Long Windowless Poems
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So much passes unnoticed,
fails to attract an eye or an ear,
excite the senses enough
to interrupt the mind's endless
chatter conducted within
the windowless walls of itself.
Too often, a walk is no more
than an exercise in navigation,
vague passage through
a dreamlike world of shapes
floating the outer regions
of what really matters,
your own thoughts.
Time thickens a spun
cocoon. The day in all
its glory remains out there,
sunlight golden on the trees,
the smell of freshly cut grass,
birdsong filtering
through autumn leaves -
more distant now
from the tightening enclave
you slowly weave.
Deceitful seasons breed perfidy
Waves form the fantasy of the starry beam
The heart of crimson is bleeding
Reflection is a calm shade of blue
Blustery winds in the four seasons.
Your lights feature an ominous vibe
the shine of crimson, as pools of blood
It is fully murky throughout the street
I shiver as rain pours into the rills on my body
Your farewell echoes in the darkness
Daggering through the heart
Without you, who would I be?
Heaven's purple shade
shows a glint of silver moonlight
dazzles a modest dwelling
And I will join you in gazing at the sky
The moon attempted to convey this
skyward-looking but windowless
as blind as they wanted to peer into my chest
barrenness and broken fantasy.
Written: November 18, 2022
The road to death is always under construction
There is no fire or brimstone down below
Hell offers comfort to one and all discounted
Sinners and seniors move in for free
Pain is a figment of the imagination
The administration would never lie to you
We have a kinder candy coated kind of demons
With your comfort and convenience in mind
We are a newer fresher kind of nation
Built on a foundation of sand and trust
Wall to wall walls installed at no cost
With a view overlooking a windowless future
Untold pleasures not worth mentioning await
Unbelievable benefits for richer and poorer
According to the new management
No more taxes, no right or wrong
Be happy in your political bent
Everything is good. Nothing is bad
Death is a mere inconvenience
Something we can live without
All things being equal to liberals
There is no heaven or rent to pay
Imagine that when you pray
Before you enter into forever and a day
In the narrow corridors of lost time,
where light seeks its shadows in dusty corners,
words sit like butterflies with heavy wings,
suffering under the weight of unspoken silences.
In the silent cells of a forgotten world,
my books traverse walls, like birds searching
for the sky in a windowless world,
trying to free thoughts trapped in chains of paper.
I wrote for those who bear invisible burdens,
for those who find solace in lines,
but literature, a mystery to the ordinary mind,
weaves into the soul like a forgotten melody,
a song even the rarest of us
cannot understand without feeling its pain.
Poetry, a labyrinth of emotions,
sheds complicated meanings,
leaving behind clear, human words,
like an honest gaze in a world of masks.
Williams called for clarity,
and I followed, seeking to open paths
for those who have forgotten how to see.
But writing is one thing, life another,
we improve the words, but our lives
remain stuck in the same patterns,
like birds repeatedly striking
the glass of painful transparency.
Perhaps, by writing better, living more beautifully,
we will make life ashamed of itself.
Maybe artists were never strong enough,
maybe those who rule the world were too strong,
and we, pale and precious,
let words flow like a river
never finding its sea.
But art, in its intimacy,
bears the same burden:
women, governments, God,
love, hate, poverty, slavery,
insomnias and roads without destination,
times and spouses, and all the rest…
A man in a cell dislikes how commas dance,
how words stray from their path
to capture the exact essence,
without knowing the intention is to relax, to humanize,
to make words like butter or avocado,
something you can grasp and taste,
like a simple and nourishing meal for the soul.
Art may wander, but it keeps the essential form,
like Dostoevsky or Bach,
who taught us to layer melodies
one over the other, creating a symphony
of hidden meanings.
I do not defend my work, but the right to create it
in a way that makes me feel alive.
A writer's boredom is the reader's boredom,
and perfection is just a myth,
an illusion keeping us away from the truth.
You, in the neighboring cell,
receive this letter as a gift,
as a whisper of hope and freedom,
for art needs only the freedom
to be itself, imperfect and real,
in a world that forgets to listen.
On Growing Older Than I Am
Alas, this growing older than I am
drained me of the will to search for more
my life consumed incessantly with spam
I stood a vagrant beggar at the door
naked beneath the trappings of old skin
gazing through windowless cloudy past
as life, I’d truly love to live again,
roams freely through the shadows I have cast
So as I stiffen now inside this crate
hear sad footsteps slowly mark my fate
I must admit I never made this date
nor planned to leave the party quite so late
Thus, in the silence, I shall take my leave
dream of the life I lived and will not grieve.
