lover's nocturnal breath

 

as the dawn now rests and the eyes of the morning

open, an aviary choir rejoices in the freshness
and too, your tangerine colored cheeks lying next
to me, eyes that smile matches those of the new day   

you walk into the air where i have breathed

where my whispers were meant for the wind
to carry them onto the ripples of the seas
where keels and hulls have sailed long before

your smile convinces me that your soul understands

of how time through ages does not erase the words
by two lovers sharing whispers of how their hearts
will forever ride as white caps o're the waves

and the moon with nocturnal fingers raises the tide

to quench the thirst of night time sponges in the sky
only to dispense onto the arid land the tears
of love and lovers who long before and forever will
ride the breathe of lunar winds

 

 

Lately

my tears have flowed so readily

                             Lately
the membrane where they are held has
been pricked by the demon of distraught
                             Lately
my heart no longer embraces the joy
of the day, the moment
                              Lately
the hand of verve has released me
from its grasp
                              Lately
my eyes no longer wish to look
without the prism of tears
                              Lately
my hands no longer want to reach
and touch the silk of hair
                               Lately
no longer wish to feel the soft and sinuous
small of back
                               Lately
desire to kiss between your toes as you
squirm to pull away
                               Lately
touch first with my finger tips then
my lips to yours
                               Lately
if i can no longer tenderly wrap my arms
around you like i wish and the desires of lust
between two game filled  lovers not be tended
then all of love shall be in the dark of
                              Lately  

    

dance, america ?

i am anguished

        angry within

      disenchanted
         disheartened
            disgusted
 

                  observing the incomprehensible

daily, ugly words are spoken and written
             so much ignorance   
         unmitigating human insensitivity
                   
         why so much uncaring
                  so many hungry
                           so many hurting
 

                       we choose to kill

          rather than save life
 
    choose to hate
                 rather than understand

          contaminate rivers, oceans

                        fill the air with poison
                             both with smog and words 

if we wish to correct or try to speak up

          we are scolded:

   “…if you don’t like this country then leave,
…we like the mire we live in, we like our guns,
    …the government is our enemy so we don’t vote
      …we are a country of rules and laws
…if I don’t like you, you’re not following my rules,
      and your breaking my laws
              i must use my gun or prisons i built
…i’m a Christian because i go to church for an hour on Sundays
       …everybody in america should be a Christian?
   ..Jews and Muslims should convert, force all those other
                  fake religions to self deport
        then we'd all get along with our own kind,
           ...then we'd have our own President not a Kenyan 

america, can we learn a different dance, ok? 



* for Marian @imaginary garden with real toads: 

love on father's day

ears that have never heard a father’s voice

arms that have never been lifted onto dads lap
never felt that strong embrace
and a heart who’s never felt a father’s love

we cry in obscure corners, in isolated dark spaces

wonder how it must be
to walk hand in hand with our idol
looking up to a face of security of strength

could I have been mentored

directed in a different loving path,
gone fishing, shared a hammock in the
back yard while reading together,
strolled in the park talking about a man’s journey

a dad could have corrected my misdirection,

maybe disciplining me but constructively
not with unforgetable punitive unrestraint or
a clenched fist and angry destructive voice
unleashed by a male figure known
only by cboice on a first name basis

happy father’s day to the responsible dads

he who drove his kids to school
who came home from a long days work
then lovingly lifted his child high up 
sharing that caring paternal smile

to those abandoned children who

didn’t know their 'dad' and
those that did yet never shared
a common space or caring momentts
now only left with a distrust of love:

 

love has no role, no gender,

it is not selective and is selfless.
stand in front of a mirror, smile at him,
smile at her, you are loved by the
face looking back at you

happy father’s day, mamasita

cherub on a weed

at the height of my incalculable query

of life, of me existing in it
in my quiet noise as I stand alone
i hear a violin play a diminuendo
then a soft bow lined with hair of mane
brings me back

i see a bird is perched in a lowly weed
in a field covered in a mist of gray

it sees me looking and lifts into its nest
of where it resides, the air, the sky,
it gathers the wind underneath its wings
and flies on

i stand there breathless, in awe

why can’t i do that, I ask
then i recall,  i think i have
sometimes in my dreams by night
sometimes in my reverie in day

then I see this winged cherub

return to that lowly grass weed
where it had perched upon before
this time it sits looking at me
tilts its head, its crown,
in this moment, i exist   
  

*inspired by photographs from a white space: one brave soul awakes

   and her reference to Olafur Amalds “Faun”

light and dark of day

dread the sun and the day

people will see me in my disarray
at least in the dark of night
some may trip over me and most
just see me and they just
walk away.

i curl up, cuddle with my blanket
and all that i own in my plastic bag
my shoes a shirt and socks kept dry.
when my stomach rumbles loud
people sneer at me with words "disgusting".
when the sun brings the light, i sit up,
i don’t lie down during the day because
people kick me, throw their trash
on top of me thinking they're throwing
it away. i guess it's because i use a trash
bag as a cover to keep me dry.

i don’t want to be like this but

i now can’t get up because my army
fatigues, my pants, are now crusted on me.
the stench of relieving myself.
(had to do this, in the bush, in Nam)
they retain the water and a digested roll 
a woman threw down while walking by. 
she was scolded by ‘the man’…don’t
give them anything you’re just enabling
their ways. i think she was just throwing
it away but thanks
 
shared half of this roll with a young mother
and her young daughter who hide behind
a trash bin. mother doesn’t speak english
daughter doesn't speak just looks down.
they're too proud to be seen as homeless.
mom's afraid someone will take her child
away, separate them and deport her

wish i could get up without disgrace,
without offending anyone around.

i would try to find a faucet some place,
freshen and clean my face,
greet the sun as it brings the day
 
where i used to sleep before,
a river flowed nearby. it was a paradise.
it had grass and a bush to sleep in,
a tree to lean against, it felt of home.
a place where the young mother and
her todler would welcome and appreciate. 
i can’t recall where it is, though.

it’s hard to find my way in the dark.
my eyes no longer young, my muscles
now flaccid, don't want to be seen in daylight.
oh well that’s life. back to my darkness and
dream about food, about water, the bush and tree
and maybe a nice little clean dress
for the mother’s daughter

*for Susan @ Poets United using 'light and dark'

*dedicated to my brother passed away in the streets of los angeles,
  hopefully while dreaming. Also, to forgotten homeless Vietnam Vets.

honey in a gray day

the diurnal calm and then the peril

angst and pain then soothing in its wane
warming embraces makes feral the day
pushing toward the edge of insane

like stubbing a toe as most have done

we elevate it placing a bag of ice
the throbbing subsides but not before
spontaneous cursing comes once or thrice

the stubbing is a metaphor to the

challenges of the day that we face
but small in comparison to those
who must run in life’s real race

Pablo Neruda said ’…the journeys go and

come between honey and pain…’
but I’m reminded of those who
are condemned to days where never
is it sunny only the stormy rain

like the mother in Afghanistan

wailing out her cry of where she
had to barter her daughter for food
so her other children would not be
left unfed to die

of watching her husband’s beheading

the burning of their home the tearing
of her body in front of her son by Taliban
and raping of her daughter by more
than one

so in the challenging moments of the day

seemingly filling the sky in clouds of gray
think of the land where birds no longer sing
no longer fly, the only thing heard are
a wailing mother’s cry

