"It's been over a year.
I realize,
eyes playing about on dates
of the calender.
Suddenly thinking
back to a year before,
days exactly 364.
So, less than a year,
by hours. When the
lips that pressed were ours.
When our fingers intertwined,
when we felt each others' bodies,
souls, mind.
So wrong, so forbidden,
it felt right.
Written into passing,
the scripts and screenplay
of night-time stays,
never staying until morning.
Visits,
door left unlocked,
just in case.
Offered, often heard,
only once utilized.
She always said she would.
Eventually.
She did,
softly cooing my name,
pulling me out of my slumber,
and instantly hopping into my bed,
my arms, pulling her close.
My warm bare skin
juxtaposed to her cold clothing.
We soon matched.
There was no lack
of mutual attraction,
no shortage of constant communication,
trips, adventures,
ridiculous confessions
and straight-forward denial.
I denied I did wrong,
to myself.
Who knows how she felt.
All I know
is that she felt good,
she felt like home,
like I belonged.
Longing for her scent,
I still remember
how it drove me wild.
Past-tense,
as she liked to point out.
It's a lie,
there is nothing passed.
Though, once she asked
if she was hurting me.
I, misunderstanding,
replied, 'why, no,
it's my other shoulder
that's broken.'
She grinned,
leaning into my arms,
'no,' she said,
'this. Us.'
It hurt,
seeing her dog I grew to adore
slowly separate us on the couch
a year or so ago.
It hurts still
thinking of some details.
Fond memories,
so vivid, full of her laughter.
Haunted by scorn,
the scorn of several people,
over all that transpired.
You'd think a year
would wash it all away,
but nothing is past-tense.
Hence,
the dreams.
Thoughts I can't deny,
lying that they're gone.
They aren't.
I was told it was trouble,
I was warned.
But still I got in her car,
she got in mine.
She's a phone call away;
I don't have the heart
to dial,
knowing damn well
I'd immediately answer if she called.
Does she read my poetry?
Does she think of me?
Love me like I love her still?
I should have not turned my cheek.
I should have came to her rescue
against canine off-leash.
But I didn't.
And I wish I had.
Instead, all I have
is a book with edits,
another that's a gift
belonging to her,
one of her favorites.
We even shared a quote,
'Never lend a book.'
An act of affection instead,
one of several.
She never said the words,
but she gave me many gifts.
It started with a cold can.
That's how she loved me.
I wish I had realized it
a year or so ago."
"You're free
to be
as creative as you are;
or so they say.
Yet.
Every time,
the artist guided,
unwarranted.
Unnecessary.
Why is the artist
so restricted?
IS it concious?
Do those who commission
Art
know they can be stifling it?
Or,
is it a lack of trust?
Not enough of it
to go around, knows
the budding artist
with lack of portfolio.
No trust
goes to those
with no reference.
So often are we told
we are free,
when we are not.
Their own opinion
trusted first,
unintentional or not,
before the artist,
the one who creates.
When one asks another
to create,
to stifle the flame
is to put it out completely.
Trust is a must,
we must learn to
give our hearts and minds
and souls
to others
to mold.
And that's the hardest thing to do."
"No excuse,
but the metal has rusted.
An unkept armory.
Barrels with red,
triggers peppered orange.
Springs stuck,
pins, unmoving.
Bores obstructed.
The whole weapon set
useless,
to the trained eye.
But
a gun is still a gun,
the potential it has
to kill,
ever present.
Rusty or not,
it is still recognizable,
months of no use
not enough to erase
the sizable impression
of the shape,
the indication
of the handgun, long gun.
The task looming,
Armorer,
keys in hand,
sighing.
Unlocking
the cages,
duty tumblers turning,
locks coming free.
So long,
had it beem
since maintenance
had been laid
where it belong.
The familiar metal
began to fill hands,
twist, turn,
rifles broke down,
pistols slid apart.
Rusty was the
mind,
as were the firemans,
but both began
to be broken
free.
Rag, brush,
break-away sprayed,
assemblies oiled.
