My Space

If I gathered all the things I cherish
That which would be my treasure
 would be only those things that
made my heart and mind what
they are now

My memories, my reveries, my dreams
The moments that touched me
That touched my hand,
That touched my head
That touched my heart

Objects and possessions would not
take space in my trove
Easily, they've accumulated
having momentary memories
some more significant than others
now they gather dust

In reflection, moments of sadness
seem to have lasted longer
than those of fondness
those moments of joy and Love
have left greater imprint though
but that’s by choice

Forward as I walk
my eyes are focused
so that they can see
not distracted by memories
My arms and heart
reach out to that which
now comes before me

Love and music fill
my backpack

Gentle the Sun

The sun was gentle today
The heat was comfortable
Clouds they soared slowly
Carefree and quietly

My friends seemed joyful
And playful bringing their friends
The feed I placed on their perches
Were consumed hardily

One whose wing had been injured
hobbled on the ground to the seed
Dispersed from the enthusiasts above
Eating without attention
of its injury from the others
I wish I could fix its wing

I can only observe knowing I cannot fix everything
My sorrow and anguish is acceptable
because there’s pain and suffering all around
but it must not come from angst
Because I can’t correct and fix ‘it’.

The warmth of It’s golden face now
disappearing upon the horizon bed
As gently and quietly as it played
Throughout the day it now gives way
with glowing inspiration that it’s time to rest
They, my friends, also cast their winged silhouettes
onto the canvas of a diminishing orange glow
Except for one, away, away they fly
for tomorrow is another day

Arizona, America?

We cast a shadow in the dark
the sun no longer wants to shine upon us
We as guardians of this world
purportedly with intelligence
and ‘humanity’ yet we treat each other
without empathy, without kindness
A country claiming to be inherent in
Liberty, freedom, fairness and equality
I guess these wonderful characteristics applies
only to the ‘ruling party’and if you look like us,
speak our language, act like us, think like us,
don’t ask anything of us, stay in your own land
then we’ll let you visit our country.

Should these words be inscribed at the base
of Lady Liberty in lieu of:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to
breathe free, the wretched refuse
of your teaming shore.
Send these, the homeless,
Tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp
beside the golden door."
E. Lazarus

I was born in Mexico brought here
by a woman, mother, that was given a passage
to residency and citizenship at no small
expense of trials and tribulations
Assailed by hateful, hurtful slings of arrows
we were a little darker in pigment, spoke a different language.
There was ‘kindness’ by some in spite of the campaign
at that time to ‘return the wetbacks’(circa 1957).
All is made easier when we dehumanize
those which we wish to discard or eliminate
through pejorative and dehumanizing names of race,
nationality and even society's, aged and infirmed.
I guess it’s called ’America’.

Parar, oler las rosas

Mine eyes still pleasure in young spring flowers
La musica que toca de joventud
My feet still dance in pace
The heart still patters with lustful desire
My hands can still gently caress
Why is life portrayed as only belonging
to those whose face is without aging folds

When the scent of estrogen abounds
within the world of mine surrounds
those shallow youth filled thoughts
still stimulate my male desires
but with the knowledge of age accrues
Que mas profundo la vida es

Now I awaken ‘ parar, a las rosas oler’
I listen to the pebbles crunching underneath my feet
as I walk along life’s path
still pleasure in those things of life
that traditionally one is told to surrender
yet still living, now vicariously,
through some of my youthful past

Robbi

The nascence of the morning with the sounds of
an aviary choir would dictate that I stand before
my sliding glass patio door to observe my feathered friend
whose wings of café brown with a chest of rusty orange hue
would splash about as his chest would expand with pride
and he would spread to preen then ruffle
while perched on the edge of the lower tier of the fountain
resting from his refreshing morning dip
he’d routinely take in this fountain
I had logistically placed it for my enjoyment
to hear the sound of water falling and the view
of the sparkle from the falling streams reflecting the
teasing rays of the morning Sun and at night
the glistening smile of the Moon
Yet, my friend, Robbie, would in the mornings
seem to boast that this fountain was built for him
Others would swoop near and perch on the patio fence
but would only bob their heads back and forth sideways watching
as he, unabashed, would flaunt his proud bathing techniques
Profoundly sadden, I found him this morning
laying at the foot of ‘his’ fountain without breath and song
No longer will the sparkle of the falling stream of water
be interrupted by the playful splash of his proud expanding chest
but I am glad to have shared his mornings and his fountain

"tan duro, la vida"

Visited my brother today
Little have I slept tonight
thinking of his swollen eye lids
giving away the pain, the sorrow
for now they see life’s waning days

