dreamers

heavy is my heart filled with tears

for the world is being run by
angry deposed souls that believe...
to destroy all that they cannot possess
will leave them with what they wish

they know not that the possessions

they will attain will tether them to
a world without riches   

we who live in a dreamer’s world

one of hope and empathy, one that
embraces rather than pushes away,
an open hand in lieu of a taught fist

whose eyes are open to see the vision

of night stars, tries to reach up and touch them
who lies down on a field of wild flowers
and roles around in them with delight

if another hurts he tries to support, lends

a hand where he can and shares his bread
even when he has little and both will take
pleasure in the little which then becomes
insatiably fulfilling

just maybe, those with the folded fist

the angry heart will release their grip
and observe that sharing yields joy
and they may choose to join

but I live in a dreamer’s world

and so I wish not to awaken

 

reflection of beauty

she stood there looking at herself

the reflection of Michelangelo curves soft silken skin
both arms hang naturally, fingers in tact,
two shapely legs that would entice

she walks closer to the mirror and observes her long
sinuous now gray white hair still full and rich
eye lashes long, flutter seductively
translucent azure eyes look deep into her heart

a smile evinces with lips that make still air

swirl and turn into hurricane winds
then tilts her head to see that pretty lady
across in the reflection doing the same

her fingers flick the light on and off   

her silhouette moves about surreal
she leaves the light off, opens the blind
the suns fingers titillate the contour
of her body casting her shadow against the wall

she recalls of lovers that came before

telling her she wasn’t pretty enough or too fat
a father demanding her to wear something less tight
cover her curves because she looks like a slut

she’d sit in the corner at night and cry

not liking herself, thinking others felt the same
gave up on school not wanting to be seen
she'd sit in a dark corner and read and read 

she'd picture her life, vicariously, in the
characters of these books of lovers

who loved them and fathers did too

she'd then stand in front of the mirror
wondering who is that beautiful woman in there

she realized when she tilted her head

she was me and I was her

beautiful skin, lovely hair and eyes
with curves that the greatest of artists
would paint and so she left the blinds open

the sceptor holders

we are groveling to find the makeup

of our nature, to understand
our blindness, our insensitivities
we stand and shout words
of ignorance so that we can’t hear
truth in the winds of yesteryear
and those that now swirl about
in our midst

we dare not claim ourselves

as the sculptors of this dying earth
although we are the scepter holders
nor are we to blame for the skies
having darken before the day turns
to night and the rivers no longer the
springs that once sate life’s thirst,
the oceans where terrestrials gestated
are now but a death knell to the life
born to breathe its waters and soar
within its waves as birds do through
the clouds in the sky

we don’t wish to look into the reflection

before us as it depicts the uncaring demon
we so fear in our religiosity and not of
the god-like image we were to be
thus we choose to create a nihilistic destiny
of blind uncaring destruction, of that
reflection we so not want to be and so
as indeterminist beings we are free to choose
a spirit of life to perpetuity where love
is its wrappings or do we continue in the
demons path of uncaring destruction

you of bone, flesh and blood, of sea water

of earth, of air, of fire, I cry for you but more so I cry
for our children and theirs who may never see a tree
sway in the wind, an elephant blow its trumpet,
a lion roar, a dolphin chirp, the whale blow its hole,
the eagle soar onto its aerie or hear the wolf howl
its lamenting cries for the human souls that so
wantonly were forced to fly like birds in the sky
 

*dedicated to the HK17 298 souls

a bird's song

oh you feathered singers that wake me

hearken the new day even before the yellow gold
affixes atop the trees and gentle warm shards
of light splay into my window tickling the fancy,
the verve of my soul

how you whisper in the mornings ear

with the grandest of cheer
the sound of your voices fluttering about
in the morning’s nascent air allows the love
within me to ascend

your melodious celebration inspires the spirit

of life to enter into my heart so that I may
charge into the light of day and embrace those who
are starved for joy, those whose mingling may
bring misfortunes their way

thank you for this moment of wondrous delight

that assuages the pains of aging, that but for
the slightest of time mitigates the lament of loss
and lessens my hearts anguish for the mother
who cries in the dark whose children have less
 
sing on, sing on my friends of the sky, you, who  
can soar above and bring the news of far away
inspire a curiosity in the spirit within me
to where you’ve been, what you have seen
and from you’re perspective of we, human beings

 

a fallen leaf

sometimes I feel like a fallen leaf

who has lost its verdant colour
and lies brown and dry rolling
about as the winds swishes

strange feet fling me about

sometimes I’m stepped on and
at the mercy of someone’s soul (sole)
they scrape me off sometimes
on a shaggy thingy in their home

they care less that at one time i

was fresh and a vibrant green
that kissed the canvas of the
azure sky for their eyes to behold

i would glitter in the morning

wearing my attire bought at the
store of morning’s dew reflecting
a rainbow of colors from the firry
yellow and the sun’s crimson hue

if only they’d remember how once

a hand leaned against my arboreal
abode whilst he leaned over to kiss
his lover as my cousin lay gently
like a ornament in her hair

or when my niece and nephews would

glide atop the tiny ripples in the stream
as it glistened down the bend humming
splashing o’er stones telling of their
journey of what it’s seen, where it’s been

sometimes I feel like that leaf that is

waving goodbye to its nest and haven
as it flits and flutters down, down
to be soon forgotten and kicked about
brown and dry, dry and brown

 

*for Poets United at midweek. like grace, no UFO stories but I am considered ‘alien’ in some circles. also, Grace’s, every day amazing, lovely reflection: midpoint, assessing my life

…the past falls away like brown dry leaves falling into summer downpour…

 

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 ~~~