Make every day a beautiful day.
Eye on Life Magazine is a Lifestyle and Literary Magazine. Enjoy articles on gardening, kitchen cooking, poetry, vintage decor, and more.
don’t let them fool you
it’s not about the process
and it’s not about the journey
trust me, it’s
about getting there
grabbing what you can
be it a trophy or the cash
the lover or the applause
and then hoarding the spoils
of your riches and
surrounding it with a fortress
built by bricks of fear
and mortar of selfishness
and holding on
with all your might
until you must let go
and say, “Rosebud”
Through the nursery glass
Carlos Montero peeks at Consuela,
his twelfth, in the arms of a nurse.
Blood from the uterus
bright in black hair,
Consuela is raw, bawling.
The nurse takes Consuela
away to be washed as Carlos
digs deep in his denims,
locks elbows, gleams,
turns to me. I feel odd
in a suit and a tie as I
wait to see Sean, our first.
When the nurse brings Sean to the window,
Carlos Montero whips off his sombrero,
makes a bullfighter’s pass and beams.
“Senor!“ he booms like a tuba. “Ole!”
Suddenly I’m as happy as he.
They seemed invigorated
fresh
I could see life in their eyes:
like when the elderly hold a newborn
or a mother strokes her gloomy tot’s hair,
believing the touch will ignite
a boosting charge.
I wanted to feel that way
to be a few steps from euphoria
but my thoughts had been siphoned
evacuating my body parts—leaving them empty,
like an abandoned structure
with no furnishings.
A glass of water, if only I could hold a glass of water
maybe then I might find spring?
Instead I parch like a novice hiker
with all the liquid my physical manifestation requires:
all this water
but it does not soothe me.
Those images, and clippings, and dislocated lives—
can they be compartmentalized?
Artillery mercilessly ripping flesh,
homes reduced to hand-sized
throwing stones.
Might I see but not query—
read but fail to compute
what my people have orchestrated
devised under the pretext of honor
yet carried out with deceit?
The neighbors talk tough,
pretend,
proclaim the acts were noble:
freedom—fighting
shouting as if
the two are indistinguishable.
Supposing those children
and mothers
and paternal eyes
had no faces—no daily emotion—no right to life,
particularly if they did live
according to our edict.
They
carry on like little has changed:
procuring a defining handbag
or car
the latest electronic
something stimulating to boost them.
But the charge is not lasting so they seek more
while a world away has been
destroyed.
I want to rummage in the marketplace
touch my lover’s smile
feel content
embrace life,
but how do I do this
with bloody hands?
How can I be at peace
when my compatriots
are me?
She didn’t like me much
and I didn’t particularly care for her.
Letting me know in increments
mostly with her stare
sometimes words
that the others were gifted,
chosen,
somehow above where I was.
Making me feel ordinary
questioning
insignificant in my own skin.
Wishing I could become a snake
that I might shed the scales of uncertainty
maybe then
I would feel worthy when she was near.
My family never did that to him,
they viewed him with value—
but she did that to me
and I loathed her for it.
Yet the capsule of time journeyed on
discarding doubt
as the ephemeral minutes departed:
leaving her exposed
and me stronger,
I was not sure I was at ease with
the newer rules
for the ground was now uneven.
That is when I realized I loved her,
when her glare traveled into vulnerability
and her dreams were left suspended in clouds:
she looked innocent
fresh
like someone who
could start over.
She told me how she mourned them
blood strangers in a distant land.
They hid in homes, then were sent to camps
and after that, their fate was tragic.
But one survived and visited,
becoming transfixed
in the crevices of her thoughts.
Each time she reminisced
like it all happened Tuesday,
tears invariably plopped on her wounded chest.
Nothing
not even her husband’s death
could replicate such a response:
a faraway uncle,
throwing open the taxi door
while the mystified teen gazed from the second-story window
wrought with anticipation
I have my own narratives, but none like these.
