Category Archives: Poetry

Those Years That Went Down

Photograph by Jose Padua
Sometimes when
I’m walking
in the old neighborhood with
my wife, my daughter, my son
and we pass by
all the sharp corners
and tight spaces
where daytime drunks
still gather,
no longer hidden by
the ornament
of night,
I remember
those years that
went down
like whiskey
and the beauty
of the B-side of
a hit single,
played over and over
on the juke box
in my favorite dive bar
until everyone
gets really annoyed,
lays down their mugs
their tumblers
their heavy shot glassess—
those sacred, precise
instruments of drinking–
as the smoky air
begins to feel liquid.
So glad
I made it out
into the open air,
so grateful
for solid blue
sky.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

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With the Morning Moon Shining Down Upon Me through These Thick Walls

Photograph by Jose Padua
This morning I pounded
a nail into the wall
using a book
by Franz Kafka.
The nail went in easily
but like a bad translation
of German into English
the sound of book
hitting nail
created a tone
somewhat different from
that of hammer hitting nail.
I sat down,
glanced at the calender
hanging halfway up
the dining room wall,
and decided it wasn’t
high enough
as I slowly drank my
morning coffee
and felt a considerable
but insignificant ache
in my bones.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Notes on the Crepuscular Effects of the Music of Thelonious Monk on the Noise of White Supremacy

Photgraph by Jose Padua
This afternoon waiting
for his big sister
to get out
from school
my six year old son
asks me to play
“Ruby, My Dear”
over and over again
and because it’s
the music of Thelonious Monk
I don’t hesitate or try
to persuade him
that it’s time to listen
to something else.
Sometimes it takes
the revelatory light
of an entire summer’s
day to sustain you.
Other times even
the little glimmers
of late autumn light
are more than
enough to take you
where you need
to go.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Self-Portrait as a Whale in a Hotel Room in York, Pennsylvania

Photograph by Jose Padua
They don’t usually let whales stay in hotel rooms
in these parts, but today they’re making an exception.
Be proud of that fact, just as you are proud of your
great girth and impressive though more practical height.
Remember, if love is a foreign object falling to Earth
from some unknown corner of outer space, you are
the creature it is falling for, which is to say that love,
as always is a miracle and at the same time something
we should always encourage. And remember, too, they
don’t sell plankton or even krill in the vending machines
here, which means you are going to have to settle for
potato chips if you’re lucky, or that strange substance
they call Andy Capp’s Hot Fries if you’re not. If
anyone tries to capture you, play your whale music,
let your voice, which is strange and eerie to the ears
of humans, echo throughout the halls of the hotel, then
slip out the back door, flop your way down the parking lot
back to you car, and drive immediately to Lancaster,
where they may appreciate your presence, though
of course in America today, nothing is guaranteed.
If worse comes to worst, as they say, remember
that you are a mammal and not, as they also say,
a fish out of water. In other words, pull the car over
to the side of the road. Put your emergency lights on,
check your map or your smart phone for the nearest
hospital. If anyone approaches your vehicle as you wait,
roll down your window, be polite, step out if they ask you,
and breathe calmly, lightly, steadily. Remember that
hidden amongst weeds and wreckage, broken lights
and busted pavement, are opportunities. Remember
it’s better to be lucky than beautiful. Remember that
which is scattered over what survives in long, neat
rows. Be thick where everyone else has grown thin.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Days and Nights in the City Where I First Opened My Eyes

Photograph by Jose Padua
My mother worked nights at home, daytime too,
in the house, at the sewing machine, making dresses
for women who could afford to have dresses made
for them. We bought our clothes at the store, though
sometimes she would sew something special for us–
a vest, a Barong Tagalog made out of sheer white
fabric which I never wore because I thought it would
make me look even less American than I already did
with what the kids at school sometimes called my
Chinese Checkers eyes. I liked jeans and tee shirts,
sneakers, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and
I’d never think of playing The Reycard Duet with
Tony Maiquez and his Ukelele Gang singing
“Oh! Baby” which was wild and raw and—though
I didn’t know the word for it at the time—badass.
My father took care of the ambassador’s residence,
made sure water ran through every pipe, and lights
went on in every big, fancy bedroom and in the
grand dining room where every piece of furniture
was hand-carved with ivory inlays and where the
long narrow halls were big enough for us to live in.
At nights he served drinks and appetizers to the class
of people who could drink strong drinks and
eat gourmet meals, hoping each night for good tips
and maybe good leftovers which he could bring
home to us—strawberries in custard in a miniature
pie shell, flaky black and white pastries that came in
layers that fell apart like the times as we bit into them,
staying up a little later than we were supposed to,
waiting for our treats, but mostly for him, which
was when my mom would turn the sewing machine
off for the night and come into the fluorescent light
of the kitchen, where we’d sit, the sweet taste on
our tongues interrupting every stray question and
tidy answer, our eyes getting heavier, happy, content
with long tiring days ending in long bright nights.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

