I am guilty for the nation
I’ve no business to the world
In a play of no sensation
I’m a prompter of one word
Who would share a consolation
For the character of mine
I’m a proof of antination
Well disjointed from the time
Mental tenant of the era
Of the sixties – seventies
I’m that boy who smashed the mirror
It was fun to see it splits
Fatherland and motherland
I just can't relate to both
I belong to Nowhere land
That’s my real place of birth
That’s my peace, my joy and sorrow
Nowhere home, and garden I
Used to know, meet no tomorrow
Only yesterdays comply
Nowhere woman, nowhere man
Doing all the best we could
Stayed together till the end
Till it has become too good
I’m no more applied to this
My Arcadia I’ve seen
I’m a question you would diss
There’s no answer in the wind
I’m a petal of her rose
Orphan of the dying breed
I have loved, and loved I was
What I know I doubt you need
"Wistful/Wishful: sometimes if a word can ever be realized, just an 'alphabet' change will suffice," ... by the Poet
The coconuts have gone awry,
and its fronds they seemed to deny,
their stumped stilts beaches pierce the sky,
an empty beach where birds fly by,
no imprint sole of surfing guy,
except I write the reasons why,
appropriate it with a sigh.
It's because of the lava flow,
in "83 nobody knows,
but then it started the big show,
at first, 'twas small and started slow,
until it grown, and grow, and grow,
the forest like a mower, mow,
night sky turned an orangey glow.
Since "83 it kept its pace,
it filled the ridge, a lengthy space,
then poured downhill like in a race,
the town lay at the mountain base,
lava came, the town prayed then braced,
home after home, place after place,
pierce a lifetime shown on their face.
The mountain lava met the sea,
wherefrom my hometown used to be,
everyone is an absentee,
all now have a new addressee,
and they are new hometown adoptees,
how can poetic words air-free,
for one who's wistful presently.
I always say good morning
I always say good night
I send them telepathically
If they don't come by write
So if your heart starts ringing
The phone call is from me
Sweet nothings I am singing
Your heart's the addressee
Box marked ‘Fragile, with care’
Returned to sender
C’est la guerre…
Addressee hostile ~ Beware!
The letter was tattered, a bit of the corner torn off
It looked like it had been tumbled in a washing machine.
The address was faded,
but the postal worker was determined to deliver it
No telling how long it had been behind the cabinet where it was found.
Do we open it? Read it? See if it is important?
No. That would be a federal offense.
When was it postmarked? May 1931, during the depression.
They put it into a bigger envelope with a more distinctly seen address.
The letter made it to the great-great-granddaughter of the addressee.
She took it to the nursing home and read it to granny.
Ben had wanted to marry her.
He had asked her in the letter.
She smiled at her great-great-granddaughter,
loving it that she had Ben’s eyes.
Eyes dead to the world
Emotions switched to off
A flame that once burned bright
Burned down and out
Love given does not equal received
Emotions returned addressee unknown
You are just someone in a crowd
Literally just one in a million
Such a precious gift to be tossed aside
I’m Last year’s valentine
There must be a special on real love
As you seem to think it’s easy to find
Like a book on a shelf read once
Loved and then left to gather dust
You move on to the next thriller
Hope you get your happy ending
The Forgotten holidays
Written or in this case typed…
correctly; “The” as it was at the beginning correct.
“Forgotten” as it was naming not the action but the lost.
(holidays) No capital as they are thought to be small,
and unimportant by most everyone,
except those that remember.
The truth is we are never sure
who they may be,
until they are; us.
My good friend died last year.
Cancer ate her up.
I missed her birthday,
Valentines cookies,
April songs, May flowers,
Summer showers, birds…
and laughter…
Tea and cakes,
under the big tree, in the back.
Memorial day for the brave,
Labor for the strong,
The 4th, so spectacular,
to light the sky.
She would have loved the show,
I did, but less so without her.
Her anniversary, with him.
She was in love.
Now he is lost.
What happens when no one remembers,
the days that never get to happen,
gone from us, not in our reach at all.
The rest we rearrange,
our schedule to correct the path,
for our new, if unwontedly changed…
Life.
Cards with only one name,
one sender… or worse,
one addressee.
Pencils, pens, crayons, and markers
Makes me
An artist of the highest degree.
I can make the neatest tree
With a bird family using it as a new addressee.
It will have all sorts of flowers around it with
A hungry bee.
While I am still sitting on my knees
I can make a zoo in which I have the only key.
These animals are the likes of which no one
Will ever see.
My mom is laughing with glee
As she relaxes with her cup of tea.
She says " Come here my favorite artist who is
Only three
Sit next to me as we go on your zoo journey."
My mom had set my heart free
Now I was filled with lots of creativity.
I'm searching for the younger me,
Together we'll survive.
The person that I used to be
Has ruined all my life.
I wish she helped me understand
What's hidden in the lies,
What demon forced her to pretend
And play a lover twice.
I wish she had a chance to know
One story of heartbreak
Is better than quick love on show,
Her hero was a fake.
I'm writing to the younger me,
The letters may be lost,
But words will find the addressee
One day at any cost.
"Remember, we were seventeen
And you could love despite
The distance, waiting and routine,
And that's your secret might.
You talked to loved ones in your dreams,
You saw a secret sign,
And that was love beyond extremes,
Sincere and pristine.
Embraces on the dirty floor
At late December nights,
One kiss that made you long for more
And blurry city lights...
Remember it... what have you done?
You've left it all behind.
I could be you, we could be one,
But I'm a different kind".
Lima has a pulse
arterial and venous it flows…
all the colors of the rainbow glow
in the mist of Pacific sea's
hectic days and disco nights
beat into the sand at the ocean's lea.
Lima's life flows
from Palacio de Gobierno ...
in measured meter from the fountain glow
amidst a Catholic sea
spirits rise of the children of the sun
cleansed of their faith by papal decree.
Lima wealth flows
its chic denizens prance baroque boulevards
barricaded behind razor wire's show
life for the wealthy addressee
distanced from the hovels of El Salvador
and the festive strum of the mariachi.
Lima has a pulse
arterial and venous it flows...
as buses disgorge invaders, colorful, slow
Shamanism lies in a Catholic sea
proud, head held high, clinging to He
beat into the sand at the ocean's lea.