I somehow keep forgetting
To adjust things for my age,
For things I once did easily
Don’t, at this current stage,
Let me bounce back quite as fast
So that I still feel the effects
Way beyond the time I did them,
Longer than what one expects.
Walking several extra miles,
Which, when walking, felt okay,
Has me totally exhausted,
Though it was the other day.
Sleeping less than what my body
Would prefer has its results,
Something that would never happen
To most younger-type adults.
Eating what I am not used to,
‘Specially if the food is rich,
Or an extra drink at dinner,
Might produce a little glitch.
Many older people fight this,
Since it’s easy to deny
That they need to take things slower;
Now I’m understanding why.
The aeoniums, after much care, still do not grow,
His plight is of that, oh, how he cares for the flowers,
Though I believe he does not know.
His care for every and all,
Will result in his fall,
To the void, the pit, where only regret thrives,
Where the walls that prevent us from understanding each other shall grow tall.
If I was to regret a thing I had done,
It would be the crushing of those syringas,
So that I may live, unchained by the pressure of others,
So that I could breathe freely from my lungs,
I understand, it was necessary, so I mustn't feel remorse.
But his aeoniums, they still remain,
He preserves them, in the hopes that they will bloom once more,
Though in my mind, it is clear.
They have lived far too long to bloom a second time,
If he does not let go soon, he will miss his own life.
Ism isn't right, it's spite which stems from deep emotion
Welling up within the soul when we confront the notion
That someone somewhere is receiving what we think is ours
Bestowed on us from somewhere we think's written in the stars
We can build an orrery
Yet turn the sky into a junkyard
We're abecedarian, quirky contrarian
Stare decisis from cosmic ovarian
Subaltern, suborbital
Small steps on the heavenly stairway
Pedestrian stardust walking around
Tariffing penguins to tear up the ground
But the stairway is spiral
And it's spiraling down
No escape from the gravity
Found all around
Eyes searching the cosmos
For myopic bliss
In a fallacy galaxy
Far from star-kissed
We're worst when we're first
At least in our mind
Quoting chapter and verse
From each tract that we find
On the ground underneath us
That shifts with each step
Tract's gotten infected
Yet onward we schlep
Each bearing the burden
Of truth stumbled across
When we can patch the thatch
On the roof that we've lost
In that storm of ideas
That threatened the shelter
We've built for ourselves
Unstable ideas full on the shelves
We've forgotten to look
For the beauty inside
While we're gathering dust
From under our feet
Instead of uncovering
What's come from above
While planting our hopes
In the promise of love
Season of death
Told to fear
Before bitter cold
Making everyone scream
For some warmth
And loving touch
Stay in touch
After the death
With some warmth
And no fear
Morbid many scream
Awaiting the cold
Decide embrace cold
With forceful touch
Hear the scream
Proclaiming the death
Eyes express fear
Needing some warmth
Getting the warmth
Fighting the cold
And the fear
With caring touch
Defeating ugly death
That creates a scream
Why a scream?
All filled warmth
Body shell death
Purple silver cold
Ghosts need touch
Soothe the Fear
Dispense the fear
Memories laughing scream
Everyone seems touch
Words igniting warmth
Melting the cold
Celebrating the death
Conquering fear death
Instead scream warmth
When touch cold
Life
How flexible you are.
Today you are fierce,
tomorrow you are gentle.
One moment, innocent as the morning dawn;
the next, a mystery wrapped in silence.
We chase your meaning,
longing to understand your ways,
yet you flow like a river
endless in its journey,
winding through valleys,
climbing rugged hills,
tumbling down steep cliffs,
then resting in tranquil waters.
Oh, Life,
you are a tapestry of wonder,
forever changing,
forever teaching,
forever beyond our grasp.
Poets, make spells,
And good poets, make them well
Enough, that you might
Come, to understand
Your Self
Better than
You, could ever tell.
M indfulness soothes ~~ mind and soul
I t sets people free from trapped emotions
N eed for us all to practise it
D o a journal, be thankful everyday ~ for something
F or it is a road map to freedom ~
U nderstanding , to see through new eyes
L earning to tolerate the emotions we feel
N eed to alter our lives ~ altering attidudes
E ndevouring to live in the moment
S eeing to hold infinity in the palm of your hand
S oaring ~ to new heights in life
I lost my voice, it wasn't my choice
Friends said, "I'll keep an eye out."
Like it's their favorite joke
And I laughed right along with 'em
But it made me think, just for a moment
This must be what it's like
To be born without one
What must it be like
To be born without one
Without a voice, in a noisy world
Where the quiet ones are just ignored
And the loudest ones get all the glory
What must it be like to have no voice
In this world
I have a friend who teaches ASL
To people who couldn't hear it
If a freight train sat down right beside them
And I thought, "How lonely it must feel
To never hear the joke
'Specially when it's on you
My voice'll come back in a day or two
I'll miss it and sharing my point of view
But my friends have heard it
They're happy for the break
And when it's back
I should be a little more eager
To share the voice I have
With someone who has none
To raise the voice I have
For someone who doesn't sound like me
Maybe I could lend an ear, to one whose greatest fear
Is being left out of the conversation
Missing sorrow and elation
Of inclusion and belonging
Someone who's been longing
To belong
is impossible!
I can’t count stripes
when the zebras won’t hold still!
The middle finger of God
is mocking me!
If you run away,
I can’t work
for National Geographic
or learn a damn thing
in this life
of purified conscience,
filtered concepts,
and dirty
magazines
Unholy Hell
There is an incredible emptiness
that will not settle,
a holy loneliness blocking my way.
They tell me not to think so much,
not to worry,
but the heavy quiet of failure drowns out that vow.
Inside these walls, there is no sovereignty.
Just hands, reaching—
everyone wanting a piece of me.
Only music remains a cure,
a quiet place to go to ease the road,
to carry this bitter load.
I was a proud soul once.
Now, I am stripped to the nerve.
Left entirely alone to survive their quiet contempt.
I dream at night, and the nightmares come to call,
and I wake up to the morning sun
already shattered before the day even begins.
More work is what I get.
No time away to sift through the wreckage,
to find what is left of me.
Just the endless expectation of another’s payday.
Deep in my soul,
my mind cries out for reprieve
that my battered, bloody body will never get.
The void is deep.
The pain is real.
The days gone by are misery.
Tough as nails they reference me.
Deep inside only history.
She Loves The Glisando Rubato Sound
---------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------
El *glissando rubato* consiste
en deslizarse continuamente
entre notas (*glissando*)
mientras se toca con
un tempo flexible y expresivo (*rubato*)
----------------------------------------
Grito Verse
"whats your name
what's your number
are you single too
I see you listening to my
every word
I am listening to your's too"
-----------------------
'Grito Afinar'
En lugar de deslizarse
a una velocidad
constante,
el intérprete acelera
y desacelera el
deslizamiento para añadir
tensión emocional
y un matiz humano
.---------------------------
Jarana Cumbia
---------------------------
Frottoir and Grito
---------------------------
"What's your name
what's your number
Can I call an talk
with you
we can be freinds
we can be lovers
Darling what do you
wanna do"
(Grito start's again)
---------------------------
Those who would rid our schools curriculum
Of Kipling n' Tennyson,
Are damned and stupid thieves
Robbing theirselves and their charges
Of, the poetry and history, that
History does contain.
And with it goes, the wisdom of ages
Beyond reason,
Undreamt of, in a present devoid
Of,
Curiosity and understanding.
“Mom, why do you always call it
a time machine?"
Thank you, 'Creepshow'
Will you be there?
"With one flip of a switch,
I always will be"
Will you?
I don't know poetry
or the running
of time
anymore
than tomorrow,
yesterday, or today
My imagination
pulls the comic book to life
when l need it most
Then all the goosebumps
go away
I stop hiding
in the daffodils
and learn to face
the gargoyles
of my own self-directed life,
of my own ‘Creepshow’
EXHALE
There is no end to my exhale;
flowering emptiness filling me, infinitely.
Subsurface tides of me rush recede and
waters winds in beautiful tandems leap.
With in-breath I am remembering my birth,
with out-breath I my dying.
When I am silent to the very bone,
beyond myself, my edges blur and free
what choruses now, what string, what flute notes drum
who is it who sings to and through me?
When life and love breathed exactly into this world,
and I became here, was someone beside me then?
What did my face look like
before I was conceived?
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