Nutty Wintry Challenge

Recently, with Mother Nature's visit with that glistening non-sticking flaky snow, indicating that the cold is so brisk that it blows about like desert sand, I‘ve been observing and have been witness with much human angst the depleting destruction of my diligent and concerted efforts at keeping the bird feeders full of seed. These ten feeders, I have placed logistically about in my front and back yards. One is a wooden rustic looking feeder that resembles a doll house hangs from a limb of a tree. Four are manufactured feeders with a transparent midriff and a covered copper top, and the others of varying decorative makeup hanging from curved raw iron cast prongs stuck in the ground. A couple are filled with thistle to welcome smaller blue birds, some filled with multigrain seed that entice the cardinals, blue jays and blackbirds. They now sway about not from wind but from being recently and surreptitiously depleted by those consummate and insatiable, Davy Crockett tailed varmints that normally reside in arboreal domiciles. They have recently challenged me in battle to keeping the feeders full for the intended visitors being my aviary friends. It’s become a battle that has challenged me to become creative as to how to keep these demon representatives (some although irresistibly cute) of the ‘nut world’ from being able to climb up the shafts of the intended ominous looking black iron hangers. They have caused me to formulate a composition that must be develop secretly behind closed doors, beyond the vision of these quad-pedal terrestrials. A composition that I must continuously apply on the shafts of these iron hangers where my feeders hang. A slippery concaction that will remain untenable under all weather conditions where those talons from the varmints feet will be unable to grasp and climb. They will no longer be able to reach and deplete my feeders from the intended feathered friends and will have to gather their own food from their natural habitat. No longer will I peer through slightly ajar curtains or sneak a peak around an open window to try to catch these foes and force me to reach into and refer back to those darken primal acts let alone causing my neighbors to question my pounding upon my picture window in my morning robe that has on occasion opened which I wonder if that is the cause for them 'Davy Croquet hat looking tail wagging theives' to scatter and scurry in fear.

Absence of Pain

Gradually, quietly and most cautiously my morning step, my foot print, is once again showing positive signs of enthusiasm. Carefully I place my foot onto the floor arising from my bed after a joyous recognition that my sleep has been restful. The restless unmitigated pain that for so long had sharply assailed my legs and hips now wanes with welcome solace and soothing dreams. From the very moment of waking, a profound cognizance of the absence of pain, my morning ascends into a sense of creative stimuli that inspires a writ of poetic verse. I am cautious of this moment but I waste not to dwell upon how long it may last and inhale with lustful breath to fill my memory tank so that when the insidious pain may once again pierce this euphoric cloud the strength of this memory will help squash the excruciating pangs of pain.

I feared for so long what was presented to me of replacing my biogenetic hips with prosthetics as one of only two options in relieving the incarcerating pain. The other option was to accept self-medication for my remaining living years which could result in the deterioration of a functioning liver and kidneys and possibly an addiction that would slide me into a state of unpredictable intolerant personality changes toward all my relationships and affecting my lucidity and creativity. I feared not so much the high risk of the surgical procedures and the possibility that I may not have awakened from the artificially imposed sleep, for I fear not ’death’, but the fear of the premature cessation of an unsubstantiated life. Leaving without imparting upon this existence literary writ and memories that may inspire others to perpetuate the understanding that the value of life is to be ‘creative’ in lieu of a vacuous existence or one of destruction. The road I chose was in putting my life in the hands of surgeons that would replace a total pelvic construct and substitute my painful hips with prosthetics. This choice has imposed some sacrifices in my lifestyle which would have arisen anyway as an eventuality through aging. I am now highly appreciative of my choice that has provided me with awakenings in the mornings from my now comforting sleep. The wondrous absence of the nightmarish insufferable pain has won over the battle that had on occassion filled my thoughts with the desire to put an end to the unyielding pain via an otherwise portentous method.

Early Eyes Wide Open

My eyes open earlier more often now from that sleep,
The sleep we all must have at the end of our day.
Some may go to sleep earlier to get up earlier
And some may go to sleep later because their life style dictates.
My eyes now close at the end of the day on my wife’s schedule.
They open much earlier, though, because Life’s too short.

Dreams and thoughts gather quickly in my head
once my eye lids close to rest at the end of my day.
They assemble and replay events, sometimes strangely juxtaposed
from yesterdays or maybe those days yet to come
but they bring back to life the faces of those
that are no longer sharing this space on earth,
At least not in my waking state when my eyes are open in the day.

Lately, I’ve witnessed when my eyes wide open,
Someone from my past stroll by, had not seen them for quite sometime.
Their hair now shades of grey and their eyes gather in folds of skin,
Their walk or gait has slowed and their jeans and shirt are wrinkled,
where once not long ago they would be pressed with straight folded lines
and their collars also stiff with careful and honored pride.

