Into The Sun
And my thoughts disappear into the sun,
hot in its rays, beautiful with
and where ever it begins; it has
Riding on the clouds to try to catch the
in the early day, jumping from
one to another
like ponds and puddles left
after the rain.
It has escape my mind of words to say
in the evening moon, in the
which makes it destructive;
makes it white.
And there it goes floating by in bits
that in the rushing of my day,
it could not stay;
not even for a moment for me to
write it down.
I am young still in my mind; yet, old in
with the sun that shows the
with the earth slowly, slowly
I can not catch the moon. I could not
the sun. I could not stand still
as the earth
moves the opposite way in its
My thoughts are running away,
quickly as the twenty-four hours
turn. I am here
still trying to catch the moon.
“We few…we happy few.”
Compound with no sorriness of
languishment in any matter,
with the idleness of time composing its
the solemnity of poesy as the moments of
move from one place to another; what
the lucid space in the derangement of
And so it is to collapse into a deep
trance ascending skyward
from the conquered in the refuge of
happy few claim the divinity of joy in
the state of being
more than the mortal state of mind. What
in the matter may each ascend with time?
The earth, the wind, the sky and the
languages in sounds and notes in random
the night, the cold, the darkness, and
the moon that plays
the midnight chords in the shadows of
noble ears and benign character to
And steal it yet the beauty of forms
molding in the instance
of time; that thoughtless dreams has
images of eternal utopia. We few,
trapped in the eloquence
of sublime joy, hide in the distance of
where the earth lives in simple
diversity of mirth.
Along the Coast
Where I have written on the road in my
Down to the Coast where beauty
Of the ocean is still untainted and
Hoping to view in thoughts of majesty
With the enchantment of a novel read.
I am not walking in Thoreau’s path;
Nor Faulkner’s, even Whitman’s in the
Where the coast of Neruda’s waves
In beauty in the Romantic’s nostalgia –
Long where I do not know how to do the
The arithmetic, that beauty lies in
Of thoughts, memories for the eyes to
And the heart to feel. Down the Coast in
With the heaven blue in its tranquility.
I consume at the sight with its
The day is almost gone; the night
Waiting for lovers to take, muggers
To savor the first time with it at
Like a flower that brings beauty today,
In the summer heat it will die tonight.
The Barren Loss
The barren land without the cascading
beauty of visions
is bare and naked as slumber devours my
eyes in dreams.
Trees without leaves, flowers wither in
the cold winter
I pass by to view the brown dirt, the
air, the overcast clouds, a lifeless
There we sit in the train going to
somewhere in our destinations,
somewhere in a path unknown to each the
loss, the consequences of its truth that
we are separated in
our travel. We are separate in our past
as each touch, each
look, each gesture has become
My region has become lonesome in your
are lost in this desolation, in this
despair that, with only inches
apart, you are distant to me. You are
spacious as we,
both in our state, are broken by
tragedies, broken by loss.
A language not converse, tongues
unspoken that they have
become foreign to one another. They have
unfamiliar to each eye. These are the
forms as we are naked
like the trees reaching its hands in the
winter cold to the heavens
for warmth of the sun, for birth in the
disdain of living.
Strip bare in our wanting, in this
barren wilderness, we
have become a sea of mysteries to each
self. We have become
the aspect of the lingering loss. We
have become the unforgiving
sight of human form as life persist to
seek truth, as life persist
to be fruitful and fruitless, at times,
in existing. The barren loss.
Separating images of yesterday as the
from its travel, as the air breathe in
itself the oxygen
of life that a morning mist devours the
the dampness of a sigh. The stillness of
on last night’s dream, wandering
somewhere before my eyes
see you again, before these coldness,
with their touch, find
those footprints that disappeared long
ago. It is the reality as these
words permeate into verses from my
tongue like melody of sounds
in their syncopation of beauty and
elegance, of grace and serenity.
