Long Steps Poems
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In a room bubbling exuberance
and a gaiety crowd dancing to beats
we sit across each other ten feet apart,
his whispering pulses become audacious
every second approaching my heart
and I shiver as they unravel my layers,
intimate desires beneath naive smiles.
Flickering lights on his velvet skin,
topaz brown eyes decipher my love,
unveiling pearls behind chandeliers
as I make nervous moves to blanket them
in timid blinks of my lush orchard,
but he knows for I see him smile,
his blazing patience till we escape
this cacophony to face each other in euphoria.
Beads of sultry lemonade on his lips
kiss my fingers as I touch my glass,
he seems jealous of my crystal earring
embracing my cheek, entwined with my hair
and I envy his cotton white shirt
draping his ocean of passionate dreams.
He folds his sleeves, I tie my locks,
we've taken our first steps,
now ten steps apart drenched in mists
of our heated breaths we float at night,
our glances intermingled in frequencies,
that only our fingers can decode in smoke,
weaving patterns in the air between us,
my anklets kiss my fragile feet,
embellished in raging storms we drown,
in waves of hushed union escaping through vents
of a moment standing still known just to us,
pouring through crevices that moisten parched lands.
He has read my fantasies in folded memories,
electric touch flaming my passionate side
as his fingers hold mine in our recluse.
We've made love without physical touch,
and now we dance on pearls of octaves,
intertwined with beats on the surface,
curling in laced rhythms of ancient *ragas.
*Ragas are musical melodies for improvisation akin to a melodic mode in Indian classical music, considered a traditional means in music to evoke certain feelings in an audience.
June 28, 2020
Sensuality Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
~Winner: 2nd Place
I see him walking awkwardly
With faltering baby steps
A wizened shadowy figure
A man over eighty with an arching body
Carrying the carcasses of lost aspirations
He has seen thousands of auburn sunsets
Now timorously inching his way
Friendless, solitary and deserted
May be towards his final sunset,
Beyond which is utter darkness!
I see in him my aged father
A fellow pilgrim heading to a common destination
God speaks to me through his eyes
He has opened the door for me to a living light
I value him so much that I want
To make him feel loved and cared
Before the night darkens and he stumbles and falls
Let me hold his hand for a while
Be with him for some time
To brighten his world for a fleeting moment
Before he falls down dead
Before I am too weary to care
As I suture his wounds and apply a little balm
Over the scalding burns of his mind
If he feels, he is not alone, but with company
Oh sure, my heart will quiver
As an opening blossom of joy!
Jan.9.2023
~ Placed First~
The Way We Look Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker
Poetry is a drug, mixed in the alchemy of the night,
An elixir of never-ending dreams, the bitter drink of wandering souls,
Poured into the empty goblets of thirsty minds,
And it flows, softly, through the veins carrying the sap of unspoken desires,
A sweet poison that opens gates to hidden worlds.
With every swallowed word, I lose myself in the endless labyrinth,
Where words are torches burning in the hand of time,
Illuminating dark paths where my steps hesitate,
And discovering in the depths, forgotten treasures of love and yearning,
The remnants of battles between dream and reality, between sky and cloud.
In smokey dreams, I let myself be carried by the turbulent rhymes,
That float on murky waters, ink butterflies in their evening flight,
They carry me toward horizons where stars write poems on the celestial vault,
And the moon, the great poetess, pours her silver over seas of unclear thoughts,
Embracing lost souls in eternal poetry, where everything begins and ends.
But, oh, how bitter is the withdrawal when the ink dries up,
And the letters melt into the night, leaving behind only the shadows of silence,
In those moments, my soul breaks, searching for a way back
To that endless ocean of words, where poetry is the drug that keeps me alive,
And in each verse, I find salvation, a lighthouse in the night, guiding me to dawn's light.
Thus, I let myself be caught again in her enchantment, this sacred dependency,
Poetry - my panacea and my curse, the magic that weaves me into a web of dreams,
Where every word is a falling star, and every verse, a new world,
A refuge from reality, where I can fly, fall, be reborn,
In an infinite journey, where poetry is the drug that fuels my soul.
Darkness will dissipate slowly
As every dawn promises to eternity
I see a village girl walking slowly
With her steps on the grass ...
A beauty in a background of melancholy.
I see a baby on her lap.
And I wish her health, happiness, and joy
I must do so right now
I might never see her again.
Keep believing in faith, in harmony.
A gathering of people, a reunion you might say
Everyone was laughing and a moment of the muse
Got silenced with her singing voice,
"So many stars are there in your sky"
And I wish her all my love and I wish her the best
I must do so right now
I might never see her again.
Keep believing in faith, in harmony.
Rosebuds draft in scarlet, crimson, or maroon,
dreams to capture the viewer's point of view,
as its blossom's sheath their basis to its prune,
magnificent achievers rise in rows queue,
as the loss of age cast their field of thorn strewn,
shadows the facades to pipe a distinct tune,
shear away those sharp pokey points of danger,
and frail petals to amend its life-changer.
Amendments trail the housed maxed of tabletops,
of revived rosebuds claim a home as their own,
a treasured wealth trades with the town's floral shops,
then set at one's front wicket by an unknown,
or adorn tombstones as floral wreaths that props,
and crowned on a princess who sits on her throne,
a taxing burden to detain the death masque,
not tiny but thornless as Bonsai craft's task.