He sleeps even less than myself
His eyes remain open when others sleep
Recently his eyes didn’t wake
and his wife, with tearful eyes
did violently, his body shake

Sometimes his body forgets to awaken
It grapples every day with infirmed pain
His digestive track no longer in his control
medicinals prescribed are experimental
his liver, kidneys and white blood cells
have forgotten to function in balance

His eyes now stare back at me
Much the same that Mother’s did
When for many days and years
She would speak the words
“ tan duro, la vida “
distractions of youth did not allow
my ears to hear and understand

Now that my own body has taken life’s blows
with prosthetic hips and unkempt broken bones
my ears manicured from hair now grown
Staring into his eyes if I dare
Mother’s words I now compare
diurnal tug at life’s hairline strings
Upon my now also swollen eyes
Reflecting my little sleep

Painted Coat

Every moment every day, I paint myself with a different color coat so when one washes off while walking through the storms of life a different coat evinces from underneath and awaits a redress to the color scheme of my portrait on the canvas of life.

Sometimes I cover myself in a color to mesh with the day, the night.
The contrast of color I choose on a day when it’s grey allows me to play in the rain without being seen. It allows me to escape into the quiet while all around me still exists as I can see them while they cannot see me. Of my choice and depending where and with whom I’m around determines what color coat of paint I wear.

If I’m amidst Natures wondrous wares, the majestic stone mountains who’s aged caverns are filled with running rivers and streams seemingly the fallen sweat from the escarpments that rise so high they pierce the cotton swollen eyes of the skies which then cause their tears to fall and replenish the Sun dried tributaries and like a Bird of paradise, I dance and frolic within the Earth’s arboreal hair line left unscathed by man‘s hand.

Like deer in the forest and the diminutive terrestrials that scatter when strange feet walk onto their abode and birds shriek loudly flapping their wings wildly, feathers floating behind in air as they make their escape, I too with my multi-colored painted coats separate my self from the undesirable intrusion of sometimes Man’s nefarious intent.

From moment to moment and day to day, I can remove them and leave them behind without regret. I know when my Life ends into that transition of a new beginning it will come with greater ease as I discard what once I hoard of mundane worth removing the shelter of my coats.

Stop and Smell the Lilies

Walked past this lily that caught my eye
Tall light green stalk
bright sunrise yellow pedals sprawled wide
like arms reaching for the sky
it was screaming at me
‘look at me’ with my freckles
So I stopped stood in front of it
bent forward as if I was going to consume it’s scent
but I only wanted to get a closer look
Bristly fibered fingers rise from the center
wearing green and brown tiny stamen caps
They proudly stand soldierly in display
without emotion they stand erect
waiting for their diurnal command
from the next wind that blows
causing their caps to fall off slowly down
onto the ground, brown black soil below it’s rooted feet
There they rest in silence until the following
annual seasonal ascent
when once again we’ll meet

I’m glad I stopped to ‘smell the lilies’

pass it on

As my eyes are resting closed
that incandescent lamp that hangs
from the darken sky of night
tugs like the strings of a puppeteer
with high tide that ebbs onto the shore
and it’s vanity reflects upon the seas

But as I sleep the tug of life’s angst
and gravity also tugs upon my being
for the strings of time never sleep
upon my night time dreams
and day time reveries
lines and folds on my face will show
that were not there the day before

a harkened spirit arises with the sun
and with the sounds of avian play
I inhale the breath of a new day
and I choose to share a smile
with those who care

I do not have the strings
like the moon upon the seas
nor the sun’s fingers that grow the trees
but a kind word or a smile from me
will move someone’s heart or soul
to share with someone else
and pass it on and on and on …

Apology

my apologies to the people of Vietnam
I was told that ‘freedom’ and ‘democracy’
was in jeopardy. I didn’t know at the time
that ‘freedom’ and ‘democracy’
could be relative terms and conditions
my ignorance and weakened youthful state
allowed my being drafted into ‘the killing fields’
Asian faces of families and babies
on sleepless nights still gather in my mind
my protest too late as the light of Truth evinced

my apologies to the Iraq people
I was told that you had the means
to destroy the world and now
I’m being told your holding hands with
the Afghanistan’s Taliban ready to destroy
‘Our world’ and you are in ’cahoots’ with
the Palestinians ready to destroy ‘the promise land’
sorry for imposing ‘our world’ of ‘right’
and the morals of our chosen religion

