pure as the snow-white turtle dove

With a steely bond and bewitching thirst

When ecstasy was enough

 

And time, the monstrous machine

Beat us black and blue

Gouge my eyes out for what I've seen

 

Innocence lost at just fifteen

The witches cooked up a wicked brew

She was just a teen, she was just a teen!

 

Losing you, losing you

When I was still your queen

What did it mean?

 

How does battered love survive

A castaway stew

A voiceless beehive

I yearn to feel alive. 

 

 BREATHING THROUGH WORDS

Without my work, what am I?

Suntan lotion and dance music,

a thick, bloody steak and a margarita devoid of meaning.

 
Words unlock a world locked in chaos.
Writing is the clean air I breathe.
Must I “get away” from that which defines me?
 
Without my art I have no explanation, no justification, no border, no definition.
I AM my art. I AM my words. I AM the thinking man on vacation.
 
I will do what I love and let others call it work

because I know it as breathing through words. 

 

BRIGHT SEAGULL

Bright seagull soaring above

Caring for nothing but the day's catch 

Your silent flight brings to my troubled mind

Words unspoken and the empty bed of love

Hope torn from my adoring breast

Beasts of earth chained to memories so unkind.

 

O, that you would whisk me away from this stormy gale

carefree heart that built smooth sand castles

Requiring nothing more than sunshine and the sea

In simpler times, delighting in a shovel and a pale

Without passion, and without hassles

Bright seagull, what will comfort me? 

 

CELLS

Alone in cells of isolation

Experiencing a deafening silence

still we soldier on

embattled with our relations

like cells in our bodies

of a particular duration.

 

Alone with cruel thoughts

cells contain what cannot be shared

so afraid of touching others

in a world of miscalculations

we withdraw into ourselves. 

 

Inviting others to our party

soon they have come and gone

in solidarity preservation

cells bleed but nobody sees.

 

Cells multiplying generate new life

we are meant to grow.

Isolation sweeps away connection

as we face the sun

in our morning cup the day is done.

 

A heart, the tribal drumbeat

Cells understand the dance of inclusion

alone until they meet themselves.

Severed from the natural way

we stopped reaching.

 

Alone, the defense of desperation

we took shelter in.

Cells have we made of ourselves. 

 

CHEMISTRY

Passion, where have you gone

lingering in thought

of sweet memories fond

forbidden, yet sought.

 

Will I never again taste

thrilling pleasures fine?

Tender moments gone to waste

like a soured glass of wine.

 

To distant heights

we did fly, yea, soar!

Two souls like tangled kites

never wanting for more.

 

My heart closed like a book

slammed shut by your wandering eye

and promises forsook

there's naught to do but cry.

 

Yet, once the heart has entertained

the heights of fiery seduction

no less than this will keep me sane

than your carnal instruction.

 

Chemistry is primary 

to sweep me off my feet,

all else is secondary.

You and I should turn up the heat.

 

CHILD's PLAY

We externalized our angst and fantasies, 

and spoke not the language of cruelty.

Blood was spilled the day we stopped playing.

Instead of cooperation and inclusion, we spoke aggression.

Instead of creation and sharing, we spoke war.

 

In old age we are children hugging the grave

as helplessness returns.

Then we will remember  

we are all the same,

and laugh easily at life and death

for birth could not stop us,

and death will but free us.

 

There is nothing at all to dread

for what scraped us in this dream

was not as steely as our spirits.

And the terror of life was only the evidence of child's play

missing in ourselves.

 

CLEOPATRA

Cleopatra, goddess Cleopatra, doomed queen

 listen closely as I sing:

Egypt's glorious pharaoh be

Lover of Cesar and Marc Antony

Who, born the daughter of Ptolemy, acquired

A kingdom under siege, and opportunistic liars

In battling your brother 

you took Cesar as your lover.

 

Draw closer, that Rome shall not dictate

Your destiny of love and hate

In settling your own tragic fate

You fashioned a name, forever great.

 

Hear me, hear me 

great souls like you remain

But for a brief time,

and they suffer pain.

Only fools do the masses praise

You chose poison rather than be a slave

Cumbrous mortal vanity plagued you

To royalty it is nothing new.

