Archive for September, 2010

Tell me sir,
Who is that fair lady
By the marble furnace
With hands in white silk
Ostrich neck,
Posed like a queen?

She stares as if
Somewhere in history
We’ve met once or twice.

Come good fellow,
She gestures and we
must obey
a lady like her
or be condemned
Will you not come?
You look so puzzled
At my request,
And yes my eyes
Can see perfectly:
Every golden strand
Loose upon white shoulders
Red wine in hand.

Can you not see her
Standing alone
By her own portrait?
I know she is quiet
like a sleeping babe
or a falling feather,
but she is a fine jewel;
The very best.

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When the hand struck nine
the bread crumbs fell;
Birds flew back and forth,
Kissing the rotten door.

The wind in slumber
Heard the stir of leaves
and the flutter of wings
near her napping corner.

“Who’s there?” she asked,
Rubbing her heavy eyes.
“Who disturbs the peace
Of one whom is asleep?”

Only silence answered back.
She waited, but none came
a blank atmosphere,
and in sudden fury, she rose.


When the clock struck ten,
The city left the shadows
groaned and moaned,
Echoed from cotton beds.

Strangers on the streets appeared
Colder than the night before,
Going about in whatever ways
thinking with monetary goals.

News switched on to another
Piece of rotten corpse found or
a discontented old citizen
Living in the inner slums.

“There will be wind” Weatherman said,
For his job and his job only,
Caring little if houses truly crumbled
with breathing souls inside.


His hand burnt from coffee
Spilled near 5th avenue,
Her hair stuck in tangles
Before an interview.

The wind knew its course:
A little dash of salt at first
Then a storm of bitterness
Forced the answer out.

Green turned to red but
One taxi could not see
set ablaze an entire lane
all with just one foot.


He stepped out unharmed,
Others ran in red and screamed
Bloody curses at the little man
a brawl began at noon.

All the while, the wind just blew
Little by little, shook the trees,
Watched the storm take its pace
Among the fists of human kind.

Some with pity aided the man,
Some, however, forever in debt
silent emotions will explode,
And–dear God–the crowd will too.

Those with conscience remained
Loyal (or a slave?) to sunny sides.
But the mass grew and grew
Into a fire that fed upon blood.

The internal source became hidden,
Silent and dormant like a poet,
While the external rage burned
And set the surface on fire.


Blaring lights slid into scene,
Guns held up and voices rose,
“Down, down” they cried again,
But the crowd continued unaware.

The wind heard their answer
and turned the switch on,
Full-blown torrent aroused
The air into a cloud of dust.

Windows shattered and tires
Flattened by soaring bullets
That tore through cloth and flesh
And caused the trees to bend.

Then a final screech was heard
As the wind tore the metal out
From beneath the solid ground–pause
Laid he, bloodied and cold.


She stepped aside, content
With the symphony of answers.
The leaves stopped moving
and silence slithered back in.

The crowd stepped aside, aghast,
Remembered nothing or (perhaps?)
Preferred to remember nothing of
How they became one mass.

They held his beaten body
and pointed fingers like daggers
At those who lost their minds
In the wind of roaring voices.

In silence they are purged in guilt,
One mistake, one hideous death.
They left the scene confused and dazed,
The wind has won her match.

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Music is like an apple fresh from birth
Ripened by musicians who slave by night
Counting every note to its exact worth
Caring not for the audience’s delight
Or the praises one receives in the day,
But for themselves and those who can
Also hear the beating of notes at play
Not as drums, but as feathers in a fan.
Play your soul to a crowd if you must
or if some remark must be justified,
But if no reason, than hold youthful lust
And swallow your eager pride.
Love for music means to keep it at bay
Or another will come and make it decay.

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Through evaluation
I’ve concluded, sir
a large amount of excess
around your heart

have you drank lately?
specifically love potions,
they enlarge those tissues
louder the beats

perhaps a woman nearby
will hear the thumps
and place her ear upon your chest,
and hear your mating call

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Dressed in shorts and broken soles,
With morning hair and droopy eyes,
Around the trees making soccer goals
Arms in air, triumphant cries.