sorry to the children lost to ‘Katrina’
and how we sat and watched and watched
as the television made the real, surreal
and that we didn’t come to your rescue
maybe the different color skin faces holding
those signs of ‘Help‘ atop your rooftops
made it seem you were in a different land
and now you Haitian people whose livelihoods
we and WTO politically destroyed because you wouldn’t
accept our ‘democracy’ our ‘oligarchic capitalism’
and now Mother Nature has finished the job
shaking your homes into the ground
fortuitously our new leader and his wife
has recognized this history and have
tried to make this right

sorry Nashville but your on your own to try
and salvage your music, your instruments, your history
as we asked the same of New Orleans
for our human resources have been depleted
all our volunteers are busy trying to wash
the oil off our feathered friends
and doing CPR on the sea faring inhabitants
direly consuming that ‘black gold’ released in the Gulf
while our government holds hands with oil wealthy friends
and our politicians chant the anthem ‘…drill baby drill’

Religion of Love

Can the conspiracy of Love
Lift one from the base of momentary despair?

Can it’s periphery
Evoke a change in direction of vision?

Does it’s core
Have the strength to pull one out of a depth of the abyss?

Is the light of it’s aura
Sufficient to illuminate the darkness of doubt and disbelief?

Is Love God?

Man's Whim

the sun is hovering full today
it’s been hiding by clouds filled with rain
giving credence that sadness and melancholy
seems to come more readily
when days are covered in grey.

self indulgent sadness abounds
when grey surrounds ironically
into sheltered isolation we run
away from what descends upon us
seemingly the antithesis of our Being

as the sun screams in full rapture
a sense of void still fills my soul
from the cries of pain coming from the Gulf
from Palestine, from anguished mothers
whose hearts are lost in Afghanistan

a carelessness, a selfishness, insensitivity,
apathy, a pomposity of our worth
over other life forms, our universal shortsightedness
and when I sit and ponder this
the sun still shines behind grey covered days
and the plants still grow
all other living creatures still play
sing their praises to the day
and live life uncaring of Man’s whim

Forgotten Face

The hallowed grounds of family
are born of common blood
We’ve shared the early days where fights
were common to get attention
when too many brothers and sisters
filled the rooms too small

We shared common tears for those we knew
as uncles, aunts and mother’s friends
faces we’d so often see
would no longer be, too young to understand
confused by the thing called ’death’.

As time now replaces the rooms too small
when brothers and sisters that once shared that space
and now they’ve all grown and gone away
Mother now sits alone in that space
now large when once too small
and that once shared place has been forgotten
when for mother’s attention we'd begin our day’s race

We gather no longer and rarely communicate
as if our past and our blood has been lost
no longer the presence of that embrace
from our days of that once filled space
With our own mundane taxing ways
as our own kids now awaken for school
we prepare ourselves for our workday race

We banter now as adults do
no longer the petty fights about socks or shoes
but about the serious emotional dread
of what has been dishonestly disseminated about me
more importantly about mother’s health infirmed in bed

Now when our fights are through
no longer do we come together
how as children we once did
forgetting about whose sock or whose shoe
we no longer forget or forgive
our adult pride disallows this
and we don't call let alone embrace
forgotten is that hallowed ground of ‘family’
lost is that shared space and it’s common face

moment alone

When all seemingly is asleep
And night has replaced the day
When sounds of crickets, cicadas and bull frogs
Fill the darken air
Replacing the avian sounds
As the sun descends
I sit alone wondering
do they whom I walked with today
Shared my words and smiles
feel the presence of the void
In my absence at the end of the day

Do the oceans cease to roar
Amidst the howling winds
That cause rolling waves
To run ashore
And the sea dwellers
Descend to the black and cold
While I sit here all alone

These tears they fall down
Without a sound
For no one hears them
They’ve crested dry upon my cheeks
As my eyes have now closed
I’ve cried myself to sleep
In my reveries and dreams
No longer am I alone

Will you share my day

Every morning that I wake
I reflect upon the dreams
that were just present in my head
I reflect upon what I was
the day before
What significance was my existence
Who did I encounter
and how did I touch them
I sat out on my patio
sharing the moment with
the water fountain that trickles down
as the sound of water falling
enhances my cognizance and consciousness

My day will once again begin
and who shall I walk with and talk to
Will my words beckon
someone else to share my thoughts
Will their eyes look upon what mine see
Will their eyes see the same colors the same aesthetics
Will the waft of smells I capture
as I walk the day
be the same for someone else
Will they share the sense of joy
and will their eyes also see
the poignancy of someone else’s day

When I hold my lover’s hand
will she feel my warmth
and hear my heart palpitate
As we stroll together through the day
observing the wind sway the maples and the oaks
listen to the mellifluous sounds
of the songs sung by our avian friends
And when we stop to touch each other’s lips
will she inhale the breath of my spirit
and for the rest of the day
will she ‘walk in my shoes’
and make the existence of my day, full

Thought of the Day

When we walk by people and smile
Are they affected even if they don’t see your smile?
Your intentions were ‘good’
Yet they didn’t capture your intent.
Did their spirit capture it, though?