 

But now your country and people seek

Egyptian lore, and not the Greek

And none will forget the legend

Whose name was not lessened

Sing I of the courage of beauty and love

Of which your history speaks.

 

Cleopatra, goddess Cleopatra,

you were but a doomed queen. 

 

CONSOLATION WILL NEVER BE!

Lost I my sweetheart on that bitter day

roving soulless with half a heart

Devoid of romance and in decay

with a single kiss my gloom would depart.

 

Roving soulless like half a heart

consolation will never be!

With a single kiss my gloom would depart

yet love, it flees from me.

 

Consolation will never be!

Like a broken glass of many hues

yet love, it flees from me

dispassionate suitors I refuse.

 

A broken glass of many hues

I hope will be reclaimed

dispassionate suitors I refuse

while masculine company is entertained.

 

I hope to be reclaimed

though affection is no game

masculine company is entertained

rapture set aflame.

 

Though affection is no game

the rouge who will win my affection

rapture set aflame

is one who can ease my tensions.

 

The rouge who can win my affection

not the handsomest, but the clever

is one who can ease my tensions

becoming my cherished treasure.

 

Until then, consolation will never be!

Death Comes Creeping

There is a grace as age descends

twas given to men, a gift of the Gods

that death comes creeping as a friend.

 

With softest steps it condescends

with shuffling feet, it plods.

There is a grace as age descends.

 

So sneaky death though it offends

doth whisper sweet until the end

for death comes creeping as a friend.

 

And thinking you are on the mend

the vulcher swoops and caws.

There is a grace as age descends.

 

The preacher sounds the final lament

and we welcome the wormy sod.

For death comes creeping as a friend.

 

Destruction need not repent

for gently untying the knots.

There is a grace as age descends

when death comes creeping as a friend.

Disrespect (Haiku)

I got used to disrespect

an obedient silent version of me

when my own hand covered my mouth.

Do-It-Yourself

The biggest moment, and so few knew

I did this thing all by myself.

Family and friends hadn't a clue

so, I set my degree upon a shelf.

Most of my life is a do-it-yourself.

It's my own choice to live this way.

Ever since my hair turned grey

the only one I care to impress

is my dog, on a good day.

I'm a reluctant, reclusive success. 

Eclipse

In a world of sound, disturbance and noise

you walked in as on a silent, white cloud

and I went deaf at your wordless, glad poise

as you shouted over the din of the crowd.

 

From different worlds, like day and night

my sun did shine as your moon did set

I held the moon ever so tightly

afraid that I hadn’t captured it yet.

 

But the moon only shines when darkness has fallen

when it is hushed, unbound, and forever free

so you fled from me as the sun was setting

and I still rise for you, though you don’t see.

 

Our best day together

was an eclipse in the weather.

Everything Happens for a Reason

Everything happens for a reason

the blind bat finds its way

in dark, light, or any season.

 

Religious parents call it high treason

and reject the child who is gay

yet everything happens for a reason.

 

The single mother knows nothing but depletion

and silently begins to pray

in dark, light, or any season.

 

The divorcee who feels uneven

alone, cold, and grey

everything happens for a reason.

 

A bird whose wing is broken

doth sing anyway

in dark, light, or any season.

 

Pain and trials force our completion

and test our strength alway

everything happens for a reason

in dark, light, or any season. 

Everything to Gain

Mexican breeze rustles the palm trees

an ocean of blue and green

windchimes humming like bees

golden sunshine that must be seen.

 

Persistent coo of the doves

pelicans flying in formation

spicey dishes that I love

Aquarius is tonight's constellation.

 

Mariachi music is always playing

shells in my pocket and sand in my shoes

you can bet that I am staying

everything to gain and nothing to lose.

Exotic Pets

He called me his girlfriend

before I knew what it would mean.

I knew I belonged to him

as friends do belong to one another

yet something else was expected

that I couldn't decipher. 

 

He was a handsome Mexican boy,

a mustache of peach fuzz

and a serious, rough demeaner

that drew me in.

I was magnetized, a pattern to be repeated later in life.

Curious to touch his scuffed, mocha-brown skin and thick hair,

I yearned to caress him, but kept my eyes low,

green eyes that flashed giggles, 

and Irish freckles dappling ivory white skin.

