Children, don’t do what I’ve done

Children, don’t do what I’ve done
So crippled inside, thought that I
–in a normal life– could run
in the insanity of their rat race
Soon I would learn, I had no place
To call mine.

Father planted his seed
The ole one night stand
Denied me then,
Denied me again
Forty years later.
What kind of a man?

My mother had me
But She gave it all to them
She had me before I could see
That I needed her
No Mama to call my own

Then they took me as theirs
These strangers
And I –in their strange world–
A substitute for what they lost
So blind to their own needs
No one saw this child’s loss
How easily I could
emotionally bleed.

Mama, take me back
I still need you.
Papa acknowledge me
I am you, You are me. 

Please don’t say, Goodbye!
Somehow I’ll find you
Papa in me
Mama in my heart.


© 2012 The Dabeshim Estate


The Song of Trees.

Man might hear
Rustling of leaves
When it is the
Song of Trees

In summer man takes shade beneath her umbrella
In autumn his theft is hidden.
Then man journeys upon her colored palette

But she lays down her leaves as though she bleeds
Yet a gift to the ground as the colors once were
Gifts from the Sun of Righteousness.

Another season passed.
The trees stand stark and bare
An annual ascetic feat
As their branchs plays the winds, a hymn

The witness of mankind is heard in
The Song of Trees.

2012 © The Dabeshim Estate

Safer Than The Status Quo

When I was little
I trusted everyone.
When I could talk
They didn’t like what I said.
But I spoke of
What I saw.
But I saw those whom
I had trusted.
When I could understand
I understood the hurt.
The abandonment by those bigger than me.
The rejection of those I thought to admire.
It is lonely to be alone,
But it is safer than the status quo.

2012 © The Dabeshim Estate


The Strings of Life

There once was a day
The winds were cold, darkness creped as far
As the inside, It had its say
We did as others wished
Serving them on a golden dish.
We knew no other way.
Like marionettes we lived,
Upon the Strings of Life.
Giving no thought at all.

For our own freedom, our own call.
Now after so many years
I awoke to see that the power to live is
In you and in me.
We could be
Light as the air
With the wind through your hair

Free to move, here and there.
There and here, everywhere.
Now that we are no longer tied to the loom.
We can go from room to room.
We are Free at last,
no more strings of life to hold us down,
making us like clowns

The past is the in the past
None of that matter anymore
Yesterday is out the door
Let’s make the most of now
Since time doesn’t last

We made our own many mistakes
Sacrificed the best of ourselves at the stake
Yet we are free now to move every which way
To say what we want to say
no more strings of life to tie us down
making us look just  like clowns

We are as light as the air
With the wind through your hair
We have no more cares
That will hold us and keep us,
From ourselves,
like marionettes up on the shelves.

Oh you must believe me!
Oh can you see me?
Can you hear this song I sing?
It brings me here to you!

The strings of life have all disappeared
The strife we lived, sheared and blown away
We are free now to move every which way
To say what we want to say
no more strings of life to tie us down
lifting us high above the ground

Oh come with me
And Fly! You will see
The music is playing, the choir is saying
We are Light as the air
The wind through your hair
Free to move, here and there.
There and here, everywhere.
With no more ties
Gone are The Strings of Life.


© 2012 Dabeshim

First draft inspired while asleep




Love’s Betrayal

How do I describe the life of a lonely man? A man –in what seems to him at  54—in his waning years. But is it loneliness?  Is not loneliness an ever aching isolation felt from within? One can be in a crowd or with good company and experience the pangs of loneliness.  When he is with his sister, Catherine, all feels right for him. When browsing in the mall he watches the many others with warm interest. Many hours in a day, many days in a month may pass without the torture of loneliness.  Yet he is nevertheless alone and the pain of being alone is so very real.  Could it be, having once tasted love, now being denied love is experienced much like a bad after taste?  One is reminded of the original experience then suddenly it turns to an acidic taste that burns the heart.  Could this be what feels like Love’s betrayal?  Such is my life!

 Why did my mother give me away at birth?  Years later when we faced one another as mother and son she said to me, “I was looking for love. I met this man while on a street corner. I was only 17 then.  He had taken me to a house on Mann Street where inside there were many toys on the floor; he said it was his brother’s house. He made love to me. When he was done he led me out of the house and I never saw him again.  He said he had just signed up for military service. The Korean War you know. I never saw him again.”

 But I neither asked how she met my father nor how she became pregnant with me. Pressing her further she said, “My father, your grandfather…” As if handing me some gift of inheritance that she and her siblings had no choice but to experience. “My father, your grandfather, drank and did not let me keep you.”  I still can recall so clearly above all else what my mother had said, “I was looking for love…I never saw him again.” Was this her experience of Love’s betrayal?  Having grown up in the home of an alcoholic father, yes, my maternal grandfather, in many ways was an experience of betrayed love. In the latter case, betrayed by a substance. In the former, by a young man’s want for sex in the face of what might become his demise in war.

 “Since I could not keep you, we knew that our cousin Leroy and his wife had wanted a child but she just had a hysterectomy and could not have one of her own. So we arranged that they would raise you as their own.  They even made me promise never to show any maternal feelings towards you whenever I might be around you.” Continued my mother about how I came to be raised by kin.

 [to be continued]

 © 2012 Dabeshim

Four Short Poems


As all children are
As gathered leaves fly away
So is the state of my soul.


Equaled to my dark childhood
The days pass without
Equaled days that I am loved


Weight in Life

The frost creeps upon us all
Willows bend in-kind
Winter can be depressing.