This attention captured by my eyes wide open through the day,
for those that once again enter onto my pathway I’ve not seen for many a day,
Gives me pause to better understand the aging aches and pains upon my limbs,
the wrinkled brow my mirror refuses to reflect and quietly awakens also, with my day.
My eyes now open earlier in the morning, as I wish them to,
so that life does not pass by me as I sleep, my eyes wide open.

Reflection In The Mirror

I looked into the mirror the other day and saw my mother’s face.
Needs to apply more wrinkle cream, I‘d say.

The lower lid and underneath my eyes a darkened area has formed,
It won’t wash away, I think they’re here to stay.

I glare into the dark brown eyes staring back at me
from within this bathroom mirror,
Deep, deep, trying to find who really is in there.

I know what this external shell, now in disrepair looking back at me,
has gone through.
I stare at my reflection deep inside thinking I see those shadows
who’ve held my heart, whose hand held true.

Now this person inside the mirror leers back at me with a querying face
wondering as to why I reach into it’s past.
A small sparkling trickle slowly crawls out from the lower eye lid,
a solemn memory lurks in this tear drops’ shadow, cast.

Two or three days from now if I’m allowed to once again stare into this mirror
After the doctors repair my limbs and provide me with a new beginning,
I commit a promise to this reflecting face,
my love of family and friends will now and forever be my life’s embrace.

Witness and Appreciation

We all open our eyes after a respite sleep and when it’s done we all place our feet down on the ground and start our lumbering of another day.
I look into the faces that pass me by, all stare blankly into the light before them, struggling to find an easier way.

Sometimes when they drive by in that wheeled shelter providing them with a momentary escape from where they were just before.
I see in their eyes a cold isolation, a sense of life’s raw disarray, coming or going, a sense of longing no one can ignore.

We’re all born with this sense of elation to life’s embrace as we then saunter about through years, seemingly, with justification.
We act upon the choices presented us, day to day, as life’s vicissitudes bring us it’s joys and it’s daunting mortifications.

With all the ‘goodness’ life affords us in the sights and sounds, the tastes and the smells, the grandeur and beauty that surrounds,
We must give pause with wanton choice to share with those without the sight our eyes behold of pleasures who to us, life abounds.

I read, today, about two children who reside in a scorching sun and town baron of paved streets and arboreal display, no sounds of life on trees or the scampering of quad pedal friends, bombs and bullets have taken their place.
An arid dirt road runs between where their windows face each other and their little faces sneak a peek through closed curtains looking at each other. They’re not allowed to talk, let alone play, because they’re told the other worships a God that offends.

I saw, today, a moving picture of a little child who’s tiny hand grasps even a tinier one held within, barefooted they take their daily stroll toward their grocery store shared with wild dogs and flies that swarm and hover over their garbage mound of choice.

If I were but a tree my limbs would sprawl out reaching out
to touch the sunrays and only feel the rain drops fall upon me
from the clouds, then maybe, as a tree, I wouldn’t care of
the answers to the ‘why’ of life or shed the tears
that have made my facial cheeks raw and dry
and I would just satiate my thirst and display to nature my
verdant-crimson sachet dress against its azure canvas sky.

Alone

The days for me no longer are Sunday thru Saturday,
the days and nights now mesh into neither light or dark.
I cannot see outside with curtains closed, I sit alone.

The weeks and months now gather fast,
they taunt the years as they go past.
It seems that now in my waning years
I look forward to intermittent moments my pain disappears.

It seems that day after day while I sit alone,
Life goes on outside my door.
My wife departs for work like others, too,
and I try to keep my mind busy, something to do.

When my health and legs were healthy,
early in the mornings earlier than most,
I would spring out of bed to write, to run,
prepare to go to work, eat breakfast with my wife,
some bacon, eggs and toast.

I loved integrating with people through out the day.
Going to work meeting the days challenges then after
attending social and athletic activities,
exercising was so much fun at play.

I welcomed any and all opportunity
rising at a moments notice, living in spontaneity,
traveling with my wife enjoying her hand in mine.
Walking with youthful steps along rustic trails,
inhaling arboreal wafts observing Nature’s fold,
ending on a blanket with a glass of wine.

I look forward for the doctors to repair my other limb,
I will spring up and walk,
finding work, giving my life worth.
Once again I’ll go out and play with others,
night or day, it’s no fun sitting inside alone.

again

Through my eyes and in reflection
I see the tiny hands holding each other tight
As they walk barefoot to find shelter,
Mom holding in her arms my youngest brother,
A somber yet wondrous recollection.

