In my suffering I have found my strength.
Tag: Poetry
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With tears in her eyes she dusts off her old satin ballet slippers.
In darkness she gracefully dances once more;
Pointed toes grace finely polished wooden floors.She is not broken;
She is not too old;
She is not cast away.If she had danced in front of an audience they would have cried.
She composes a wonderful poem with her movements;
Her ballad is beautiful; my god, it’s beautiful.In silence, only her movements can be heard;
She dances to the song in her heart.
Fluid movement; She flows … she is a river.The twinkling stars give thunderous applause.
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In the winter you hurt me deeply, but it was in the summer that I wept.
The high potency of passion mixed with anguish is a painful purge.
The process is slow and deliberate; it cannot be rushed.
Lingering essence of you stalks and torments.
In the lonely hours I drink the cup of sweet reminisce; Intoxication is immediate.
In a lover’s cafe a sad pianist plays the keys of a Steinway beautifully.Memories of love and endless ecstasy while tears fall is beautiful melancholy.
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Act 1: He is born into the world with the pain and screams of his mother. After the agony of labor, sweat and tears, a smile is garnered. A soft blanket. The warmth of a mother’s love. A soft kiss.
Act 2: His pain is immeasurable; his suffering endless. Rough drafts of his epitaphs are written in blood. Hemoglobin is bright red in his fiery veins; life is in him, but more and more he craves the perceived stillness and peace of death.
Act 3: He is reborn as his constant screams reverberate under a blood moon and a darkened sky. He is reborn with tears streaming and in stark nakedness. The grey wolves hear his piercing cries; they howl. The earth is shaken. The gods turn their heads and weep.
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I remember the words you spoke to me;
Many nights you cried.
The pain of your weeping vividly echoes.
Your smile and laughter I also reminisce.
You were everything to me; Still you are.
If I could, I would collect your teardrops
And turn them into diamonds.
Your blood runs in me grandmother,
For you were both mother and father.
There are some things I must tell you.
In your last agonies you told me I was a good son;
I turned my head; tears streamed.
A woman of love; of generosity.
A beautiful angel you are, Constancia.My abuela Constancia,
In my mind you ride on golden chariots
Drawn by one thousand Arabian horses;
Your Adornment in white is the fabric of the gods.
The rarest of diamonds grace your neck,
Earlobes and wrists.I love you.
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Beauty lies in a wooden box
Flowing hair rests on top of fuchsia silk
Gold bracelets adorn the wristsPrecious tears fall on white gardenias
The orchestra plays a melancholic song
Why every time does the rain fall?
gods cry –
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Outstretched arms reach for warmth in cold darkness.
The days of desolation are long;
Love is sought through pursed lips and listless whimpers.
Nights of passion are reminisced, lamented and wept over. -
On a metal gurney the finality
Of suffering lies.
There is no more breath.
There is no more life—
In wide open eyes.
Oh the heaviness of her pain
On darkened days;
The wailing; the weeping,
And silent cries.
Heaviness of sorrow
Was plainly seen,
But society purposely
Turned a blind eye.
Still she valiantly fought …
The uncaring and the mockers,
The image of her face
Will eternally haunt.
Left behind in her room
Is a coffer,
And inside it, a gold heart locket
With the inscription:
“In My Heart Forever”
That was given to her by her mother.
A note was found beside it.
Who will help carry her?
This beautiful soul that graced
The earth with her presence.
Her piercing hazel eyes,
And long hair,
dark as Raven’s feathers.
As they look upon her,
Her adornment will be seared
In their memories.
A fighter; a sufferer;
A carrier of heavy sorrow
That weighed upon her —
Who among us can judge her?
In peace she will rest gently;
Perhaps she will enter the pearly gates,
Or walk the halls of Valhalla —
There is a peaceful stream
In many a dream, where the living
Have sworn to have seen her.Her Epitaph:
“Remember me not
For forlorn and pain;
But in the morning dew,
And the rising of the sun,
Three times, lovingly
Whisper my name.”
Intimate Compositions 