Discarded Flower Zen

I found a flower today,

Laying upon a grass verge

That borders a busy highway.

It didn’t belong 

On the grass verge,

That was obvious. 

The flower was a type of orchid

Found on large, tropical trees

In southeast Asia.

Or more likely, in Florida where I live,

Found in floral bouquets

For sale in drugstores, near the checkout counter.

Automobiles on the busy highway 

Screamed by just a few feet away,

Unnerving me slightly.

I looked at the flower

And wondered,

“How did you get here?”

After all, everything has a story.

Even a discarded flower.

Then I looked up 

And noticed other flowers

Of the same type 

Scattered along the road’s edge,

And I assumed 

The flower I looked at

Was indeed once part 

Of a drugstore bouquet.

Thrown from a speeding car, I wondered?

Tossed out in anger to wilt at road’s edge,

While in the car a fighting couple 

Travelled on for miles and miles?

They fought all the way home, I imagined,

Him driving grimly and her crying, 

Both saying things they later regretted.

Yes, like all lovers do.

Even you and your lover, I’ll bet.

I know it’s true about me, and mine.

I gazed at the discarded flower by the side of the road, 

And a little sadness touched my heart.

Luckily, the terrifying scream 

Of hurtling automobiles

Just a few feet away 

Soon distracted me from this kind of thinking!

Get away, Sadness! 

I said to the feeling within myself,

And watch out for that speeding truck!

Happiness, 

However it came to exist,

Deserves my attention, too.

Let me enjoy 

This moment of beauty

While it lasts, 

Without fear or distraction.

As I should also 

Attempt to enjoy my life.

Then I looked 

With new, loving eyes of zen

At the beautiful, discarded flower,

And the noise and sadness

Of this world…

Melted into nothingness.

My Uneasy Relationship With The Gods (Part Two)

After that, my dad took up 

Drinking pretty seriously.

Which was a surprise because

Until then, I’d never seen him touch a drop.

But he took to it like a fish to water,

If you’ll pardon the expression,

And it changed him 

Into a different person.

One who wasn’t so nice.

Sometimes, getting home drunk,

He’d rage about the house

And scream terrible threats at me for being

The rotten little scumbag sumbitch etc

Who drove my mother 

To an early death,

And robbed him, HIM!!!

Of his only happiness!

Then he’d curse up a storm

And stagger around the house breaking things.

That’s when I’d lock myself in my room

And wait for Dad to pass out.

Don’t worry. 

He passed out every time.

Funny, even though I was just a kid,

I didn’t really believe my Dad

When he said those things.

I knew it wasn’t him talking.

It was his pain speaking.

But the problem was

My Dad believed it 

When, in his drunken rages,

He called me a scumbag sumbitch etc

Who was entirely to blame 

For my mother’s death,

Robbing him, him, etc, etc.

So sometimes he really scared me.

Then it happened again.

My dad came home 

Drunk and storming!

I woke up afraid and locked my bedroom door,

But he must have gone crazy!

He broke down the door

And walloped me good a few times. 

I hurt my arm when he threw me

To the floor… and I passed out.

The neighbors must have called the cops

Because the cops got there 

About the same time as the ambulance men.

This time the ambulance men 

Took my dad away,

Straightjacketed and lashed

 To a chrome-plated gurney.

He was crying hysterically

And pleading to be set free

As they rolled him 

Toward the ambulance.

“Son! Son!” he called.

“I’m sorry!

Say you’ll forgive me, 

Please!”

I forgive you, father.

With all my heart.

Do you find it funny,

Ye gods above or below?

Did it give you a moment’s amusement,

You pitiless self-satisfied cannibal bastards,

To turn a gentle, kindly man 

Into a raging beast?

Fuck You!

After the ambulance men

Looked at my arm and my bruises

And said I’d be okay,

I went home with one of the cops.

I heard him say to another cop,

“Aw hell! The kid’s got nowhere to go.

I’ll take him home tonight

And see he gets to court tomorrow.”

“Okay, Joe,” said the other cop.

“God, how I hate these domestic calls.

Well, see you tomorrow.”

"Goodnight, sir,” answered Joe.

On the way to Joe’s house we stopped

At an all-night 7-Eleven 

And he bought me a new T-shirt.

Then we went for a burger and fries.

Boy! Was I hungry!

Joe ordered me a second cheeseburger

And when I said don’t forget the fries

He laughed and asked me where I put it all!

