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Marco Aurelio Poem
I dream of today,
today only
and nothing more...
A whisper -
not a sound -
moving the day
and nothing more...
Half-a-thought
I shall tend to,
gratefully,
regardless of a theory forming.
Deep in my heart,
a strange feeling
pervades,
that nothing more,
is nothing more than now,
a single moment
paradoxically eternal.
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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Marco Aurelio Poem
It is necessary to remember....
to remember the sorrows,
to remember the victories,
to remember the deceased...
In our short walk
through this world,
every single memory
confirms our existence.
They say that
knowledge
is the only thing
that can’t be taken away from us:
rubbish.
I don’t know who they are,
but they are all unimportant:
the bankers, the judges, the royals,
hiding behind walls,
ears pressed against
exquisite wallpapers
pretending desperately not to hear
the footsteps approaching,
full of fears, full of despair
forged into majestic cufflinks.
She will come for you,
she will come for me,
and this knowledge
we ought not to remember.
Our memories
will only be preserved
by our imagination
in the buildings we leave behind;
the necessary windmills,
the parks, the bike paths,
a simple pencil.....
and let’s not forget
to plant a tree.
Our legacy
is all the tangible and material;
not the love we once had,
not even the love in our hearts.
Love is the blessing,
a gift we must possess
to allow us to hold hands,
to walk on the beach,
to watch sunsets,
and not see ourselves
witnessing darkness come,
rehearsing the inevitable,
full of contentment, full of joy, full of life.
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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Marco Aurelio Poem
They bake in the sun
until their skin is a blueish black
their stomach mimicking the moon
flour, yeast, water, almost a bread makes
they, are the salt of the earth.
( a sort of TANKA - 5-7-5-7-7 words )
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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Marco Aurelio Poem
There is always a song to be sung
and I surround the one on the stage,
crowding him, reminding him
to sing, to dance, to pretend...
I like the fearful,
the devotees...
I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile,
as they beg the Lord for forgiveness,
for inspiration for clemency,
if he listens, if he cares,
if he inspires,
it's well beyond my care.
Clemency he has none to give,
for I am forever inspiring and certain.
There is always a thing or two
that they can daily do to forget:
and as they do,
religiously,
time takes them by the hand
and delivers them all to me.
The soulful,
I take away
in majestic strides,
as the courageous
I sit beside,
as they drive their cars
hundreds of miles an hour
over a cliff, against a tree.
The uninspired
I arrive late to collect,
in their forever muted state
they go peacefully,
in their sleep.
There will be people there,
crying.
I come, collect them and move on.
As I walk away with them
I see a building,
a fence, a nice garden
that reminds me of someone.
Step by step, in my lead shoes,
I tiptoe on the others:
the passionate,
the inspired,
as they put the final touches
on their latest creations,
as they begin their opus.
We walk away together
and I hear their passionate tales
of their unfinished masterpieces:
a beautiful painting,
a beautiful score,
a perfect quilt,
the first typed pages
of a new novel
that would inspire millions.
A late afternoon,
an early morning stroll,
is always better
accompanied by someone
whose time has run out.
I watch them
passionately describing
how grandiose it would have been:
they are still focused,
strangely connected,
eternally unaware,
forever dreaming,
and I am the one destined
to exist only in their stories
and the wondrous promises held
in their unfinished work.
On rare occasions,
I read over their shoulders
and find absolute beauty,
and I wait, teary-eyed,
ignoring the clock,
until the lead marks the paper
one final time,
one final note:
the end.
They see me
and acquiesce,
and I take them away
into the night
quietly,
and I know I should feel betrayed
but genius is rare indeed
and mediocrity makes me forgotten.
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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Marco Aurelio Poem
My child asked me today,
what a poem was
and I told him.
Perhaps,
in a state of happiness
for his interest
in such an important art form,
I betrayed thousands of years of verse,
and killed so many poets.
So I went searching
and found it all too confusing.
Why, I ask, does the poet
make his verses so impenetrable,
why does he make it so elusive?
I felt sad and small,
that my child waited,
while ignorance wrapped me tight,
like a heavy visible cloak.
And I did what others do
when they don’t know:
I told him of how busy I was.
My child became a teenager:
resilient, smart and unable
to allow a parent
a safe retreat anywhere.
When he met a poet,
he called me at once:
a poem, Carlos told him,
is nothing but a beautiful box,
with life inside.
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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Marco Aurelio Poem
Why so loud?
Go quiet into the night,
hear the cobblestones
announcing your departure
from this world-
to an empty night.
The bars
collect all the people in this world.
They smile, feed off each other:
finding friends, eternal love.
You
are left with nothing
but a memory:
like a trumpeter sustaining a note,
a beautiful note
it is;
but the unspoken secret
of every sound,
is in the fragility of a breath...
is that it’s ending...
is that it’s ending...
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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Marco Aurelio Poem
I dream of Rome;
but I’ve never been there
and I never will.
These things about Saints,
scare the bejesus out of me.
In the eternal dance
of men and Saints,
men always get hurt,
some even die.
The lucky ones
are set to rest,
the others are
the unrest in this world.
And the Saints are always there,
always.
Omnipresently
watching everything.
Copyright © Marco Aurelio | Year Posted 2013
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