He’s little boy blue under the moon
But “Miss little sunshine” in the light
Joy in hands, plays half-past noon
Misses the bell, parents in sight.

Stomach growling, feet still running,
“Please mother please, a second more?”
In her blackish apron nagging and nagging,
“No darling dear, I’ve told you before.”

Hands on his waist, friends by his side
Back and forth like a swingset they went,
Laundry came up and he had to decide,
Was it better to vent or simply consent.

Food on the table, too cold to touch
Stomach growling under beating sun,
Poor little boy, this was all too much
With a gentle sigh, the mother won.

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Dreamlike, I sat
Bearing the fruits of idleness,
Paralyzing time
Like an aura of dry ice
Surrounding and freezing me still.

The clock felt the chill and fell,
Stumbling on the carpet aloof,
Legs sprouted out and with a limp
Passed the leather couch.

It tick and tocked its way
Across a sea of wooden legs,
Latched itself unto my back
And drilled a hole through the lifeless skin,
Attached a wheel and steered it right
Like a commander in a dreadful storm.

Then came a creak,
Dust flew from the eyes
Fingers twitched and quivered
Before the mouth shuddered
And out came a peep-
A chirp, a soft twitter
Something along the lines of

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Sweeps through glass
Clear, white, and pure
Its kiss sweet with love
Fills my pen with songs
I write them down
And they bloom in hues.

Songs that tint and shade
Red moon and black seas
Paint my mind with gems:
Not found when searched
But when one dreams.

Hush, I wait for muse
It sings to me like birds
It comes to me like air,
Like red moon and black seas.

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Flight 134

Globe of fire hover
Over a plain of clouds and snowcapped peaks,
Blades spin into the rising blaze.
Strapped and cold, into the lighting sky I glance,
Closer, fire on silver wings.
No mountains now, just air and snowflakes
against the windowpane.

Out of the blue come sheets of thick clouds
With a huge gash, a canyon,
Puffs vapor and wispy smokes from its mouth,
Spews lonely clouds.
The plane shakes, tips, out of the thickness
White-frosted land seen,
With bumps and scars, rivers and ditches of snow
Dimples on Winter Earth.
Nearer, we dip, shake, feel our hearts lunge.
Pilot’s voice muffled by whirling wind,
Now roads and squares of snow-covered greens,
One car. To the right, to the left.

Hold on, a stretch of spotted road appears,
Pop of the wheels,
Over the fence, now, now, not yet, now now
Thud; squeal, the belt holds me down,
Breaks are pressed, home sweet home.

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All the unspoken dignity and pride–
An undercurrent regime
Lie as flat as if death zoomed by
Tilting its head back and forth.
A withered hand grasps the cloak
Of a murdereous traiter,
Why challenge death so unloved
So untouched by feelings?

You think those new wire fences
Or that pitbull on the loose
Are your shields…your guardians
Against a pitiful fall
You think the world is another chess
Played with a hidden skill
And soft silks or laces are for those
Who has conquered all defenses?

A football resistance or soccer foul
Life is more than fame–
Empty out your earth-baked pots
What little you have left
No heart or soul to spare a coin
No leftover love to pour
Your pot may be made of diamonds
Yet your daisies remain in

Cracked pots

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How, like seasons, my life has flown
Only minutes, sounds of life was born
To hands, to feet, a child grown
A beautiful page, once again reborn.
Like fingers pressed upon window panes,
There in the Spring, there in the fall,
A memory desperate to remain
For its child, once innocent and small.
Home, a loyal servant, awaits by the door
For me to escape, to hide, to amuse my soul
Away from charred lands and internal war
Where those, like death, may take a stroll.
Bound to an eternal hearth which breathes peace
Until the nails and thorns of reality cease.

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