The Haircut The Sunday Whirl #265

There’s doubt with our talk,
her words in the air
mingle with mine,
each bit of hair​ she cuts
falls away wild
to the floor
lost and loveless.

The mirage is real:
seagulls searching for light
circling the shore amid the smoke.

The future of day breaks in our eyes
fallen bodies
shaping September
it distills time cradling
boats in the water.​

Advertisements

I Call Him Solomon The Sunday Whirl #264

​Coexistence throughout the course of summer:
From distances,
there’s power to approximate me on these roads
as it doubles my vision and
links me to the private signs
existing in hidden languages
mutable, or unspoken.
 
The body of her laughter emerges from the room
from here to the bridge,
I hear a man’s voice of fable intentions embroidering
​figures in the tapestry of flames
it burns creation where it can be dreamt again.
 
Beloved in memory my angels are veiled and
frozen by widows who mourn death,
I have been with them.
 
My hands inherited lightness from him
discovered amid the sparkle.
Bees forever love a flower’s sweetness.

I Call Her Esperanza The Sunday Whirl #263

I do not know anything but that slow
fall aurora over the world and
all the things my love contemplates;
lilies beneath pillow dreams
when rain sounds and
images peek into
all the beings who once were trees.
There is only a day given to me,
a brush stroke,
a turn from pain.
I cross my heart and her blessed fingers
cover mine with serenity.

“When We Kissed” The Sunday Whirl #261

I love you with joy.
It splinters my pain as it stretches
against what can be.

I love you there against the destroyed wall
in a city bruised by bullets,
against the sun and wind,
against love that has been.

I love you against summer nights
contrary to the light
as its silent likeness travels
on the sea with September’s approach.

My lips express
night ceremony in ghost places
against invincible death’s smoke.
A warrior trapped in memories sails away.

The Breaking of Maps The Sunday Whirl #253

There is a split.
Her fingers covering serenity,
preserving until summer light is darkness.
 
There is restraint in casual movement
when inheriting these conditions in clarity;
a vestige of sacraments and an embrace of hardship.
 
She holds the keys to life’s presence
where the dead swallows had once captured amazement,
her first mutism on marine dawn’s withered face.
 
The wind continuous and ascending
shall miss fleeing hysteria with the sand
writing her eyes inward.

A Mote Surrounds His Heart NAPO #19

In the morning;
It’s calm and quiet
everything’s covered in white,
colour of the gloria.
A hoop’s no longer tethered by its strings
It hangs lifeless, broken and disconnected.

In the afternoon;
The sun and me — I wait,
I try to speak to
shoveling men shoveling
forever dirt, where neglected plants
die in their frequency.
A dimension with mysterious energies.

At night,
stars swim like fish
endless in a cloudless sky,
a train derails between the dandelions and grass fields.
Where are the principles of peace?
Sureallism surrounds my heart,
woven in filament silk.

Shore, sand, and water creased by waves.
A kingdom with souls that vibrate.

Love is Never Liberal NAPO #11

I remember my moment and our
surprise as we rotated between what you assumed were
derisory drawings, bad poems and loves that were rotten.
Travelling from one side of an immovable leaning on the table.

The Sweetness of a Mango NAPO #10

Many varieties of orchids
climbed trunks, hanging like grapes from the highest branches,
clouds of white butterflies covered the ground and
the birds of iridescent feathers filled the air.
Your voice was a delicious mango’s juice; a pulp infusion of herbs,
it refreshed me,
it made me smile,
it made me laugh,
a serenade under my window
wandering in the four winds of the heart’s home.
My dream hides faithful to the wind, sun, clouds and stars of my heart.

Dedicated to Michael.

* I used two words from the whirlgig. Thanks for the words MMT.

April Speaks NAPO #9

With my hand at my waist
the outside is compact and light
bitterness flies; words lost in the air become fruit,
the clear sun for flight,
a circle of images highlight the hour’s slow pace
burnt in rhythm to find the heart
where secret spaces make dreams.
 
To touch wings
locked together,
to  see joy in the deep water
illuminated with colour,
salty eyes and fire,
the wind fluttering,
the highest flight
light as birds,
April speaks; her lips a young naked sound through the air.

The Lure of Beauty NAPO #8

Terra cotta tiled roofs descend into view,
wasted white on an egg-yolked sun

rising on homes, carrying tales of bells
with distinct rings; I turn my back
so death won’t take my soul … like those

old abandoned buses lying in a caressing,
cold crevasse, watched over by

a stream of crosses resurrected on
mountainsides, playing tag as you
pass by.

El Diablo sinking his limbs and horns into red clay,
ready to give a slight nudge into
unforgiving, but loving arms of trees.

When no-one wants to claim you, only to
keep you as a trophy for their lost day,

landscapes can embody space, giving
it life, a personality.

*Excerpt from Diario Despertar de Oaxaca
El “Espinazo del Diablo”, leyenda mixteca:
Indeed, they found the wounded dying, and a bus turned over the precipice, over three thousand meters, with more than 30 people dead and at least two seriously injured, who testified that a beautiful woman with long hair made the driver stop and caused him distress.
Thus began the accident in the “Devil’s Backbone,” unquantifiable in all forms.
You can still see the remains of some buses overturned and traces of where they tried to cross the road to inform people and Mixtec communities.
On top of the hill is a chapel of the Virgen de Guadalupe, there are pictures of the Virgin of Juquila and a number of crosses, witnessing the misfortunes that occurred in the “Devil’s Backbone.”

El Espinazo Del Diablo

ESPINAZO DEL DIABLO
Carretera Huajuapan Juxtlahuaca