Not for the first time
he dreams these flying dreams.
He senses wings
under broad scapular bones.
Waves of a latent energy
undulate across his back,
the world below him
is buoyant, his flight effortless.
That night his body
seemed to open osseous doors
as if his present form
were a burial chamber.
What came forth
what came out of him
was hard to see
for it was resurrected
as a wing for the sky.
In Love, not apart
faith, hope can restart
--in prayer.
Sensing Jesus' Heart...
Presence off the chart
(He's there!)
My poetry art
is barely a start
to share...
How I am aware
of His loving care
--the best.
The King's throne I bear
hands cupped in prayer
--attest
Eucharist affair
Keeps me from despair
--in rest.
At night, my hands rest
crossed over my chest
--my heart.
Blue scapular pressed
of Mary, most blessed
--impart...
my fondest request:
to let not my Guest
depart.
Monday, April 3, 2023
Write Me A Virelai Poetry Contest,
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
What are we but relics
of time gone by
Where painful encounters
stay undenied
The wounds may scar over
but never heal
As memory is martyred
its blood congealed
New skin tries to cover
what sutures can’t hide
Each moment recovered
a falsehood decried
With strength built on pillars
of fortunes disdain
From deep in the shadows
—our essence remains
(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)
He had to queue to wake up,
there were a lot of people
ahead of him.
Some carried their beds
on their shoulders
dreams wrapped tightly
between rocking scapular.
Some are clearly sleeping now
they must have slipped through
at the end of a drowsy fantasy.
Eventually his body
shuffled into the world
but by then h had forgotten
where in the world
he belonged.
H had to pick up pieces of memory
from a life strewn around,
while somnambulating
upon alien ground.
the scapular of your anguish
wounds the insolent chest of your enlightenment with blood
a world in disenchantment cries its drunken hymns
but only jackals lick the nectar of these pains
because the night drives away the naive and innocent
and it is with the irreverence of the lost that we cry out loud
trying to defile every throne that rises against us
the time will come when we will immolate the new messiah in fire
placating the wrath of the raging oceans and their deities
the insurgent skies and their merciless stains
we'll bring back a forgotten golden age
and then we'll set all the new traps
to drain for the last time the voracity
of every idol that is eternalized
when we stagger weak across the earth
and we allow them to enslave us.
the skin says it all
it's disorder
white sheet - dirty spot
irritation of inconvenient tissues
discomfort from peeling off rough things
the sweet scent that drives away
or icy sound of unwanted voices
what overlaps everything
this extra layer
another mountain to climb
I preferred the blindness of phones
just your beta voice for my alpha voice
I don't expect the resurrection of smiles
I don't think I'll ever hear these verbs again
now my scapular is made of bones
and if everyone is packing their bags
it's because paradise comes one day
He remembers flying
over a world
where starlight and sound
are filtered through
silver webs.
Not for the first time
he thinks of these flying dreams.
He believes he feels wings
under his broad scapular bones,
wet folded wings
unable yet to test the heavy air.
He ponders upon this
as ripples of latent energy
undulate across his back,
wonders if his body is a chrysalis
waiting to hatch into another reality -
a world buoyant enough
to turn all of his bones
into flights of star-dust.
That night his back
opened osseus doors
as if it were a burial chamber,
and what came forth
was hard to see
even by starlight’s
silvery webs.
Hanging like a scapular,
your memory haunts my dreams
You clothe my thoughts in joyous warmth
my lonely voice to scream…
“I live inside your shadowed love
afraid new suns will shine
“The darkness my heart yearns to keep,
all new light—minus thine”
(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)