Blue Reverie

Passing Thoughts

2011-12-20T14:55:00.003-06:00

You are not with me.

The weight of the
words descends upon
my other thoughts,
compressing them until

you are not with me

is the only thought
within my mind.

In such a condition
I am useful
for little more
than this:

a quiet song
that only hints
at your beauty,
but expresses most
succinctly my attitude
towards its absence.

Walking Through Doors

2011-12-20T14:50:00.003-06:00

Into the hall where
we will celebrate
our marriage.

I notice things
I've never noticed
in a room before: the shape
of the chandeliers,
the meticulous detail
of the molding,
the seamless blend
of sconces and
deftly painted walls.

I'm not sure
if I am noticing
these things because
I want our wedding
to be perfect, or
because I know
how much the details
mean to you.

Words Before Bed

2011-12-20T14:48:00.003-06:00

Thinking of you.

Wondering how deep
you are sleeping and if

you are lying face down
with your hands under
your pillow or resting

on your side with
your knees tucked
close to your stomach.

No place like home

2011-09-25T19:28:00.006-05:00

This is for
the red Taurus
that I saw
pulling into its
driveway

moments ago.

And for
the relief
its driver
felt returning
home this

Sunday evening,

Anticipating the
welcome back,
Thankful that
he had
some place

to go.

Once again

2011-08-15T17:08:00.003-05:00

I find myself in the midst
of a poem
I had no intention of writing.

Outside my window the world
is sleeping, but here within words
sprawl across the page,
are erased in haste,
and soon reappear
as I bend and shape the line.

I might have learned by now
that your essence cannot be captured
with a few phrases,
but I am still the fool
you fell in love with
and thus,
I am writing this poem.

When I set my pencil down
I will imagine coming
home to you on a dreary winter day,
walking through the door with
the third snow of January
clinging to my boots.

Out of the cold,
I will lift my eyes to you
And remember, for a moment,
The empty house,
The noiseless rooms,
The endless quiet
you spared me.

Why I Write

2011-07-19T15:23:00.009-05:00

It suddenly occurs to me that
I do not possess
the skill to relate
your virtues to the world.
Were I Neruda, or Spenser,
Or Byron your quiet beauty
would by now be known
around the world,
And in days yet to come
My words would dwell
in lovers' minds,
Framing their passion,
Teaching their lips to speak
the language of the heart.

If only I could translate
this emotion into words.
If I could take this love
You have given me and
express its selfless simplicity
to the world,
Then I would take my place
among giants, and you would
live forever among the
golden pages of posterity.

And yet, though there are
limits to what my verses
may achieve, I am not
at all dismayed.

I do not write of you
with the intent of surpassing
the masters of days gone by, nor
with thoughts of launching
our names into eternity.

I write simply to
remind my heart of hope
that has been fulfilled,
and the joy of life
your beauty has restored.

A Work in Progress

2010-05-16T20:39:00.005-05:00

I've been writing this poem
since the moment I met you.

Call it a work in progress.

It was supposed to be a
concise yet complete explanantion
of how you transformed
my understanding of life.

I doubt that anyone
knows how to write this poem.
This is not the sort of thing
they teach in Poetry 101.

I could compare you to things,
important, life-sustaining things
like the sun, or water, or bread.
I could allude to poets long dead and buried
to attain the images I seek.

But I want this to be yours.

I want to dedicate
this ration of human thought
to all that you are:
faithful daughter,
loyal friend,
true-hearted companion,
mother-to-be.

My past and future are united in your love,
as the man who once was
evolves into the man
you dreamed he could be.

The Flame of Love

2009-08-26T16:12:00.007-05:00

This evolution of emotion
defies my understanding.

What force could pull
my mind from its pursuits
and bind my thoughts to you
in every moment that
wanders past throughout the day?

The truth of my being
is that I have always been
a selfish man,
seeking momentary pleasures
and closing my ears to
all that did not concern me.

For so long I failed to see
that my better qualities
were consumed by the
cloud of my pride,
and I lived in a vacuum,
unresponsive to the world
that called on me to change.

But when you came into my life
you shattered the walls of silence
that surrounded me,
and singing sweetly into my soul
your words pressed beyond my pride,
into the forgotten chambers of my heart.
There they lit a ceaseless fire,
and with that flame
I will illuminate the darkness
that awaits us at death.

The Wasted Hours

2009-07-24T12:48:00.005-05:00

Amid the silent
hours of your absence
I am reminded of
what was before.

The sovereignty of solitude
returns for a moment, and the foundation
of my destiny trembles
like a forest pressed by an autumn wind.

I survived for years
without your smile,
but now you smile for me,
and a day without you
crawls past like a life age.

There is no warmth
from your grace-holding eyes,
no promise of heaven
that passes through your lips.

In all of this
there is only the waiting:
a slow parade of hours
and an inexorable faith
in the restoration
that you will soon provide.

A Definition of Love

2009-07-24T12:42:00.002-05:00

It is the deep reflection
that your beauty incites in me,
Churning words of praise within
my mind and pushing my pen
across the page.

It is the fluent understanding
of the language of your eyes,
and speaking with you at length
without saying anything at all.

It is the realization
that you are with me
even when you are not
by my side.

To know that your thoughts,
unbound by distance or time,
fly faithfully to me
when we must be apart.

The Joy of Remembrance

2009-05-28T18:00:00.004-05:00

In the confusion of ecstasy
I almost forgot how this began:
a smile, an introduction,
a series of brief "hello's"

As I came to know you
the mantle of silence
receded from my life,
and I marveled at glimpses
of your beauty as though
they were sunrises
breaking upon the world.

Each step we took together
helped lead to this moment.
This peace we have created
defies the somber themes of our time.

I only sit back, and smile,
and remember all my years of longing.
For I have relinquished all doubts,
and my river of wanting has run dry.

These Three Remain

2009-05-28T17:52:00.003-05:00

Before I knew you, I did not know faith,
I trusted in my steadfast pride alone.
I wandered, cold and lifeless as a wraith
Until you came and made God's greatness known.
Before I knew you, I did not know hope,
I ran fast in pursuit of vain desire.
It seemed that peace lay far beyond my scope,
Until you brought the peace that I require.
Before I knew you, I did not know love,
My life was long a hollow, aimless dream.
I spurned the blessings sent from up above
Until you came and taught the word "redeem"
Faith, hope, and love remain and by these three
You breathed the gift of new life into me.

The Conversion

2008-12-16T19:22:00.001-06:00

What swear they now, who swore that God was dead,
And here, bewildered, gaze upon her face?
Their disbelief is vanquished, and instead
of doubt, they come to know God through her grace.
He set in her bright eyes a living flame
That all might feel his love within that light.
What force but his could draw such wide acclaim,
Or spread across the world such rare delight?
And now they race to penance, since they lied
When speaking of the joys of unbelief,
They curse their sins, and cast off all their pride,
And in God's love, her beauty, find relief.
What greater proof have we that God is real
Than this, her light, which dark cannot conceal?

