Sample Poems by George Uba

Suga at the Pool Hall

At the pool hall the boys pretend
penalty is equidistant from regret.
The books may argue this and that.
But the balls know better,
clicking approval across the spent felt,
drawing mirth while smoke keeps watch.

Suga’s khakis assume their wiseguy stance,
his shirt’s in commotion, full of silk
and self-regard.  Six bits say
one or more of you will drop from sight,
mortally obedient to a law of significance
only your partners respect.  So

what?  is a good response when
your life’s scheme’s black as an 8-ball,
black and slick as a tide of hair,
or when it’s your round heart
forever teetering on the brink.
Still, it’s coming, that day

when some punk reappears,
toting a grudge with live ammunition.
He’s coming.  And beneath his jacket,
inside a corner of that cheap vest,
or angled off some slick side pocket,
he’ll be holding the last laugh.

The Burden of Happiness

America, hold my place in line.
Just now I saw my grandfather's ghost
working produce in a yaoya on Jefferson.
Outside, the P-car rattles its dusty sermon
along the mind's provincial tracks.

Old man who made the apples squeak,
who put lettuce leaves on notice,
gave carrots erections to this day,

I want to ask your opinion
of navel oranges, laxatives,  
and why heaven's trail looks so faint.
Is it just the smudge of progress?
Or something less scientific?

About humiliation.
How many courses did they serve,
the uniformed agents of the state?
If longevity shortened is levity,
why is history so grim
a mortician?

My idea is to unturn stones
and communicate in zen.
Why should converts have all the advantage?
Let's break the back of unending toil
you paid the god-of-getting-ahead.  Love
was not a word you used, and so what?  
Sweat was sufficient.
And so was fortitude.

If we children were cause, as Mother says,
I forgive her anyway.
I strew salt on the past
to preserve its injury,
to sharpen its sting.

And I accept the burden of happiness
on this the tenth day of the fifth month
of the rest of my stay in this visible empire of ash.
            Whosoever is crushed by sacrifice,
I am telling you, America,
you do not see my heartbreaking ghost.   

Family Album

To the one that solved the riddle, thanks.

This is me at seven in the wool shorts and jacket.
My mother is so pretty and does not look mad
at anyone.  Bryan boasts the odd bow tie,
the first of countless accessories
            calculated to set him apart

and keep him there.  Laura sits unnoticed
in the grip of someone's arm
because she is my sister and a girl.  
My shorts are navy and they itch.  

Maybe that's why my eyes blink when the flash pops.
Or maybe there's something I don't care to see.

And the one, the one with the large hands,
with his mouth shut,
must be come hell or high water my dad.