These are stories which can alter,
modify
rearrange how a person perceives life,
or circumstances,
or daughter-in-laws.
Yet we detoured past that:
laughing in winter
sharing wine by the fire
savoring ice cream bars—
uttering, “I love you.”
And something tells me
as melancholy fills our eyes
when I prepare to leave,
I might even be a Gentile
she could cry for.
…alimentary
dear alimentary
we know whom caresses
in the biocalliope
don’t we?
AUM-PAH-PAH…
Up
from the Sea
to kiss
in waves
of not, not chartruese truth?, and
greys anatomy…
Mr. Schnauzer
atopview
oh, slopping and bubbliwhiskered
bubbledbark
kissing for biscuit’d,
you are also a…?
AUM-PAW-PAW
And to the right
(take a left @ Cretaceoa, follow the road for 68 Epochs)
Rexie Rufous
gently-toothsome flirt
undecidedly floppy-specied…
to croar or roarc!?
AUM-PAD-PLOD
Down
to the Sea, see?
grey anatomy
a seal of CLD** approval
flying for fish flying
like a water lapin
down the canal
down, into the Sea
and /I...
AUM-CHIRK-CARK
Across Visceratown, near
to canalstream
flops the purpled Splotche`
spiral-contented, near-
ashouldered, spiraled breath specialed…
the cat on the mat, rugged
in a mug for a hug - soo Seussical!
M E E O W-AUM-PAW-PAW
Sly fox?
head>tail
surround in dubious flame, the
first of the drain
down-down
the calliope cog
a gurgle-not, but
aviary-wise
to the oriflamme,
canal awatch for whooo?
AUM-TALE-TAIL
Sunny Dodocrow
basks amethyst
pleased pericardial
with the roll of waves
hey, Snowghost?…
AUM-PUR-PURE
Why the abdored?
Snowghost speaks not
even whooo!
or for funny napeteeth
just an upward peer, is all
AUM
Aha, rotata
as an yratnemila, appears
deep scallophragmatic canopy,
The American Dream Machine
60’s biocalliope, …Puff, The Magic Dragon
meeting
Heartback HobbyHorse/Goatdoel/Clara with a bow,
That’s IT…
but no, Droopy Sadbeagle,
even foxbird kissed
utters, limp & limpid
rouge & ruefilled
for Charlie, oh Chaplain!
…&
with Rubicfeet, even
a fox is a fox is a fox
Is this IT,
the faunamachine
menageried-a-douze?
AUM-PAAH-PAAH
In the corner, of
the Sea
out to frame’s reach
buoy’s
drowns care
romps Vate
AUM-OERR-OM
The Mermaid of Heart,
pearlied
alimentary, dear alimentary
greys anatomy
in perPETual Wonderland
Alice Goddess
lowcut and Indigene
noble
Garbo
(Chaplain><Garbo)
spilled mansuetude and vigour
melting handedly to the Sea
(also)
a sigh-am-ese kiss
if you please?
arush, aslow, as
the heart waves…
AUM-OM-SWEET-AUM
2.14/15.MMx.
(For ST)
*Viscera Of Love
**Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (Lewis Carroll
-DRAWINGS BY TERRIANNE U. SWIFT
nighttime the house moving all around me I’m here alone the family’s out I’m
listening to Mozart a fire shimmering as I read my Byron & Browning thinking
of Professor Elliot his long hair & long leather coat like bat wings he
taught me about the Romantic Poets making them come alive like this house
seems to be & I know of course this is my imagination playing tricks maybe
it’s the dog I’m hearing maybe it’s the heat clicking on but the walls I
don’t know they seem to be breathing oh my damn imagination but no there
does seem to be something moving around in here somewhere no can’t be
impossible oh-ho there it goes again but maybe it’s merely . .
bony specters rose
up from smoldering splintered coffins
made of black ancient wood.
specters gray, shimmering with
shrouded faces, misshapen heads,
soundless in the wispy mists.
thick dull bleary-edged apparitions
floating listlessly through swirling
spaces in the swelling smoking night.
slick cracked glass specters & me
me alone, pressed helpless against
the cold windowpane, staring
confused & needing to know.