Forever

2008-12-09T18:50:00.003-06:00

You consistently give me these quiet,
simple, and wholly perfect gifts:
a touch of your hand
that sets fire in my flesh,
a whispered "I love you" that lavishes
thoughts of peace upon my mind,
a hushed glance from your blue eyes which
signals that my hope has been redeemed.

I'll walk with you always
because before I met you
my life was but a shade:
I wandered in the silence of
not-knowing-your laughter,
and all the world was black
without the forgiveness
I find in your smile.

We frequently speak of forever,
but it does not lie in the future.
It is around us, within us,
and its power grows with
every sweet embrace,
the sacred moments
when two hearts melt into one.

Sonnet for Athanasia

2008-12-03T18:35:00.002-06:00

The living fire burns hot within her heart,
And melts the ice that drapes across my world.
I give her names like "joy that won't depart,"
"My hope of peace," "The might of God unfurled."
Her beauty is the theme the poet seeks
And yet, by fortune, is but mine to praise.
A strangely simple task for when she speaks
She moves me so, and sets my heart ablaze.
Her splendor is the sum of my esteems,
A bolt of lightning in my sky of gray,
A glimpse of truth within my life of dreams,
An hour of rest that spells my darkest day.
She resurrects the faith in me again,
And marks the true departure of my sin.

No Other Life but Mine

2008-10-27T21:09:00.003-05:00

At last I want no other life but mine,
I see God's gifts aligned in bright array.
The world conforms itself to His design,
The darkness wanes, and slowy slinks away.
For when she speaks to me, or when I hold
her gaze, no pain woud dare assail my heart.
And evil, who was once so proud and bold
Is humbled, and repents of his cruel art.
This is the sweet fruition of my thought,
This is the life I always dreamed I'd build,
This is redress for all I once forgot,
This is the hushing grace of hope-fulfilled.
And glad am I who, in the dark, rehearsed,
That now her beauty lives within my verse.

It is Forged Within Her Heart

2008-09-25T08:39:00.001-05:00

The living fire breathes life in me once more,
Unlooked for, all my demons are subdued.
O bliss of hope reborn! she has renewed
My strength; my spirit soon begins to soar.
I prayed, and God allowed her to explore
my mind, and see what praise she had accrued,
One day the world will see, I will exude
Acclaim most high for her I most adore.
The future is not certain, we must make
Our dreams come true with patience and with care.
Cast off this idleness! I will partake
In forging my own joy--now my despair
Is fading fast, my soul begins to quake,
She gives me hope beyond the hope of prayer.

The Invocation

2008-09-25T08:38:00.001-05:00

At times I fear man is but born to die,
And verily we all shall pass away.
The bliss and strength of youth serve to belie
Our end, which hastens closer day by day.
What is our meaning? Which our destined road?
Can we against the tide of death conspire?
We can when loveliness unmatched is sowed
Within a heart, such beauty can inspire.
I now know whence such perfect beauty came,
And I shall praise her, for I know I must.
Her beauty will not die, she'll live in fame
While all the rest fade quietly to dust.
Come words! your task is to immortalize
Her smile, her grace, the light within her eyes.

Alabanza

2008-09-25T08:21:00.003-05:00

The mystery of your existence
sparkles like ecstasy before my eyes,
flooding my world with light.
These images flash in wonder
against the walls of my mind,
and the unspoken words
that I crafted in sleep
rise up to join
the chorus of my praise.

"imagen de luz,"
"la chispa de gracia,"
"placer de mi vida"

During the entirety of my own existence
I have hungered for the
nourishment you now provide.
At every instant, and in all places
I dreamed of the moment
when you would arrive in my arms.

Us.

I marvel that such a simple word
could evolve into something so deep.
Two letters now carry the burdensome weight
of all my burgeoning joy.

Coming to Know You

2008-09-15T05:01:00.004-05:00

At this moment
I am slightly confused
As to how you exude
such optimism, sincerity, and grace.

There is depth to your words
that belies your beauty,
And beauty in your heart
That defies the limits of my mind.

In coming to know you
I have discovered my greatest joy,
my deepest peace,
and the strongest hope
that I have ever known.

An Afternoon with Athanasia

2008-09-07T10:23:00.002-05:00

My frame of reference dissolves
as the blue from your eyes
enters and overtakes my mind.

Blue the color of longing.

Blue the color of
the afternoon's untarnished sky.

And my universe shrinks
to little more than your features:
Supernovas of golden hair
swirling across infinity,
Absolute energy pulsing
with each word that passes
from your lips.

I wander among the ethereal galaxies
of your eyes, inhaling the azure,
my memory dissipating into
the vaulted stillness of your gaze.

My Death

2008-07-26T15:37:00.002-05:00

My heart will slide down and die
on a day that many will remember.
They will recall the moment of my passing
With joy or sorrow
without ever thinking of me.

Their minds will leap to secret pleasures
or secret pains,
the mysteries they encountered
as I explored the mystery of death.

The World Around Me

2008-07-26T15:29:00.003-05:00

The world around me hides itself,
it speaks in tongues I cannot understand.
There was something about a war,
still more about a profit margin,
But I could not be certain since
the voices gurgle in incomprehensible tones
that I cannot understand.

The world around me moves as though
it strives to remodel the meaning of haste.
The only speeds are quick, fast, and hurry,
and a moment to ponder why you are moving
is the greatest blasphemy of all.

The people who inhabit the world around me
are pround, profitable, and poised.
They are excited about making everyone envious and then
They thump their chests and gurgle about progress.

It's true, the human spirit lies closer
to the razor than ever before.

Silencio

2008-07-21T11:19:00.004-05:00

El silencio regresa
como bruma cubriendo
mi vida.

Me esfuerzo los ojos
para ver lo que
me espera
en la distancia,
pero la unica cosa
que observo
es el toque suave
de niebla sobre
los parpados.

Quizas no quiero
enterarme con el porvenir.
Quizas, desgraciadamente,
sea la misma fisura
de soledad que he conocido
todo mi vida.

This Moment

2008-07-02T18:10:00.002-05:00

My art of remembrance declines
until all I can summon
is this moment:
the thirty-seventh heartbeat
of the fourteenth minute
of the sixteenth hour of the day.

Afternoon silence rolls
through the trees.
Somewhere, I assume,
a child is laughing,
and somewhere else a child
cries out in pain.