Skin of white silk pressed against the wild deep, dark, and dangerous.

Sun-kissed hair flying straight and strawberry blond.

 

His broken English intrigued me, spicy hot words

spoken like a bullet train I had to catch.

I was quiet

as his temper could flare like water thrown on hot grease. Temper, temper!

This intrigued me.

Volatile and passionate,

fuel for his rocket of adolescent rage.

 

After school he would take me by the hand and lead me

to a dark, dank, cool place smelling of wet earth and dust

beneath a foreign house

and kiss me as we locked eyes sternly.

I tingled all over with excitement, guilt, and worry.

What would he do to me, the passionate Jose?

 

He always pulled out his magazine of naked ladies

and would explain like a doctor, anatomically

as if they were his,

like I was his for giving him pleasure.

I would look, then turn away,

only there to kiss and plunder the depths

of his angry Latin eyes. 

 

Riding bikes through a field, he grabbed my wrist

and marched me into the canopy where trees slumbered and stooped.

"Lay down," he commanded in broken English. 

I didn't want to lay down among the marshy, pointed reeds. 

I protested as he pushed me down and laid heavy on top of me.

We kissed until I got worried about snakes hiding in the grass.

 

Jumping up, I bolted for my bike, but he was fast.

In a field of gold we were yelling.

Jose's fist sailed through the air, landing hard.

When I awoke, he was stooped over me. 

"I didn't mean to." All Jose's say that. 

Revenge was coiled up in me and ready to strike.

Crunch, crack! He flew back when my punch landed straight and true.

Jose laughed, although his nose was bloody. "We are even now,"

he conceded. "You are strong for a girl." 

 

I knew I would never trust him again.

I wouldn't be controlled.

Suddenly his darkness didn't attract me.

Jose was a dangerous jungle animal 

whose stripes had hypnotized me.

Be careful, 

I said to myself,

with exotic pets. 

First Beheld The World

When your eyes first beheld the world

they searched mine for the answers

silently pleading with tiny fingers curled

When your eyes first beheld the world

you grasped my hair and gave it a twirl

later you would join the dancers

When your eyes first beheld the world

when I was still your mother.

Golden Opportunity

Just like the wind I move at will

and never stay too long, lest I

become a statue standing still

I’m a wanderer that prefers to fly.

 

Don't tie me down for I am a wheel

who longs to see more of the earth.

So tag along and bring your zeal,

the earth is ours and made of mirth.

 

Why be a tree when you can soar

above life's trivialities?

Besides all this, you're just a bore

espousing your sagacity.

The highest of humanity

are known to indulge their fantasies. 

 

Cast your cares and doubt aside

and be a fool who plays with me.

Leave your phone and come outside

where your soul can finally breathe.

Remember, there's a child inside

who would rather play in the salty sea,

who would rather roam the countryside

than play grown-up and have high tea.

 

We all decide which "us" to be:

a rolling stone or a steady rock.

Our hearts decide who will hold the key.

Be free for eternity

for this is your golden opportunity. 

 

Heart of Gold

Lonely is this heart of gold

though I refuse the best of lovers.

Longing that our story be told.

 

Helpless as a hostage in blindfold. 

Waiting for you, refusing all others.

Lonely is this heart of gold.

 

And even while our romance is old

the thought of you sends my heart a-flutter.

Longing that our story be told.

 

I can't understand a heart so cold,

your indifference makes me shutter.

Lonely is this heart of gold.

 

You may think my declaration bold

but like a storm that roars with thunder

I'm longing that our story be told.

 

Until the day you pass my threshold

I'll dream of you in disquieted slumber.

Lonely is this heart of gold.

Longing that our story be told.

 

How Hard I Tried

The more I gave the less you cared

so a wound opened, as broad as the sky.

You swore it was me when your temper would flare.

While holding us together your feet were ensnared.

Talons pricked me when you tried to fly.

You knew I'd be waiting with raw hope bared.

Too trusting, because I was stupid scared.

Like a doll you carelessly set aside,

withholding the truth because I wasn't prepared. 

But think of the trouble we could have spared

had you simply not denied

that the love you once declared had died.