I recall a piece of bread in my front pocket,
It must last me throughout the day.
Recalling my oldest brother, then ten,
As the oldest and strongest male
With his eyes open wide, his head looks left and right,
rotates all around like an owl on its perch,
Watching over us as we walked along a darken street.

Somehow Mother would find us warmth
Find us food, a loving home.
At that time we had no conception
How hard it was for her to clothe us
Or put shoes on our feet.
Little did we know then, because of this,
Some days she did not eat.

She fed us and clothed us
Through out our growing days
Never exposing us to her own pangs
Of how she worried not about tomorrow
But about our next meal
And how for us she’d care.

I cherished her in later years
Hugged and kissed her, wiped away her tears.
Now that she’s departed probably to heaven’s gate
I try to think of not my loss
But the fondness with her of so many years.

I Wish to be Around

To some, my years on earth may be many
but to me too few.
So much more to be done,
so many more steps
and trails to traverse.

There are songs a many
that I've yet to sing,
so many sounds and sights
mine eyes yet to capture.

The gentleness of hands
left to be gently grasped,
words from my heart
left untold.

Chilled mornings arising with my soul
awakening and awaiting for the days sharing
of hugs and kisses from loved ones,
accumulating anecdotal moments,
their laughter, their tears
their smiles, even their wiles,
for this, I wish to be around.

Soon, once again, I will be placed asleep,
a sharp edge will remove
the malady, the pain so long within
that has kept my eyes from closing at night
capturing the dreams, the embellished stories,
of what my life is and has yet to be.

If my time has come to sleep and awaken no more
in this mundane world, then hopefully,
other eyes will read my words,
Loved ones will embrace our fond memories
remembering of how our hearts beat as one.

Wrestling Wind and Maple

The wind it gusts and blows, with more intensity, it howls.
It grapples with this grandpa Maple now standing proudly
with its large baron limbs stoutly outstretched.
They wrestle, snapping sounds are heard, the Maples' smaller appendages fall.
An occasional large sound of cracking coming from its trunk and belly
as the grand large limbs stretch, battling its foe.
Its once multicolored orange-yellows, reds and oxblood leaf tassels of its garb
now carpets its base and a larger expanse on the yard
with that array of Fall display.

The westerly winds now race northeast and push the curtain of rain away
leaving a mirror of rainfall saturation soon used as a watery playground
as robins, blue jays and geese have happily found a wetland.
As the veil of thin sheathes of gray clouds meander slowly eastward
the shard like rays of the sun now pierce through,
all now glitters and glistens for all is freshly bathed.

The once portentous darkened skies that raced across as we awoke in morning rise
leaves us now with colors strewn about our roofs and lawns.
All kinds of feathered friends and scampering small terrestrials
awaken with excitement much like the fabled "Land of Oz".
They give the sounds of life rebirth in lieu of howling treachery
that 'Mother Nature' sometimes imports,
Yet through this transition of trepidation
comes the brilliance of a rainbow
manifesting life's' soulful appreciation.

My tetra loss

One of my tetras died yesterday. I found it floating in the fish tank.
Minutes before I was watching it swim about " excited"
because I had turned on their light and fed them.
Did it suffer with angst and pain?
Did the others lament in witness of its death?
Did it know prior to departure from this mundane
stage of the void that would replace life?

My query is; whether there's that emotional tug
of fear, of tears, of loss, loneliness of years
among other living entities,
as they appear in human beings?
Is our human empathy so forgotten
and the choice of ignorance so begotten,
to think that we humans are the only entities
with Love and suffering?

We manifest insensitivities toward our own humankind,
watching them in apathy as their children die.
We share not our food, our warmth or our clothes
we give not or our time, our love or our voice.
If so, why do we purport to care about other life forms
when they look in our eyes so deep,
their paw, their beak or their fin lay upon our hand so sweet,
they gently depart alone, 'quietly in the night'.

This interest at such grand philosophical scale
from the loss of a life form so small,
is comparative in cognizance,
of how we've not cared for our air;
How we've not cared for our seas;
How we've not cared for our land;
Where all other life forms exist.

One must remember, the words in a book of importance;
"...man will be judged by how they take care for the "least of us".
"Least of us" is concerning all forms of life that co-exist with us.

I'm sadden for my other tetras and their loss.

I cried last night

My head lay on the pillow last night
I felt a stream of tears rolling down
both sides of my face
My pillow became wet
I cried last night.