4/22/2017
submitted to – YOU 20 Years From Now – Poetry Contest
Where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain
bleeding shades of layered shame on blight-lined highways below,
their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
Interred on unkempt plots, crumbling brick carcasses maintain
evidence we’re forced to see if the trails of traffic slow
where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain.
Rush-hour bottlenecks, the frustrated drivers’ daily bane,
exact tolls of tribute to hollowed homes lost long ago.
Their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
Daylight, drowned in the windowless dam of a plywood pane,
begs blackness, dwelling within abandoned walls, who’ll dare go
where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain?
Does the doll left naked on a spray-painted stoop remain
to testify children once played under its portico?
Their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
As darkness descends, the caravans of commuters wane,
leaving deserted the injured, desolate Jericho.
Where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain,
their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
They were once enslaved in idolatrous Egypt,
and Moses led them out of that wicked land,
when the Third Reich came to power in Europe,
Hitler deepened his hatred for them; no nation
dared to save them, so their extermination began.
They were locked in the cramped rooms of concentration camps,
later burned in gas chambers, then thrown into mass graves;
their human lives were worthless to him, and many walked
into those darkened chambers filled with the stench of death,
holding their children so afraid and shivering in the bitter cold.
In the windowless rooms with bankers beds, scary eyes roved in darkness:
in there, life was a flickering candle kept alive by an incredible faith,
and God in His immense mercy, descended here to comfort them...
while the Evil One continued to spread death and fear among nations;
no documents were found, but piles of corpses witnessed those atrocities.
Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.
Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.
My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.
And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.
I have nightmares,
not those that visit the sleeper,
but those that know his name.
They enter me with the patience of heirs,
rearrange the furniture of my soul
and sit at the table of my thoughts.
I wake up with several men inside my chest.
One believes he owns my birth,
another claims to know my death,
a third sells my identity
for a few coins of reason.
I let them speak:
I am their country, their border, and their prison.
Since childhood, I have carried a windowless room
where a child continues to grow old.
He gazes at his own hands
the way one gazes at a riddle after it has been solved.
He would like to know who taught him how to become himself,
and why his name always feels borrowed.
I live among things that have lost their innocence:
books sometimes teach submission,
palaces give administrative names to chains,
altars transform fear into virtue,
markets put a price on consciences.
Civilized man knows how to count up to his brother’s price.
I have met peoples inside display cases,
arranged by scholars who claimed to understand them.
Their skulls, their lands, their silences were measured,
then what looked like plunder was called progress.
The century put on a brand-new suit,
while the old hunger kept the same mouth.
I think of the dead whom monuments render docile.
Marble lends them a nobility they perhaps never asked for.
The conquerors carve their phrases into the public squares,
then children learn those phrases like prayers.
Stone becomes a professor,
and ignorance is granted a chair.
I no longer know if I think
or if something thinks through me.
My ideas wear invisible uniforms,
my desires sometimes have the voice of a landlord,
my angers know the borders
that my reason claims to have abolished.
I would like to become a stranger to my own certainties,
to inhabit a second before any belief,
to clear out the inherited furniture from my mind,
to make my consciousness an almost empty room.
But man brings his ancient idols everywhere,
even when he believes he has ceased to believe.
Freedom sometimes appears to me like a lock
for which we forge the key ourselves.
We open a door,
then immediately build another prison.
We call this living,
with that comic gravity of the condemned
who write their own rulebook.
Far away by the oceanside I sit and watch the seagulls fly
inside a pale orange sun that has yet to warm a reposing sand
Over by the boardwalk the air still hums of yesterday's feet
two youngsters feeding pelicans perched on feathered height
The smell of fried shrimp coming out of a windowless kitchen
tall glass pina colada bottles with little umbrellas inserted in
down by the ocean the burgundy traces of a latent sun arrives
as we sip slowly, and eat quietly, atop the hotel peer
Its as if it happened yesterday but I can still smell the French fries
wrapped in plaid red and white paper drenched in crisping oils
Pungent odors of chlorinated water from the pool now all gone
replaced by freshly shampooed hair, and lingering sun tan lotion
Wearing a linen white dress and my recently purchased mala beads
I feel more Zen in my pinky today then I felt in a lifetime my friend
far away by that ocean it was the perfect vacation without any fear
when I stop to think of it I hope to return there some time next year.