Pieces began to click,
operate smoothly,
unlike language,
where lack of use
means disappearance,
past tense
isn't the demise
of functionality of things,
like bike riding.
or an armory.
The Armorer will be busy,
it may take some time.
But he will pass inspection.
With work,
with determination,
desire
and time.
It takes time
for things to rust.
It takes time
to fix such a lack of use.
The best solution
isn't busting rust,
but daily use,
rather."
"First, he says,
first and foremost,
the cub has it's roar,
or did I mean Lion?
He tells me,
performs for me,
the vivid imagery
of the courage and strength,
trying to give unto another.
No script, no paper,
off memory, his poetry
is in his heart,
and apart from my written word,
wow, can i perforn like
the one singing bump and grind?
Well, I most definitely have
not the voice.
But,
the artist has instead
his art in his soul,
and no pen or pad
or book in hand, man,
this man has it.
So does She
giving me sweet epiphany,
alliteration and onomatopoeia,
hyperbole, dreams of red velvet,
a memory of perhaps
succulent treat,
and after a beat,
another artist approaches,
such powerful words.
All of them,
potential no longer blocked,
mind unlocked,
her voice giving me thoughts.
I am home,
I am surrounded by poets,
artists, lovers, dreamers,
those who have suffered
more than I,
hearing some of the pleas.
It would indeed be
enriching, more imbued positivity.
And perhaps comical
as I watch one poet
almost run over another
on trip to couch.
I grin, laughed,
laughed more when asked
to rurn to page 24.
Hands, the color red,
subjects being poured about
by all these great writers.
Such emotion,
they read,
I listen.
Tonight isn't about me,
this is about them,
and I am humbled again.
Tonight is about you,
and you, and all of you
who pour their soul,
so vulnerable.
Lessons, being preached to me,
wise words, being brushed
across my canvas,
their paint so vibrant.
Their pain so real,
like my own.
What I strive to do,
being done unto me.
They want to write,
they make me want to
write, right now.
Never stop writing,
requesting got returned keys,
being alive.
Poetry has kept me alive.
You, artists, breathe into me...
life."
"Feel it,
the sensation of breathing,
with a new friend.
Not
the addition,
but the release of a union
of muscle and sinew,
effort
cast to the side.
The breath
enjoyed
with the support
of the floor.
The ground,
the dirt below,
thinking now
of feeling the green grass
in between your toes,
the Earth,
our Earth.
Nay, she is not ours,
we are instead Hers.
Your breath...
given strength by Mother Earth.
Do you feel it?
The ebb of the Earth,
the beat,
the ancient, encompassing embrace.
Do you feel the flow
of the Ocean,
the breath of Mother Earth
made manifest?
Do you feel the presece
of the energy,
in this room,
right now?
The energy that is still,
the energy that links us,
neighbor to neighbor,
the energy of the mightiest wave
crashing onto the shore,
the wrath of the surf
felt as fury by the surfer
that Hell hath no.
The energy of the exhausted canine
resting finally on couch
with the child who so tenderly
ran it tired.
The energy when Autumn comes
when you're not quite done
kissing Summer
goodbye.
Do you feel the breath?
Do you feel your mind
spiraling all over this
whirl of whimisical words?
Do you feel the heart?
Your heart?
My heart?
The flow of energy
of the one to your left
or right?
Us all, limited not
to labels
or categories,
not by old, young,
American, skin tone,
the foolish boy or the sweet lady.
Try Human,
Homo Sapien,
try Earthling,
giggling practitioner about spirit fingers.
But,
you know what?
I do not
need to instruct,
because I feel it.
I feel you.
I feel joy,
stress, searing pain,
us joining as a whole
with our Om.
So beautiful,
you people.
This is it.
This is you, this is me.
This is Mother Earth.
I feel it.
And maybe you do too."
"Tragic,
tragedy can be,
with repeating sounds of words,
or screams and cries;
pain is a universal language.
Everyone knows it,
this I believe.
But,
even then, there's plenty
of discontent for which has and has not
been felt,
as though suffering is to be measured.