Thoughts scrambled through my mind
Of lonely days and being alone
expressed to me by a loved one
I felt human empathy for her
I cried last night

He fought with all his might
And overcame harrowing deteriorating pain
His body feeble now
Can barely raise his head to wake with the morning sun
But he defeated a tugging death
I cried last night

Assailing sorrow pervades her existence
Lost a small child to the hell of uncaring streets
When last she heard her child was fine
words last spoken still ring in her ears
Before the dark of night swallowed her
I cried last night

She sits on a blanket covered single sofa
a pillow supports the back of her shoulders
her head, slumped, reflects the light that stands behind her
Her dark scalp has been denuded of hair now many months
A nasal cannula wraps around her ears
an intravenous tube connects her arm with a machine that hums
the electric company threatening to shut off her power
I cried last night

Incessant pains throughout my body
The prosthetic hips and broken bones
And aging back no longer walks upright
Lying down gives little comfort
Although my lovely wife does, she lies beside me
I grunt and groan in lieu of snoring
I hope it does not wake her gentle sleep
I cried last night.

The Soul Rests

The spirit, the soul, timeless in it’s vest
Sits observing all the rest
While struggle and strife
Abates the existence from human form
Of its peaceful wake upon its nest.

The spirit resides in a different realm
Whilts its extrication from the human shell,
It stays without emotion or care
Existing and framed by human desire
To perpetuate the ‘good’ of the mundane
So until ‘death do us part‘, it sits there.

Mantra

When I look into someone else’s eyes
My selflessness grows
thoughts of personal concerns assuaged
I help wipe their tears and lift their soul.

I’ve made this choice within myself
To share, to give, which helps mend my soul
Somewhat of a selfish act, I know
But in return we both will grow

It motivates for me to act
Not to wait or wallow in apathy
My bodies thin no longer fat
My hearts muscle grows in energy

Something we all should do
Is give of our time
Look for those less fortunate
Lessen the worries in their mind

It is not just words I wish to mentor
My actions will replace the space
And attest to that which I speak
Through volunteerism and kindness
End my day with thoughts of Love and peace.

In my native language

Sometimes I wonder if my prose or poetry
were written in my native language,
Would it mean the same,
would the words still play the same strings
Upon the harp that resides in the heart?

Would the ears that hear the rhythms of my words
as I play them in the stanzas of a song,
could they sing along?

If I say, ‘mi Corazon, tus ojos brillan
como cuando miro a las estrellas
En el cielo de la noche‘, would you know
That I speak of how your eyes are as bright
As the stars at night?

If my soul could speak in the language of my Mother’s Mother
And recall the mountains that would sentry our little town,
Where as ‘tots’ we would chase the roosters and chickens
Barefooted in the dirt street as they would stand laughing
And clapping when we would fall tackling and only
Grasping the feathers of their wings.

The gaiety of their smiles and the tears
From their laughter still resound in the fondness
Of my memories, while my Mother shouts “ oye Nene,
cuidado, carga la! Necesito huevos”.

The heart strings of my memory in these words
cannot be played in translation but the tune of the song
Can certainly be heard in the melody that my eyes sing
Through the tears of joy as they rhythmically flow down,
Down my aged cheeks on my face.

“El mar tiene las perlas,
El cielo tiene las estrellas,
Pero, mi Corazon, mi Corazon,
Mi Corazon tiene amor!”

“The sea has its perils,
The Heavens its stars,
But my heart, my heart,
My heart has Love!”

by H. Heine

Child Lost

Such sadness when a child is lost so soon,
To life’s inimitable reality, the end.
Some say sadness should not define the
Truth of death but when it comes insidiously
To one so young with pain and suffering,
It leaves one with feelings that God
Does not Love his own creation.

We who awaken to the toils and travails
Of life’s burdensome assail, of waning youth
And upon the shoulders of the aging process,
compares little to the distraught felt
By a child’s feebly opening eyes
Not understanding why such anguished few years
Upon him, life’s availed.

Soon, though, arrives when I might feel
Much like that child that my years on earth
Have come to the end of my apportioned time.
The deterioration of my skin and bones
And excruciating manifest pain
And my eyelids not wanting to open
Because even in sunny days, within my heart and soul
Are covered in grey clouds and rain.

It is not that I am saying “woe is me”
But that here in this moment of my life
I am anguished of life’s end and like that child
Not understanding why like this it must end.
In pain and shared tears of sadness from loved ones
Why should we not of God’s presence
Feel mourn filled disdain?

I would gladly give some years of my life
To that child, to witness love, to witness happiness,
And yes to witness sadness delineating from what is joy.
If I could give the fondness of some memories
Within that child’s abode, I would smile in the face of death
That I had stolen from it’s sinister grasp
And given that child the gift of time.

Please know, I care

Silent for so long my lips have been
About all the things my eyes have seen
Through trails and paths my feet
Have so tenuously travailed.

My ears have heard such parlance
Such mean and hurtful words
Disdaining cries of prejudice
Toward my café colored skin.

If only those with scornful words
Would know of me what’s within
That my heart cares and
Shares with them Life’s pangs and wares.