This moment is the
end result of everything
I cannot now remember,
and the culmination of every word
that has bloomed within my mind.

is est meus spes

2008-01-04T17:24:00.000-06:00

This is the sweet rehearsal of my thought,
These words are silent markers of my will.
I long to live, regain what I forgot,
And find my soul ablaze within me still.
Life burns, but who knows why we came to be?
I thought it was to love, strange then it seems
That those I seek to know fly fast from me,
And mock the fading hope I find in dreams.
Am I not warm and gentle, like the rain
That mists before our eyes in passing spring?
I fear I'll walk alone, that all is vain,
And all my hope no love or peace will bring.
And yet, since I may find her, I rehearse,
That she would feel Christ's love in my sweet verse.

Hunger Satisfied

2007-12-27T19:47:00.000-06:00

I found my book,
the stunning compilation
of Neruda's Odes.
Sure enough it's there--
"the bread of her fragrance"--
it's the penultimate line of Ode to Love,
in case you were wondering too.

I decided to peruse the entire volume,
but progress is slow.
The odes to Happiness
and to Love are full and complete
and erupt with such passion
that so far I have managed
to read just those first two
over and over.

"My hands are narrow:
the depths of my eyes, humble
to receive
her treasures,
the unbounded cascade of radiance,
the golden thread,
the bread of her fragrance:
they are simply, Love, my life."

I could move on.
There are, after all,
hundreds of pages that follow.
But the words are rich
as though they themselves possess
the power to sustain.

Perhaps this is what he meant
when he spoke of permanent bread.

Searching for My Bread

2007-12-26T08:13:00.000-06:00

I've been tearing my room apart,
searching for a book called
"The Odes of Neruda"

I have this phrase--
"the bread of her fragrance"--
running through my mind,
and it fills me with
such amazement that I must
return to the text and
make certain it is real.

How succinct.
How poetic.
How marvellously Neruda.
The woman's fragrance as bread,
intangible calories to nourish the intangible soul.
If I am remembering this correctly
then this is something everyone should read.

But the book still escapes me
amid this confounded clutter,
and without the words before me
I am slow to say something so perfect
is real.

meus uxor

2007-12-20T10:32:00.000-06:00

She'll walk in peace, the envy of the world,
My words will thrive until she lives in fame.
I'll give her names like "might of God unfurled"
And all my verse her wonders will proclaim.
Her beauty won't be that of common themes,
She'll shun cliches which fecklessly will try
To sing her worth, for only in my dreams
Are words of praise her beams will not defy.
My heart will be her garden, there she'll sow
The strongest seeds of love and hope in me,
She'll stare in awe, unblinking, as I grow
Into the finest man that I can be.
And we will never die, through verse and rhyme
Our love will paint the hallowed halls of time.

To Wordsworth (Chicago, 2007)

2007-12-05T10:59:00.000-06:00

One-hundred fifty-seven years gone by
Since human ears were graced with your fair voice.
Yet Wordsworth, all our art must still comply
With your fair words--we read them and rejoice!
Your rhythms flowed in song across the page,
Each syllable expressed your human heart.
But more than man--a teacher, friend and sage,
You shared your love so that you might impart
In all the wonder that it is to be,
In all the glory of their inward soul,
Long dead, but still your might lives on in me
And all my verses your proud verse extol.
No more is my truth locked in ivory tower,
Your words bestow me virtue, freedom, power.

Not Touched By Frost

2007-12-03T14:01:00.001-06:00

Melancholy but a moment,
Life lunges forward into peace renewed.
At last I cheat despair,
who courts my time with ceaseless chase.
At last, it seems,
The hope of Christ takes root.

Anywhere, America 2007

2007-11-23T17:55:00.001-06:00

They're building.
all of America heaves at once,
their dreams manifesting
into forests of concrete and steel.
They won't stop until they
can piously worship at
altars of consumerism on every corner.

They pray the only prayers they know:
red tag sale, buy one get one free,
half-off everything Saturdays before noon,
sign up now for a Buyer's Card and save.

They're building.
They're squeezing America into a single strip mall,
That way we can all be sure our clothes are in fashion
and our coffee tastes the same.
We want to be certain we're getting real bargains
on the things we buy irrespective of how
useless or wasteful they might be.

London, 1802.
If my master's world
was a fen of stagnant waters then,
what odors would oppress his nostrils
If he walked with me today?

Un alumno escogido

2007-11-06T08:43:00.002-06:00

Olvídate la Malinche.
Hijo de la Chingada no veo aquí.
Mas bien hijo afortunado,
Y heredero escogido de un legado doble
Y repleto con nobleza: legado del toro y del jaguar.

Bastardo jamás,
Sino hijo legítimo de
La sabiduría de Nezahualcoyotl,
Su canción de amor y filosofía
Corriendo en tu sangre,
Tanto como el humanismo de Cervantes,
O los romances del Cid que fueron
Los heraldos de tu fuerza.

Toro y jaguar, animales orgullosos y fuertes,
Estremeciendo a sus pares
Con su voluntad invicto.
Sube a nacer de nuevo, entonces,
Llevando en la corazón el poder
Y amor de tus antepasados.

Faith and Reason

2007-11-05T11:10:00.001-06:00

Why, the atheist asks, if God so loved the world did he wait almost 100,000 years (we all know through science that the modern human brain has existed for that amount of time) to tell human kind through the sacrifice of Christ? Did he not care about the people who lived and toiled before the time of Christ? Allow me to conjecture for a moment. If, as the atheist so ardently believes, Darwinism is the tool of design that has brought about the rise of man, would that not also make sense as a mode of God's creation? If God did design through evolution, wouldn't He wait until the mind of man evolved to the point where he could communicate verbally (circa 50,000 years ago BTW) and moreover until he could conceptualize and at least partially understand the concepts of love and hope and freedom that were the Message that Christ conveyed to the world. If the Messiah had shown up at the start of things like Christopher Hitchens seems to think He should have, the Message of God's love would have fallen on ears that never could have come to understand it.

My response, ex post facto

2007-11-05T10:09:00.000-06:00

It's true, Nietzsche.
I will cede that in some places
in this world God is most certainly
dead.

And the denizens of these hamlets:
London and Paris, Vienna, Moscow, New York,
and even in Rocken where your father
extolled the hope of Christ
they share the fruits
of your philosophy of despair.
They walk with fearless footsteps of defiance,
And thump their chests in pride, thinking
how cosmopolitan their
cosmology of disbelief has become.

But at night, and in sober reflection
They wail because in their hearts
they believe they are alone.
They believe this because
you told them of the Death of God,
and assured them this time
there was no chance
Of finding an empty tomb.

And since they are alone
They do not hope,
They do not dream,
They are not fruitful and they do not multiply.
Why love if God is dead?
For what is love if it is not forever,
A brilliant strand of light that burns and
shoots forth from the mind of man
to join itself to the eternal
light of love and peace with God?

Strength to them, your students,
those who know, like the Other who sought to
hunt God from His throne, that the field is lost.
And now with feckless faith they
turn to study of revenge and deathless hate.

Buoy them up with dreams of the unconquerable Will.

But know it was not glory
Christ sought while dying in agony
upon the Cross,
nor to extort from you submission
to His inexorable might and wrath.
He bled, dreaming a dream of love,
The same love of life and hope of peace that
you spurned in thought, word, and deed.

Rendición

2007-11-04T16:46:00.000-06:00

Imagen de luz,
pura luz entrando por
las puertas permeables
de los ojos.

Algo me mueve
a pensar en
las palabras de Tomas Aquino,
algo animándome a reconocer
el poder de Dios
en la creación que me envuelve

D'Souza-Hitchens Debate "Is Christianity the Problem?"

2007-11-01T13:26:00.000-05:00

It's up on youtube, and it is fantastic. They go after each other with history, philosophy, and even some really good humor. The best line of the debate comes when Mr. D'Souza calls on Dostoevsky for support: "If God is not, then everything is permitted." He brings that up to corroborate his assertion that atheistic, not Christian regimes, are responsible for the great crimes of history (think Crusades and Inquisition versus Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot, Fidel Castro, Kim Jong-Il, all who would wipe out Christianity if given the chance). I also love Mr. D'Souza's line that atheism is not an intellectual, but a moral rebellion. Another great moment came when a man from Tonga asked Mr. Hitchens how religion can poison everything when Christianity brought his country out of the dark ages of cannibalism, poverty, and abject despair.

Words

2007-10-31T09:34:00.000-05:00

Word after word I cultivate the line,
Until each phrase can seemingly express
the very colors of these thoughts of mine,
It must be true, but also finely dressed.
It won't suffice to say that I am sad,
Or that I'm happy, no that will not do,
The rhythm of the line must show I'm glad
Or else, in contrast, paint with darkest blue.
Swift song that speeds in haste across the page,
Slow song, winding, crawling upon the earth,
Each has its place in this and every age
For all have songs of sadness and of mirth.
Words are our gifts, the spark-spray of the soul,
Through them the worth of man we may extol.

Esperanza

2007-10-29T11:00:00.000-05:00

We called her "Esperanza"
In Spanish class
all those years ago.
Bright-eyed Esperanza
whose face seemed locked
in perpetual smile.
Smiling Esperanza who talked
of nothing but happiness and hope.

Now the face she wears
Belies her age: too much weariness,
Too much grief.
She's far too young to be framed in bar-haze,
Cutting through smoke
and unfamiliar faces
to bring people their cocktails
and a perfunctory smile.

She passes me a third time,
It's clear she does not recognize me,
Gregorio, as I was called.
Gregorio who watched her so lovingly
All those years ago.

Perhaps she does see something
in my eyes as our gazes meet,
But she cannot delve into the past,
back into times when her blue eyes
Scintillated with happiness and hope.
Alas, dear Esperanza,
how quickly the young heart grows old.

Tormenta de vida

2007-10-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

Tormenta parecías,
Tus palabras agregándose como
Nubes amenazadores.
Tus ojos: destellando relámpago,
Electrificando e iluminando
El cielo gris de mi vida.
Tu boca: el estuche del trueno,
Sus palabras clavando
Mi pensamiento y mi silencio
Con sonidos poderosos y espontáneos.

Night

2007-10-26T11:52:00.000-05:00

Sleep comes
with eyes quickly closing,
Windows opening
to the wider world within.

dreaming of words
that cut the air
as you spoke them,
unfiltered as they rose
from the soul to the lips...

C.S. Lewis

2007-10-23T09:00:00.000-05:00

I am about to read "What's So Great About Christianity" by Dinesh D'Souza, which is anticipated to be the finest work of Christian apology since C.S. Lewis' "Mere Christianity". At last we have a scholarly text to combat the recent onslaught of atheists like Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens (author's note: Mr. Hitchens is an intelligent, well spoken man, however I feel his idea that "religion poisons everything" is both misguided and dangerous. Anyhow, in honor of the erudite and faithful work of C.S. Lewis, I am choosing my favorite quote of his to post here:

"I believe in Christianity like I believe in the sun: not because I see it, but because by it I see all things."

Hollow Discourse

2007-10-22T11:05:00.001-05:00

An entire month
of shame and heartache
Spills slowly onto
open palms.

She speaks as though
the remedy for this is sorrow,
as if tears could somehow bring color
to my disparate shades of gray.

To S-

2007-10-02T17:28:00.000-05:00

I've penned a thousand lines, and still my pen
Could never trace the pain that you must feel.
The silence strong, your heartbreak so unreal,
Such is the gift and curse of mortal men.

We love til sadness calls on us again,
A moment here or there our hearts might steal.
But broken hearts will make our bodies kneel,
What comfort will assuage our sorrow then?

I wish that I had more for you than this,
Or that each penstroke could erase your pain,
I'd write until once more you found your bliss.

We love, and lose, but never love in vain,
Recall true love, hold close true love's first kiss,
Its power helps the wounded heart sustain.

occasus verum

2007-09-18T10:49:00.000-05:00

They talk about aggression like the West invented it. Like before Europe there were never any wars, and no one died under the hand of his brother. Think state of nature, people. Today, in Iraq, we see what happens when you destroy the Leviathan and fail to replace it with an equal or greater authority: war breaks out, every man versus every man, and blood runs in the streets while child-bereft mothers wail in the darkness. But is this the legacy of the West? No, this is the legacy of all mankind. Who stormed the pass at Thermopylae ten years after coming ashore with hopes of plunder at Marathon? Who conquered west to the Straits of Gibraltar and east to the steps of Kashmir in less than a hundred years? Who assailed Constantinople for 800 years before finally achieving the bloody goal? The Crusades did not begin this clash of civilizations, they were merely another phase in a conflict that dates back to antiquity, even before the Son of Man walked the earth or the Prophet spoke aught of the mind of God.

La Reconquista

2007-09-17T10:37:00.000-05:00

The jaguar rises,
he stalks forth from deserted
jungles in the south,
covering this land with
the sound of his mighty roar.

Above, the condor soars
in patient, watchful circles,
the rush of his wings
like thunder piercing through the sky.

vita est decorus

2007-09-06T12:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes life is too beautiful for words,
and you're left there stumbling, or silent,
searching in vain for breathtaking phrases
that just might explicate your ever-growing elation.

Anchors

2007-09-04T09:19:00.000-05:00

I love using words
like never and always.
The weight of the certainty
they carry is like a massive anchor
Keeping my poems in calm, cool,
Coherent harbor waters.

