Hope

Seeing or no seeing / the orange tree blossoms / regardless

The Morning After

The earth remains

spinning on its axis

and I am alone,

unmoved by this.

The stains on my sheets

are worth more than words.

Your glass of wine

Half empty.

Mother’s Day

The night slowly closes its eyes

and dreams only of the moon

and forgets the sun

that gave it life.

The Sun in a Wheelchair

I went to a nursing home to visit her.

Once the pride of the summer sky,

now collapsed in a heap of formless fire.

Body barely contained in a wheelchair,

flames of fire slipping down the spine of her chair,

catching fire to her orthopedic shoes.

She gripped my hand whispered that she was tired.

“I want you to forget me,” she said,

“go tell the rest of the world that I sleep.”

Knowing her words were poison,

I ran to the mountain

and spat venomous joy at the foot of her fountain.

“The sun is dying!” I screamed to no-one

and quickly ran away to join in the false security

of the rest of the land.

My voice buried in the crags of the mountain.

Speech robbed from the sweat of the sun.

I no longer live to speak.

My words a gurgle of thought in the throat.

And now as I lie

under the pregnant rind of the summer moon,

life shuts her shallow eyes,

closes her curtains

and I wink! Goodbye!

Eyes of Chance

I am waiting

waiting with bulging eyes

that want to devour the human race

to drive my dagger deep

into the eyes of chance.

Her eyes once met mine

and were sealed in a solid bond of trust.

The crystallization of the world

Revealed in those sweet eyes

Left me blushing

In the floodlights of her gaze.

Naturally,

her kisses soon flew

from the balcony

on the crowds below

as they marched on

confident pigeons

on nameless streets

glazed with rain.

With one eye relaxed on the window,

the other fixed on the door,

I am still waiting…

waiting to drive my dagger deep

into the eyes of chance.

Los Peces

My blood swells with the rhythm of your song.

Sweet, flowing spanish words

dancing and swirling in my head.

I become drunk with language

as each word spoken

is a wet kiss to the ear.

Your words invade

like a moist tongue

thrust deep inside

causing my words in English

to slide out

impossible to hold

slippery fish.

Nothing By Bear Step

Nothing

Nothing touches your skin of sweat

(meltdown of oceanic kisses)

when the purple light

whispers to the moon

in silent, moonlit clarity.

Nothing touches the bronze of your neck

even the storm clouds kneel down

and kiss the halos

circling your ten toes

of red rosaries.

But the sun still glares at your skin,

always looking but never touching.

You have nothing

and everything surrounds you.

Voices in the mountains,

rice in the valleys.