In darkness we exist yet we dance.
We pray for light showers,
But our portion is torrential rain.
Unending consternation is our pain;
We fight for our plight,
But the years seem the same.
The fire within is lit,
But the vigor of the heart wanes.
In-between torment and loving sentiments
Chronic insomniacs sleep briefly;
Even on good days eyes are still weepy.
We cry from our souls,
But there is no one to hold.
Warmth is dreamed of,
But stark reality is cold;
Even the children weep with stories untold.
Oh dear heaven, comfort them
And let their wings unfold.
White doves fly against a clear blue background
And are a signal for hope.
We have been lost, as strong tides
Pull us further and further from the shore.
We wade in deep blue waters and dream
Of a place where we weep no more.
Tag: Life
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We were lovers for two summers
Taking walks together, holding hands,
And eagerly discovering each other.
You had dark hair with highlights
Past your shoulder, two gold Figaro chains
With a crucifix and your name,
Brown Timberland boots,
And a tattoo on your shoulder
Prominently displaying the face of your mother.
With passionate kisses I was enraptured in your aura;
I still remember you, my beautiful Borinqueña. -
The crow still watches.
Strangest days are when music is played,
But the children do not dance.
Tears flow from eyes that see the darkness
In nightmarish trance.
For her future sins, she says
Three Hail Marys in advance.
In the flesh beauty is adored,
But tired souls pull away in constant balance
Yearning for transcendence.
The light that is within is dimmed …
In death, eyes are closed,
And in birth, eyes are again opened.
Solace is doggedly sought,
But even by the wealthy, it cannot be bought.
The weeping of the children signals the horizon
Of a new beginning.
Who can fathom the deep emotions
Of the hearts of wounded men?
Love is found for a season
And then disappears again.
Memories of love resurface in the winter,
But there are no more passionate kisses by warm fires
Or tender hearts for shelter.
The callousness of life strikes and tears asunder.
The poet’s pen writes of love and heavy sorrows;
From a deep well of affliction and lost love,
The words he borrows.
As pen hits paper thus begins the concerto;
The violinist starts off slow
And ends in thunderous crescendo.
Emily Dickinson sings and writes anew
As she gazes out of her window. -
Black waterfalls flow over white silk pillows.
Through sweet honey you speak to me.
Without heels you stand at 5’4″ naturally.
Glistening rivers in mid spring are your skin;
Your eyes are a revelation of the heavens.
The contour of you neck is beautiful and feminine.
Your silhouette takes away my breath;
On that night, we became one under the light of the stars …
From the crown of your head to the soles of your feet you are adored.
Let us lie together so I can eagerly whisper, mi amor.
Words can’t be spoken of deep love and sincere emotions.
The flow of your sensuality is like the movement of the oceans.
You are my comfort; you are my warmth.
Without your presence and your essence I am lost.
Sing me a beautiful song, and let me rest my head
In the ataraxia of your arms.
The softness of your skin is akin to endless rose pedals;
Your scent, white gardenias in early summer.
In our lives we have both suffered
But have now found healing in each other.
I have had many lovers, but you are like no other;
Your understanding of my character is a natural wonder;
The way you read me is certainly uncanny.
Through loving brown eyes is how you see me. -
Still the sadness comes and the tears run,
But with every battle we learn to overcome;
We are tired but we will endure.
The threshold of our pain is extended
At that moment when we think we can’t take anymore.
Daily we go to war with our shields and swords;
The resolve in our eyes causes the earth to stir and the eagles to cry;
Our tears saturate the soil and our lament pierces the sky.
One day we will be transformed and dwell in light.
We are the stars that shine and beautify the night;
We are the sun in the foreground that gives the moon its light;
We are those subtly beautiful moments;
We are the feelings of euphoria felt;
We are a beautiful song that makes the heart melt;
In our dreams we walk through peaceful fields . . .
We are the fireflies at night that magically light up redwood trees.
We are the essence of the summertime, when sunshine
Highlights the vast array and the many beautiful patterns of butterflies;
We are eagles feeling heavenly winds under our wings
Soaring in the magical realm of vast skies;
We are walking diamonds formed from the pressure of our pain
And the fire in our eyes. -
We were dancing and I went to get drinks;
Your oratory moved me, and I liked the way you think.