On These Passing Hours of Butterflies and Dangerous Living


In my darker hours I like to imagine a knitting club
where no one is allowed to smile. I don’t knit, but
this is how my mind works: I think of tigers, consider
our struggle, raise my hand as if asking a question
when I’m not. We sit in a circle, our needles held
like dangerous weapons which at any moment may explode,
fire chunks of lead at suspicious looking strangers, or pierce
the flexed muscle and flesh of our club members. This
is why we don’t wear wool but instead cover ourselves
in body armor. As we knit we look at each other with eyes
like burning cigarettes, so determined to live our dreams.
If we had money we would speak of our investment portfolios,
but since we have none we remain silent. We are ice falling
from mountains, moons tearing away from old orbits.
When we have finished a scarf or a sweater, socks or
a tricolor dickey we do not declare “At last!” or “There,
I am done, look at this!” That wouldn’t be right, and
that’s not what this knitting circle is about. In the old days
we would run around the avenues and never take time
to plan our escape, never contemplate the next move
once we’d binded off our stitches. But the times have changed.
There are windows to be opened, fresh air to be let in.
And when the beautiful noises of the outside world
enter the confines of our inner space, we stretch our arms
and stand in the moment’s fleet gleamings, remembering
that we know how to dance. Our movements are fast as a
purl stitch, and we shine like metal in the late morning light.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

If I Could Get High or Something

Photograph by Jose Padua
If I could get high
the way I used to,
I’d talk faster
than the speed of sound
to complete strangers,
tell them the deepest shit I know,
arcane knowledge,
incredible legends,
words from long lost texts,
stories only people
who are total insiders
would know or
even understand. Then,
when I’m done
and the people
have all gone home,
gone to sleep,
whatever,
I’ll make myself
a sandwich,
because when everything
has been said and done,
the only sensible thing
one can do
is to stop, eat, drink,
whatever,
and think about
the future
while staring straight ahead
into the distance.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

For the City and These Long Decades Spent Wandering

Photograph by Jose Padua
After dinner one evening my six year old son declares
“Trump is a barbarian” from out of nowhere or anywhere
I can immediately recall not that speaking the truth ever
requires a prompt, instance, or specific rules of condition
with truth being, like clear air, blue water, or green earth,
its own reason for being. Later my daughter, or as my
son says, his big sister, asks for help in using the almost
thirty-year old turntable on my twenty-five year old stereo
so she can listen to a song from Neil Young’s forty-three
year old LP, On the Beach, in beautiful, black analog sound,
and I have to think about it, have to figure it out because
I don’t use it that often myself though once I started thinking
it all came back like an after-midnight walk down Broadway
through the widening space of a New York City summer
which despite being many drinks, a few decades, and several
presidents ago is not the sort of thing one forgets. And what
lifts me from weariness and dread are the small things, not
the grand recollections and gestures but the brief but glowing
movements, the laying down of a hand on a table, the darting
of the eyes while reading a book. The history of the world
is the history of your outrage versus mine, your fist against
my tongue, my speech against your fist, because what is
mine will always be mine and forever forged into my blood
like the taste of my true love’s lips. This doesn’t mean
I won’t offer you food when you’re hungry and doesn’t
mean we can’t walk forward and change tenses, but your
sad story will need a new way of being told and recognize
that we are now walking through flooded streets and that
all the buildings that once towered over us have collapsed.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Blood and Guts in High School, the Neighborhood, My Country, and the World

Jose Padua, early to mid 70s
Somehow I kept forgetting how my
high school friend sitting behind me
in the back while I rode shotgun in
my other friend’s car thought it would
be funny to take a length of rope that
was on the floor next to him then reach up
with it, throw it around my neck, and pull
like in that scene in the Godfather when
Luca Brasi meets his early end. Maybe
he was mad that I was up front and he
wasn’t, maybe he was mad I got into school
on a scholarship and he didn’t, and he was
the guy who out of the blue one afternoon
said there was nothing I could ever do that
would make me “look like a human being.”
So I reached around behind me, grabbed
his arm and yanked it, pushed the rope
away from my neck and said “what the
fuck is wrong with you?” because I was
young and wanted to think the best of
people and things and still trusted any-
one my school, my neighborhood, my
country, and the world said was my friend.

-Jose Padua

Party Invitation for the Age of Unnatural Disasters

Photograph by Jose Padua
If life were like
a perfume commercial
I’d be spending
even more time
than I already do
gazing pensively
into the distance
the top buttons
of my shirt undone
my lips parted slightly
as if I am about to
speak but can’t
because it takes
all the energy I have
all the ability
and precious mental space
just to breathe and
remember what the world
has done to us
and to consider
all the shit
that’s about to
happen.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua