Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

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Since her, I am a cultural Christian at best.
The bright spirituality of my youth, so vibrant, has waned through the years.
Petered out, as they say.
I don’t trust in God any further than I can see Him.
I see the Divine as the hope dangled before me like the proverbial carrot.
Prodding me onward, never to be satisfied with where I am.

An Unsettling Hope. Nothing more.

This diminutive spirituality of mine, I believe, is self-inflicted.
All the wrong in my life I can trace back to a singular act of cowardice.
A decision so selfish, so disgusting and perverse, I know full well that I deserve every ill that has come way because of it.

I abandoned a woman. Left her in a state of divorce, to her own devices, when she needed me the most. I committed this Cardinal Sin in full view of the sun. And now, only Night is left to me.  I had vowed before God to love her and cherish her, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Then I turned my back on her like some such dish at a buffet I no longer wanted. A dastardly deed if there ever was one and I wasn’t ashamed of it then.

I am now, utterly so.

Since her, all that I have loved has been unrequited. All my dreams looked upon, without the full bloom of experience. I have been on the outside, looking in. Like a phantom. The Odorous Act was insidious like that, like the loneliest little sin on the planet. A puddle in my path that to this day, I have not overcome.

And I Was Happy

Posted: March 5, 2012 in Life
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I thought I saw you in the sway of the tree

Your lovely form it took when it danced in the wind and caused within me a sigh

A sigh like you used to

There in the sharpest break of green and blue

And in the softest hiss of its song

I knew you once again

And I was happy

El Viento

Posted: July 8, 2011 in Spanish Poetry
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El viento baila y viene
Viene a destrozàr el edifício de tu auséncia
Me acuerda de ayer cuando estabamos juntos
Y no podíamos
Hoy si podemos
Hoy, a lo lejos, si podemos

El viento me lleva en caminos largas y estrechas hasta esos tiempos fijos:
tu sonrísa
las notas de tu voz
tu pelo tan claro y exquisito

Parece que el tiempo se ha cortado las alas en deferéncia de nosotros
Imagenes volàn, viénen y van
Y no se han muerto

Etudes In Longing

Posted: July 8, 2011 in Poetry
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I

Fathers and mothers, brave sons and dear daughters turn ear my way. I carry with me the mist of her heirlooms: so fragile, tender and sweet. I cannot see them, I feel them. Nor can I touch them, for I have become them. I cannot display them, I live them out in the Visigoth of life. I guard in my being the memories of her past that I could rescue, rescue from the ever gathering dark.

~~

II

I often sit gazing at your picture and I still dream. Through the day and into the night I imagine us together. But then, suddenly, the flutter of hope subsides and I am left with the wings of dead butterflies that fall and wither away into a powdery nothingness, like my dreams that come as a wave and recede again into the ocean

~~

III

This day I long for the guns of yesteryear when we boldly crossed that little Rubicon of hope. You showed me the fate of destiny, it was bound in our love entwined like the roots of aged trees. Harbinger of many firsts, firsts that fell upon my ignorance like grapeshot. You alone silenced my cannons of fear and guarded me in the phalanx of your love. Repose I gained in the convent of your bosom and there I stayed. Til came the belligerent usurper and tore our house asunder and there, in platonic upheaval, I lept once more into the breach. Compelled to live in the light of mere memories now hallowed like soldiers on the ground.

~~

IV

I didn’t count the cost that came with reverie. A life I thought was there ahead for me to see. Enraptured psychology, I walked right through the doors of independence. A different sort of fruit now grows upon this tree; cracked and marred by a cruel destructive victory. Constant soliloquies, I rage against the tears that flow within me.

~~

V

I thought I saw you in the sway of the tree. Your lovely form it took when it danced in the wind and caused within me a sigh; a sigh like you used to. And there in the sharpest break of green and blue and in the softest hiss of its song I knew you once again; and I was happy.