And like myself others with not so fair of skin
Somewhere in history most have a common kin
Had made thee breakfast and washed thee clothes
And sang thee song for thine eyes to close.

Fear not such small and trivial things
For in the whole of life
Thy heart will someday sing
a song where words and melody
Will be from the same hymn

Eyes: Windows or Mirrors of the Soul?

When I look into the windows of their souls, my two kids, Jules and Jaz(miniature poodles), remind me of how life exists “in the moment”. One debates and holds complex and in depth discourse as to the “meaning” of life as to whether born of a perceived notion of and act from a supreme being (deity), or that all which exists are the results from spontaneous chaos evolving into what we call “life”. Whatever it may be, when I look into their eyes as both find warmth on my lap and they lap me with the soft wet of their tongues showing their appreciation for this moment, they show me that ‘Love’ resides within and is intrinsic 'in the moment' without corruption. 'In the moment'; judgment has not time to impart or inflict the damages of morals, politics or philosophies.

The eyes become but mirrors of that which surrounds and in which one resides. They reflect and share with others only that which one sees through these conduits of the universe without subjective tones. Recently we’ve witnessed the earths eyes and conduits viewing the expanse of the universe through the comparatively inconspicuous lenses of the Hubble telescope. It is ’awe’ inspiring that such creation abounds. Whether the origins are believed to have been incepted by a ‘deity’ or by other intellectually conceived means, the intrinsic make up of human nature seems to call out into this grand expanse of the universe with a Hope that other forms of intelligent life may exist and may have some saving answers to resolve our most profound human challenges.

I sense within myself emotions so deep for this introductory desire of Hope for some responses to my intellectual and human query. Hoping for answers to that which is most poignant to me, that being: Why is there such self inflicted Human pain and suffering upon each other? Why is there such pain and suffering sometimes genetically inherited at birth which is seemingly beyond human control? Why is ‘death‘ and the subsequent pangs of anguish from the sudden absence of that life form such a misunderstood necessity? Why are passions and emotions such a major player in our ‘Human‘ make up? The human characteristics of 'passion and emotion' along with the diminished capacity of our ‘intellect’ seem to coexist but victimizing each other as obstacles toward clarity.

We, human beings, struggle now just to survive and maintenance our ‘damaged‘ planet, our damaged souls. When now I peer into my ‘kids’ eyes, I wonder how their view can somehow transcend their perspective of calm and unconditional ’Love’ upon us. I sit here asking these questions but they do not as we now sit here listening to Bocelli, Mario Lanza, Groban, Mozart, Chopin, Schubert, Shimabukuro, Segovia etc., etc., etc..

Writing

Every day I try to listen and hear a story or see a situation that will inspire the deep roots of thought, creativity and incite conspicuous attempts at expressing myself in some form of a rhythmic rendition of words that might at the end sound and read, mellifuously. It is my wish that someday, somehow my melody of word structure will create a syntax that evokes emotion, sensitivity and most of all paint a picture, a true depiction of my heart.

The voice of Mother’s song every day when waking in her presence evoked this inherent desire for being enmeshed in music. Whether vocally or instrumentally, music was the string that ran through all of our hearts, my brothers and sister. None of us, unfortunately, pursued a discipline in music, although, my one brother and myself did expose our prodigious vocal chords for a small time frame as singers in a couple of local ’rock-n-roll’ bands.

Because of my not pursuing and perpetuating that gift that was inherited, my focus has turned to developing a semblance of ‘wordsmith’ discipline. This shall be my self apportioned exercise through my waning years even after my vocal chords can no longer squeeze a note in pitch and my ears can barely hear, I shall still be able to paint with finger strokes a picture or portrait some may appreciate.

Within is born this desire to sing
With words that form lyrics
And the syntax in a sentence, a melody.

Without a guitar or a piano
Just words written and spoken
In rhythm, sounds of song.

Sometimes ears will listen to a melody
Without pitch and or tone,
that is when words written or spoken
Shall evoke the music in one’s ears.

So when the age of years take away
The touch of fingers on ivory’s
Or flex on strings
They will still be able
to place word on writ.

Catharsis

My frustration seems to have grown directly resulting from the pain that is constant and prevalent in different parts of my body. Although I am cognizant of my accumulating years of aging, I still can’t accept that these pains are or should be present just because of aging. I know that they are manifesting themselves now because in my youth when I would injure myself I would not address the immediate need for the necessary medical attention. If I broke a bone or tore some ligature, I wouldn’t go have it examined and therefore my body part injured would heal on it’s own. That is, the pain would eventually subside and the damaged area would fuse into the deformed state relative to the injury. I have crooked thumbs, deformed and irregularly slanted big toe, a shoulder clavicle joint that is displaced with a promontory bone and a nose that has been broken sufficiently on both sides that it now sits almost cosmetically straight on my face, without deformity.

