“We both know what memories bring, diamonds and rust” Joan Baez as golden moments passed wistful spectres haunt my mind fade in, fade out, striving to last contending to hold their place in line contorting sobs into laughs writhing to stay as times of bliss straining the lees, winnowing chaff clinging tightly to a first-time kiss being prone to looking back at tattered photos obscured by dust having faded into black we look for diamonds, unearth rust rjc 11/04/2020
Master my Maker
Master my Maker
I just have to complain
You left some loose wires
When you circuited my brain
Trains of thought they run wild
Careen off their tracks
When I send genius to heaven
It can’t find its way back
On the roadway of life
I’ve fallen off my trolley
While my noblest intentions
Are deemed as mere folly
Myriads of marbles
Roll around in my skull
I hear tweets from canaries
And shrieks from sea-gulls
As elevators go
Mine won’t reach the top
Every brilliant idea
Results in a flop
And my own moral compass
Is well off the charts
While my opinions are met with
“He ain’t got the smarts”
So grab all your tools
Your soldering iron too
Bring a few extra diodes
And I’m sure there’s a loose screw
Though my warranty’s lapsed
I beg for repair
Look how I’m kneeling
This request is a prayer
Rocky James Curtiss 10/28/2019
Old Friends, Old Friends
I’m fortunate to be one of a group of high school classmates (class of 1962) who make the effort and take the time to get together at least once or twice a year. This past weekend as we gathered once again my best friend, Ron, wore a T-shirt that read: GROWING OLD IS MANDATORY, GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL, and so I was inspired to write this poem.
Old Friends, Old Friends
It’s a curious event when I
Discover an old friend turned old
I look into his eyes and see the
Second grader I used to chase
In an endless game of tag
Today he’d be easy to catch
If only I could still run
Or, as the case may be,
In a young girl’s smile my heart still
Beats faster when aimed at me
Even though familiar eyes are now
Hedged by crow’s feet
But the heart sees differently
Filtered by warm memories
The golden years are not faded
Silver hair not tarnished by dross
Recognizable laughs recapture
Halcyon moments of joy
When all we needed was to be
Mindful of those dinnertime
Announcements from Mom
(Who has long since passed)
Important because Dad (also now gone)
Is home from the “salt mines”
Seated in his favorite chair
Reading the newspaper
There came a day we said “Goodbye”
Not aware it could possibly be a
Forever pronouncement except for
Spiritual ties which kept us linked
Across imperceptible miles
Thankful for those determined to
Resuscitate and rejuvenate
The “Good Ol’ Days”
As we share the stories that have
Become lifelong mementos
Precious remembrances
Glitzed by the glitter time creates
We are old Friends, not Old friends
And I’m blessed in their presence
Chamonix Disaster
Taking a lead from a friend, I’m sharing a poem based on a true event. I was a 20-year old traveler, hitchhiking across Europe, and my experience treated me to some exotic sights and unimaginable adventures. One such adventure involved what was affectionately known as a Turkish Toilet. I hope today’s poem paints an accurate picture of what transpired.
Chamonix Ker-Plop
(A poetic account; Chamonix, France May 26, 1965)
1965, the twenty-sixth of May
Savoring a pleasant Suisse day
A leisure hitchhiking spree
To alpine town of Chamonix
Mere hours since Clay’s phantom punch
Downed Sonny Liston into a clump
The headlines so displayed
As I ambled on my way
A stop a ride a stop again
By midday arrived at my end
Tired, hungry but needing to go
Les toilette publique was just a hole
Turned and squat, readied for plop
Sound ensuing caused heart to drop
Splash of wallet and passport
Sickly sound of pit’s retort
All of value disgustingly lay
Below the rim six inches away
Entrails painfully tied in knots
I argued, debated, disputed foul plot
No matter all my mind detested
Of the assets now infested
Dropped on knees reached into goo
Rescued goods from vile P-U
Washed then scrubbed, cleansed all over
Worst of filth outside the cover
A thankful sigh as I finished my duty
Left with a tale, a traveler’s beauty
Rocky James Curtiss 04/21/2017
Sometimes *%it happens, but not always quite so literally. I carried that wallet for another two years, and wish I still had it today, just for the memory.
I Look for a new Song
I look for a new song
The old one hasn’t died
Though it has been tried
It’s still a rhapsody
A fragrant harmony
But now suffers dormancy
I beg for a new song
To gladden my heart
Like love’s fresh start
When song sparrows’ trills
Resound through their bills
Burgeoning thrills
I ache for a new song
To reveal His presence
Christ’s holiest essence
Reigniting the fire
From a sweet singing lyre
Spawning dance of desire
un-assuaged
it feels as if I’m without hope
un-assuaged
while questions ricochet
like echoes bouncing
in a cave
roaring continuous
as the waves
crashing around in my brain
leaving me week, drained
perilously I teeter
on a cliff
therefore I turn to the Holy Writ
but for the promises within
I’m drowning in chagrin
yearning for relief
pile-driven into grief
and yet my prayers
they merely whimper
demons laugh
and point their fingers
yelling “you, you are to blame!”
