“Vessels and Vision” The Sunday Whirl #184

The day is no longer audible and strange,
in the distance our skin contains the fabric that covers us,
where I dwell I love your surface; poppies
and porosity moving gradually,
it makes me want to drink the substance.

An attitude before the breaking doorway,
a thoughtful deal, not frivolous,
it’s a rising light in fatigue.
Immense celebration’s field,
a woman’s double smile’s literary,
known and continuous,
such nonviolence obeyed with longer flows from
these gnarled vessels is an open dark night —
then everything turns blue and
perfectly rooted,
an epilogue.

“Steeled Prisoner” The Sunday Whirl #183

She had been a quiet girl,
wrapping herself in a guise of diamonds,
playing childhood games of mystery
chasing secrets from her pillowed-nooks,
looking for shadows in light only to find them
hidden in darkness.

Today as the troops gather; their laughter shines.
I sense excitement and enthusiasm.
She reads the speech aloud,
they listen with intent
to engrave it in their memories.
Such passionate creatures
betrayed by torrid dreams of:
martyrs and seers.

Tonight she spends time unnoticed
among ordinary furniture
and her mother’s faded curtains,
while a melancholy cat
lies upon the floor.
She writes the words to verses in my wrists,
I’m soundless, a stranger,
when the roof begins to turn
with a rusted iron hiss.

“Complete as Apples” The Sunday Whirl #182

There are all kinds of stories to be told;
some are born of substance in special languages,
hypnotizing and teasing
where words are just a quirk of the mind,
an image or other intangible reminiscence.

They come complete as apples,
repeated without risking
an alter in meaning and reality.

Others remain hidden in the shadows of memory
like living organisms rooting themselves out into the flesh,
their tentacles are filled with adhesions and pain,
becoming the stuff of nightmares
to exorcise the demons of memory
it is necessary tell them as they are:

We hadn’t learnt to deal with the reflection of our fear.
In blue misty shadows, I remember your smile playing in my eyes
and the time you cried when I said I was leaving; but you always
knew I’d never go …

This month I’ll layout marigolds and flowers of the souls
leaving thirteen layers of heavens between us
while placing una copa de tequila, pan de muerto,
y fotos de ti upon the altar.
I’ll burn the incense and light the candles
as I say a prayer for you,
Dancing Man.

Nahautl poet,
“Let us consider things as only lent to us, oh, friends;
Only in passing are we here on earth;
Tomorrow or the day after,
As your heart desires, oh, Giver of Life,
We shall go, my friends, to His home.”

“Discernment is Never Selfless” The Sunday Whirl #180

When plants and pictures against the wall have
the same interbalance as the distance I keep
from the living, it’s a polarized position for me.

Searching beneath armchairs,
I try to catch the butterfly’s breath,
for a tingling gentle notion
in my immediate sanctuary.

Outside my window
flowers grow wanting to be a posey,
so they may walk through flames
and love; leaving ashes in their wake.

It’s blue agile and irreversible.
I remove my belt, my skirt, and toss my sandals to the corner,
but retain my knotted ponytail.
I laugh descending my body to insomnia with docile wakes
only aware of my nakedness
when my hair touches the tip of my shoulder
as a sheared-eye looks at me from above:
breathing—watching—being.

Enervating I wait for suspension to it all,
feeling goose bumps overtaking me,
I pause my smile.
Is it only fear where joy can’t exist?

Neglecting these efforts like a stranger to the precarious lamp’s light
bringing my fingers to the edge of the blue sheets
I touch them running along the seam,
all has become a dream.

Our indifference to life is because life kills ours and others.
It’s worthless and natural,
life and death are inseparable.
Every time life loses significance,
the second becomes irrelevant.

Process notes: The last stanza is loosely translated and slightly rearranged words by author Octavio Paz, but essentially what he was saying in “El Laberinto de la Soledad”.

“A Loosening” The Sunday Whirl #178

The heart and the miner have crossed
off the cliff, they dive united within love’s expression
an anxiety known only in darkness.

Vaporous as the city after rain
loosening torment.
The air lifts me higher;
silenced with no words left to say.

Day birds sing ceremony, chirping in the afternoon
basking in green times established
between creation and dream’s wonder.

The heart’s fruit sliding through my hands
like small starlight from another light.
An image once quiet living in the water
can rise up forever in memory.

Glare cannot hide the golden thread of my intertwined fingers
when the swan’s in the sun not flying.

An Owl’s Cry The Sunday Whirl #177

A juxtaposition of life,
men get war’s grief.

When horses aren’t enough for the dismal
display of meandering bullets shearing flesh;
fetish is exposed thrusting
a blade into the mother of life.

Roses won’t grow ‘tween you and I
where we plant the imperfection.

Which spot?
How many locks?
Meandering one’s self.
The screeching owl never visits anymore.

“The Stuttering Sea” The Sunday Whirl #176

It is there I see you — my dreams drown in my throat.
Without a note, your sound so final birds fly away.
I am worried. But you say not to be.
And the stars haven’t shone since you left.

I love you against night and summer,
against light and quiet,
against the stuttering sea
as September’s lips express themselves
through an invincible smoke of death,
I love you with happiness
roaming rift within my flight.

In your absence I’ve learnt so much;
I listen to time, where surprises sustain
with the language of kindness.
I know smiles that once existed
within these walls cannot be replaced.

At length in dazzling daydreams you watch me,
we face each other in restraint.
Still my bones live within light
over the gradual loss of decades,
because you won’t turn your eyes to look away
from the underworld of ravings and calculations.
These are dreams of blue sorcery’s pain
and men who hover in silent absence in the pantheon.

In the morning I’ll say I looked at the night
while you noticed my foreign body
and submitted two curious dreams to contact the wind.

“Kooks” The Sunday Whirl #174

Within his heart lies a demimonde spirit awaiting release.
Never in the right place, his soul is an asylum
which needs to be reborn.

When he flies high
surely there is a grand hard landing.
Where abomination’s art flies from canvases
leaving dark rites of rituals spreading
through the room.

One can never bare their soul completely:
So, she lights the gray away with candles
saying prayers for transgressions,
pledging allegiance to the sparkling oranges
growing on shelves in cylindrical swirls
of the bitter and sweet.

Hoping for the day when she can be herself
for those she loves.

“The Poet’s Song” The Sunday Whirl #172

Only love and pain
have dust remaining on this mystery.
It’s a young woman’s song;
prepubescent and concentrated.

The poet delivers
an intimate universal feeling,
I understand it
when I look at the
greenery of the mountainside,
and happiness wraps itself around me.

There’s bliss within the sounding sun;
flamboyant, flared, falling,
pointing toward an appetite for living.
Though at times jumbled
and tired, I continue with love
for being alive,
at last I can fly.

“A Cherished Life” The Sunday Whirl #170

There’s always a light surrounding me,
a shimmer of life which I receive
with passion and pleasure.
A magic that resides in living
through this beautiful hum.

While passing a stranger on
a narrow walkway. We smile
saying hello, thriving within different
special spaces. Each our own
yet somehow we are one.

I’m thankful for every breath I’m given,
for the sunrise I’m gifted with.
Words spoken to me
by family and friends — reassuring,
this is mine and I cherish it.