All these injuries are now antagonizing the state of peace that should be present in my retiring stage in life. Not retirement from life but just from the otherwise physical activity that was so integral in my more youthful years. The pains are to a level of distress that my comportment and desire for a daily positive experience and sharing it with others, is disrupted. Yes, I still enjoy the crimson rising sun and the many diverse sounds of nature at play but the irritation of the constant battle with this antithesis of calm and restful mindset is always present. My attempts at distraction through pain medication, through physical and mental activity, give me few moments of a pleasured respite. I have actually attempted to ask Jesus for some empathy. The anguish of this pain has risen to this level. There are moments where I battle with the thoughts of the ultimate resolve in extricating this pain, the thought of that conflict between an embattled, defeated body and the possibility of a supposed restful sleep.

A Moment

Sometimes I cry for no reason. The heart, my heart begins to beat faster. There’s that feeling where the hairs on my arms stand and I feel the breeze of air brush against the tips of the hair moving them back and forth. It’s because I see life as well as feel it. I smell it as well as hear it. I taste it as well as live it. When I see the humming birds fly into the centers of impatiens sucking their honey and hear the humming of the flutter of their wings, I am grateful to ’Mother Nature’ for the moment. When I smell the lilac and the roses, I thank her again whose breath causes the wind to blow that wondrous scent my way. When my heart throbs and beats seemingly with an echo coming from the heart beats of those I Love, indicates the depth and passion of how I Love.

Now that my years on earth have entered into the waning years of youth every morning waking is shared with the aging aches and pains. Grateful, I am, that the eyes have opened to witness another day of wonderment. If by chance the legs and feet no longer can run, they can walk and if the pain of hips and knees does not allow even this to be then vicariously through my heart and spirit I observe the spring of youth.


My mind sometimes wanders into nostalgia and reminiscence It runs and plays with the same resilience seemingly never aging. This is Life of which we all are witnesses. Some will fight, unyieldingly, against the aging process like choosing to paddle upstream in a fast running river which may delay its coming but eventually they will realize the devastation of it’s power. Some will ride the waves and feel the wind upon their face as they witness the offerings that Life will give them and they will not feel the full devastation of the aging journey. They will learn to appreciate it. This is the stream I wish to ride while observing upon it’s banks all the beauty nature has provided.

My epitaph

Do not disdain portrayals of love nor feign affection
Receive with open arms and hearts, Life's every emanations.

For loves they falter and tend to fade away
and hearts they get scorned and cry from day to day

Do not fold within like a flower sleeping
at the end of it's season

But always leave a little room
to start again!

A walk, long ago

We used to walk, holding hands, near the river when first we met. Soft voices with words of affection used to be exchanged. Rain sprinkles falling on my face and teasingly trickling tiny pricks of cool wet upon my bare arms left memories of this day. It’s been twenty years about, since this walk, this shared gentle stroll. We were experiencing the newly built river walk, The East Race, it’s been named. It was one of the early eighties modifications South Bend Indiana was attempting to construct in attempts to transition the deteriorating façade of the city. This water way was promoted as one of the premier training centers for the kayakers or canoeists to run the rapids for about a mile. It was also aesthetically pleasing to the ears and eyes. They had built it as part of the small waterfall dam built earlier in front of a glass face building, The Century Center, and posing as a sentry, a sculpture by Mark di Suvero, named ‘Keepers of the Fire‘.

I recall walking in the narrow pathway built as part of this river walk for people just like us two, at this moment, walking hand in hand appreciating each other along with natures vein, named after some ‘saint’, The St Joseph River. I’m sure his last name wasn’t ’river’. Interestingly, this river is only one of two rivers in the United States that flows north. It’s a tributary of the Mississippi that empties into Lake Michigan. For informational purposes only, the other one is The White River that runs through Indianapolis in Indiana.

I would be singing a song, not remembering all the words making them up as I sang. Roberta wouldn‘t know, she would pretend to enjoy my voice which was pretty good back then when I had great pitch. We’d stroll along listening in the background to the white capped rapids running like ants do, attempting to find all the new crevices and openings to this newly built pathway while on it’s seemingly unending sojourn. As we walked along this man-made trail we would come up to a stairwell where the waterfalls could be heard drowning the sounds of the river. Overlooking this was a restaurant, The East Race Emporium, where she and I shared a meal while looking out o’er the river. We both knew the underlying subtle nuances of a soon to develop relationship that has now encapsulated twenty-two of our years. This can be recaptured if we once again enter onto this river walk pathway and nostalgic moment in time. This may re-nourish the waning novelty and romanticism I, we, maybe had envisioned so many quickly passing years ago. Maybe all it would take would be one more stroll while holding hands!

