Category: NaPoWriMo

Homo Haiku…

Alas, a lot has happened these last few weeks, that have prevented me from continuing to actively participate in National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short).

From major Well-Being issues, to being massively busy with both my professional Psychic Practice, and my position of employment on the side, to, well, other things.

Nonetheless, I wanted to conclude my National Poetry Writing Month by engaging in Gay Male-themed Haiku, or, as I AM cleverly referring to it, “Homo Haiku.”

And here we go…


Hi, Adam and Steve

Are you here to show us how

Men have sex with men?

Daddy and his boy

Fucking, sucking, licking, more

Bonded, sex and love.


Gay Men marrying

With trials and tribulations

Success is assured.


And there you have it.

Now, I did some research and learned (or, rather, relearned) that Haiku lines rarely rhyme.  This is a good thing for me!

Before I close, I wish to acknowledge my newest blog follower, “missymichaels452.”  Thank you for all the wonderful ways you honor who you are and what you do.  May you receive great insight and great PRIDE from following “This Gay Man’s Life…”

And for those of you already following or reading “This Gay Man’s Life…” thank you for honoring who you are and what you do, and thank you so much for honoring who I AM and what I do, too.visualhaiku


NaPoWriMo, Day 10: “Prayer,” by Francisco X. Alarcón

Good morning, everyone, and a Happy Saturday and Day of Saturn (Planet of Divine Discipline) to all of you!  How are you today?

Well, yesterday I did not post my National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short) posts for yesterday, Friday, April 10, 2015, so I AM doing a bit of catch up today.

I Lovingly present to all of you, “Prayer,” by Francisco X. Alarcón, which is another wonderful poem I found by visiting

Here we go…



by Francisco X. Alarcón

Translated by Francisco Aragón


I want a god

as my accomplice

who spends nights

in houses

of ill repute

and gets up late

on Saturdays


a god

who whistles

through the streets

and trembles

before the lips

of his lover


a god

who waits in line

at the entrance

of movie houses

and likes to drink

café au lait


a god

who spits

blood from

tuberculosis and

doesn’t even have

enough for bus fare


a god



by the billy club

of a policeman

at a demonstration


a god

who pisses

out of fear

before the flaring


of torture


a god

who hurts

to the last

bone and

bites the air

in pain


a jobless god

a striking god

a hungry god

a fugitive god

an exiled god

an enraged god


a god

who longs

from jail

for a change

in the order

of things


I want a

more godlike



This is from a collection entitled From the Other Side of Night/Del otro lado de la noche, published by University of Arizona Press, Copyright 2002.

The poet who penned "Prayer."
The poet who penned “Prayer.”

NaPoWriMo, Day 9: “Gay,” by RF…

I found this poem, via a search, using the Google.



by RF

If I wasn’t gay would people care?

Would they actually let me breathe the same air?

Could I actually go to school,

without people being so cruel?

Could I live in a world with no hate?

Maybe people would love me if I was straight.

It’s not as easy as people think.

I can’t just go to a shrink.

I didn’t choose to be this way.

You really think I’d want to be gay?

I don’t want attention,

I don’t want fame.

This isn’t some sort of game.

I am who I am and that’s okay.

Most people don’t see it that way.

I only wish I could be the same.

To have a wedding and it not be shamed.

I want to have kids and not be judged.

I don’t want my reputation smudged.

But apparently I’m different now.

Sick in the head somehow.

Therapy and shock treatment for something that can’t be fixed.

How did I get put into this mix?

Toxic and tragic,

that’s my life.

It’s like I was stabbed in the back with a knife.

I’m gay,

what’s wrong with that?

I get treated like some rat.

Using your holy books and your religion.

To fight against something that makes no difference.

I want to be human not a punching bag.

Always getting called a fag.

Let that word have power and it gets to you.

But that words as good as whatever is stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

I love being this way.

I don’t care what you say.


For more poems, please feel free to visit:


Thank you, and good night.tumblr_kuadyoKmXC1qawxujo1_500RAINBOW FLAG AND COLOR MEANINGS




NaPoWriMo, Day 8: “Please,” by Sappho…

Lately, figures from the Ancient Greek Cosmology have been making Their Presence known in my life.

And with that, I honorably transcribe this poem from the Divine Daughter of Lesbos, Sappho, entitled “Please.”



Come back to me, Gongyla, here tonight,

You, my rose, with your Lydian lyre.

There hovers forever around you delight:

A beauty desired.


Even your garment plunders my eyes.

I am enchanted: I who once

Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess,

Whom I now beseech


Never to let this lose me grace

But rather bring you back to me:

Amongst all mortal women the one

I most which to see.