Somewhere, someone's not thinking of someone

2007-08-23T23:39:00.000-05:00

Summer afternoon.
The words roll off the tongue
Like a gentle, dream-distending breeze.
Slow, moves like a memory and reverie
Comes in heavy, staggering doses.

desire

2007-06-22T14:19:00.000-05:00

all life is suffering...suffering is caused by desire

She longs to sleep again
in childhood's hour,
To recapture moments-indefinable-
of a tangible, earthly peace.

Her heart would like
a chance to rest,
far away from the woven madness
of her world-there was something on the news
about a war,
how everything is in decay.

"You'd think we'd give in to
the allure of peace," she whispers to me
with sunken, heartsick eyes.
"You'd guess after all of this we'd turn
to that nobody's-dying, nobody's-a-refugee,
nobody-chokes-on-hate state of mind."

I want to tell her something other than
the truth,
something other than the penetrating,
pervasive, all-consuming power of
desire.

A selfless prayer

2007-03-28T18:28:00.000-05:00

Her wonder imprints itself upon his mind
and leaves him searching for a selfless prayer.
He digs in the soul for strength
to plead on her behalf,
yet for all his want
the silence fades slowly,
he cannot find words to capture
the happiness she deserves to feel.

He searches throughout a slow parade of hours
finally culminating in a small, simple phrase:
"Give me the pain of two,"
he whispers up to the starless night.
"If it means she'll live in peace."

Miles away she wonders,
framed between the earth
and a calm sea of starlit sky.
the echoes of an unknown voice
at first confuse her mind,
then a calm like understanding
sets her wandering heart at ease.

Friendship

2007-03-15T19:59:00.000-05:00

Deep within, our hearts have noted that
Everything, perhaps, is not as it
Should be. The world around us seems
Irrational, obedient to the
Rapacious minds which demand that
Everything revolve around dollars.
Each day, we rise and meet the
Morose expectations of constraint,
Yearning to share our beliefs and
Find the other minds who
Respond to the world in kind.
In the end, friendship means
Everything, and in the moment
No one calls to me in the
Darkness clearer than you.

I am yet will not be

2007-03-14T16:37:00.000-05:00

It is strange to breathe and know
my body shall fail,
to ponder the inevitable state of non-being
that will come.
One day, late or soon, the blood stops moving,
the hand that pens these lines
will lie unanimated, lifeless,
and the mind that crafts these words
will ponder no more.
I contemplate the arcane end of consciousness
with curiosity for the mystery is deep.
Will there be blackness?
Will there be light?
Will I descend into a pure forgetfulness of oblivion
detached from everyhing that I have come to know?
Truthfully, at times I fear the potential
nothingness of death,
the dread of darkness falling forever on my eyes.
But wonder again grasps me simply to know
that I am,
and I treasure even my sorrow in memory
of all the spirits that never existed at all.

Alone in the Cold

2007-02-26T15:57:00.000-06:00

Homeless
Hungry
and Cold.

His placard drips
with ice rain,
a forgotten man stationed
a few feet to the side
of a highway off-ramp.
He shifts slowly
on his cane,
searching for the angle
that shelters him best
from a driving Chicago wind.

Alone.
Such a hopeless place
to be during the
numb-to-the-bone frosts
of a February that seems
to go on forever.

For a moment I try
to match his gaze,
but the lights have all gone out.
There is only a dull glare
as he stares, mangy beard pointed
to the ground, and freezing rain
which rolls down his cheeks
like the many tears
he must long to cry.

Yet in the passing moments
between red light and green
It is I who feels like weeping
as I struggle to reconcile this,
an image of my brother locked
in a forgotten state,
wondering, with my solitary tear,
if he was ever loved at all.

On John Clare's "I am"

2007-02-24T15:36:00.000-06:00

I have dreamed you
within the walls of that asylum,
friend of the earth and dearest friend to me.
I have seen you, heartsick and dying,
Guiding your pen with fury across the page;
striving to soothe both your pain and my own.
you foresaw that the storm of abject solitude
would thunder and punish again,
and you left your words as a mighty bulwark for me
against the rising tide of nothing but alone.
You knew not my name, but you were certain I would come,
One to press your words, a healing balm, against the soul,
one who would not forget you or ever forsake you
locked inside those walls.
I hope you too find calm in this, my simple song
of thanks and praise. Sleep in peace,
Remembered, revered,
and hold close forever my final words:
we are.

hate's mastery

2007-02-20T13:03:00.000-06:00

Why must my thoughts of vengeance return?
I despise the hatred within,
the control it takes over the body:
my blood boils over
and my muscles hold tense,
poised like coiled snakes
so eager to unleash their rage
in a flash of violent fury.

at times I tremble because
my thoughts can be darker
than the sin of Cain.
There are brothers whose malevolent hearts
I would tear, still pulsing, from their chests,
and I would spit in their faces
as I dangled the vessels of lifeblood
before their failing eyes.

I am as sorry for these thoughts
as I am that so many sins
are swallowed, accepted,
unanswered and unpunished.

Alas, the stroke of justice
is not mine to give,
but oh, how thoughts of vengeance
boil within.

words and a new friend

2007-02-17T16:50:00.000-06:00

I suddenly feel less weary
than I have in days beyond count.
Some weight has been lifted,
unmarked and unnoticed by me
until now.

My mind seems clear,
with room enough
for every image I desire.
The words are simple yet fearless,
unadorned but also unafraid.
they flash their teeth tenaciously
if they disagree with where
they fall in line.

So different, this feeling.
I've never known harmony
but this must feel like its conception.
No more vacant rooms for my thoughts to hide,
on the winding paths within
inspiration walks freely
where only solitude used to tread.

Two Centuries Late

2007-02-16T18:00:00.000-06:00

Dear Wordsworth, where are you in such an hour?
We have no fire, the sonnet drowns in scorn.
We pump out dying words, devoid of power,
My gift is lost, I am untimely born.
We could have sat upon Westminster bridge,
Together poring over Milton's words.
We could have climbed the height of every ridge,
And let our songs fly loose up with the birds.
You could have shown me those untrodden ways,
The fields that Lucy held within her sight.
O that I might have lived in brighter days!
When you, and Keats, and Blake professed your might.
I strive to praise, to frame you with my rhyme,
Reviving your bright flame within our time.

A momentary pause

2007-02-11T21:49:00.000-06:00

I trudge the silent path,
the expanse of my mind laid bare
against an empty world-
life teems for someone, somewhere.

Words in disarray.
that is my consciousness,
and the truths I would nail
upon Heaven's gate
lie disjointed and twisted amidst
the sprawling harvest
that I cannot seem
to reap from my soul.

Astray, my thoughts are so very astray.
They long to swim
in the current of liquid song,
unleashing their melodies
of love and desolation with rhythmic pleasure,
perhaps the exstasis of Dionysian odes.

I marvel that my words and thoughts
can also dream,
their own wills smeared
in deep hues across the page.
Such poor housing for them are
these perfunctory verses,
quietly spilling from
a tarnished heart within.