It’s black at this phantom hour,
but darkness is when you come:
flaunting trickery near a hallowed tree,
spewing uncertainty amidst the obscure haze.
Should hesitation and fear be my guide?
Or do I glance beyond the pretense to grasp
a greater vision:
for it is there I am sheltered from
the faceless form by which you muster strength
and snare your aimless victims.
Shadows devoid of contour
cast upon the wall,
silhouettes gather in assemblages only
minds like yours can see:
the scent of candy and other sugary delights
labor zealously to mask
your putrid smell.
Tomorrow the sun will triumph
and a call
of Thanksgiving will resound,
but tonight is yours.
*
You brush the way ink
falls apart on a page
though your hair never dries
folded and unfolded, over and over
till an old love note arrives
in the crease you can’t see through
already a floodgate
and across a river
that is no longer walls
or their shadows —you are washed away
by the lingering caress
your foot leaves underneath
as gravel :what all words hold back
when they say it was long ago
and her name as if she was here
in writing and with a simple splash
surrounds your still warm arm
already in two, half you, half everything.
*
This cup must know its cracks
will never let go
struggles the way a spider
begins as a single thread
and water not yet water
—you sip so the rim
weakens from inside and the Earth
empties, lies motionless
left to hide among the afternoons
although you drink from the dirt
helpless to dry
without your lips under it
—this cup can’t go on
and the spoon overhead
circling tighter and tighter
uncertain where to stop
—mouthful by frayed mouthful
you flow into a great river
already leaving
are carried along for later
as if the sky was once your flesh
won’t loosen its hold
though you keep filling the cup
with flowers, sunlight
more and more flowers.
*
You’re never sure though the pages
fit —it’s a small stove
used to walls that have no pictures
—it doesn’t have to remember anymore
why sparks take such a hold
and little by little in secret
the way sunlight shields the Earth
from night after night the floor
that never really warms
—you keep adding flames
as if this old newspaper would still yellow
become leaves again and slowly
an invisible bird climbing immense
till there’s no light left to breathe
only the stars, tighter and tighter
circling the sun to silence it
—each evening alone, hands held out
you set fire an endless sorrow
and the plume already dry
shedding its darkness on the ground
for later and your shadow.
*
Lost and without a wall you are unsure
what stays dark, what will move
once a flashlight is waved in front
and the plane in the picture begins to
flicker
taking hold one hand all these years
dead, smothered under the frame
half dry wood, half morning
and though there’s no sky yet
you are flying again
wobbled by winds no one sees anymore
making room in the fleece-lined glove
that can’t tell where your fingers are.
*
For the last time this overpass
reaching out and the invisible horse
half spray, half these cobblestones
that follow you around each corner
—four legs and still you stumble
carried up by the uncut flowers
you hold on to though this on and on
is already aimless, falling from rooftops
as rain and on your shoulders more feathers
—you are flying the way this street
loosens from its stones the weightlessness
that covers every grave and overflows
lifts the sky across —midair
you sift for runoff and from below
the unwanted shadows cling to you
—all these thorns :step by step
each splash fastens on just one foot
though you dig without any dirt or shovel.