I've seen it, you have, too,
the pain of the neighborhood,
tires slashed throughout,
just another siren,
crying,
at my end of the city.
Such a pity, and then
the loud clash
of the car crash,
one having smashed into the other,
and in this moment of pain,
this tragedy,
comes unity,
Humanity.
The unprovoked question
of the desire of assistance,
the rush to the scene
seen by me
of the people who live on this block,
calming the sobbing mother,
bringing the young ones out from the cold,
the old man sweeping the broken glass,
no police having arrived yet.
Yet, nothing but pain
bringing us together,
celebrating that everyone is okay.
Silver lining,
pain unites,
every little thing
is going to be all right,
the radio said so."
Work is natural,
Work is normal,
Even a tree does give,
As long as it does live!
The same goes with a rose,
Only to please it grows,
It covets nothing in return,
Maybe love it does yearn!
The earth does not stop working,
The moon never forgets moving!
I have a lot of memories since I was a child from my father’s safety helmet from his work. He has always use one. Since arriving from work to eat in home, until get in his car and saw there the safety helmet and playing with it in the car. I can remember when I used to be a child to play with it, and pretended to be an engineer just as him.
That safety helmet has been always the same color, but I don’t think it’s the same one, he has been working in the same place for 25 years, so I think they give him a different one, but I know it’s going to be always a white one, with a sticker on it with his name. It’s really strange not to see my father without his helmet or if it’s missing on his car, because it is always there.
One memory I have of something related with this, is the moment when I had a photoshoot for my XV años, my dad didn’t have time for being with me during that hours, and I really wanted to have a photo with him, so we decided to go to his work and take a simple photo of both of us, so we went to his work, my mother made a phone call to told him we we’re already there, so he just came out of his office to take the picture out there, and in the photo we can saw he’s holding with one hand the safety helmet and with the other one he’s hugging me. It was an epic moment and funny, I remembered saying my mom he was holding two of the things he really love, his job and his daughter, just in one picture, and everyone who saw that photo that knows my dad say the same thing.
I’ve always wondered why he has his helmet in the car and why he don’t just leave in his office, so one day I decided to ask him, just to leave it there, and he told me, he has two, just in case of something. But then I discovered they were not only two, one in the office and the other one infront the car. I found it was another one, in the trunk of his car. I just wondered why he needs so many safety helmets if he only needs to used it in his work, not every time he goes out.
"Again,
again, it's been so long,
yet the feeling still runs
deep inside.
As though not a second
separated this and the last,
my heart racing
my fingers fluttering.
To spin a tale,
weave a rhyme,
picking up a rhythm
lost to time.
The reason?
Inconsequential,
or unimportant,
rather.
It's been so long,
it seems,
but currently at ease
letting flow out
what some call the soul,
others call just words,
or poetry.
The goal
in the end is to spark a flame,
light up a mind
with imagery.
Personified,
the thousand miles
traveled,
just to have another light
come into my life.
Again,
the slow boil of the machine
turning over to toil
and burn and smoke
and chug along the engine
of mine,
the mind
that writes.
Taking corners too fast,
imagery still spinning
left and right,
picking up speed
and becoming a runaway,
such mass and inertia
turning energy
into nothing less than unstoppable.
To write again,
to sing, or dance,
to do what you have done
because it is who you are,
it's every fiber of your body,
every sliver of your soul...
is intoxicating,
gratifying.
It's heaven,
absolute heaven.
When you're below the beloved Ocean
of Life,
it's waves and currents
holding you underneath.
That moment you see the surface,
the ballet above
of the light dancing
and beckoning you up for air.
That moment you swim up,
the sun becoming brighter as you draw closer,
the cold water becoming clear,
you're so near,
the warmth of the top
felt through,
but you're not quite there yet.
Swim!
Swim harder,
reach for the surface,
because that exact moment
you burst through,
inhaling that open,
sweet, succulent air
of inspiration...
filling lungs, body,
mind and soul...
it is
absolute heaven;
to be inspired again. Gorgeous."