Long Aching Poems
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Everyone I see,
with no exceptions.
They vibrate off the planet,
and leave me as I wait for
my resurrection.
I look around my room
Notice they're still here,
only I can see their eyes
have far more passion.
Now they smile at me.
Their foreheads more serene.
The angel ghosts within me, without me,
that live below my dreams
for my redemption.
For them I only cry
until my tear ducts are bone dry,
my aching head is clearer, calmer,
and I am finally ready
to look them in the eye
with warm intention.
"We come from you,"
the angels speak my name.
"Follow us through pain and darkness
and you will feel the same.
Because it was ordained for you
And all your brethren
That your world be void of all its sins
And gentle love replace your blame."
For Contemplation.
She dances to the rhythmic drumbeats,
She dances despite her aching feet.
She bears the torture;
If only.it would turn to joy.
She watches the priest as he calls upon the benevolent spirits,
As he invokes the Divine.
Will he be able to realign the pieces that would guide her away from the gloomy shoreline?
Will he be able to summon back the soul of the departing?
She dances to the drumbeats with a sorrowful heart.
Will she face bereavement again?
This time, nothing will wash away the stain—
Not the purest water or the brightest sunshine.
Her son lies lifeless on the bed;
It’s past twilight,
Just a few hours until midnight.
There must be a summoning before the departed crosses the threshold to the beyond.
The drumbeats take on a different cadence,
The priest turns to her with a smile.
They have achieved a significant milestone,
Tears stream down her face.
April 15, 2025.
YOUR SHOES
Tears that no one saw you shed,
The toss and turn upon your bed,
From the broken heart you thought you’d die,
Head aching for not understanding why.
Your shoes now tattered to the sole,
Weary feet withstanding heat and cold.
Cries to heaven for the bruising heel.
For the misfortunate hand life seemed to deal.
When the repercussions of ...just because,
Took every joy you ever thought there was.
When it seemed there’d never be a door,
The joy for life you had, for sure, no more.
And the thought there’s someone worse off than you,
Provides no strength for a new pursuit.
When the remnant of all that remains is real,
And the painful walk you can’t even feel.
You dare to look down to the floor,
Your worn out shoes are there no more,
The grace of God through Jesus Christ,
Has healed your painful walk in life.
No greater love than Christ’s alone,
New meaning to what thought was home.
Your shoes you wear, are now brand new.
All you lost and more given back to you.
Your shoes are yours, and any given time,
Your shoes may look better or worse than mine.
Everyone in life must pay their dues,
Your choices, your life, your path, your shoes.
The beauty of passion
In a poisonous fashion
Attention feels rationed
It’s a fatal attraction
Ravenous biting
A scandalous whisper
Addicted to fighting
With Lady Love’s sister
A burning temptation
An aching sensation
You lose all orientation
When she’s on rotation
She makes you melt
Can’t take the heat
Best lips you’ve felt
They taste so sweet
Perception is cloudy
Her lips turn pouty
Her touch is inviting
She keeps things exciting
She sneaks up from behind
Takes control of your mind
She’ll rob your heart blind
And keep you confined
She’s the primal urge
The desire to merge
To be skin to skin
It’s the sweetest sin
She’s love without trust
Pure chaos that’s unjust
Push her away if you must
Or keep dancing with Lady Lust
--Who Has no Tomb to Rest His Soul--
After the long, long wandering in the wasteland,
sometimes by the sea where the roaring wind surges
the waters, or times in the highland where the dews chill the bone,
and other times by the marsh where pouring rain lashes the reeds,
Oedipus the blind and ruined old man, led by his dearest daughter,
came to the land of running horseman Colonus,
the land where Theseus reigns.
Woe is the blindness,
strange ground where Oedipus stepped on,
however, was the holy ground of immortal beings,
the ground forbidden to all who are the mortals.
Oedipus, therefore, an impious old man,
the blasphemous king once reigned Thebes,
the shameless one without the eyes to see.
Since the day driven out from Thebes
Oedipus needed a refuge where to lay his worn out body,
where to rest his wandering soul, and therefore, though
unknowingly, he hastily stepped on Holy Land.
Since he was expelled by his own sons and mother’s brother,
Oedipus needed the comforting word that soothes his aching body,
that relieves his troubled heart, and therefore, to hear
sweet music descending from above and echoes
in the grove as the gay spirited birds twitters,
he hurriedly sat on an altar forbidden to the mortals.
The oracle upon Oedipus since his conception
in mother’s womb was a cursed one, a foe to his own father,
the curse Oedipus, therefore, carried from the day of his birth was,
rather than a blessed one the proud heir to the ruler the king of Thebes,
but to become an abandoned child one forced to be a stranger everywhere.
And after the long wandering in an endless desolated land,
though death gave benediction in the night dark as his sight at last,
it did not allow him to have a tomb where his beloved daughters
would be able to dedicate a piece of stone with an epitaph,
the inscribed words of praise to honor him, or to recollect
his sorrowful image before his grave with tears in time to time,
though it may be a painful reminiscence to his daughters.
Alas! the king Oedipus, who has no tomb to rest his wandering soul
even after his death under an evil star.
Act 0, Scene –3 : Eden, Immediately before The Fall
Eve reacts to Adam’s reaction to Eve – Divine Cause and Effect.
Man, for weakness has a name, should have been left … alone.
ADAM
Tall and slender
Quiet Man
Piercing eye
Gentle hand
Need unspoken
Deep inside
Pledge unbroken
Self, denied
Asks for nothing
Wants for much
Aching for
A tender touch
Human, Nature
Soul and Strength
Emerging in a
Fateful length
Of time to which
There is no cure
That purity
Can long endure
A choice unfair
A force too hard
For one who cares
To disregard
A whispered word
Deceptively kind
From somewhere deep
Inside her mind
Condemns us all
To bliss and then
Eternal fall
For serving man
Exit the Right Hand of God … Enter players.
When you’re shaken and stirred by your love for another
And the song of the heart sends the head to the nether
When you clean all the grim off the hope to discover
The pale ghostly figure of a once strong lover
Standing over your shoulder and in the path before yer
All the words that was spent, all the touches too
How the blood pays the rent when the heart’s overdue
How the future’s forgotten when the past clutches you
How temperament is timed to the reenactments untrue
In the old habitual view of the beacons in the blue
All the wistful dreams admired in the over-exposed night
Secretly mishandled in the darkening morning light
Brilliantly disguised amidst the many a broken right
All pent up, packed and unboxed at heart’s aching sight
For the hard-eyed delight of which no ashes reignite
It’s a curled lip glossy spread and a pout at the ghost
It’s a damaged motor chanting on the road to the coast
Where lone-isle weary figures are cloaked standing on post
Claiming their measure, their misgiving, their bitter boast
About the thieving dream-host to whom they gave their heart most
MIRAGE OF CLARITY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the side view mirror of the U-Haul,
my familiar world slips away,
the verdant green hills of North Texas,
lush and breathing,
their whispers fading into dust.
We roll into the heart of the Permian Basin,
the lushness surrendering to the parched expanse.
Flat is the land—yellow, ochre and brown;
the sagebrush and mesquite, stoic in their resilience,
pay homage to the sun's relentless gaze.
Late afternoon, the Chihuahuan Desert unfolds,
the earth here wearing its scars like a badge of survival.
The vast expanse of dusty solitude lay before us,
the heat wrapping around us like a heavy coat
where the roads led to nowhere in particular.
Dusk arrives, and the sun, a fiery, molten orb,
sinks into the embrace of night.
I wonder in this desolate land if I’ll find beauty,
if the road ahead holds new hills to climb,
or merely more miles of flat, aching unfamiliar stillness.
Morning arrives with a hush,
the sun blinding me—a sudden flash of brilliance.
Shielding my gaze, I look far off into the distance.
The aridity somehow frees the light
unleashing the desert’s grandeur.
The sky is a gorgeous, intense blue color,
the sand dunes taking on sunlight and pulse.
Though the earth here isn’t cloaked in forest,
nor draped in pastoral, peaceful green,
it dons a simple, comfortable, khaki-colored robe.
Like shadows retreating, the past shifts,
a mirage of clarity rising in the shimmering heat.
I stand, not just in the light, but in the beauty of now,
knowing the desert holds the promise of something magnificent and new.
I clutch it close to my heart.
Poem written for “Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder Poetry Contest,” Crystol Woods, sponsor, July 2025.
spring was magnificent with budding cherry blossoms wrapping branches of
my trees. summer had an exquisite grand entrance. my garden
celebrated with dahlias, chrysanthemums, and ever gorgeous sunflowers
with brimming joy flowers frolicked and whispered to each other!
autumn of my life tiptoed, blushing bride under a veil.
trees are still bursting with gorgeous colours of whirling, twirling
swirling fall leaves, but the lustrous flowers no longer smile!
I am not afraid of the creeping old man winter.
my memory is fading, my body is aching, but I
get captivated by silvery rooftops laced with ribbons of snow.
.
enjoy autumn days watching playful pristine clouds glide by,
after witnessing many springs, many summers, grey days
can be daunting, but can not defeat my desire,
my spirit, my pace. my walk may get slow, my eyes tired,
I continue my journey with same vigour,
with same passions I nurtured at the onset of spring.
my limbs are sore and aching, my spirit stays strong.
beauty of the fleeting seasons charms my soul. I feel
fervently with all my senses, I paint the whimsical seasons,
I write the ebullient tale of a fascinating life..
We had two, enormous Black Walnut trees
That would shed every leaf in the fall.
The lawn would be blanketed, brilliant yellow
As the cold, north winds would call.
The task was foreboding to say the least,
The work would be hard, I conceded.
To prepare for winter and snow to come
Raking the leaves was needed.
Many years since, in a distant state
I find myself raking again
And a memory stirred my heart anew
And with joy I remembered when….
After toilsome hours of gathering leaves
My body sore and aching,
A ritual started that to this day
Brings fondness of raking’s partaking.
My son and daughter would anxiously wait
For the leaves to be heaped in a pile.
At my, “Okay!” they would dive in headfirst
And be buried alive with smiles.
Laughter ensued, and joy was the mood
As our mountain of leaves exploded.
Rake ‘em again! Pile it up so we can
Dive in over and over, with Fall overloaded.
By Tom Valles