My heart hushed so much that went unshared,

even after you'd gone it uttered no goodbyes

and trudged on as if you still cared.

The more I grieved the more your affairs

ran on, but did you ever ask why

you didn't notice my despair

and how hard I tried?

Oh, how hard I tried. 

How Many Loves

How many loves can one heart hold?

And when broken, do the cracks ever mend?

At this age should I be so bold?

How many loves can one heart hold?

Starting again leaves me cold.

Can we begin this romance as friends?

How many loves can one heart hold,

and can I follow this road to the end?

I Hardly Know How to Be

I hardly know how to be

words fail me every time.

Mountains we did climb

when it was you and me.

 

You struggled to be free

and wouldn't last a lifetime.

It drove me to my knees

where I stayed for a long time.

 

I'm living near the sea

where your ashes are full time

sparkling in the sunshine

at least you're living carefree. 

 

I hardly know how to be.

Words fail me every time. 

Joy and Sorrow

I came to clear my head

jammed with worry as it ever is,

the kind of worry that resurrects the past

like a compulsive grave robber.

The kind of fondness that drives me to replay

time-worn scenes,

the kind of fondness that had me dancing

like a showgirl puppet

gowned in matrimonial taffeta

on a soggy, sacrosanct day.

The kind of worry that made me plead

on my knees when death snatched her.

A mishmash of ragtag memories crowd my days.

Label me a retrospective character, 

for it fits, and I wear it with pride

as an artist and a woman. 

 

Today the sea is cranky, withdrawn, baring its' jagged teeth. 

I walk until my legs ache, but I've sorted out my problems.

Of different natures, they grow like flowers in my garden.

 

Like wildflowers, disputes are colorful and unruly, 

hard to contain.

They do ramble and travel

in tight circles that repeat themselves.

Like red roses are my joys, neatly arranged

against a backdrop of lace, finery, and romance. 

 

What stands out is the realness of my problems

and the falsehood of my joys.

Misery is truth

while joy is fleeting; a blissful bird taking wing. 

Yet, I would sell my earthly soul to do one bright day over.

 

Joys will alight on my shoulder in the Winter days to come. 

Like a babe, I will suckle and take strength.

From the blemishes and wreckage

I can only hope to do better,

lesson after bitter lesson.

 

If all my desires were met

I would long for a vigorous challenge

for life is a game of opposites. 

 

Having assured myself that my problems aren't extraordinary,

nor can any joy last,

I turn back to the sweet, salty sea 

who has so many moods; she is like me.

I had forgotten the fresh air

and restless waves that hurry in to carry me home.

My head is clear; there is room

for both joy and sorrow here. 

Mercury

Fly away with wings on your feet

like Mercury the swift.

Run away from the ghost that haunts you,

these red lips that you kissed.

 

Only the Gods fly fast enough.

Once upon a time I held you up.

My interest was rebuffed,

we spilled the adoring cup.

 

Winged sandals' grace your feet

and wings do grace your hat.

Running after lovers you did meet

that deceive like the thunderclap.

 

Who dons God's wings yet won’t trust himself,

he dashes from my arms?

Like slipperiest silver his heart on a shelf

is his irresistible charm.

 

Daring, shiny, and quick as a flash

was my beloved, blameless boy.

To escape the shackles of love he dashed

making of love a sportive toy.

 

Lady of Troy, daughter of Zeus

would have known him very well.

Captured by her alluring charms

he thought he could break the spell.

 

He failed to see he could not outrun

the heart that beat within.

Wherever he goes he comes undone,

trapped in Mercury's skin.

 

A tale of caution

to listen to the heart

when love is destined to be.

Even the Gods do not keep souls apart,

not even mercurial Mercury.

Monsoon of Passion (Haiku)

The wind blew my heart wide open

standing still and waiting

for a wild monsoon of passion. 

Mortality

Monstrous is mortality

which stalks the soul until it dies

then free it is of stubborn pride,

brutality, carnality.

We mustn't cry.

 

If we had known the hardships then

would we have volunteered to come

and march like soldiers to the drum

and seen it to the bitter end?

A lion's den.

 

Bruised upon the wheel of fate

crushed is every tender heart

like puppets we are torn apart.

Fools we were to take the bait.

