The Mango Man
The wrinkled old hand of the mango man
Trembles as he reaches for pesos.
Pesos you have given.
Pennies on the dollar you’d pay in America.
Pennies on the dollar you’d pay
Against a grey sky
Blacktop parking lot backdrop
In a supermarket for a mango in America.
The trembling old hand of the mango man
Slips pesos in a polyester pocket.
Pesos you have given
Pennies on your dollar in America.
Pennies on the dollar in the Yucatan
Buy suntans and white sand beaches
Against flowered shirts and Bermuda shorts
Or rice and beans for the mango man
Trembles as he reaches for pesos.
Pesos you have given.
Pennies on the dollar you’d pay in America.
Pennies on the dollar you’d pay
Against a grey sky
Blacktop parking lot backdrop
In a supermarket for a mango in America.
The trembling old hand of the mango man
Slips pesos in a polyester pocket.
Pesos you have given
Pennies on your dollar in America.
Pennies on the dollar in the Yucatan
Buy suntans and white sand beaches
Against flowered shirts and Bermuda shorts
Or rice and beans for the mango man
Perhaps You’ve Been There Too
The dirt is red in my childhood.
Tall, wild oats brush little faded blue jeans,
Running to the oaks on one more adventure.
The air is clean, each day is new, and
The seasons last forever.
Perhaps you’ve been there too.
Perhaps you’ve hitched up baggy pants
And tumbled, feet and arms flailing,
Down grassy hillsides,
Or waded, wide-eyed and knee-deep
Into cool, clear creeks searching for treasures.
Perhaps you’ve been there too.
The Tinker Toy Longitude
The Tinker Toy longitude lies south
Remember?
The jump rope existence,
Backyard trade winds,
Forgetful August afternoons?
A million miles south of milkshake-love,
One warm-wind memory away.
Remember?
They Teased Him
Yesterday a part of him died,
Just another playground drive-by.
A verbal hit and run.
The first in this journey called his life.
His eyes bled tears as he ran,
Little arms reaching for this man.
Pappa, stop the pain,
A part of me hurts, and I don’t understand.
I somehow climb inside,
Feel his injured heart, taste the tears he cries.
I tell him that I love him,
Draw him close and hold him tight.
In the safety of my arms the tears subside.
I pray for safe passage,
Smooth sailing – no more pain.
But I know it’s just a part of life,
And it will happen all again.
To Raina
Yesterday your birthday came,
But you were not here.
Friends and family gathered at your grave
to remember.
I thought of you as I drove from school home,
Your Jekyll and Hyde childhood,
Youth traded for a lie.
So many of us tried to call you back,
But the other voices drowned us out.
Why? Is still my greatest question.
Why couldn’t I break through to you?
What demons drug you down?
What walls were built round your heart,
So high and thick to keep us out?
Junior High
I realize how difficult it is to be you.
In this in-between world of bloom.
Life, love, acceptance can all turn on a dime.
I know the pressure to look good, be strong.
But in the end it’s the weak who,
Like hungry wolves attack easy prey,
And only if the other wolves are around.
Does it feed their ego or ease their fear?
I see the faces, bright and alive with September innocence,
Dull and slumbering by June.
Did the words become too real to bear?
Could your flower die so soon?
I pray that time can teach and heal.
Both the wolf and fallen prey.
Each somewhat a victim
Of this stage called Junior High.
Rainy Morning
The rain falls in raging torrents
Soothing assaults against the ceiling
And my soul retreats,
Hides beneath the warm covers of my bed.
Racing from the rooftop
Rain drops, dripping from eves
Spitter spatting to the ground
And casting a cacophony of peace.
It’s warm and peaceful
In the comfort of my room
Day can crawl sleepily by
And I, I am content to lounge
The Best of Times
Out on the back side of Redding
Two A.M., walking down the rail road tracks
Feeling like a couple “Mr. Independents”
Telling tales and smoking cigarettes
Laughing way too loud and drinking cheap red wine
These are the best times
These are the best times
These are the best of times.
Out there on the hobo fringe near daybreak
On a flat car in the rail yard by the docks
Everywhere people are rushing to get ready
Only getting up to go and punch that clock
We’re talking about hopping the next freight down the line
These are the best times
These are the best times
These are the best of times.
Days drift by to the rhythm of the rail wheels
Another town, another million miles
My mind sifts back through at least a million memories
And dreams I dared when I was just a child
I wonder where she is and if she’s doing fine
These are the best times
These are the best times
These are the best of times.
Starlight guides the way for drunks and dreamers
And dreams are things that youth can afford to buy
Freedom don’t come free, but it comes freely
When you choose to live your life from ride to ride
Tomorrow pays its way, so I pay no mind
These are the best times
These are the best times
These are the best of times.