Bare with me

When I bare my heart, my soul, when I remain quiet while my ears and eyes remain open, do I become stronger, do I become wiser, does my temporal existence become richer and bear fruit?

If so, does my growth contribute, in minutiae, to the expansion of the 'universe' or does it dissipate into the abstract and relatively, irrelevant?

Does Love, does thought, does music, do the passions and appreciation of the aesthetics fill a space or a void in the realm of 'the all'?

That which we believe to be "good" or "truth", does it have a special place?

Will these questions of mine be heard?

I'm Not Alone

When the wind howls louder than before
Are my ears the only one’s that hear
As it whistles through the tiny branches and it’s leaves
Does the song and tune it brings
into my ears, the only one’s who hear the words?

When I raise my eyes to view the sky
The clouds form figurines that dance in beat
With the tempo of the song brought by the wind.

No, I think not, for my feathered friends
They too, soar in rhythm and their wings
Also in tempo with the wind.

I find a smile comes o’er my face
Knowing I am not alone
As the space between us
Is fondly shared.

The Search We Share

For most of my life I have searched for that slightest glitter of light that might shine upon the pathway that leads me onto the steps of a doorway, when open, is the entryway where Love resides. I have long before found some semblances of its existence through stories told, from poems read, music and songs that have played the strings of my heart.

If a child when born is cuddled by its mother and a kiss is felt upon it’s brow by the father, the breath of love is fortuitously bread into the nature of its being. From this the child is born and perpetuates upon its own the same. Sometimes, a child is born but little of its father or mother is known, the eyes then capture little of loves embrace. When the warmth of mother’s breast is never felt nor the arms of fathers strength, so then, unbeknownst to that child, begins a journey searching for that warmth, for that embrace. Amidst life’s challenges, in darken caverns and sometimes blinded by the sunny days bringing about feigned emotions, ceaseless is the search throughout the many bends of life’s path, for that fabled warmth of love’s embrace.

The melody to the song of love one can only hum, for until one finds and learns the words, the song cannot be sung. Once the words evince from lips, then one can sing that song a fortuitous child shares at birth of a fathers presence and the suckling of mother‘s breast. It will know the tune, share the words and sing along with others, throughout this mundane sojourn.
Love bears its face around many turns, sometimes benign and sometimes feigned, it entices those who stare into its eyes capturing but a moments glean. It hovers o‘er innocence of a denuded soul, one who’s wandering desire is forced to embrace it’s presence not knowing of it’s fabled hold and walks along side the stories told.

I’ve witnessed this most recently, pleasantly and most poignantly, it’s presence before me in an irony and for so long the paradox of its absence is now disclosed. Fearless of Life’s partner, Death, I remanded the breath of my life unto another’s hands, as I did only one time before. This a chance to correct a malady attained from the many trails I have walked and now taken a wear, a toll upon my limbs that once in youthful times could jump high and race freely like antelope and deer. Before the sleep was place upon my eyes they gazed upon the presence of my two brothers and my wife, standing quietus before me, that internal sense of longing and sought Love was sated. At that moment, as the metaphor rings true, the door flung open, the words of the song became clear, into loves eyes I unabashedly leered, sang the song whose words within me I now carry dear. At last, Mothers love and that of life is born within me never to be sought again because of absence.

Sleep came fast but soon awakened, refreshed, a breath of new life. I search no more.

Uncertainty

Uncertain
　
A shadow casts upon the light and a darkness follows me throughout the day from where and why I do not know. I try to understand the contrast of the dark and light but all that I can see, is vague and indiscernible. This world of which I exist in gives calm and calamity equal time. The cries and smiles although seemingly opposites sometimes are both expressing joy. Then there’s cries of pain and sadness which gives rise to my confusion. Those with much want more while those with little only wish for little. The irony is that, more, for those with much is comparatively little and those with little, little is much. Those with much care little about those with little and those with little have much in suffering and pain. Does this give reason for the shadow that is cast upon the light to what seemingly is a world whose creation of a deity is to make what’s wrong, right or a world where all is justified through chaos?

My Pain Now Sleeps

My Pain Now Sleeps

Outside the window
Cold the day
Falling sparsely, snowflakes
Look for a place to land

A sharp unceasing pain
rides on my hip, the right one.
The left now ceases from the same,
now a prosthesis.

This pain seemingly recedes
When my lower back
commands attention.

Never did I think at fifty eight
My day would be challenged
To walk, to sit,
Cursing, socks and shoe laces.

Thoughts descend within my brain
How to end the constant pain.
Overriding guilt, though, of my complaints
Others, so much more distress to claim.

