Minorities

Why do we berate minorities?
It could be us, have you ever
Lived in poverty, gone hungry?
Tried to be autistic for a day?

Survived schizophrenia
Been disabled, grown old?
Have you ever broke your hip
And tried to rehabilitate?

Gone to jail and tried to
Reintegrate into society?
Have you ever been black
Or Hispanic in a society

That has predetermined your fate?
Have you gone to college
Only to find yourself
Unemployed and in debt

With student loans and credit cards
That you may never pay off?
It could have been you
Who got cancer while still young

Or suffered from depression
Until your wife left you
Or been that single mother
On welfare and without a friend

Or that immigrant who
Had to work a dead-end job
Just for a chance for their children?
Maybe it was you, who knows.

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

Angel.
Dissolve my tears
My drama is too personal
Woodcutter.
Cut my shadow from me
The torment is without
Fruit, or just reward
Winter is the night copied
When all the stars are blind
God.
Leave some birds
The seeds that were dreams
Have been wasted
Youth.
Let go of me now
I am no longer a virgin
Or opportunistic or idealistic
Time.
Needle in the water
Of my health
Do not think we do not see you?
Melting the sun like a great center
A snake of flesh
The wood-cutter does not know
When, my heart grew pale
With stress, or
How the silence became moist and wise
Beneath the burden
Of the escaping years
Angel, woodcutter, God, youth, dreams, time
Do not imagine just because
I am now old, that I know
What experience is
Perhaps, perhaps I was hiding all along
From living.

Spectrum Disorder

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.
~ John Cage

In the penthouse of cool August
the trees have begun to whisper Autumn
the fragrance of anniversaries

an instinct to catapult meaning
into some creative form, some relationship
where the banter of everyday
might be fulfilled in a forfeit of identity

no matter how long the hiatus
these street lamps remember me
but the people I knew are gone

we’ve gone our separate ways
you used to laugh at my love of writing
but I still sweat at the writing desk, love
these clarinet-oxytocin dreams

where I learn to be merciful with myself
my precious psyche deserved better
my rhetoric of sweet-salts left

the flower of my being coming into view
an orchid of failed seductions
a white rose of broken-hearted
love that no longer requires human love

summer was meant for vengeance
and humanity was made for loss
but my timidity is satisfied by
a more divine neurochemical
than sappy serotonin or dull dopamine.

Photography courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-471797211

THE COLOR OF DREAMS

We were Sculptors when we lived
When we were alive, we Perceived
Beauty palpable as air, striving as water
Mutable were our art-forms
We loved as if there were no Tomorrow
Weighty, with visions of wisdom
In our Body, we gave ourselves to Nature
Totally, hands moving like Priests
In flesh, in bronze, in wood, in stone
Embroidering our love for the World
Again and again, as if that was all that mattered
Making music, from points of Eden
Writing pristine alphabets of significant
Hellos and goodbyes, all meeting each other
This hid our extreme fragility following
The new moon’s curves, down to her epiphanies
That all Diminish, or goes insane attempting
To reach Divinity, eyes the color of dreams.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-451862555

CARTOGRAPHIES OF LANGUAGE

A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love

A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals

A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy

At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness.

Sad Eyed Lyricist

I’ve spotted it with tears (I pronounced to all my living verse) Your infant faces are proof of it ! The crumbled years, the kissed cheeks White as snow, red as apples The harmonics of a life enriched By syllables …

In every flake that flies wide wandering skies

Leaves will rain the end of years
A pageant death-parting
O’ Autumn, it’s my soul

That gives you ear & listening
And hence who once was here
Cannot be forgotten yet –

My held breath in the day’s decline
Leaves will wash away what
Was once the blown night and day

Leaves and rain till the year’s flooding end
Your cheek against mine, the watery-way
With tears and of the blown night

The doom that waves her secret sign
Against my death, was my life in vain?
Adieu, waving last whispering of trees

Leaves will rain my last remaining years
With colors that will breeze to you?
Would ye ever wave an Adieu, for forgetfulness

Is coming so take flight all worries
What do you say to the breeze?
And what in that hush, say the breeze to you?

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Dance-Me-to-the-End-400908151

I Walk a Secret Way

I lived my days apart
And I cared for those that lived apart
For I knew the dreaming of solitude
The songs of God, which quickly

Were delivered by laughing angels
I knew how delusions could crowd
the glory of the heart
We all needed friends

To keep us whole, grounded, unified
Covered with the tyranny of strife
We met those days, with
Illness flashing in our brain

Neurotransmitters outnumbered hours
I lived my days apart
A mystic soldier of my private art
I knew the fury that smites the air

Of music that runs igniting clay
Neuron to spirit, grief in my brain
I wanted to hold the world in my arms.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/The-power-of-imagination-376439633