On that day I bitterly wept,
Crying for you, before and after
You took your last breath.
Now as the winter approaches,
I look at your pictures
And hold you in my caress;
Sitting in cold darkness,
I kiss you, and whisper to you
In lovingness.
The agony of my soul
Is let out in wailing —
And with every breath.
Deep crimson rose petals fall
On sentimental pictures,
Coming to rest.
I am overcome with emotion.
I cry for you.
I cry for myself.
Tag: Blog
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They laugh in gluttonous euphoria
while the poor and disenfranchised
cry out in the purgatory of agony.
Their decadence is displayed
and celebrated unabashedly.
The scent of them, is the odor
of dried blood and bile on worn money.
They hide behind the red cloak of stature,
but they are fickle and cowardly.
With discolored teeth and diseased gums,
they speak falsehoods flawlessly,
from lying tongues.
To maintain preeminence
they would go to any lengths;
The suffering of the destitute is their strength.
From the upper crust, they offer crumbs
and foment division, laughing,
while concealing reprehensible intentions.
Even in death, they would not be worthy of mention.
They lack moral compass from their very inception.
The tools of their game are,
immorality, depravity, and deception.
The souls of them, are darkened and scarred
with the cirrhosis of wickedness.
From their bowels, come the sewerage
of vile and abhorrent utterances;
They are unscrupulous, and employ
slight of hand in their practices.
They are parasitical in nature,
slowly draining their vulnerable hosts unawares;
They secretly scoff at the deep pain of others,
shielding their hideous scowls
with insincere tears. -
The vileness of their hearts are the foul utterances of their mouths
and the unbridled wickedness of their actions.
With every breath they are condemned,
and with every movement of the hand
the filth of their souls is revealed.
The pain they have inflicted on others for so many years
is now turned inward, as they rot from the inside out.
They will seek mercy but there will be none;
They will say, I have changed, and now see my error,
but no one will believe them.
They will offer gifts, prostrating themselves with tears,
but will be reviled and spat upon.
Their names will be bywords for mockery and excoriation.
They will not have a moment’s peace, or one second for reflection.
There will be no reprieve, even in their mourning.
In their dreams they will hear the voices of their victims,
decrying them, over and over again.
The torment of their purgatory will never end.
The path of their destruction will be remembered
even unto the fourth and fifth generations.
The stories of their mercilessness and unbridled treachery
will be passed down and never die.
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Those passionate utterances in every breath;
That first sensual kiss and the emotions you felt;
The healing you find in the giving of yourself;
The strength you found when you thought you had nothing left;
The tranquility of a newborn
in the cradle of his mother’s breasts;
The joy of a father recording his daughter’s first steps;
The tears of joy when the one you love reaches your depths;
The warmth of your body in sweet caress;
The roses given that express tenderness;
The whispering of three words that bring oneness. -
The words she whispered linger in the place she wept. Clutching a picture of her parents, she contemplated for several minutes, drained, with nothing left. Her tears fell on the glass picture frame that she held in silent lament. In her last agony, she spoke softly, in faint breaths. Lying down in a white nightgown, she closed her tearful eyes, and slept.
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When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.
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When the tears come, I look for you in the in-between.
I immerse myself in your love;
The fragrance of your essence I breathe.
You kiss me; you shelter me;
You hide me in the embrace of your wings.
In the darkness, you are the light of my candle;
The beautiful lyrics of the song that I sing.
You are the tranquility of my soul;
The gorgeous realization of my longing.
The sincerity of my eyes and the passion in my touch,
Are the utterances of my heart’s whispering.
I run, I run to you — and you are there waiting. -
We were but striplings, some without mothers, some without fathers, running wild in the night unafraid of pitch darkness with hearts of lions. Our aura glowed beautifully in the souls of us; we laughed and we wept in fierce countenance. We were young, yet many were the trials for us; our bodies skinny and undeveloped, so in the company of monsters we fought with tears and dreamt of vengeance. To keep the pain from sorrowful and depressed grandmothers, some held in their agony and kept the devastating silence. Go back in time, and look into the eyes of us. Move past the innocent smiles, and see the hurt in us. The unresolved pain of our past is the illness of us. We cry on the graves of our mothers and curse the abandonment of our fathers. If I could, I would take away the trauma from all of us. We seek heaven’s light to take away the darkness. They are scarred, and they are beautiful. They are my brothers. They are my sisters. Still, now, with the blood of hope, and with the blood of vengeance, we survive tormented summers and bitterly cold winters.
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In your embrace, spiraling black waterfalls are released
Vastly flowing over brown hue contours,
Pouring into deep spinal ridges and forming new rivers.
Calming morning showers on yellow butterflies
With an emerging sunrise, are your whispers.
The brightness of your radiance is the accumulation
Of the rays of the sun, for seven summers. -
Sitting on a twin sized bed in a dimly lit motel room, she lights a cigarette and opens up a bible; she inhales the nicotine, then a slow exhale. After reading a few verses, she closes her eyes and takes another pull; she has worked all night and she is tired, with a little redness of the eyes, but she is beautiful. The intricacies of her contemplation could never be properly conveyed through any written literature or narration. She makes money anyway she can, to feed herself and provide for her son, but she seldom sees him. She prays money’s accumulation will be her salvation; she wants to be a much better mother and live again. The tobacco in her cigarette nears its end — she takes a drink, leaving the condensation on the night stand. She lies down with the television on, the volume low. The comfort of a comforter underneath her, she meant to cover herself, but she was too exhausted. Her eyes close with the hopes of beautiful dreams. She slips her left arm under the coolness of a soft pillow, falling asleep in her heels.
Intimate Compositions 