from a pale
almost watery yellow
to the richness of
dusty old gold
flowers
or maybe just spirits
ideas or hopes
will find themselves
forever entangled
in the most fluid dance
between concentric
and
tangential circles of light
angels embraced by
their own fragile wings
were spreading around
the lightest violet cast
over tormented souls
as they sung
hymns of glory
to celebrate
the peace and stillness
of an enchanted
and forbidden joy
as I was painting
just random feelings
I rhetorically asked myself
which color is sound
and
which one is smell
which one is the eternal love
and
which one is no more
than just peaceful abandonment
an avalanche of colors
took over my life
as I willingly exiled myself
to an island
of total and profound stillness
until the moment when
the bluest sky
I ever knew
without much warning
gathered dark threatening clouds
of worry and fear
that very minute
I knew
the day has just run out
of peaceful sounds
of heavenly smells
and comforting joy
I never since
painted again
too old and much too frail
for taking on another chore
a fragile looking snail
pushes through slopes
to carry its load
of minimal hopes
despite the many sins
picked up each day
during a most tormented journey
through the ups and downs
of ordinary life
its feeble back will never yield
nor will its spirit sink
into the darkness
the snail just presses on
and on and on
its given task
its fatal fate
it is alive today
and still the same
as yesterday and ever
its fate
is to endure
against all hopes and wants
its fate
is still
a self imposed determination
to carry to the very end
its faded house of dreams
stormed by its fury
the Spirit of the sea
struggles
to break the chains
that want to keep it still
unleashed
the giant
bites into the shores
and spreads its salty tears
into the sun
blinding with it
the very promised day
from time to time
I feel
Ulysses’ torment
the day he tied himself
with ropes of sorrow
to never again hear
the dreadful sweet song
of overwhelming temptation
that came
from the deepest of deep
like him
I wandered
lost in limitless waters
while
all I could feel
was just the infinite
embracing me
and churning
my sacred will for life
into an everlasting eddy
Was a time
(Said the old ghoul)
We went
From house to house
Unsupervised
Children in dark streets
Appearing intermittently
Under streetlights
Eight or nine years old
In our homemade costumes -
Witch, ghost, zombie -
Taking candy from old people -
Witches, ghosts, zombies -
In known and unknown houses
In our neighborhood
But we don’t do that now
We walk with our kids
Noting in our minds
Where each goody came from
Later we x-ray the candy apples
Somewhere sometime
Someone
Put the first razorblade
In an apple
What did they feel
Inside
As they handed it
To a child?
By Tom Rubenoff
Running,
From you and this small time town,
With its small set minds,
And I’m hoping for more
Than just singing me blue,
Sitting, counting the times
That I’ve been left dry,
In a small time town,
Left with nothing but sky,
This lone stop sign has me
Running,
From you and this hole in the wall,
With its bluegrass feel,
The mom and pop diner’s home cooked meals
When I’m only killing myself
Workin’ five to five,
To keep my heat on,
Just to keep me alive,
When there’s no future in sight,
If I lay next to you,
Full of emptiness
like the steel in your eyes,
Running,
From you,
And this small time town,
With its small time feel,
And its small set minds.
Remember, a blind man
can see things a sighted man can’t.
So I’ll tell you about her and then
you can tell me whether I’m right.
The first time a man meets her,
his eyes flicker and dart.
Desire, an appropriate reaction.
The first time a woman meets her,
her eyes pop out and coil on her forehead.
Envy, another appropriate reaction.
Today, who can blame either?
Today, who believes the canard
about the true, the good, the beautiful,
in theory or in a woman?
I never believed it
till the day that I met her.
And you won’t believe it either
unless you do what I did—frisk her for flaws
that will allow you to live as you are,
as you were, as I was when I met her.
As for me, I’m no longer the same.
Perhaps you can help me.
The day that I met her, I was sitting
on pillows propped against the wall not far from Walmart.
I had my cane and my cup properly positioned.
I was ready for business.
And then I heard heels type on the pavement
the story of my life. I could hear in those heels
a woman who knew me although we had never met.
I had my baseball cap upside down on the sidewalk
between my outstretched legs.
It was full of my wares—pencils, spearmint gum
and Tootsie Pops, free, for the children.
When her heels stopped in front of my spot,
I sensed this lady had bent over my cap
and was checking my wares. Her hair
was a waterfall licking at my knees.
I was inebriated by her scent.
She selected two pencils and didn’t ask price
so I knew that I had a real customer.