As if each day form themselves in
brilliance, in unpredictability, yet
predictable in the emotions of
yesterday, the feelings of loss in
your eyes, in your thoughts that it once
occupied my surroundings.
Once it occupied the regions of my being
that tomorrow another
mystery shall find itself lost again,
and again be in a wilderness of sadness.
Repeating yesterday a thousand times
over unconsciously and with
consequences that they are not there,
only the images remembered
from a time when two souls existed among
themselves, from a time
when hermits breathe in the enchantment
of lyrics, the enchantment
of thorns in bleeding hands and
suffering hearts. And I have become
myself unpredictable in these separation
to repeat them over again
for them to linger on, for them to
crave, to devour the second that my
soul skip an existence, each moment when
I forget myself among
them the ruins left for the dead, and
each hunger is a journey that the
earth allows those footprints to be
found again in my path, again in my thoughts.
Like the sangria in front of you with
the straw sticking
into the air as if it is reaching its
hands to the heavens,
the sweetness of its taste savored in
Savored with drops on your lips, a
with the moment of your smile, your eyes
beauty in your form, a rose covers you
with its smell, I see
the silhouette of a mortal sitting, a
a mortal divine in grace. Lie the
sangria with its nectar
of limited intoxication, its limited
giving, an Argentinean waiter
watches in the distance to reach his
hands to you in service,
he waits with patience, with eagerness
of gestures and solitude.
I am the shadow that follows you in
their silence, the wandering
leaves that follows the wind in its
path, the sangria that
savors in your lips, in your tongue with
the view of each eye.
Oh Captain, the journey’s ended and lost
the battle’s forlorn and patience is
death to arrive. A word too deeply to
tears slowly in the agony of sorrow.
Here I lay serenaded by a voice known to
sometime ago. A voice in trance, in a
remembered where beauty create elegance,
where day exists in darkness and night
roam with the moon. My Captain,
tear away the earth from where
you stand, tear away the past
that dwell in your space as the
of joy sometimes fade, as the melancholy
misery contain in the uncertainty of
The Catastrophe of Common Things
To wake in the new light, the will
of catastrophe of common things, eyes
stare in the depth of pictures in
dead souls floating in the water;
pale, gray, black, blue swaying
wave from wave.
And in the darkness of light
the ground has shaken
in the devastation of poverty.
A silent call whisper
in low tide to return into the
Lost corpse floating without
without identification, tears
flow in the trauma
of death. The eternal sadness has begun.
An early morning mist hide in
dry ice, the maggots, the flies
feast in the abundance of the dead.
Cholera might return to its
glory days, Ebola and other diseases
in the jungle of the constricted,
In the former years, without revolution,
without adaptation an ancient
living reveals itself to the present
with a bow and arrow,
shooting at a mechanical bird,
roaring like a thunderstorm.
Yet they knew that it was coming.
The earth had spoken
and they understood its language.
In the new light, the will of
catastrophe had tried to balance,
again, the population of the living.
The Texture of Ambiguity
I shall speak before a novel read –
a sonnet without rhyme or structure,
without substance or sound, converse
again in the language of delirium.
Before time and space – poesy creates
a linear format, in some sense,
the willing of truths in liars, the
vagueness in images for the ears
to see and eyes to read in their sounds
yet pondering still in the verses of
sublime silence, nocturnal in its
Before a story conforms into something
something written in the past I shall
speak then in the texture of its
Of old English structure, of scholarly
form – of virtue unknown before night
falls or evening sleeps, rhyming muse
is she blessed. Of time undetermined
and Bounty conformed – of all is new
and reformed, she steals a night with
her beauty in sleep; she makes her
presence elegant in dreams when
she no longer weeps. As days were
before night, and morning after dawn,
the castrating of Pope as Eloisa to
Abelard forlorn. The winter fade upon
a spell – a witchery in human
confession is too deeply silenced –
Yellow flower in its pose,
redness of the heart
like one which is a rose.
Love is my conviction
that dies from loneliness.
