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Befuddled
Befuddled, befuddled, befuddled am I,
so confused and I don't know why.
I haven't an answer. I haven't a clue...
no idea what to do.
I'm mixed and muddled and mired in doubt.
I must be wondering, "What's it about?"
Coming or going, I can't tell.
Maybe I won't. Perhaps I will.
Perhaps it's true, but maybe it's not.
Possibility's all that I've got.
I could be right. I could be wrong.
I'm spinning in circles just going along.
If I knew for sure, all would see
the one with the answer might be me.
Absolutely! Positively! Indubitably
true!
Although... if it isn't me, it must
be you.
Capricious children,
stories dance behind my eyes,
slide out through my pen.
Rain In The Sunshine
A little rain in the sunshine starts the day,
adds hint of rainbow that doesn't go away.
Sprinkles fringed with sunlight dot across my path,
awakening nature with its gentle spring bath.
It gives sparkle to flowers, freshens the air,
renews lonely spirits, washes off each care.
Only wait a minute. Droplets disappear.
The sun, in all its glory, is finally here
Window Cat
My gentle Persian cat sits on window sill,
sees a little sparrow holding very still.
She crouches like a lion, tingles up her spine,
the chatter of her teeth not like a cat of mine.
She inches slowly forward, unseen by all but me.
The bird flutters slightly, sensing, but does not see.
Crawl, crouch, a flip of tail – she stalks with instincts prime.
Sparrow slips out of view, escaping just in time.
Curtains Of Laughter
My soul is hidden
behind curtains of laughter.
Only clowns see through.
No Face
The enemies of peace
have no face,
no country
or any race.
In the name of God
they peddle hate.
Un-ending wars
become
our fate.
A Past Not Meant For Me
I walk back through the door
of a past not meant for me,
but forced upon me
by the gatekeeper of hell.
His flirtation with my beloved daughter
brought forth the children who now seek
to free themselves from whatever claim
he may assert upon them.
Only their desire to break the chain
could bring us back to this desolate place.
Bereft of the sights, sounds and smells of a
wholesome world, the surroundings
press down upon me. The shrill pitch
of the gatekeeper’s mother pinches my nerves
and urges me to run, but I stand firm,
as the children bravely make their wishes known.
There will be no permission given, but
the children have faced a past they never knew,
and that, in itself, will give them the strength
to erase the traces of evil that may course
through their veins. We close the door firmly
behind us.
Joan Garcia
2004
The Hangout
Three intersecting freeways mark the
spot.
Where else do three major freeways combine?
Cars weave and bob, challenging,
voracious in their appetite
for the last trace of empty space,
oblivious to their role as actors on
the stage.
Well above them, strands of wire
thread across the span of asphalt,
providing ample seating accommodations
for what has become the “hangout.”
Only these three wires are chosen
as if the dance of cars below provides
the finest ballet for the audience of
birds
that flock to the trio of parallel lines.
Throughout the day, rows of seats are
filled.
What conversations, observations,
and droppings must occur!
Why here, and not on the wires
stretched farther along the strip?
What uniquely draws the crowd?
Rapt in their focus, birds cling to
seats.
Comings and goings rarely occur.
As night falls, the theater empties.
The birds disappear and only
a smattering of cars remain
to dust the aisles.
Lost
“Where is everything?
Anything? Even my mind?
That, too, I have lost.”
When we stop choosing
The direction of our steps,
We have lost ourselves.
Empty shells gather
In warehouses for bodies
Alive, not living
Brush the golden hair
Straighten the blouse on
her shoulders
Search for memories
Her butterfly pins
Gathered carefully for
years
Have all flown away.
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The
Consequence Of Death
There was a time when death celebrated
the passing of spirit from mortal body.
What has brought on this frenetic clinging
to an existence more suited to Hell than to life on earth?
Do they explain away,
erase the soul to justify tubes,
pills,
and other extraordinary efforts to circumvent
the natural process of passage?
Perhaps they know their existence on
this planet
aims them in a different direction
and fear the consequence of death.