A sinless brave heart.

 

Better is the next bright star

than deception we are drowning in.

Where beauty dwells, and our own kin.

No battle scars or ruthless Czars.

We, sovereign.

 

Were we a cloud, pond, or tree

wouldn't we be much improved?

Even if we hardly moved

or were the tumultuous, romantic sea,

mortality removed.

 

Worlds beyond now out of reach

we will cradle in glorious hands,

rule with care and give commands,

simple species we will teach

as was planned.

 

But today we are like childish fools

who dream of Heaven and a God sublime.

Praying away our heinous crimes,

stuck here in this hellish school

we bide our time.

My Last Fond Wish

I long to be a mermaid

true blue as sky and sea

for when I am cruelly betrayed

I'll be as cold as a fish can be.

 

And sailors will tell stories 

when I sing my siren song

how they lost their wits and jumped to be

fish food for my killing spree.

 

And artists will paint my portrait

murals grand on beach house walls

and in the night, I'll come to see

my likeness even if I must crawl.

 

So now you know my last fond wish

is to be a mermaid, that cunning fish. 

My Name Is Survival

My name is survival

when I did not want to

falling on my face

life had taken everything

yet, somehow in the dust

my heart whispered, "Go on."

As a ghost I went on

for my duty was survival

wandering as the dust

as dirty as I dared to

my shadow covered everything

I hardly knew my own face.

The awful truth to face

I must trudge on

despite the emptiness of everything

choosing the chilling train of survival

longing to lay my head down when I need to

memories decay into dust.

Streaming sun illuminates the dust

a clingy child rests upon my knee

we have arrived, but what camp have we come to?

Hard faces with hard guns command, "Go on!"

A grateful prisoner exclaims, "We've survived!"

when they'll take our hope, our everything.

These dirty, stinky strangers become my everything

tears etched like trails in the dust

remind us there must be a reason we have survived

when they cry I will drop to my knees

and pin their dreams back on

they are the suffering my soul listens to. 

The skinny children I give my food to

I have no pity for the fat guards who eat everything

we play games so that laughter lives on

dreams once bright now settle into dust

children hide behind me, trembling on their knees

some ancient memory of maternal survival.

The stars fell slowly, leaving naught but dust

lost in reverence on my knees

for my name is survival. 

No Man’s Land

The silence is too silent, a weight to bear

like the cloak of darkness of the longest night

we keep our distance in the pale moonlight

and play solitaire. 

 

But we had plans as lovers do

to see each other to the end.

But now you want to call me friend

and other loves pursue.

 

Yet, I will smile and shake your hand

as if we had never tasted passion.

I am stuck out here in no man's land

as falsehood's all the fashion.

 

But tell me, won't you, what happens when

our eyes meet and time stands still

swept up in timeless love again

against our will.

 

What drags us back to yesteryear

no matter what we say or do?

How many cycles we've passed through

yet youthful we appear.

 

Oh, how the heart remembers love

the lucky two of fates star-crossed.

But foolish youth, opportunity lost.

A beloved now we're bereft of.

 

So here I sit in no man's land

because there is no turning back.

I hope, I pray I cut me some slack

with my feet stuck in the sand. 

Ocean View (Haiku)

I abandoned life devoid of you

and called it happiness, for I had to keep smiling

because I had the ocean view. 

O Mexico!

O Mexico! With sweet sounds of traditions old 

on accordion, guitar, trumpet, and tuba

and spicy tastes of cumin, cloves, and Menudo

a proud heritage not my own, despite your lack.

 

The fields upon your backs and children running barefoot,

the maids and housekeepers make it nice for me,

for the white money, their smug savior

tossing pesos like pennies at the eager car parks

with reserved smiles and lowered eyes saying, "Gracias, senor."

 

Sunshine always graces the beaches filled with white dough bodies

as an ever-present desert wind whips up 

just in time for fresh fruit margaritas

and giant shrimp cocktails, and tacos of carnitas 

with white creme, green chilis, and red tomatoes.

 

The white of your flag stands for the Catholic Church who converted you,

religions of the indigenous ancestors 

buried now but stand indominable 

in ruins where blood ran like rivers of sacrifice.