Its like when walking in a trail
Where arboreal and nature’s botanical gardens exist
And many other animal beings reside,
If the breeze that’s caused from your stride moves a leaf
Or peddle of a wild flower,
If a perched winged feathered friend
calls out a warning of your approach
Has not your presence affected?

If in fact your presence affects
Then your choice is one of
How shall I affect;

With a smile or
a presence of a frown?

With one of caring and sharing
Or one of disparaging ?

With a helping reach
Or an empty hand?

Will your walk be strident
Or will you stop to talk?

The effects of your choice
In return, yourself, affect.

My Day

I tumble about every day
You’d think that at my age
there should be more clarity
Days would be unscathed by forlorn
yet as the days experience unfolds
reality sets in with human angst
Ennui is my personal battle
and I try so hard
sometimes with unappreciated pretense
to make someone, during the day, smile or laugh
Amidst this tedium, I welcome the happy wagging
of tails from my two mini-poodles
as they peer up at me with their soulful eyes
awaiting the reciprocity
of my required incessant petting
and sincere love
This makes my day
and now we await
to enter into this moment of joy
my wife, my lover, my friend, their mother

My Theme

It is hard to let go of the things from youth
and when one does due to aging restrictions
the unappreciated moments of the time
the fond memories, linger

My dreams and reveries flow unrestricted of those things
The memories of when I ran faster than I really did
Had Herculean strength beyond my capabilities
Climbed with youthful ease escarpments above my reach

With much pleasure I do remember
when my voice could ring like morning birds who sing
with vocals of angelic themes
inspired from a domicile of surrounding music
sung by Mother’s early morning waking songs

This exercise of vocals has not waned
In her passing the morning’s waking still remain
I can hear her languish in that Spanish refrain
with the passion of a Latina Mother’s heart
that also taught me how to Love

Ah, ‘si‘, and of that thing called ’love’
She taught me how to share
with my mind, my spirit, my heart
not just with my eyes or hands
those things restricted, she’d say,
the ways and limitations of Man’s

I leave behind those youthful fares
the sometimes unappreciated wares
a history that has made me who I am
retaining the things that do not age
of which I can perpetuate,
the loving and the care

Words; no Apologies

Sometimes I write without editing my words
I gather them unsolicited and spontaneously,
they come together with the whimsy of a child’s
format and expression, simple and not rhyming
neither in meter or timing
but I have found that sometimes the innocence
of this method is purer and truer
My thoughts are expressed
like a daisy or dandelion that has interrupted
one’s manicured and pristine yard
Like a neighbor’s dog that barks late at night
or a tiny twig that finds a home between
the naked toes when wearing sandals in a trail
or a pebble finds its way
as cool sand sifts on naked feet
while strolling in a warm day
on an ocean beach

I wish these words to express with pureness
like when the patter or beat of my heart
first felt an indulging desire for another,
a lust of a young boy becoming a man
when first noticing a woman’s curves
The wondrous flow of her hair
her eyes, her nose upon an effeminate face,
the titillating flair of her luscious lips and smile
down to her soft exposed shoulders that compose
the setting for her lovely bosoms or breasts,
a daunting yet quietus desire of every man

I wish these words to express a spontaneity
without apologies for not abiding
or encumbered by imposing editing
to a set of rules and ‘bylaws’ on writ
an innocent surprise like the expressed widened eyes
of a child’s first vision
to the miracle of a ’Mariposa’

Smell don't Pluck

I walk amidst the dandelions
the lavender the roses and the mint
smelling their wondrous fragrance
observing the pureness of their
purples, reds, whites and yellows
without separating them from their stems

Must one pluck the flower from it’s root
and selfishly not allow others
to also observe its beauty from where it stands
amidst and from Mother Nature’s hands
to be free to grow and play in the breeze
and show of it’s colorful display
upon the back ground of a verdant dress
where upon the bumble bee can nest
and pollinates another batch
for others to walk amidst
and also share its beauty
its arrayed caress

Is not Love much like this botanical display
it can be appreciated as a soulful heart
that pervades through dusks and dawns
enraptured by the gleeful eyes
and also shared through tears forlorn
it cannot be plucked and horded
never depleted or stolen from its nest
it is shared amidst the hearts
there is love enough for all