Mother’s tears for sons and daughters.
Dead soldiers
Unknown civilian lie unburied
In a land of hot sun and sand.

Father’s anguish of job loss
No longer ‘warmth of “home”
His homeless children.

Lands afar, toddlers search in mounds
Garbage and decay
flies hover but never land.

Now, shards of sun rays pierce the grey
Through window pane
Landed snow flakes now glisten and
The constant pain upon my body,
Now in in comparison and reflection,
is quieted, desist of complain.

My Tree

My tree

When first I sat before this tree
It’s trunk was no wider than my arm;
That was when I was three.

Today I drove by to visit it
And it had sprawled so large
It’s trunk now makes two of me.

The house whose steps I knew intimately
No longer stands
A parking lot for the school
The nun who once taught me
Has been outlived by this tree.

Driving down the street where
little bare feet once had raced,
And a loving maternal call hovered o’er,
“Marcos, time to come eat”.

The voices on this street, now long gone
Vietnam’s Hell stole a couple;
Two, ascended to motorcycle heaven
One to a knife held by a friend

Some souls may also still come
Visit this old tree
From where and how far
Who knows, not me.

One day after my birthday, two years ago
The soft maternal voice had quieted
The call once hovering o’er this street,
“Marcos, time to come eat”.

I think on my birthday
Not too many days from now
April twenty fifth
I shall once again come
And visit this old tree.

Breath of thought

Breath of thought
　
Fifty seven years in this space and time of mine, I’ve now walked and grazed upon this earth’s terrain. I cherish the gifts of smell and touch, the sounds of Nature’s song and heartfelt renderings. These vicissitudes of the shared travels with love of family and friends I hope will have not been for naught. By this I mean, that as my mind travels along pathways that reach beyond the mere mundane, in a constant journey of inquiry as to whether all this that exists will have relative value in the realm of what may exist beyond, in perpetuity. Will this mortal sojourn, this path of inquiry and my choices of consumption via word and script bring me closer to the comprehension of the esoteric, to wisdom, to the truth? Availing myself of human desire , entails by my nature, the perpetuation of self and cognizance there of. It is a desire to travel beyond the temporal and my constant pull upon the strings on the wisdom of the wise, is my attempts to breach the secrets of the spirits that ride upon the wings of the creator. Will my desire at least unveil the face whereby I may look upon the windows of the eyes and wander into the depth and breath of truth and what may be life’s abode.

My wife's fiftieth Birthday

July 31, 2009
My Love, my wife, my friend,

There’s a softness, a gentle tender warmth that emits from her smile. Her eyes of powder blue with lashes that sway upward like a whitecap ocean tide just before it wanes onto its sandy destination. Knowing, what seemed not too long ago these well preserved and softly molded high cheeks, now have given birth to the subtleness yet surreptitious “crows feet”. They peer along side the edges on the corners of her eyes. It speaks, with poignancy, time that’s passed yet how so quietly it has touched upon her brow, the years. I stand here staring at the face who has shared so many fond moments in my life. Without her presence I wouldn’t have been so introspective which unfolds and defines the value of my life and providing so many pleasurable moments. When one feels good with love in their heart the eyes see more lucidly, the ears gather the “yin” synchrony of natures sounds and the “yang’ of silence, the pleasures of taste and touch become so keen which gives rise to a joyous smile like a Sun and which attracts those that wish to enjoy its rays. This is what my wife gives me today on her half century birthday.

Lydia (Officially my niece only two years ago)

It was her big green hazels eyes, lashes curling upward never ending.
She was quietly observing the adult faces staring back at her.
Evincing was a charming smile seducing all who would dare to look at her.
Rarely crying as most toddlers do, I stare at those
green hazels.

Now a gentle smile precedes a slender face gently framed
by straight brown locks of hair.
Her once baby fat has transitioned into a curvaceous womanly form.
Her smile still seduces all who stare and her verve never ceases as she
Prances about like fawn at play.

We now visit and see each other in family functions or
when her schooling allows her a brief reprieve.
Her energy and smile still seduces and entices
those whose pangs of life has reduced their smiles to frowns,
she turns them back around.

Recently she peered back into our lives
Visiting us, staying in our abode and
Sharing the morning wake up coffee and sweet roles.
She cheers us with her youthful anecdotes
with a smile and and that spring of step.

She now leaves to resume her college experience.
To play, laugh and cry with roommates, assembling more anecdotes,
Sharing and giggling about last nights gathering with boy ‘friends’
And lamenting upon yesterdays exam.

The radiance of her smile, the prancing spring in her step,
those hazel green eyes with lashes that curl toward the sky,
Hopefully will never leave her.

My smile comes in watching her, a daughter my wife and I
never had, become a gorgeous and wonderful woman.