~~

VI

Y pienso que hamas voy a ver de amores, bebiste todo el agua que tenia. Y sin tu amor no es justo que se llena de nuevo. El quietud que quedo despues de tu presencia me fastidia y solo hay que cantar tu nombre. Como es que me encanta estar en mi jacal con mis suenos y mi deseo solo por hervir en ti.

~~

VII

See here my new found joy! She came as the morning sun and perforce drove many darknesses from my eyes. Bits and pieces they fell from my person like tiny scabs set in their way. As often happens on these sharp and bright mornings, when awake, the day presents her gift in a thousand forms of splendor, like the many faces of her.

~~

VIII

Part I: Elation

Kaleidoscopes may have once embraced the melody of her faces

And may someday capture the spring in her dance

Tonight, gaze brazenly into the sky for mere hints and glimpses of the wonders in her expression

Impetuous delights abound in the art of her playfulness

Entangled with each moment, like conspicuous pearls, are new and better reasons to smile

Part II: Longing

Relinquish as best you can the gift of her presence

Assuage the sting of that cold darkened sound

Compelled to live in the light of mere memory

Hallowed like soldiers on the ground

Echoes of her linger: that porch, that couch, that tree

Leading to long winding roads of reverie

Longing to embrace once more the melody of her faces

Ebbing inevitably with the passage of time

Part III: Jubilation

Songbirds kiss the dawn, greetings in a thousand forms of splendor: the many faces of her

Mana falls with new expression-the shape of her smile

Inundated by wealth in her attention

Taken by the warmth of her style

Hail, O Fourtuna, she gave me new eyes and new meaning; evermore besotted in the brightness of her being

Could It Be?

Posted: July 7, 2011 in Poetic Screed
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Could it be that I’m sick of consumption?
Of eating and watching and reading.

Could it be that I’m tired of taking in this, that and the other, as a leech feeding on its host. Never thinking of giving life given to me.

Could it be that I’m tired of TV and radio and music?
Of eating away at the souls of others that hang in a garden waiting for me to consume its beauty, leaving in my wake the shards and slivers of their beauty weighed down by the grit and silt of my selfishness.

Could it be that the pillars and spires of what has been created have fallen to the seething ground of my belly and are now remnants and facades of former selves and dreams left to rot on the roof of my mouth.

Could it be that I’m tired of  being a man?

The countless times the womb of creation has been made naught in the knots of my hunger and the pangs of my hunger are but excuses to forage on the tendrils of woman, the harbingers of beauty and life and existence.

And they but art to me, and in the gaze of my savages they are to be had and seen and held. To be left as shadows and wisps of smoke that billow from the houses of my furnace.

Could it be that I’m tired of taking for myself and never giving of my self? Of never creating that which can be food to others? Instead only to ravage as locusts the golden substance, like honey, of those that host the muses.

Could it be that existence is but art to me, to masticate in the teeth of my time on this earth?  And its fate to be a commodity left to wrinkle and rot in the shirt pocket of my loneliness and greed.

Could it be that I’m tired of being human? Gorging on the Gods of my needing like so many chalk marks on the ground that I skip into and out of, and into and out of, like a ravaged child playing Hop-Scotch in the park, without so much as laughter to repay them.

Suppose I lived in golden houses of giving and that I fed and clothed strangers with both hands stretched far and wide and didn’t care of the cuts and sores and cracks that became of them.

Suppose I spent my waking hours forging iron tools of selflessness and used them to pierce the tapestry of shame and regret, the shattered houses of glass of ones I’ve never known. And that I sought to be heroic in daily living and planted trees of love and giving, the roots of which could live on eons from now.

Suppose I walked the streets of cities and hung little fragile lights of cheer and love on the doors and fences of strangers until the whole world was lit as the sun on this July day.

Suppose I spent the rest of my life evoking and engaging, building and creating so that the blind might see and the deaf might hear and the dead might live and the sad might glee and the poor might be. Be in a world worth watching and reading and hearing and seeing.

Could it be?  Suppose it was.  How would you be?