Joe was a nice cop,

With kind eyes 

And a ready smile.

His wife was nice too.

She cleaned me up 

And tucked me in,

Just like a real mother would.

They didn’t have any children

Of their own yet, she explained.

“We’ve been trying to have a baby…

But none has come along.”

She smiled sadly and added,

“It must be god’s will.”

Then she kissed my forehead 

And reminded me 

To say my prayers

Before I went to sleep.

“Okay,” I promised.

And I tried to pray, really I did,

But I couldn’t think of 

Anything to say to god.

A god who stole a wife and mother,

Sent drink to take a father,

Cruelly denied children

To a loving couple,

And laughed 

At the torment 

Of a little boy?

Pray to you?

Do you hear me,

 Ye gods above or below?

You pitiless self-satisfied cannibal bastards!

This is Rusty Pliers speaking!

Fuck You! 

My Uneasy Relationship With The Gods

Here is a poem that tells a story

From the youth of Rusty Pliers.

Listen if you want, 

And be entertained.

Don’t listen if you don’t want,

And remain as you are.

It’s all the same to me.

I get paid either way.

This poem is dedicated to a dear one

I knew many years ago.

I stole parts of this story 

From her life.

The rest of it, I admit, 

Is pure…

Rusty Pliers.

Enjoy!

One day when I got home from school,

I found my mother 

On the kitchen floor.

She was moaning and she’d wet herself.

I called 911. 

They told me to be brave, they’d be there soon.

Then I called my dad at work.

He told me the same thing.

This happened a long time ago,

In a place called Los Angeles, California,

That we’d just begun to live in.

My father, my mother, and me.

I was eight years old.

It seemed to take forever 

For the ambulance to arrive,

Waiting on the kitchen floor,

Holding my mother’s head in my lap.

Sunlight streamed in 

Through the window above the sink 

That gave out to the garden.

Mom’s garden. 

Her special place,

Filled with flowers and sunshine,

And of course, her being her,

Filled with love. 

She made a noise and I looked down. 

She stared up with wild, pleading eyes 

And painfully gurgled something, 

I don’t know what.

“What is it, Mom?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, 

But lifted her hands

And reached out

For something that wasn’t there.

Or at least, for something I couldn’t see.

“What is it, Mom?” I asked again,

Not knowing what else to say,

What else to do!

Then she dropped her hands 

And went quiet…

While I rocked her gently

And waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Oh! How I wish to this day

I’d understood what 

She was trying to say 

In that terrible moment!

Do you find it funny,

Ye gods above or below?

Did it give you a moment’s amusement,

You pitiless self-satisfied cannibal bastards,

To torment a little boy 

While he held 

His dying mother 

In his arms?

Fuck You!

The ambulance men finally arrived.

They told me I’d done good,

But now I had to get out of the way

While they helped my mom. 

They gave my mother medical attention,

Then they bundled her

Into a chrome-plated gurney

And rolled her away.

My dad got home after they’d left.

Boy! Was he upset!

He helped me get some dinner started,

Then went right to the hospital.

After that, Dad spent a lot 

Of time at the hospital.

Not me.

I only visited Mom a few times.

Dad made me go, 

But I hated it!

She wasn’t herself anymore.

Her hair had turned white

And she chewed her tongue stupidly

While gazing out with sightless eyes.

Her hand in mine 

Was cold, unresponsive.

She didn’t even know 

I was there.

About eight months later, 

Mom passed away in hospital, 

While at her side my father prayed and wept.

She was thirty-one years old.

I cried too, at the funeral,

Holding my father’s hand

In the big church he attended.

(Children weren’t usually allowed 

In the big church 

With the grownups.

We children attended Bible School.

But that’s a poem for another time.)

I stood beside my father 

In the big, unfamiliar church,

And I couldn’t help myself…

I cried and cried.

I wanted my mother. 

Grownups approached us from the golden pews

And kissed or shook hands with my father.

Then they patted my head, saying,

“Don’t cry, little Rusty.” 

They all said the same thing.

How much I was growing up

To look like my mother…

And how it was a blessing she was dead.

They said she was in heaven now,

Free of pain and sorrow,

Seated at the foot of god.

Or maybe the hand of god, I forget.

“It’s god’s will,” they added,

Nodding to themselves.

“His will be done.

Amen.”

That was easy 

For them to say, 

I thought,

She wasn’t their mother.

As to god’s will…

Can any mortal truly say?