For John V

God-

When I was a hospice volunteer, I was assigned to an old man, who in his last days, was all alone.
No visitors, no friends, no family.
He shared a great many thoughts with me in his final days, mostly how he had come to be alone at this point in his life, despite having a large family and many friends throughout his lifetime.

Myself and a hospice nurse were his only visitors, and upon final request, we left him to pass—alone.
This poem is for you John.

 

 

If ever a time when I needed a friend,
That time would be now as my life nears its end.

But no one is left
My friends they’ve all gone.
For reasons unknown
Our story was done.

But my story played
And on it did so.
Without them I lived
not knowing or caring,
how empty this life
for the sin of not sharing
with others who could,
but it wasn’t to be
I was too busy caring for
one person—me.

And so as we lay here, just me and my thoughts,
I think of the people I wish who were here
to comfort and guide me as death draws so near.

But come they will not,
I’m here all alone as we say our goodbyes,
just me and my own to no ones surprise.

The goat

God-

I’m glad I wasn’t born a goat.
I hate goats. In fact, I hate all things goat.

I hate goat milk and I hate goat cheese.
And I hate their goat hair, especially goatees.

I don’t like their look or their smell or their feel.
And I’d never eat goat, not even one meal!

And the thought of my child petting one at a zoo,
Repulses me badly, does it not you?

But he could trim the lawn and that would be cool,
Leaving weekends for golf and the pub and the pool.

That’s it!  I’ve decided, a goat I will get,
But I won’t like him much, even if he’s a pet.
So I’ll hate him each weekday but not on weekends.
As I golf and I drink and I swim with my friends.

Then after the links and the drinks and the pool,
My wife will be waiting, not happy, not cool.
She’s pissed at the goat, the lawn’s such a fright,
The flowers gone too, not a pansy in sight.
He’s eaten the yard and most tools in the shed,
And once where a car is now goat shit instead.

 

 

The yard is a mess, the garden all gone,
Where my grass used to be now a shit covered lawn.
And my car and my tools and my gear and my gun,
They’ve disappeared too, God what has he done?

That’s it, I decided,
The goat he must go.
But to whom shall I gift this manic eating machine?
Perhaps to a zoo for their petting zoo scene?

Who else to give this beast away?
A friend in need of a weekend at play?
With a wife who won’t mind when her flowers are gone,
And no problem cleaning shit that he’ll leave on the lawn.

God, I really hate goats,
For especially this one.
How his fate would be different had he not eaten my gun.

Chupacabriously,

Diego

No miracles, yet

God-

I need some clarification on just what you consider a miracle. I think we could be miles apart on this one.
I’ve witnessed apparitions of Jesus in several foodstuffs, most notably, braised short ribs and once in a large cheese pizza.
Survived a near death experience.
And regained the use of both legs, defying all medical odds. (Typically just after wheeling myself past the long lines at airport security)

I’ve been in car, boat, and bus accidents.
I’ve wrecked a golf cart, forklift, and once toppled over a dump truck.
I even crashed a cement mixer into a fence, a car, and finally a tree,
But soon I was finished, HR fired me.

I’ve been in a Mexican jail and released without bail.
Bucked off a colt named Lightning—the experience was frightening.
And ate 30 locusts while climbing a tree, to prove to a girl I was worthy of she.
And when I was finished, when it was all said and done, nothing was a miracle, not any of it, none.
And yet here I am, still telling the story.
Alive through it all, notwithstanding how gory.

My miracles exist not, mostly thanks to the weed.
While yours are in scriptures, most holy indeed.

But the weed and the drugs make no less holy mine.
Even though they are troubled, they’re no less divine.

So you and your bible and I with my dope,
Have lent to this world the promise of hope.

For you through the bible have told a good story,
While I’ve done so too, but not much with glory.

My stories are idiotic, they’re stupid, they’re dumb.
But yours express human resolve true and plumb.

I do offer hope although not quite as yours,
I tell of a life that’s been through a lot
Offering hope that others shall do as I not.

For mine’s the result of a life that’s been reckless,
Happenstance guiding the deeds of my day.

And yours is of hope and love.
Both in short supply in the world today.

Reckless, but not today,
Diego