Answers May Await You, So Hold True

2007-02-07T13:15:00.000-06:00

A clear silence is born
in the agony of dawn,
A deeper mystery than prayer.

His wilted hands kiss
flesh to flesh,
while vaporous and inaudible
words escape his lips;
No force for these syllables
deftly crafted in the center of his universe,
Which slowly evolved
into the Seat of despair.

White pillows, white blankets,
wisps of white hair
which no one attends.
There is only his breathing
mistaken as silence,
In the dying heart's core
such a thunder of noise.

The Poems of Mallarme

2007-01-23T11:43:00.000-06:00

I would share with you
the poems of Mallarme,
His words so like my own.

And your eyes and ears
would drown in sensorial wonder.
Images of surf-green emotions
would swirl around you,
hazy and confused.

You would trace the
sliding sadness of his words,
until syllable by syllable
the blueness undulates across the page,
and off the page,
and stains the whiteness
of your changing eyes.

In your heart you would feel
a surging, a rush of inspiration,
The host of words you dreamed
would rise within.

alabanza inutil

2007-01-13T11:23:00.000-06:00

mi contemplacion era las preguntas, su belleza era las respuestas
-Saint Augustine

La amo, eso es todo,
aunque algo me mueve a decir que la amo
en la manera que la luz anaranjada de la salida del sol
ama a las olas del mar.

es como no quiero decir nada,
inefable hasta el fin sera mi postura.

La amo, eso es todo,
pero he querido decir
que su presencia es la voz de Dios
susurrando directamente a mi alma,
diciendo -aqui estoy, mi hijo, y esta es
la felicidad que he preparado para ti-

Inefable he dicho,
tanto su hermosura como mi amor
que florece madura y paciente
en la tierra fecunda de la corazon.

La canto, eso es todo,
que importa que no la puedo
alabar con justicia,
que mis palabras son sombras echadas
por la luna cuando las comparo
con su imagen de luz y gracia?

La amo, ella es todo,
el sol que crece rayo por rayo en el horizonte,
la luna que me guarda contra la oscuridad de noche...

es que no queria decir nada
por tanto que la adoro,
alabanzas inutiles son todos los versos que yo le escribo

Sonnet: on forging perfect love

2007-01-05T11:54:00.000-06:00

How sweet! that wisdom steadily should grow
Within the machinations of my brain.
What joy to learn, and plot the things I know,
And feel all failures were not loss but gain.
My aim is high, my tests must then be great,
A soul untroubled cannot be complete.
My mind's wheel turns, I will not trust to fate,
It is my victory or my defeat.
Farewell days of my youth, I hold you dear,
For in your playful care I forged my base.
Now I must venture forth devoid of fear,
A love of stillness I must now embrace.
I attune my eyes with the sky above,
And dream of constant, un-reflecting love.

he recalls undocumented thoughts

2007-01-02T20:28:00.000-06:00

undoubtedly you have been here before,
unraveling some mystery
and driving, hammer-handed,
the nails that sealed the coffin of our youth.
so strange, the pace is quickening
while the things you know
and the things you wish you had learned
float indiscernable
at an alarmingly comfortable distance.

dream on, you hear plainly,
keep dreaming- you listen.

undaunted by hope's betrayal
your mind turns peacefully to god-
submission would be both
refreshing and ironic,
and as the voices keep calling
the inspiration to obey begins to shine.

Revelation

2006-06-09T21:45:00.000-05:00

So strange, these thoughts of you
On an evening such as this.
I stand and talk with Lysander
Who knows nothing of big city living
And houses that stretch four stories high
Into the crisp metropolitan air.

I remember a word
You spoke to me once: demure;
How your face sparkled like victory
as its meaning evaded me.
And you laughed a little, too,
Having bested me at last.

Too long it has been
Since I have dreamed of the city.
Too long are these days
That pass without your words.
Too faint is this hope:
To reconcile at last.

So strange these thoughts of you,
As crystal as the stars that rise.

Let Go

2006-05-27T17:00:00.000-05:00

The sour taste of
Nothing as I willed it to be
Stains my tongue,
And these happy days
Reverberate with the
Draining sorrow of the years.
Mine is the silence of tomorrow,
the slow, aching quiet
That dismembers conscious thought
And suffocates itself in tears.
A nerve fires, triggering
The slideshow of our lives
That we might see our existence
Frame by frame
and cling to the stored thoughts
We desire to keep the most.
My ears grow weary of fraudulent discourse:
Words without meaning and a specious smile.
I unhook my eyelids that I might finally close them;
Dreaming of everything,
Desiring nothing at last.

A walk with my father

2006-04-25T15:59:00.001-05:00

I step out into the mist,
my memory replete
with adages of old.
I walk by dim streetlights
grudgingly caged in fog,
hindered in their only charge.
when you walk my son,
the timbers will shake.
An ambulance passes me,
smashing the silence of evening
with a cacaphonous howl of sirens.
For a passing moment, I think
of the man inside the box of flashing lights.
A tear wells in the corner of my eye
as hiswife clings to his lifeless body.
Dead on arrival:
we should carve it in stone.
Living in the past is regret,
Living in the future is fear.
I push the man away,
my stride never breaking.
So this is way:
right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.
What enemies will I face in life?
Is it within my power
to make my existence what I will?
And Theseus spoke as he faced
the great monster "his shoulders
are broader, but mine are stronger."
The sky continues to spray its mist,
profligate with the water
so essential for life.
It gives equally, falling in
rivers, on trees, on streets,
on wandering sons whose own prodigality
is reason enough for pause.
Your light wil not be dimmed
like these lamps that line your path.
Your charge in life is to shine my son,
What blinding light you'll be.

religion and stuff

2006-04-20T23:33:00.001-05:00

Just some thoughts on religion...not poetry but still really interesting.

So Blaise Pascal is really smart. About 350 years ago he comes up with this chart that basically says this. we have four choices : either we believe or don't believe in god, and there either is or is not a god in reality. If we believe in god and are correct, the reward is great, while if we believe in god and there is none, or likewise if we don't believe in god and there is none we have sort of a wash, no loss on our part. the last scenario however is the most intriguing. If you reject god and are wrong, then the eternal fire awaits you. We see that simple logic can be persuasive in the theist's cause. To show that I am not engaging in mere sophistry here and employing specious arguments, let us look at some evidence. Albert Einstein, most likely the greatest scientific mind ever, said this "I believe in God. there comes a point where you're mind can only take you so far, after that, the only explanation is God." You will not hear that from any college professor today; nor in the hooplah surrounding racially charged events when the image of Dr. Martin Luther King is called upon will you hear of the phenomenal presence of faith in the life of that great leader of men. Modern secular scholars like to treat religion as though it were transient, changing always to meet the capricious demands of the people in the moment. They fail to see the unity between a group of southern baptists praying in the aftermath of Katrina and those Christians who held prayer vigils when the great Saint and church father Paul was held for execution under Nero. Even before that Abraham called out in the wild to Yaweh, I am that I am, the same as I do when I undertake a long journey or feel lost in the great maze of my existence. What takes more faith, investing all in science, in reason, in the capacity for man to justify himself, or in accepting that that there are things out there so great and powerful that we will never understand them? As for me, I take the path of per solam fidem. There are truths in this universe that cannot be undone.