And then with a wave of her hand she let
paper money float through the air
into my cup. Believe me, a blind man
can see with his mind the butterfly
of paper money float to his cup.
Any denomination, large or small,
is a Monarch afloat on a zephyr.
Customers, you see, usually drop change.
A blind man can tell you what coins
a customer has dropped by the clink in his cup.
So when I heard her Monarch take to the air,
I forgot about my teeth and smiled up at her.
I usually don’t smile on weekdays.
I used to smile on weekends till Mother
got hit by that Hummer. She was never the same.
On Saturdays she used to bring meals in tinfoil
labeled in braille to tuck in my freezer.
She wanted me to know which meals were where
but I was never able to read her braille
so I ate whatever the microwave served.
This new lady in heels, however,
has stolen my bereavement and taken me captive.
She has me smiling. I’ve been stoned on her musk
since the day that I met her and I’m getting more wobbly.
Everywhere I go her scent surrounds me.
I’m an addict now and I need my cane and my dog
just to get around the apartment.
So, please tell everyone now in the parade passing by
to listen to her as I did and in time they may hear,
as I can hear now, a year later, the cherubim sing
as she blooms with our child like a sunflower in summer
while I wonder, I try.
So much I didn’t tell you:
women shedding clothes on my birthday, plunging
into the Pacific waves glowing from luminous algae,
how the mangosteen is the best fruit
except maybe for Japan’s white peach
or Pacific Northwest thimble berries, tart red.
Shouts of
“Shoe shine! Shoe shine!” in O’Hare airport,
an old guy pirouetting on roller blades
in a 7-Eleven parking lot,
the Northwest Indian legend of a man
turned into Siwash Rock as a reward for generosity.
The Three Sisters in Australia’s Blue Mountains
also turned to stone, this time by their shaman father
who died in battle before reversing the spell.
Cicadas big as humming birds, the sun rising on the right,
a sandal big as a couch, radio station 3RRR,
taking curves along the Great Ocean Road,
Millie the wombat clawing a furrow in the dirt
while I crooned and scratched her rump.
Platanos rellenos - bananas stuffed with chicken,
Lithuanian dumplings shaped like zeppelins,
twenty kinds of empanadas in Argentina,
In Spain a tortilla is a potato omelet
and horchata is made with almonds.
Squid on a stick, kaiseki - sushi in tiny chest of drawers,
a box of soy milk *hot* in Macao,
the pizza I cooked for Kyoko in a fish broiler
and Koji worrying I’d overcook the ham,
six small cups of strong oolong tea in Hong Kong
and the roar of the crowd at dim sum,
a waitress raising her voice so I’d understand Mandarin.
Farmer Yang who got a paltry $30
for discovering the Terra Cotta Warriors,
the guide in a Hard Rock Café Beijing T-Shirt
listening to the Cranberries when we drove to Ningbo,
an English teacher in a Mao jacket
who lived in Louisiana but never saw New Orleans,
Confucian scholars in Seoul waving,
the Red Army veteran who played me taped Estonian protest songs,
Santiago’s notorious beer thief, stray dogs &
men walking a dozen dogs each in Buenos Aires,
Gardelito tangoing with Lauren in the park,
a Mayan hammock peddler who taught me to say no in Yucatec,
dreadlocked teens doing Capoeira summersaults in Geneva,
the shy smile of a hotel owner herding a bunny into her room,
a monk with a gold tooth carrying an arrow in Kyoto,
the woman who ran off to a Japanese train station
and returned ten minutes later with a map to my hotel,
Kyoko’s 80-year-old father bowing
on my leaving his house of tatami and Amida Buddha.
“Please take care of yourself.”
Bullfights in an ancient coliseum in southern France,
a Burger King by a Roman gate in Germany,
bears in Berne, the fox in Jackie’s garden,
incomprehensible British phrases like “traffic calming”,
midsummer night - a rowboat with a torch
welcoming the sun after its brief dip under the Baltic,
parks named for poets, poets on money – a Lydia dollar,
Language is the nation. The love of their newfound freedom,
a bar and a sauna too, sauna – physician of the poor,
slot cars left there by a touring rock star ,
the owner’s dog who went with him to scout film locations
(Helsinki – Moscow’s stunt double).