And green for independence from the Americanos

who buy your goods as you say, "Bienvenido," which means welcome to our country.

 

Red for the blood of the Mexican heroes,

refusing to become our slaves, resisting even the Spanish 

who weaponized smallpox to destroy all and every

vestige of your civilization. O Mexico!

 

You have made peace with your tormentors.

For your many talents,

peace-loving is what I would call you, and survivors. 

You forgot the past so you could have a future.

Who can blame you?

 

Hold on, and keep holding on

to your pride as you bow respectfully to the Europeans 

as your children dress in designer everything

made in America.

 

The traditional sarapes and sombreros

are sold to the tourists while your children ask for

Nike tennis shoes that China manufactured. 

Swapping fashion for the Mayan and Aztec ways,

technology is conquering history.

Every nation has traded its heritage in some form 

for survival, convenience, and progress. 

Rolling forward in step with humanity,

not to be left behind in the swift march of technology. 

Adaptable, always adaptable, this American admires who you are,

O Mexico!

Planet Earth’s Door

When I was a child, I lived forever free,

imagining the world to be mine.

And like the bird I knew how to sing.

To my innocent will, the cosmos consigned.

 

But as I grew my wings did fall off:

the rain and years did wear me thin. 

The injustice of love made me scoff

I can scarcely recall the child I've been.

 

For life's bright magic fades away

with time, trials, and injuries deep.

No soul escaping its judgement day,

the adult within begins to weep.

 

Had I the choice to live once more

I would withdraw my hand from planet earth's door.

Poseidon

The ocean marked me. A jagged bottle beneath

branded my foot as blood gushed, a sandy sacrifice.

Payment for the joy the sea would give me all my life. 

 

Racing to the hospital in Dad's rusty pickup

a drunk driver swerved into our lane.

We flew into a ditch in funky Santa Cruz.

Ten stitches as I screamed, held by nurses with Novocain.

And the nice, familiar farmer who appeared on the scene

and vanished. An angel could have been?

I was branded at a young age by Poseidon of the Pacific. 

 

I learned to bodyboard, 

both terrible and glorious,

trusting instinctively that God would never harm me. 

Until I drowned in the muddy Russian river, or nearly.

Watching my arms floating freely in the dark deep.

Death was foreign, yet strangely comforting.

Saying, "But I was so young!" as my short movie played.

And then a man's arm as fast as a freight train,

as big as a redwood 

fished me out, infusing life into my corpse of a body.

I pull on my neoprene skin and look like a seal.

A senior who still plays like a child because she was branded. 

This is my domain as much as any sharks, so we must share.

I hold my breath as the stinging cold water tumbles me.

Laughter bubbles up and gets lost among the seafoam.

Salty lips as I swallow a wave that forces itself. 

Salt in every crevice stinging my frozen nose. 

Age has stolen my stamina, damnina.

 

The day I stop playing with Poseidon he can have me. 

Take my body and lay it beside the crystal sea where He 

will brand me with his golden trident.

No blood or pain, old age, nor death will beckon. 

This life is but a shadow of better things to come. 

Ripe and Ridiculous

Ridiculous circumstances are bound to come

like ripe fruit that rots.

Plucked from our sweetness by an angry sun.

The trees drop their heavy sacks

for the insects to feast and the birds to smack.

Never wasted, a Kerouac.

 

Expecting life should make more sense,

maintaining decorum and order.

Events are at random

and humans are deranged and disordered.

 

Nothing makes sense coos the coocoo bird,

do not push so hard.

You’ll be ripe and delicious

once you are in the worm-hacked graveyard.

 

If animals can feast on you,

then you

are ripe and ridiculous, too.

The Clandestine Years

The clandestine years crept up on me

wagging its chin, and with ogre ears

speak louder for I can't hear

wrinkly skin like an elephant be.

 

My senior friends come round for tea

I call them gently, "my dears"

for the clandestine years snuck up on me

wagging its chin, and with ogre ears.

 

At the end, barely able to see

then my mind will be crowded with fears!

As sundown comes and the darkness nears.

 

Yet in my heart a child runs free

though the clandestine years crept up on me. 

The Heart is Fickle

The heart is ever fickle

running after pretty eyes

then we're in a pickle

making excuses and telling lies.