The Ineffability of Esmeraldas

2006-04-20T23:16:00.000-05:00

Hold pen, do not write "love."
Do not write "beauty" which is
To insult her name.

Be still and quiet, word-locked clichés,
And bow before she who
Would not be described.

Away all these liars:
"Graceful" and "Lovely,"
And "smile like the sun" or "cheek like the rose."
These all lie in soft repose,
Not even dreaming of transcribing
The wonder of Esmeraldas.
And her name stands alone,
Untouched and unshaken by trifling metaphors .
She outshines all names, all names but one:
Esmeraldas, Esmeraldas, mi esperanza, mi amor.

Twilight fading

2006-03-04T20:16:00.000-06:00

Dig deep into memory,
Brushing away the sediments
Of six years of longing
Til dreams
Float in synchronistic suspension
Before your eyes.
Visions heavy with purifed
Images of raptured youth
Fog the air; slow your breathing,
Repeat the words imprinted
On your mind:
"We will never be here again."
Dangling strands of starlight
Flicker in the sullen and solitary breeze,
Serenade of the darkening sky.
We will be here again,
When the discontent of waning youth
Is far behind, when shadows darken
On the horizon of our years.
Our dreams will linger, however, nourished
In the lachrymose starlight of crepusculum.
They will be our markers,
our only reply to the charge
That we never lived at all.

2006-01-18T18:03:00.000-06:00

It falls away in morning,
When intimations of orange
Creep up on far horizon;
When wistfully we guide
The last dying strands
Of a beautiful dream.

Mourning in winter,
When we become aware of our chimera,
Delicate and desperate though it may be.
Sunrise comes bringing light to the world,
Yet covers the landscape of the soul in darkness.

Another minute could be a lifetime,
But alas, the sunrise is calling my name.
"Awaken, young dreamer!" it's rays seem to shout,
"The day is before you, away with those purified
images from starry dreamland"

Morning in winter,
And the last visions of joy neverending
Fizzle drearily
As I wipe the sleep from my eyes

Medidation on another year passing

2006-01-18T17:57:00.000-06:00

the final tumult
of the year's cascade
leaves me with the knowledge
that nothing ever happens.

we go nowhere,
and we see no one.
Our years creep past
Draped in silence,
and masked by illusory sirens
of contentment or success.

only as children could we hear the music,
only as adults we realize
that music is the way.

We huddle sleepily in the prelude to dawn,
Wondering if we'll ever find the time we've lost
As the last breath of night
expels across the star-spattered sky.

Concluding "Veinte Poemas de amor, y una cancion desesperada

2005-10-06T12:53:00.000-05:00

You’ll have to pardon me tonight, Neruda,
But I’m finished.
I’m done poring over you words,
Tracing the perfection of their weave and hating myself
Because I cannot make my words sing like your versos mas tristes,
Verses so sad indeed that they flood my heart with ice water,
And buckle my knees if I think of them in stride.

I cannot transcribe the silence of evening
Nor the perfection of a floating bumblebee.
But things such as these you capture in words,
And as I read them I throw my hands in air,
Half in celebration, half in disbelief.

I have often wondered how it was you learned
The perfection of your craft. It could have been practice,
But as I sit here now, having intended to write a poem,
I am almost certain you were born with it.

I have been patient, dear Neruda,
But I cannot go any farther.
I am weak, for as much as
I praise your gift, I covet it more.

11 p.m: My mother’s kitchen

2005-10-01T08:01:00.000-05:00

The green glow of the digital clock
That sits over the oven would be the only light
Illuminating my mother’s kitchen right now.
Its weak beam hints at the cage across the room,
Below the window with the blinds pulled closed,
Where little Bella sleeps quietly.
And suddenly a foot scrapes over the gate
That bars the kitchen door, and Bella pops up,
Her tail wagging, her tongue hanging down
In her canine way of smiling.
When the light comes on her hopes are confirmed: Kristi has come home.

It was a long day at work, no doubt.
The children must learn, their papers must be graded,
Their next day of activities planned.
With great care, she lifts little Bella from her cage,
Letting her play once more before she must be shut in for the night.
Kristi smiles at the puppy’s innocent charm,
And kisses her on top of the head before delicately
Placing her back in her cage.

In the room directly above, my mother is sleeping
Peacefully, far removed from those years of hardship.
I am called back to the times when she worked
All day, and then deep into the night,
And if she was lucky she would see me for a minute
Before I had to be in bed for the night. When she could,
What great love she poured into that kiss on my forehead,
Or into the song she sang as I drifted off to sleep.
Those times are gone, yet they remain a part of me forever.
Not because she showed me what it was to persevere,
But because she embodied love, sacrificing everything
For Andrea, Kristi, and me.

on being wronged

2005-09-19T21:10:00.000-05:00

The path the world would have me take is hate,
I have been wronged, so anger is my right.
But talks of vengeance I will now abate,
He who stole from me, I curse his plight.
He took from me that which I value not:
Possessions that speak nothing of my soul.
And though the laws of man this man forgot,
To see him punished, or harmed is not my goal.
For I delight in nature, and in smiles,
And these are treasures that no man can steal.
And wealth in this world only lasts awhile,
Yet still it fuels most with a fervent zeal.
I will not walk that path of hate and greed,
In friends and smiles, I have all that I need.

To -

2005-08-24T21:54:00.000-05:00

She vanquishes my sorrow with her smile,
and with that same light could illuminate the world-
rolling back the dark covers of night as she opens her eyes,
appearing once more as the incarnation of beauty.

What beauty lies still beaneath the surface,
in the sacred vault of her soul?
what thoughts and feelings lie hidden,
awaiting the One who will
teach them the manner of the their expression?

Each time I see her is the first time.
We meet, we part, and I am left pondering the perfection
I have witnessed-debating its reality,
almost certain that one so fair could not walk the earth with me
here and now.

And still she smiles brightly,
and still the sun must hide behind the clouds in shame.
Still I long for my time or my calling,
Awaiting the will of she who may command me anything.