Hong Kong – the smell of kerosene,
the longest escalator in the world,
red and blue plastic tarps everywhere,
strolling on balmy November evenings,
Hanoi Street, neon lights, dinner at an outdoor café.
Rolling down a hill in an inflated ball in Rotorua,
and me chief of the bus for a Maori ceremony,
Mt. Ruapeha white goddess admiring her reflection in Lake Taupo,
“It’s beautiful here,” says Lauren. “Let’s stay.”
Poets’ mouths opened
floating words in the silence
like soap bubbles on a July breeze.
Occupied with my opinions
I took no notice
of the shimmering rainbow phrases.
When the last one burst,
a drop of soapy water splattered my ear.
I looked up
and heard a sleeping dog
chant sutras with his snores.
If only someone had paid me
for punching air with all I had from a horse stance,
sitting back straight, eyes downcast on a meditation bench,
and writing poems and novels for thousands of hours,
I’d have enough to buy a house.
I never did what my culture rewards.
I didn’t mix cocktails or build bigger cars,
so I’ll make do with these walls of skin
this frame of bone and sinew. Hair droops down my forehead
like the branches of the willow in the front yard,where Roshi Koshin’s
deaf Dalmatian, Meister, rests his chin on his paw.
Books signed by countless authors overflow the library shelves.
I stash them under tables, behind chairs, and in kitchen cabinets.
I built the guest room extra large
to hold Sensei Lennox with his voice like Marlin Perkins,
Mike Wells who counterpunched
before the thought of attack traveled the nerves of my arm,
Aiki George – Mr. Rogers with a sword cut that could cleave a locomotive,
and John Clodig avatar of wu wei with a touch like a silk scarf
until you meet the ground.
My neighbors complain about kiais,
the relentless slap of trainees falling on tatami,
late night poetry readings, the densho ringing at 5:00 AM,
and all that chanting of the Heart Sutra.
Even though the guest room dwarfs a Saturn V hanger,
I add an extension to hold Roshi Koten’s informal talks,
Reverend Tri’s whispered, “Who are you?”
and Jikyo Sensei’s udumbara smile.
Zen masters and martial artists crowd physicists into the garage.
Alex Dzierba builds a particle detector of Legos.
Aruna gets a proton beam from a vacuum pump, horseshoe magnet,
and microwave oven. Phil and Nick crank out cross sections
on a TRS-80. Jim Griffin wakes from his nap, scribbles corrections,
and goes back to sleep.
I brew tea from Bodhidharma’s eyebrows and stroll the garden
to view four moons: the moon itself, its reflection in the pond,
the moon gate, and the reflection in my cup.
I look over the dragon wall at a sea of darkened living rooms
lit only by flickering TVs and weep for the homeless.
Whenever I pulled, Jerome sat
and straightened his stubby front legs
to fight the leash. Too stubborn to house train
he followed his nose away from home every other day.
Dad and I searched the neighborhood for hours
to bring him back. Oh, why couldn’t he be more like Lassie?
The last time I watched Jerome’s squat body
shrink with distance through the car’s rear window,
grief burst from my chest like a surprise
party stripper from a cake. I cried for days.
All those impossible women
with their late night crying jags,
Ronald Reagan campaign buttons,
vacant looks, and unvaccinated children
stare at me from across the decades
with a Basset’s sad eyes.
To make amends I dream
the patience and pure heart
I’d need to share a home and
ungainly dog with each. Reality
tears these good wishes from my fingers.
Today, a Basset trotted over to me,
while his owners walked him near the sea wall.
I knelt. He climbed onto my lap and slobbered my face.
I stroked his head, whispered an apology into floppy ears,
and walked away.