 *written for Kerry O'Connor's challenge in Imaginary garden to
   a day of honey and not the sting

tell me of your journey

tell me my friend of your journey

so that I may once again experience
the excitement

my legs no longer have strength

to traverse the landscape like i
once could, my lungs no longer
hold the breath of verve

i wish to hear of your sailing

the sea hearing only the welcoming
osprey and the slapping of the waves
against the bow

i wish to hear about the little seen birds

amidst the forest of trees where few
have trailed and so all scurry quickly
away to hide from the stranger visiting
their sacred abode

through your eyes and strength of

youthful legs and arms tell me of
your conquest of the Tetons, Rockies
and Andes where the lineage of my
ancestry also cast their shadows

tell me of the song the winds sang

when you stood atop the cliffs
in irish lore and the rice fields where
my buddies left their souls

tell me of all this my friend for

my legs no longer have the strength
my lungs no longer hold the breath
but my soul still wants to live amidst
the dream filled memories that my
heart beholds

 

letter from Jules

dear papa

your tears do not go unnoticed by me

even though most might consider me just a dog
i have feelings too. i appreciate when you take me
for a walk, when you throw the ball
when then we sit together in the grassy knoll
and watch things and sticks flow down the stream
i want so much to jump in to catch that darn stick
that thinks it’s getting away. i remember that one
time i did and you had to come in and rescue me.
i would have been ok but you showed how much
you cared for me.

i notice lately my legs are not as agile like when I

used to chase you around the tree or in the park
when you’d bring my sister Jaz so that we could chase
each other till our tongues were dragging in the
grass. i notice my eyes can’t see things much any
more and am having trouble hearing your call…"Jules"
i love it when you call my name. i love it when you pick
me up and we sit together on your favorite couch, you
reading or writing something on that screen thingy and
i lay my head on your lap.

hey papa, i know i’m getting old because we go to the

doctor more often lately. i want you to know papa
that all we can do is hold each other tight while we
still can. we don’t even have to say the words
because our hearts tell our story. don’t cry too much
papa when i’ve left for my next journey. i know you will
and it’s ok if it makes you feel better. we will see each other
in the next journey beyond soon. you’re no spring chicken
either (ooh, i love chicken). hey papa, i want you to know
i love you and you were the best friend and papa
ever.


your child
jules    



* written for imaginary garden with real toads imagined by               Herotomost, 'Lost Art/letter writing' challenge

carbon emissions: Pres. executive order

you know the air you breathe, I breathe also

the earth you walk upon i too traverse
the ocean that you swim and admire
the life that lives within
what your eyes see is also my view
but I think the colors differ and what i
choose to observe is unique to me
and you to you

our hearts, oh yes the heart, it beats

but the rhythms and the passions, vary
mine feels the Native Indians tears
disgust for the barren earth, denude
of trees, habitats and nests eschewed,
debris filled seas, net snarled fins,
mercury in floating lifeless scales,   
spears in the hearts of whales

i howl and hope the wind carries

my cries and those of the same heart
across the mountain and sea
into the ears of those who cannot hear
who selfishly worry to cost of the money in
their folded fist forgetting of the little hand
cupped in the other. will they ever see
a dolphin swim free, an eagle soar, a wolf
howl at the moon, an owl perched
in a forest tree?

my path

i have taken a road only I could have taken

have loved only in the way that I can
maybe it’s taken some time to learn how
but in this trail traversed I have found
that jagged edges can be honed smooth
and thorns can be removed
for the path goes on even without me
but I wish to be on it for this is why
i am here
in my little world that i have traveled
i wish and hope that when i loved someone
i have been loved

if in my journey and when i’ve met you,

i hurt you by word or deed, it was not my intent
so i’m sorry. i only wish for you the best of me
if i have misunderstood your face, your touch
your heart then it is my misgiving and
when we meet again i hope to give you that
best of me for i only wish to love and be loved
as i continue to walk on this winding road
with all kinds of pebbles, sharp and smooth
under my feet, i shall strive to be better,
to be kinder, to love

Maya Angelou

Her smile touched me because I smile

Her heart touched me as mine beats, still
And in between her words enveloped the spirit of life
She embraced all souls with her song of verve
 

As she walked in our midst she emitted the character of

all the giants of life that came before; when she cried, we cried,  
when she spoke we listened, her paint on the canvas of life
cannot be and should not be remembered as a style, a time piece
but a piece of art that transcends beyond.