 

Or looking back to a love gone by

yesterday seems finer

what we want we have already tried

it's like eating at the same old diner.

 

To satisfy the heart with now

is a trick we haven't mastered. 

Today has gotten lost somehow

for my heart's a fickle bastard.

 

O my heart, look within

to look without is a mortal sin. 

The She Inside

 I wish to be

the she inside,

to scale the mount

and brave the tide.

 

Yet, I and me

won't dare to dream

the way she does

with starry eyes.

Dancing in magnetic moon beams,

while I keep my heart disguised.

 

Of we two, I am half her size.

If only we could meet between!

Tragic Figure

 She was a tragic figure,

evoking quiet rebuke or pity.

Some peered through her warped glass as though they could see through her,

while to others she was as impervious as a veiled threat.

But her internal struggle could be seen by anyone who cared to look

which is why they all stayed missing.

 

The exterior of her life was painted in broad strokes

of red on a white canvas

and left to run.

Her insides quiet as a mausoleum on a dead day,

which is why she failed to invite anyone.

And only whispers were left where once the shape of a daughter stood.

 

She cared only for the naked truth,

a camel who carried her through the desert of death

where she would laugh at mirages.

No longer thirsty for her needs had been packed away.

A chiseled scowl darkened her brow

for the elements had whipped and cracked her spirit

as her world had once cracked.

A suspicious mouth, crooked as a fault line ran in an impossible slant

so her jagged smile cut like unapologetic razor blades.

Her countenance said: “If you even whisper, I shall shatter.”

Suitors admire from a safe distance

for there is no mercy and no middle road

for tragic figures like Lauren Bacall

and Lucille Ball,

and other dames who determined their fates,

whose gloved hands could only castrate.

 

Tragic figures are women, all

with a demented story to tell

of survival among society’s males,

but don’t you dare tell, 

no, dont you dare yell. 

Trilogy of Crashing Stars

Before the starry-eyed curtain falls,

before the last treasured memory fades

I look back to see we three standing tall

unaware that the grim reaper was bringing his blade.

 

I have asked myself a million times, why we?

Why take one so young, and tear a marriage asunder?

A shitstorm that ripped the branches from the tree

scattered like clouds we were running from thunder. 

 

Like a trilogy of crashing stars

each one concealing their hidden, private pain.

The two of us left standing carry the scars

and I think about the two of you every time it rains.

 

Don't forget me, and remember 

when you flew overhead

and we were crashing stars 

in the universe's bed. 

True Love Lost

When you think back on what could have been

when you are alone, your fortunes in review

when the years have delivered their half-hearted wins

for the guarded heart you safely withdrew

 

then will you admit when no soul can hear

then will you wail to know all that was tossed

then though the bell tolls in destiny's ear

your one chance at true love was lost.

 

No going back, nothing as severe

no time left for the star-crossed.

 

Despite divine decree you ignored the signs

month after month and year after year

until you became the tempest-tossed

and your true love died one thousand times.

What’s For Dinner

I fancy the same things for dinner.

I used to grocery shop and cook to impress.

Now it is all tomato sauce, pasta, frozen meatballs, and parmesan.

My well-rounded entrée.

More than liking Italian, a bowl of spaghetti is the comfort of sameness, of predictability. 

No major decisions at the end of the day. I know what I am getting, whereas life has been one big meatball of insecurity: a tangled ball of angst from appetizer to dessert.

Trying new food was once exciting, like trying women instead of men. Because I fell somewhere in the middle, I developed a taste for both. Curious, but now I don’t care much for either. I will stick with the sure and guaranteed.

Pass the cheese.

Tame

My home, my nest, my sweet, spicey abode.

Where my heart's at rest, my heart's at rest.

Safely tucked in a pocket that the sea bestowed

where I have been blessed, I have been blessed.

 

I don't have to see my mother, the sea,

to hear her voice roar in the morning.

Just to know she waits; she waits for me

and can rush right in, sometimes without warning.

 

There is a danger in every blossomed rose

when you pick a flower without a thought.

I have come to respect the sea's highs and lows

and to watch my fingers around the lobster pot. 

 

A lover’s never seized me, unreliable.

While nature's won my heart, justifiable.