–Translated by Paul Roche


For some more of the late and great Sappho’s poetry, feel free to visit:

For now, thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.

Good night.

Thanks to for helping me find this image.
Thanks to for helping me find this image.

NaPoWriMo, Day 7: “My Voice,” by Rafael Campo…

Once again, the Poetry Foundation’s “LGBTQ Pride Poems” has helped me for tonight’s post, in honor of National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short).

This one is not only written by a Gay Man, but by a Cuban Gay Man (which means I have two things in common with the poet).

And here it is:


My Voice,

by Rafael Campo

To cure myself of wanting Cuban songs,

I wrote a Cuban song about the need

For people to suppress their fantasies,

Especially unhealthy ones.  The song

Began by making reference to the sea,

Because the sea is like a need so great

And deep it never can be swallowed.  Then

The song explores some common myths

But the Cuban people and their folklore:

The story of a little Carib boy

Mistakenly abandoned by the sea;

The legend of a bird who wanted song

So desperately he gave up flight; a queen

Whose strength was greater than a rival king’s.

The song goes one about morality,

How deep it is, how many creatures need

Its nourishment, how beautiful it is

To need.  The song is ending now, because

I cannot bear to hear it any longer.

I call this song of needful love my voice.


I just finished reading Mr. Campo’s bio, and all I can say is ‘WOW!”

Thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.

And good night!

A photo of Mr. Rafael Campo, from the Poetry Foundation’s Website.




NaPoWriMo, Day 6: “April Rain Song,” by Langston Hughes…

I AM very pleased to share that one of my favorite people on the Planet and fellow Bloggers, “Shell,” wrote a lovely blog post today, in honor of National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short).

And so, without further ado, here is “April Rain Song,” by (the late and great) Langston Hughes:


Let the rain kiss you

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops

Let the rain sing you a lullaby

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk

The rain makes running pools in a gutter

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night

And I love the rain.


Offhand, I do not know if Shell knows that Langston Hughes was a Gay Man, but I found it interesting that the image that accompanies her post features a rainbow umbrella!

Please feel free to visit the original post (and please, no hating on the fact that Shell is a Blogspot Blogger!), by visiting:

Have a great night, and may the rain kiss you to sleep and bless you with Love and Light and Life.langston-hughes-with-hat-on

NaPoWriMo, Day 5: “A History of Sexual Preference,” by Robin Becker…

I found this poem on the Poetry Foundation’s “LGBTQ’s Pride Poems” page of their Website.

I especially love the fact that one of my favorite cities–Philadelphia–is the setting for the poem.

And here we go…


A History of Sexual Preference

By Robin Becker

We are walking our very public attraction
through eighteenth-century Philadelphia.
I am simultaneously butch girlfriend
and suburban child on a school trip,
Independence Hall, 1775, home
to the Second Continental Congress.
Although she is wearing her leather jacket,
although we have made love for the first time
in a hotel room on Rittenhouse Square,
I am preparing my teenage escape from Philadelphia,
from Elfreth’s Alley, the oldest continuously occupied
residential street in the nation,
from Carpenters’ Hall, from Congress Hall,
from Graff House where the young Thomas
Jefferson lived, summer of 1776. In my starched shirt
and waistcoat, in my leggings and buckled shoes,
in postmodern drag, as a young eighteenth-century statesman,
I am seventeen and tired of fighting for freedom
and the rights of men. I am already dreaming of Boston—
city of women, demonstrations, and revolution
on a grand and personal scale.
                                                       Then the maître d’
is pulling out our chairs for brunch, we have the
surprised look of people who have been kissing
and now find themselves dressed and dining
in a Locust Street townhouse turned café,
who do not know one another very well, who continue
with optimism to pursue relationship. Eternity
may simply be our mortal default mechanism
set on hope despite all evidence. In this mood,
I roll up my shirtsleeves and she touches my elbow.
I refuse the seedy view from the hotel window.
I picture instead their silver inkstands,
the hoopskirt factory on Arch Street,
the Wireworks, their eighteenth-century herb gardens,
their nineteenth-century row houses restored
with period door knockers.
Step outside.
We have been deeded the largest landscaped space
within a city anywhere in the world. In Fairmount Park,
on horseback, among the ancient ginkgoes, oaks, persimmons,
and magnolias, we are seventeen and imperishable, cutting classes
May of our senior year. And I am happy as the young
Tom Jefferson, unbuttoning my collar, imagining his power,
considering my healthy body, how I might use it in the service
of the country of my pleasure.
Feel free to visit:
for more wonderful poetry.
Thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.  And good night.Robin-becker