
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 … Continue reading
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 … Continue reading
My life has been an author’s prologue
Godsped the days of summer’s end
That let me love, and forget to write
My hands trembling, at my seashaken house
With the foam of the Gods spraying me
Until my lucky stars fall into sunset’s net
Eternal waters tackle me into the clouds
I kneel with my fishwife by the coast
Where I stab heavenly birds with beloved eyes
All I have known and seen has come to this –
The poor peace of a timeless song
The rest beyond pan and flute and melody
And a comfort beyond prayers and pain
My life has been an author’s prologue
And as a poet to a thousand strangers
I gave my heart, the fire of birds
The world’s turning light, that is never enough.
Photography Credits: http://www.deviantart.com/art/our-390450759
Slowly swayed were our little truths
The rinse of poems on a stretched out youth
Shimmering they left us bare
With Epitaphs for semantics
The final language of high tendrils
That swayed and sung
Of little things on the wood’s edge
And triumph amid
The warm summer air
The quiet doorway where we grew
From a broken house into true light
Firm between stones of artistry
*
What were we but the thoughts we made
The poems we wrote etched our
Entire biographies, as if the elected
Voice of the day, something to keep
A light-hearted author alive
Faith to point to burning greens
That would never die, Agh, with white flowers
Whose pollen would mix with the stars
Slowly swayed were our little truths
That redfaced love of younger years
It brought us clean vocabulary
Of all that time left undone
And polished our lips for stanzas
Sonnets of the moist black soil
Of our clutch on sentience, dearly trodden
The few words our lives would leave.
The few homes of moments gone unread.
Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Drawing-Board-378815701
Observing makes me curious and curiosity makes me a Learner. This blog admires Motivation.
Create Your Own Happiness
Non-sense poetry and prose with no academic rigour, no pretenses. Spanish and English. No rules, no remorse when there are words to be said.
Author of Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (EIF-Experiments in Fiction, 2022). Pushcart Nominated Poet 2022. Editor MasticadoresUSA.
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