overwhelmed I hide my shame
it has to be my fault (it just has to)
for the enemy’s assault
but it’s been proclaimed
marry your faith to belief
whence the pathway to relief
but when reprieve isn’t granted
misery is fast implanted
it’s hard to stay enchanted
nonetheless I cling to Hope
one that survives, thrives
in Gethsemane’s garden
while clinging to His garment
sheltered from doubt’s bombardment
By Rocky James Curtiss 04/26/2018
Again, Where is Home
It’s often just the place
Where I’m feeling most alone
With crowds or some close friends
I’ll scarce opine a groan
Doubting anyone ready
For the stutters of a stone
I continue in my search
Again, where is home?
In a world that’s been fashioned
By the extreme left and right
I choose retreat into solitude
Rather than jump into a fight
But this hiding bears a cost
As I disappear from sight
For I’m bound to keep the candle
Of Peace and Truth upright
I confess I lean far left
My aim is not to hide it
But for reasons I can’t solve
The churches I’ve abided
Deign my ilk ungodly
My disposition damned misguided
Alone in crowded pews
My loyalty divided
Yet again, where is home?
No answer smacks me clear
Nor lightning bolt from God
For the faith I hold so dear
Sixth decade of my journey
Eden has ne’er appeared
Peace descends within His whisper
Of “I love you” in my ear
Where’s Home?
I ask myself, “Where’s Home?”
Then recognize an enigma
Is it where I now reside?
With my wife
In an apartment
On Spokane’s south hill
Where mail clutter tracks us down
It’s true, but it doesn’t feel like such
*
I look back into my past
To the stucco house Dad built
Where I was raised
(Raised? We moved when I was 15)
And besides, the house is gone
Replaced by a modern monstrosity
Sarcastically dubbed a McMansion
My boyhood world extinguished
*
So then there’s Temple City
LA suburbia from birth (to 21)
But as I travel its streets today
Familiar landmarks evaporated
Orange groves exterminated
Friends’ homes abdicated
Familiar faces obliterated
The loss of roots exacerbated
*
Well, how about Redlands
Where we dwelt long forty years
Friends relocated
Children migrated
Parents expired
And then we retired
The familiar emerged unrecognized
Solid ground liquefied
*
I ask again, “Where’s Home?”
The query still unsatisfied
Intimate faces with disparate lives
Common faces without history
Local spaces void of memory
Shallow roots cannot abound
Attempt to anchor runs aground
I guess home exists beside my bride
…and I’m satisfied
Dream to Rise
an ode to MLK and Maya
on the 50th anniversary of his death
and the 90th anniversary of her birth
Dream to Rise
I was raised on an island
So to speak
A Southern California oasis
Of white privilege
White bread
White T-shirts
White sweat socks
*
Now privilege didn’t mean wealth
But spoke of a freedom
We took for granted
Exempt from inhumane laws
That stripped dignity from souls
Robbing them of their “inalienable rights”
For the crime of being born other…
Black, Brown, Yellow, Red
*
In time we heard the stories
They filtered through
The walls of our ignorance
Much as the sun diffused through
Our shuttered Venetian blinds
So tight we closed our eyes
But we couldn’t close our ears
Until your voice, Dr. King
And your spirit, Ms. Angelou
Stirred us from coma
*
Your dream lives on, Reverend
In the hopeful hearts of the cleansed
For “free at last, free at last”
*
And still we rise, Dame Maya
(If I may accord you regal honor)
For rising above the “bitter twisted lies”
*
Like the fledgling who pecked his way
From the constraint of his shell
And then flew in the draft of eagles
Yes, it’s taken me a lifetime
But…I have a dream that somehow
Someday I may make a difference
And move one more heart
To rise from hate and intolerance
On to the path of love and acceptance
*
Lord, move my spirit with theirs to rise
Friday Morning
I wrote this almost a year ago, in keeping with the season. Be sure to read all the way to the end;
Friday Morning
Friday morning
Slept barely but a wink
An evening celebration
Plunged headlong off the brink
He asked me to pray
To cushion His agony
I didn’t sense the pain
Treating Him so casually
I tried to atone
By following Him to trial
But when others called me out
I answered with denial
The guilt is overwhelming
The torment so intense
I rack my soul for answers
But forsaken of defense
He entered Zion in victory
To adulation and high praise
But now the sounds of sobbing
Is all that’s being raised
The crowds are on the move
To the hill called Calvary
As anger overflows
In spiritual anarchy
I dare not follow close
And be sucked into their hate
Will I echo denunciation
Adding insult to His fate
I can’t believe my eyes
As spikes pierce hands and feet
But He looks on me with love
My shame is now complete
It’s Friday morning
And my Savior’s on a cross
His death becoming real
While hope for man is lost
*
*
*
It’s Sunday morning!
Rocky James Curtiss 04/14/2017