I will not make reference to Maya Angelou's history, the chronology

of her life of action, their will be many who will do this. She transcends all this

"Listen to your inner self in quietude and maybe you can hear the voice of God"

gracias, Maya Angelou: RIP   

dreams of 'old'

for who is it more challenging to let go?

the man whose body once made of iron
muscular but lean and handsomeness
myth be told of chiseled cheek and jaw
and hair of onyx

or

a woman whose body curves when lying

on the beach would cause the sun to take
one last glimpse as it nested into the horizon.
her eyes and lashes fluttering, her silken skin
and wondrous bosom with lovely shapely legs
of milk and silken skin glisten in a starry night   

but

probably better said by Miquel de Uno Muno,

writing about the following;  
we wish to be taken seriously being recognized by
the complexity of our makeup, though we must
remember, while we live in this mundane existence
we are encapsulated in a shell made of skin and bone,
therefore, beauty  (in the eye of the beholder) and
sex are integral to our character for that is what we
learn to see, to touch, to feel, to love.

in our youthful naiveté, we would, oh, so carelessly

and unabashedly assert that we are more than
just body and ‘beauty is only skin deep’. we would
profess that we had exercised our minds equally
so please don’t peer at my beauty. now that time
has so quickly lapsed and the body walks at a slower
step, the eyes see through a fog and no one peers
at with the same desire, the question arises: of
whom, man or woman,  does willingness come more
readily to accept the passing of time, aging?

Desiderata; ‘…take kindly the counsel of the years,

                         gracefully surrendering the things of youth ‘

 

Love in a satchel

 

i cannot catch all those lonely tears

your eyes spill out nor can i embrace
you the way I’d like for distance is our
challenge yet my soul carries in his
virtual satchel the laconic memories
we have shared

the colors of crimson and azure blue

and the verdant green that glisten through
the tiny droplets of rain as the sun’s
yellow golden fingers tickle them and the
upside down rainbow smile evinces
reminding me of you

the soft and milky white of the

iris peddles bloom as the purple pink
lilacs scent is in the air and any where
there’s room. it fills my mind with the
recollection of your skin and the
waft of your perfume

i shall carry this with me

as I stroll through the days journey and

onto life’s sojourn and far beyond these
tender moments we’ve shared i shall
carry in the satchel of my soul.
on and on and on ~~~

letter...'wonder why'

when young breath filled our lungs

and a piece of bread was shared
when I’d cry you’d cry and when I’d
sing you’d sing we’d watch mama cry
and together we’d wonder why

we had little of what others had

but we had each other when young
breath filled our lungs and we’d look
around and others looked different
than us and they’d laugh at us but
we’d hold hands, curious we’d stare back
and wonder why

now that life has taken us in different roads

and young breath no longer fills our lungs
time has taken hermanos and hermanas
from our hold and the breathe in our lungs
so painfully evacuated when life took Mama
distance now threatens our shared existence
and we wonder why

there’s few left who shared our youthful air

can we sing again together, share another
piece of bread, come hold  each other’s hand,
watch others stare at us through this veneer
called love, the sustenance that has prevailed
within our spirit and assuage the angst and pain
and no longer shall we wonder why

  

alone

don’t know why but today
my soul hovers not

and the wind is calm
we sit next to each other

emptiness walks by, we wave

it takes a seat next to my soul
it chatters with the wind
but not with me

i ask...emptiness, why do

you sit next to me? but no words
are exchanged...it ignores me
so I sit alone

my heart beats, tethered

by subtle and quiet
it’s beat not heard amidst
the hovering of other souls

my heart aches recalling the tears

shed of life’s disdains and all
the telling of angry words
captured in its chambers

is this the way it must be

for days to come
only the wind and emptiness
to sit next to me?  

