Night Shift 1
There is something about the crickets Paired with summer nights Something about nighttime Sets the atmosphere of dreams into motion So dreams must be a natural tendency of night And crickets The natural announcers Of the time for dreams Unseen jewels at dusk Murmur of water Rubbing down rocks The garden’s faint gleam And left are white diamonds Elegant on leaves One night And the last rain One hour Remains for sleep Rain Time Slumber at dawn They speak about things Known to us only Things like darkness shared First light on skin
Dual
He’s hellish haven That won’t stay still And I know damn well Not one to balance. His lunacy The sane one Discerns the complexities While the other side retorts in haste Laconic disregard of our bond. Soon, Rudeness spills from his sly grimace In the hopes I won’t be able to tell If he hides Or if it’s just those damaged goods. He’s karmic A jailer A jail Too potent for my taste bud But I’m addicted nonetheless To the ride that goes nowhere. I’ll tell him on it and And he’ll have to admit While his twin self says no In supposed secrecy. He’s accompanied By one I condemn For having thrown the towel too soon For not finding the meaning A sloth in thought A poor seeker Not of my clan. But how it heals when tidal heat Exudes energy that boils perpetual In his natural hormonal body Could this lover side save the other? Can the evil twin sustain a clear direction A ball of fire in his hands Stable purpose worth my admiration? Can his flame burn in good rhythm Or will it go out in a pathetic flare?
Devotional
He’s still here but Is he still willing? More so than me Because he’s my crab. His scorpio rises Riding a bull Pliers hurt But his outer shell Glistens. The creature is all about staying It persists Grabs Claims Instinct devotional and He prays to me drunk. But for what? No! I bid him to stop And then again He’s the literary dream I asked for Unaware. He demands And I am his To come home to Vent Relieve. Why me? Don’t have much grain I’m nothing more than an oddity A crooked arrow Who can fly straight. What he sees I’ll never know Still he stays Enduring time lapses Under muy loose chin These jowls. He wants this joking smile My mockery of life These worries followed by a breakdown My sleeping body trembling Under the influence of dreams. Yes, yes, those things I remember He’s that dream The oldest one of all, Devotional nightmare Come to life.
Unanswered
Who are they? And where from? Old lovers, friends, sons, fathers, brothers Those who helped, guided, worried, cared Same ones who left, changed me for, walked away from, grew to hate My lost men. Who are they? Jitters arise for their attention I long for their excitement Mourning when they find another better Satisfied when they laugh it out Inevitably expecting A reaction. Why them? Why me? Who were we until now? Old flames in transformation Merge and part And we haven’t stopped yet Something reaches Lights our wick Impregnates our feeling Since long ago. They invade routine and fantasy alike I make believe they listen That they are here Drawn to me and I to them While they’re at work Away And I ask again Who were we until now? But no one’s answering.
Clear Roads
A bit empty, Vacant, Unreachable as clouds. Detached, At the edge of boredom, Unimaginative, Disengaged, The blurred background, A minimalist painting, My canvas almost bare, And all could be. That a bird might traverse my crystalized space, A plane might soar into the deepest blue, Caressing the mist, That wings might spread, New things could appear.
Strange Riches
These strange riches given, Stand crumbling on the sullen street of times past. Grandma’s house with its ceiling planks bent, A violent crack runs wild, the length of the dining room, Shut doors, melded to frames, Of childhoods past, stories kept, Flooded memories. But Scheherezade still waits inside Arabian Nights, Bound in real leather, tightly fit in the carved Italian bookcase. Framed maps of antique parchment rest about the entrance hall, Leaning on the walls, waiting for something, Maybe the final collapse. And I wonder, Those long gone explorers, cartographers of time, ¿Might their eyes have met riches just as strange as mine?
Brother’s Soul Recap
He sits with a purpose, Stays without strain, Concise as a butterfly, A star self guided. Perspires soil, but his heart might bring rain, Trickling down, Streaming along clefts. He practices the main performance, Won’t strive for more than this, Repetition his prayer, Renders sweet. And I do believe, His life might be a river, an intricately woven quilt, Sewn-in careful vigilance, Of each and every infant stitch. And his mind might be open A country sown in neat rows, Awaiting the next harvest, Determined, Under combed skies. Brother is sure to reap from the good earth and, Onto the heavens. When his produce stands in orderly heaps, Realised in the fields of labor, Of love.
Ballet Examination
In this room of light diffused Planks beaten by plies and tendus No leeway is given for pretense In space consecrated. Hands reach for the barre Religiously No piece of attire to cover misalignment Any lack in the labors of time. Soon, toe shoes rub in the rosin And left are minuscule splinters Shimmering in the grain. Breath keeps sheltered In the powerhouse chamber Near the heart While gracile turn out of legs extends in synchrony. No false jumps are possible For we would notice stiff landings, A dry thump, Instead, deep plies absorb landings Muffled into sweet sap spilling Soft caramel tendons No sequence improvised Nor a move accidental Arms never let to rest Each finger engaged In the gaze towards the corner Dancers envision eternity And each of them knows what comes next. Exertion is a secret to most Feet embrace the wooden floors scathed with love Buns tightened Ribbons tucked neatly A ritual ceremony unquestioned. The invisible deity that is art Her little servants nearly out of breath Won’t show it They’ll keep going Personified as dance Offering disciplined bodies To rejoice our earthly manifestation.
Springs
That hope springs eternal It has been said Sarcasm or bliss But what if hope be the mesh? Sifting, Dread of sharp gravel Impoverished thought disgraced Pictures torn and mended Voiced disarray Chimes hardened to rust No message conveyed. And if hope be the finest Might she be formed by air Flickers of matter Mysterious substance Prowess of light? That nothing could touch her Yet power belied Such fabric confected by hands beyond mind To withstand our sorrows Doubts and dismay I dare say she lies quiet Amidst a spring they call faith So we hide behind eyes Soaked Striding terrains on the bleakest night Groping on forward Hoping to see But desperate hands grow numb We must stop to breathe And when in air unhindered By heavy footsteps dense We notice at last Her lonely hope of sense That hearts might flicker When chimes announce Hidden springs revealed Faith lost and found
Unapologetic
Today Marianne’s jeans fit tight. Reflected on the bedroom mirror Her rounded face announces A waxing moon Her swollen figure rising waters Plump transmutation of phases Compels time for curves Unapologetic Aphrodite above Smiles like cotton candy Remembering the soft babble Of Marianne’s natal baby talk A young brook in her throat When Taurus in the horizon Oceans will wash over generous Convex skin to be embellished In foamy fur From thighs to hips Up the buxom breast Around a venusian belly Still shy Marianne seems vexed But the moon asks for a day or two That she might be heard Through the curved shadows Of a summer night When her light summons Girl almost a woman Close the bedroom door Liberate Aphrodites thighs Under the moon’s plea Let her breasts down free When tides are playful And your imperious belly Full of promise Will claim her power Unapologetic.