A few times a week, as I leave my office at night, a saxophone player stands on the corner and plays for the small coins that drop into his hat.  I tip him from time to time, but he is mainly unappreciated. I imagine the notes from his sax get swallowed up by the forces of the street:

Leaving the Office

 

The saxophone notes blew across the intersection

where they were strangled by the metro bus’s exhaust

trampled by the cars and pedestrian feet

Sweet tones meant to soothe and give pleasure

were annihilated as night was knocking the sun out of the sky

The notes painted colors and throbbed time and rhythm

Who thought notes susceptible to destruction?

Yet the proof was littered on the street

Irretrievable loss, sounds lost forever.

Sure, more notes can be blown

But not those notes, not at that time, not at that place.

 

                                                                                    Augie Medina

                                                                                    2012

I think the Catholic Church has a problem in terms of compatibility between its teaching on abortion and its clear bias toward the welfare of the  priests who committed sex abuse  as opposed to a primary emphasis on making amends to the victims. Put another way, it is inconsistent to argue for the sanctity of the unborn fetus and then demonstrate little or no regard for living, breathing, vulnerable children who have been assaulted and abused.

A poem I composed within the past hour:

Hope on the Common Sidewalk

Each day, he donned a suitable face

to hide fierce sorrows in his heart.  His

black emotions cannibalized

his goodness and nourished

a hunger for low fare.

As each day transitioned from light to dark

He professed himself between marginal and inconsequential

He knew it was all because

in his callous, empty life

love and caring were only constructs

as remote as the moon.

He would never, he thought,

Experience either.

Then one day—just ahead on the common sidewalk

She wandered into his frightful arc

Without fear, without judgment

With a smile that lifted his downcast spirit

With a hello that cast warmth into his icy heart

She offered a sensual grace

And a radiance of sincerity that--

all at once --

made him see what

love and caring might be like

She was in his life for the seconds it took

For them to pass one other

She-- as unattainable as the stars--

For her, a mere friendly smile at a stranger-

(Well, why not?)

Never knowing that she had given the stranger

Enough of a spark to kindle the will to come back

                                          

                                                                                                 Augie Medina

                                                                                                 Copyright 2012

ELVIS PRESLEY--this is what I would call a prose poem containing a personal perspective.

“Listening to Elvis”

Elvis was a mama’s boy

With a sultry, sensuous voice

The simple shimmering chords off lead guitar

and the rumble of bass guitar

Provided spine-tingling intros and harmony for his songs

His rock-a-billy hits streamed across

AM stations

In the days when I played sandlot ball daily,

 fighting off the sweat and grime of

San Berdoo summers

Elvis would erupt like a volcano through the transistor radio

Sending a jolt of epinephrine up the spine

Tempting  juvenile instincts in the wrong direction

because his music was so provocative/ for the time/

white man sounding black/how cool is that?

His slow erotic songs set youthful minds ablaze

With longing for the unattainable/

”One night with you is all I’m praying for”

He sang of love at all costs (“Treat me like a fool, treat me mean and cruel, but love me”)

Sang of hotels for the lovelorn

and about the pangs of Suspicious Minds

Some things didn’t seem right:

Elvis from the waist up on Ed Sullivan?

His backup group-the Jordanaires/

the name too tepid to go with “Elvis the Pelvis”

And Vernon didn’t seem like an apt name/

for the father of The Pelvis

He was best was in the early years

When he was raw, thin and uncensored in spirit

Not so cool later on/ bloated, beaded and tasseled in Las Vegas

He was a true icon

And true icons don’t live out normal lives

But his legacy will stand-not Graceland -but his music

An Elvis song always sends me back to when I stood sweaty

and grimey, but happy/  with glove at the ready/

 out in left field/ in the oven of a San Berdoo July.

I wonder whether Bono and Kanye West will endure like that?

I would be nice if everyone could have their Elvis.

                                                                                                                Augie Medina

                                                                                                                June 2012

Canyoneering in Ventura County CA

One of the waterfalls we rappelled during a canyoneering outing down Tar Creek in Ventura County, CA July 2009.

Short Poem "Young Urban Love"

I enjoy writing poetry. Some of it is very short like the one below. I was driving by a city park and saw two young adults making out.



Young Urban Love

At the park against the red car door
Loin to loin
lips pressed & swirling
Ah, young love

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