 

 

life's bed of flowers

when first I walked upon a bed of flowers

awed, i was breathlessly taken
by the aesthetic beauty, imbued into my
eyes, my sense of smell, my touch

recklessly i flailed about, rolling and laughing,

somehow knowing the incomparable joy
would be short lived and so insatiably
i consumed all I could so in recall it
is like wonderfully warmed leftovers

as time availed me with the highs and lows

rendering a roller coaster ride in life
where the first exhiliration may never be
re-lived still i choose to get back on
to feel the rush as my hair blows wildly,
the cheeks shutter in the wind, another smile

in the midst of this sojourn, a heartfelt and
expensive ride, i brush myself, comb my hair,

inhale, thrust myself again upon that wondrous
bed of flowers and become witness again to the
the smells, to the tastes, to the soft petals upon my face,  
allowing the capture of this into my soul my heart.
feigned is the innocence rebeckoning for the bliss  

my words, my riches

my words, will they fill this space

with a welcoming of someone’s eyes
not waste a second of someone’s breathe
if my words are read out loud

if I express my hearts softness

in a mellifluous tone of words will they
make me the wealthier for it
and maybe someone else’s heart

I read the words of chosen mentors, my muse

I fill my glass with the riches of the past
but more importantly with the ripeness
of the verve they lived and their love

when I pass into the next horizon

I will have, as my souls make up, a picture
of my favorite sky, my favorite tree,
the oceans roar, freedom of the osprey

as my spirit transcends into the unknown

it shall carry with it wisdom of my ancestry,
strength of my mother and her song,
the loves of my love and those who
loved me

like Tutankamun and Quezalcoatl buried with

their riches, mine will come with me
for I will have consumed them into my soul
and I’ll depart with the howling of the wolf
in the wind underneath the eagles wings

dia de madre

Mamasita J

 

a cardinal, a robin, a cowbird, a blue Jay,

a redwing black bird and a turtle dove

are orchestrating your song for today

they’re rehearsing mamasita’s lullaby

for mamasita day
 

they’re just outside my window

recalling your favorite tune

you know the one in the morning you’d sing

while the tiny rainbows glittered inside the dew
 

I vividly remember as a little child

with my hermanos and hermana

gathering, holding hands looking outside

the window as the day begins. you’d tell us

if one sings la cancion ‘esta mananita’

the morning the sun would rise joyously,

the birds would sing its welcome

and you were always right
 

so today, for you mamasita, with the

back up choir of robins and sparrows

and all their other amigos and even

some ground squirrels chiming in

i sing ‘esta mananita’ to celebrate and honor

you forwithout you my life would not be
 

con muchisimo amor, mamasita,

con los angelitos donde estas hoy

te mando mi coracon, todo mi amor
 

 

tu hijo, nene

 

he ponders

he ponders, he sits and he ponders

what did, what if, why didn’t
time passes and it now lingers on
movement is active in the synapse
but the body sits dormant
he lives vicariously

he writes about what he thinks

what he sees and hears,
reads about what has occurred
somewhere, sometime and by
someone else. the earth moves
yet he sits still, pondering

listen. rumbling, rolling wheels

on rail tracks. the sound approaches
from somewhere afar. an engine whistle
blows, the heavy car on railroad tracks
steel wheels on steel rails shrill
to a squeal followed by a thrust of air
escaping from hydraulic brakes

from inside the belly of these

moving cars scurry out bipedal beings
and waiting to fill their space
queues of others herd themselves
into the now empty cars of the locomotive
taking them somewhere,
leaving someone and some place

sitting, his legs crossed like Hemmingway

the brim of his hat now shadow
his eyes. he observes the scampering
people rambling about like worker ants

a whistle blows and a loud release

escapes the compressed steam
the rolling wagon on steel wheels
moves on to that somewhere place
as he sits there, pondering