Random Time

2005-08-24T21:46:00.000-05:00

Random time.
False hours tick on the clock
in this or that man's memory of reality.
reality is our impression of what is real,
for the things we call by name
are not contained in words on the page
or in syllables enunciated from the mouth.

we are- in effect - sliding through time,
stopping here or there,
desperately holding on to this moment or that
and vainly seeking our own sense of what is real, what is true.
our thoughts are hindered by a day-to-day world
which distracts us with false problems,
and which scorns the sentimentality that is paramount to our being.

we are indeed creatures of light.

compassion and understanding are our supreme endeavors-
yet our time is fading, and my words are failing,
and a sinking wasteland lies
where our Eden was meant to bloom.

sweet memory of change!
sweet silence that erases my words from the page.
and as hope drowns in the clouds of the oncoming storm,
I stand watch alone in the sweet air of twilight.

Waking Life

2005-07-03T10:11:00.001-05:00

Today has been a rich day,
A sore day.
A day filled with waking life
In a waking life filled with dreams.

Hesitantly we reverse,
And seek to upbraid
The loneliness from our shadowed hearts.
Inspiration stems silently from-

Today was a rich day,
And we walk softly
As evening's darkness hastens itself
Across the sky.
If my waking life is a dream then my dreams are-

My heart is faint, beating forgetfully
For I seek what others have sought.
There is a rumour in his slow and steady rhythm:
A propitious unquiet that speaks of scattering
This confusion,
And of dissipating our distance into the darkness

Deceit

2005-07-03T10:02:00.000-05:00

There will always be poetry, they say,
Those who have witnessed the immutable power
Of a sunset, or of a green leaf
Tinged with gold in the early days of Autumn.

The speak this truth those who have wept
For lack of words, who stare silently
At pages filled with vain symbols,
Calling this thing rock and this thing tree.

There will always be poetry, they know,
Those who have loved and been loved;
Those who dream of meadows at twilight:
The moon and the lark and the wildflowers forever and ever.

But ever do the poet's words come short or go astray,
Failing in the task with which they are charged:
To capture the poetry around them: in smiles
And sadness, in passion that shakes the heart of the being.

The poet is a liar- mincing half-words
And well intended metaphors to create a half-truth.
But the aura he feels and would transcribe
Is swirling, dancing-rhyming, yet remains,
Inescapable, unreachable, and smiles mockingly
With each penstroke that falls.

Waves of Silence

2005-03-31T13:00:00.000-06:00

Last night I dreamed of silence
As though I'd never dreamed before.
I dreamed I saw a purple sea,
And stood on its silent shore.

I could not hear a single sound,
Noiseless waves caressed the sand.
The sun faded, on came the absinthe moon,
Its light walked with me, hand in hand.

The air swirled between the sea and moon,
And touched each leaf on every tree.
There was no rustle, the breeze was mute,
She left me for eternity.

I held the scene as long I could,
And still the Tyrian waves I see.
But hope has long since flown away,
Only in silence will she return to me.

Noche

2005-03-15T10:27:00.000-06:00

Podría escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Las palabras están adentro, esperando luz,
Y he tenido en mente compartirles contigo.

Cada sílabo evocaría simpatía,
Cada letra enunciaría mi soledad.
Pero las palabras quedan adentro,
Vencidos por la desesperación del momento.

Podría describir cuanto la amaba, o la amo, o cuanto la amaré para siempre,
Pero mis versos desaparecen, ahogándose bajo las olas
De una mar de melacolía.

Podría llorar a cántaros esta noche,
Y en realidad debo,
Pero mis pensamientos han volado más allá que el dolor,
Entrando en las profundidades de la existencia.

Me retiro a mis sueños,
A la jardín donde la vi por primera vez.
Sólo en vano podría intentar describir sus ojos, o su sonrisa,
Porque palabras así no existen.
"Placerdemivida" la llama, o mejor, "ella inefable"

Y la desesperación es completo
Lamentando que no la puedo describir,
Que jamás la cantaré los elogios que merece.
La soledad es inescapable y rencoroso,
Y mis lágrimas finalmente vienen
Porque reconozco que ella nunca me amaría, y sólo puedo pensar
En la distancia entre mi amor y su corazón.

Sweet dreams to those who remain

2005-03-15T10:20:00.000-06:00

Reverse.
Slip slowly backwards on streams of silence,
Awaking in the garden, breathing in green,
Repose.

Unravel.
Slide willingly into an obtuse dream.
Let strands of thought unwind
Until emptiness remains,
The majesty of sorrow will be yours.

Abide.
What is the garden?
It is not green, for green is the feeling.
Its qualities consist of it being:
The garden is, no more, no less.

Harmony.
Embrace the oneness that quiets your mind.
No tears, let consciousness fade into being.
Self dissipates into the wonder-filled night,
Chaos is bound at the feet of unity,
And only the One remains.

The Crossroads of Midnight

2005-02-15T15:20:00.000-06:00

And all this pain cannot subside,
Not here at the crossroads of midnight.
There’s no recourse now, having wallowed so long in darkness,
Yearning only to see the last remnants of light.

And the angel’s voice pierces the eardrum softly,
And flows delicately in and over the receptacles of sound,
Words enunciated by the voice of longing itself take up residence
Touching him only enough to make him feel something again.

What are these words, and what are these dreams?
It is the hollow trail of passion and unrequited love,
It is the unspoken words exploding in fits of violent rage,
It is the false heart coming to fruition, achieving awareness of its own impurity.

I remain, though sunlight does not.
There is but the shadow of the moonlight passing through clouds,
Quietly falling over dead and broken trees,
A desperate whisper of what I used to be, and of my life’s love,
Which flickers and fades slowly in the emptiness of night.

The Streets of the Undead

2005-02-05T15:47:00.000-06:00

The sky is crying today.
Its children are dying
And no one seems to care.
A haze rolls in under the grey sky
I'm stuck in England on a rainy day,
Walking quietly
For the end of her empire has come.

The people who pass me have no faces,
I see only dark shrouds
Drenched in the sky's tears, and their own.
I stop to ask one of these phantom people why they cry,
She tells me it is becaue they are not alive,
But they cannot die.

I ponder these words
As the woman disappears into the mist.
I huddle in a corner
As the rain falls and the fog thickens.

The truth comes galloping to me on the wind,
And I sob in the cold, unforgiving rain,
When I realize I walk the streets of the undead,
And will remain here eternally, without the power to die.

Secuestered in Thought

2004-12-07T13:11:00.000-06:00

It's this all encompassing uncertainty,
Drowning in tears I wish were not my own,
and I cannot call it anything but pain

You slip in through the doorway
As my thoughts fly out the window,
Rumbling like thunder
With all the words unsaid.

I hold truth under the surface of a sea of desire,
Suffocating reality which would otherwise slay my dreams.

But truth thrives in water, and changes,
And returns to me in the form of tears.
These droplets of reality are what greet your every coming,
With a stream of intertwining sorrow and joy.