I looked back at you, and you smiled at me.
To the bartender I said loudly,
Double shot whiskey, a bottled water and a vodka cranberry.
Upon returning I couldn’t find you;
Perhaps another enticed you.
Did you go to the restroom?
I walked around looking for you with a slight frown;
Another three songs came on, but you couldn’t be found.
Perhaps you left abruptly because you didn’t like me,
Or the music was too loud?
Oh well;
Bartender! Double shot whiskey, another round! -
Is there redemption to be found in suffering?
Is there nobility in enduring incessant pain?
Can darkened eyes see blue skies through constant rain?
Are we not mortals set in our ways?
Do we not dread the end of days?
Do we not work our fingers to the bone
And apply for loans with interest to be repaid?
In the totality of our lives as the ninety nine percent, are we not slaves?
Do we not have dreams that are unseen?
Do we not weep for ourselves in the four walls we dwell?
Are babies not born into a polluted world of living hell?
Do we not live on the edge risking our lives to feel alive?
Do we not indulge in vices to escape our own minds?
Do we not self medicate because conventional therapy offers no escape?
Have we not prayed and prayed to see nothing change?
Do we not try to hide our pain from the eyes of our children?
Is there a magical pill to a new beginning?
Are we condemned to a fiery lake for our constant sinning?
Do we not hold back tears when in the company of our unknowing peers?
Have we not battled and battled the torment of irrational fears?
When it is late and we remain awake, do we not contemplate our fate?
Do we sometimes not break from the heaviness of the weight?
Do we not constantly mentally write and rewrite our own eulogies?
In each other do we not find beauty?
Do we not remember first kisses in the sunshine of the summertime?
When I see her, do I not see an angel in my mind?
Through the storm will I fall in the field or will I survive?
Does the vengeance in my blood manifest in my son’s eyes?
In our listlessness do we still look to the skies?
In my plight am I misunderstood?
Do I hold back my love or give one hundred percent as I should?
In the loves I have lost, would I change the outcome if I could?
If I had the power would I resurrect my mother?
Do my weaknesses reflect the genetics of my father?
In my pursuance of success, should I even bother?
Is the world rife with decadence and are the years becoming stranger?
Have I become a recluse with unjustified anger?
From the beautiful sentiments I relayed, does she not remember?
In the affects of my childhood do I continue to suffer?
If it doesn’t kill you does it really make you stronger?
Can the moments of peace be made to last longer?
Can two or three small yellow pills cure chronic insomnia?
What qualities in particular make a good lover?
Did the chicken come before the egg, or is it the other?
Should I have stayed, or should I have left her?
Am I both a victim and a survivor?
Do I protect the appearance of vulnerability with a gruff exterior?
Do I approach the advent of adversity in a rational manner?
Are people with cogent minds better orators?
Is marriage better than being a perpetual lover?
Was it the allure of the exterior, or did I really love her?
Did I say something regrettable in my anger?
Are the questions pertinent? . . . I wonder. -
In a nutshell his life was a constant hell.
Reread carefully, if you have somehow
Missed the purgatory of his story.
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The autopsy of a broken dream is started with the collection of the scattered pieces. The scene of the final tragedy must be reconstructed and seen through the eyes of the afflicted. The genesis of malady must be traced back and seen clearly; see the hope of the heart and its failed audacity. Glare upon pain in its rawest form, and with astuteness write down your observation. The thoughts of the oppressed must be dissected with precision. To properly conduct the procedure, the dream must be placed in a sterile environment completely void of contaminants. Notice the scarring of the organs denoting internal turmoil. They must be weighed as studious attention is paid. Record the various weights, and make general observations of its final state. It was beautiful in its formation but short in its realization. If you have to, step away briefly and ponder the beauty of what could have been, and then start again. The dream did not have any friends, so at the ceremony you will be the only person to attend. Make sure it is treated with dignity as it appears to sleep peacefully. Remember your duty and maintain professional reputability. At your own discretion, try to visualize what it couldn’t see, and in your memory remember what it wanted to be.
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Incessant sorrow overtakes
With quiet tears the tormented contemplates
What on the other side awaits
Intimate Compositions 