In Transition

Old Man
Looks to for what
New Man
Wishes not


all of the above © Dabeshim





Spoiled Ghee

“I don’t know why I am feeling so anxious about this?  It’s not like I never ran away before.  This won’t be the first time. What should I take with me? Not so much I guess, since I’ll be given saffron robes to wear once I’m settled in. How am I going to get to the bus station?  Her car!  Yeah, I’ll take her car.  First I’ll write a note so they don’t think it was stolen. Always the considerate one I am, even to those who don’t deserve it. Well, it’s almost twelve thirty a.m.  I should get moving.”

In the dark and shadows of my parent’s house I gather my things.  The queen is sunk deep in her bed.  Still I must creep by ever so quietly.  Grab the car keys. Shh! don’t let them jingle!  Close the door ever so gently so that the only unavoidable noise is the click of the dead bolt locking.  Now for the car. I should try not making any unnecessary noises while getting in the car.  Bad enough there’s nothing I can do about the sound of the engine once I start the ignition. There’s no need to disturb the next door neighbors either.  My mother’s brown and gold-tone 1975 Ford Granada Monarch Ghia smoothly rolls out into the empty street.  From reverse I shift my life forward and towards the Greyhound Bus terminal on Erie Boulevard.  It is as if the entire city thought to stay home, to stay off the streets, allowing me smooth sailing.  Now where should I park the queen’s new chariot so it’s fairly safe and easy to find?  Yeah, here, under this lamp post. The light will be on it all night and it’ll be obvious to them when my father brings the queen to retrieve it.

“One ticket, one way to Boston Mass, please!”  The teller –in what looks like a cage—in the almost abandoned bus terminal complies with my request.  “Gee, that felt grown up!” I say to myself while watching myself.  Who am I?  It’s like I am my parent watching me, but without interfering. Well…it’s probably me being overly cautious.  I don’t feel all that safe sitting here alone.  Oh shit, I must have watched too much TV!  “Boston, now boarding at gate 3” the intercom announces at a ridiculously loud volume for as few people that are here in the middle of the night.  Hearing the call to board I hurry as though I am about to miss the bus’ departure.  These bus steps are so high up and far apart from one another its like climbing up into the bus.  I find a seat alone and by a window.  I don’t care if I can be seen from the outside.  The authorities don’t care much about a seventeen year old.  They’ve got more important things to do than chasing after a “juvi” by the pleading of some crazy Cuban lady and her husband of servitude.

[insert here the Three Days Experience in Boston]

The Śri Śri Rādhā Kṛṣṇa Temple is full of what appears to me as mostly white middle and upper middle class young adults who have sworn off everything attached to their parents and their isolated upbringing.  This of course would include everything Catholic whether one was a Catholic or not.  I entered this temple to the Hindu god and His consort with a continued affection for Jesus Christ and Saint Francis of Assisi. My “franciscanism” had only been recently adopted as influenced by the charismatic and hip Catholic priest at my high school back home. Aum …that would be Father Francis Pompei of Oswego. Ya’know, I see no contradiction or exclusivity in such a belief coupled with my new Hindu practices.  But those who have chosen –or were chosen– to speak to me have made it clear that Jesus and Francis were not welcomed here.  If I did not abandon them soon I too would no longer be welcomed here. Now, I know St. Francis was the quintessential animal lover and environmentalist.  But in my world there are limits!  I mean, one must be practical in order to care for the surroundings and stay personally healthy!  So what’s the deal with the thousands, literally thousands of roaches invading the laundry hamper, the bathroom and the kitchen?  Have these upper class white kids totally lost themselves or have they been reincarnated as Hindus when they died to their former lifestyle?

I, I, I jus, I just can’t stand it here anymore!, as I hold back the tears of what seemed as self-abandonment.  “Ah, excuse me? May I use the phone? I don’t think I belong here. I need to call for a ride. Thank you!” (Sigh!) 555-HO3-1907 I dialed the telephone.

“Hel-O?” quietly the Spaniard voice inquired. What am I to do? The queen answered. Of course Dad’s at work. She’s only going to yell and scream at me.  But I really need to get out of this place.

“Yeah, Mom? It’s me.”  Holding back tears my voice cracked. “Mom, I’m in Boston and I want to come home! I’m at 72 Commonwealth Ave in Boston, the Hari Krishna Temple. Yes. Okay. See you.”  That was it!  No yelling, no screaming, no belittling me.  She said she was sorry but for what I don’t know.  Like I died and I had just given instructions on how she could resurrect me.  What seemed faster than Greyhound in eight hours my parents were at the door of the ISKCON temple.  Anticipating their arrival I’m already packed.  The only memento I am allowed is the śikhā surrounded by my bald head.

 I must not be the only Krishna flunky to fail the endurance test seeing that the phone was readily available. Oh sure, someone tried to encourage me to stay but his encouragement seemed more symbolic showing mainly that he put forth the effort without ever being convincing as to why I ought to stay to serve Lord Kṛṣṇa.  “Oh! Thanks!”  I was just informed that “my ride” is here.

As I descend the stairs from this old Boston row house I look down in dreadful anticipation.  The queen wasn’t herself on the phone I wonder how she will be now, again in person.  Say, since I came all this way maybe she’s repented from all her nastiness?  I can see the Granada temporarily parked at the curb in front of the Kṛṣṇa Temple.  She was seated in the front passenger seat staring straight ahead as though trying not to look in my direction.  As my father returns to his driver’s seat I have five more steps to descend.  Then as if with confidence I firmly open the back door and take my place in her car.  But once there I begin to feel uneasy from the silence and I sink into the back seat.  It took her only a few row houses distance from my Boston home for her to begin barraging me with her insults and resentments reminding me how worthless I am. Ah, home sweet fucking home!

© Dabeshim