The Pyramid steps like the Baguio steppes,
where Filipinos view as their time-out spot,
the other is ancient for tourists who peps,
while an isle serves the rosebuds to sprout and squat,
nature confides stemmed thornless maroon by reps,
students check articles of the course they plot,
as a new breed of rosebuds shelved a terrace,
elegance embrace the solitaire heiress.
Loosely sketched parcels that the rosebud dwells in,
fresh sod fertile and well-sopped sealed neath the sun,
from its current strain, since its birth in Eden,
inspire blossoming with faint buzzes outdone,
coy rumors, green greener, red redder, seeds in,
East rises, and West sets, how the rosebud won,
Bonsai is an ancient craft not deemed as new,
man named rosebuds since their virgin birth, it grew.
Spring sprung sprouts as their healthy roots hug the ground,
a wealth of newborns reach for the warmth of skies,
its outstretched stem hardens merely being gowned,
a promised promenade paramount to rise,
by patrons, the sun, moon, and earth make their round,
a glowing shape as a rosebud is its prize,
the fields are graced with rosebuds color-filled rows,
as they grow in opened splendor till it snows.
Botanical Society best: Sowers.
ranked by their breeds and regions where they were raised,
down to idyllic truths, forthcoming growers,
who take pleasure in their leisure being phased,
where growth is best tended as their height lowers,
promised its dowery by virtuous praised,
reach prosperous glory in you or outpours,
rain or shine achievers within or outdoors.
Twenty one years ... what lesson was learned?
Three countries, five states, and thousands of faces,
triumphs and terrors, to be lauded and spurned,
yearning to please those I love and stay in God's graces—
then: chases, disgraces, getting lost in strange places,
seeing always the heavens through slips in the spaces.
First I was dreaming, of the world, everything.
Then I was steaming, a machine of success,
for failure was too frightening to see face to face.
So strange how guilt and fear are engines, unmatched,
in producing the highest of honors and praise.
Love is still a fantasy I once read in books,
though my family is my stronghold, my root, and my pride.
Creation was my delight. Was it fueled by self-oppression?
Is there any pure desire that the wise men call higher?
Perhaps I chose struggle with a mind that the fire,
would take me to ashes and leave nothing left,
except my words, whatever those are worth.
I once thought something of them.
It's easy to do.
To pretend that out of billions,
you're so special, too.
Once in my heart I believed that.
Or at least my doubt was too deep to confuse.
Yet I found others didn't vaunt me as I did,
and I was too vain to win, and too strong, still, to lose.
And in darkness I've stumbled some steps, let me fly!
I know there's much left to do; don't ask why.
My lesson is strange, but all mysteries are.
The more energy given, the more we receive.
The inverse, so intuitive, I know now to deceive.
April 13, 2017
I did not sing today.
I walked long,
But there was no song
As I went about my way.
I did not talk today.
There was no friend
With smile to lend
And kind thought steered my way.
I did not write today.
I thought long and hard,
But there was no card
No parchment held its sway.
I did not laugh today.
Save a wry response
To a random thought
On my wandering pondering way.
I did not sup this eve.
No bounteous grace
No warm embrace
No consort at my sleeve.
But I count the day not lost
For the careworn and the cost.
For the steps on every journey
Be they light or weight uncertain
Must be taken...
Lest they bring the final curtain to the Day.
Eight years old on that January Wednesday
Little hesitant steps into the schoolyard
Everyone has stranger's eyes
Mazes of hallways, lunchroom arena, playground cliques
Expedited heartbeat, ceiling too high to the
New kid, the foreigner, the interloper
Throat too tight, mouth too dry
Anxiety blocks my words, even my name, then
Ringing bells, summoning students in a river, and do
You need help, the kind lady is asking
Soothing hand on my shoulder, guides me to
Class, chattering kids, tables and pencils, one girl says
Hi, do you like bugs - I laugh and
One friend is made - she makes room for the
Outsider, and I say yes, I like
Ladybugs - and suddenly I belong.
12/04/18
for My Youth contest
sponsor: Craig Cornish
Wandering, leave my world behind,
A journey, new beginnings.
Unsure of what I’ll find,
Thoughts and images flash my mind
On this journey I’m embarking.
Wandering, leave my world behind.
These thoughts I have aren’t always kind.
Tangled, jumbled, darting, seeking,
Unsure of what I’ll find.
Pausing briefly to unwind,
The prospect of reflecting.
Wandering, leave my world behind.
Emotions strapped and, in a bind,
My steps slow down, I’m faltering.
Unsure of what I’ll find.
So, I embark, eyes remain blind.
This challenge I’m accepting.
Wandering, leave my world behind,
Unsure of what I’ll find.
You have permission to use these poems of mine on your terrific sight if you wish, from a series of Desert Poems I have written. Joe DiMino, author.
"From Desert Series" by Joe DiMino
Horses have come through here--
no jockeys though--
tracks too free for that;
no grandstand cheering...
but one can tell,
by the long strides,
horses always know:
An eagle steps from the cliff...
struts high above the canyon floor...
shows her young what wings can do.
"From Desert Series" by Joe DiMino
The sun is not too hot, here,
on the lichen side of the mountain--
where the edge is taken off, absorbed
into the oranges and yellows and
greens and blues of my patterns:
There!--I see an Indian woman
breast-feeding her swaddling-child;
and there!--a mystical buffalo,
in marble of color (sort of an
unfinished puzzle): I search for my
missing piece in the shade of a tall
saguaro….