Joan Garcia, 2005
Beginning Bridge
She sat at the table, her first time
at bridge.
Her partner had prepared her well.
But what happened next is hard to believe
–
a tale only a bridge player can tell.
She counted her faces, got only to ten,
so passed as she thought she should.
Follow the rules, she’d been told
though her hand still looked pretty
good.
Her left hand opponent opened two clubs.
Her partner passed right on pace.
Her right hand opponent bid two hearts,
barely a flicker on his face..
The bidding proceeded with cues and alerts,
blackwood and bids she’d not heard
‘til it reached her last chance to put
out a bid
to utter the tiniest word.
All expected a “pass” to slip from her
box,
with opponents ready to play,
but, new to the game, she broke all
the rules,
and they still talk of it today.
She pulled from the box the seven spade
bid
and heard an audible groan.
Her partner turned red. Her opponents
turned blue.
She knew she was in this alone.
Well, double they did, and that made
her mad.
She redoubled at her very last
turn.
Aware they might never let her play
again,
she thought THEY had a lesson to learn.
The ace of clubs was swiftly led…
dummy down, not much there she could
see.
Her right hand opponent discarded a
heart
and she trumped that ace with the three.
“Oh my,” she said, “I think I must claim.
I don’t know that else I can do.
But I’m certain my partner will tell
me
I should have trumped that ace with
the two.”
Thirteen spades in a hand is rare, indeed,
though, like she, it was a new deck.
No one had told her to shuffle,
and nobody thought to check.
At my time in life
I need a better one…
one that supports with ease,
stops jiggles,
keeps me in place
so I won’t bounce off my knees.
There might come a time
to let all hang out,
not hold anything in.
But, unlike Janet,
I wouldn’t feel right
even if I were pencil pin.
My Mouse Squeaks
Let me acknowledge first
the triviality
of what I am about to
say.
While other poets write
with a profundity
reflective of the issues
they address,
I devote myself to what
might be an unnoticed detail plaguing the entire modern world:
My mouse squeaks
Yes. My mouse squeaks.
I must admit on the first
occasion,
it elicited my random
searching:
of monitor and modem,
then scanner and printer,
and finally all other
elements
present in my surrounds,
including footstool, fan for circulation, and my favorite chair.
Nothing squeaked,
What produced the sound?
Other noises abounded.
The high-pitched
humming of the modem.
as always barely audible
above
the wind-sound whirring
of the ever-present fan,
and creaking of wood from
aging joints of my favorite chair did not mask what I heard.
That squeak. Again.
Right-click. Scroll. Squeak.
Each time I poured my spirit
onto the screen,
the mouse protested.
My search centered on
the rationale for complaint:
Was it my content or form?
Or perhaps it was my firm
grasp around the oval shape, squeezing upon his inner core…
I needed WD-40.
My solution to protest:
oil it.
My mouse still squeaks.
In
Places Hidden Away
“I tuck my treasures
In places, hidden away
–
Safe even from me.”
Scattered around her –
Sweet treasures give illusion
Of who she once was.
Gentleman
I don’t know who first created the word,
gentleman,
but I had long thought that someone,
at some point in time
had inadvertently smashed two words
together, with the
subsequent erosion of its true meaning,
Lost in images of doffing hats and doors
opened,
Sir Walter Raleigh capes thrown over
puddles, the
true gentle man had vanished.
My beliefs were reaffirmed when a truly
gentle man appeared in my life,
restoring the separation of two prime
words.
A gentleman in the modern sense, but
more purely a gentle man
in every possible way: Simple
in his complexity. Firm in his kindness,
eternal in his patience. Thoughtful,
harder on himself than on me in times
of intense stress; always seeking to
please, support, and love; always ready
to cheer me on in my other earthly passions,
whether verse or song or the
relentless game of cards.
He, more than anyone, keeps me grounded.
He, more than anyone,
allows my laughter to bubble out, letting
us both experience the dance of joy.
He, more than anyone, values me as I
am, with easy acceptance that
my drums may take me across the freeways
as he cares for home and cat.
He is and always will be the ultimate
gentle man.
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