Yearning a decision
of my mind in free will,
suffocating in the air
that to the heart kills.
Raise from religion of god,
I am with another that
to others seem very odd.
Age has captured me in a
bottle with air running short,
she herself can not stare
at me to save me from death.
And that I die of sorrow
like the trees taking it last breath.
We are two of different ground—
she, a Christian, I—I
am something else unsound.
That we never started what is meant to
she and I separate in parts
as parts do in their misery.
How Do I Get The Look
How do I get the look from her eyes?
Her look of gentle love
Where no human heart can disguise.
How can I keep this dove
From spreading its wings and fly away?
This delicate petal of a rose
To not wither in its former days,
And to see it in each and every pose.
To stare at that gentle face
And glare at those starry eyes.
To put my heart in love’s place:
In the morning, noon, and evening
And pair me not with no other
As I see no views of emptiness.
When love goes no further,
I do hold my heart in protest.
And she stares into my soul
With the sharpness of a knife.
The beauty of her glow
Gives nothing more than life.
I see her not as a whole.
I see her gentle love in
Her eyes that is so bold
And her heart lies there in.
Oh beauteous light in her eye! —
Give me her heart to make
The mends of human lies.
And do not force me to take
My eyes off of her beauty.
But let me love this glare
That holds such a mystery
As nothing is fair from fair.
Swimming Through Concrete
concrete as rain falls
on the asphalt.
The smell of tar
signifying the dirtiness
of the city.
Cars rapidly passing by
to wherever they
have to be.
And that in their life
they rush to do one
thing and forget another.
And in their structure
the same routine
applies like a monk
in his ritual of prayers.
I watch them follow
one another, pacing
not too far behind,
afraid that they might
get lost by them self.
To be noticed among a crowd
someone yells “fire!”
And the concrete did not
take their pain away.
Pictures & Images
Imagine space & time…
pictures & images –
taking what is mine,
leaving what is yours.
Where there’s a photograph
taken, to capture what
was there: dead is it
already by all the mishaps.
Ways of remembering the dead,
savoring the beauty, reliving
a memory of the things
seen in our head.
The light serenely draws the lines of your curves
texture of shadow, lines
straight, intersecting—lines that points
crevices, carving every inch of you
as though a
camera has captured you in a pose.
nakedness lie patiently like a still-life
one side shadow, the other side
with light reflecting, bouncing off of your flesh.
the air is suffocating at each breath,
it wakes at
the touch of your nose, breathing life
molded clay of yourself, exhaling
the atmosphere for the earth to regenerate
return again its beauty. Where the morning draws
silhouette, the evening raptures you in its mysteries.
The Da Da Song
Oh the day goes by like the Da Da artists
abstract view of life,
music, joyful in living. And the song
goes: A da
da da, rump, thump, pump,
a da da da,
rump, thump, pump, a da da da.
As the song
repeats itself over again I watch
bouncing my head to her beat.
A da da da, a da da da as though tomorrow
repeat itself the same way; fun
from worries. Hiding myself in
thoughts, bouncing in her head to
unknown, somewhere familiar
to her in
her memory. A da da da, rump, thump, pump,
repetition repeats itself again and again, gleefully.
I Dreamt of Che
I dreamt of Che last night in his journey
Americas, from Argentina, to Chile—up to
Picchu to reach the heavens and to the tip of
His heart fell in its
when he saw those sad eyes of people who were
their homes by landowners, looking for jobs
their rent, looking for any jobs just to raise
their family: their faces warned out from suffering, tired
searching, their eyes filled with sorrow and their heart
salvation. This is their hell, wandering through
just to exist; just to find themselves among
It is the unwritten piece of Neruda’s epic passion—
for freedom at 3 a.m. There are the people
voice, a tongue, silent in their humble living.
Nature beat them with snow and “The Mighty One” took
them as far
a motorcycle could go.
reached out to the lepers in their colony,
across the river in the celebration of his birth,
the sick from the non-sick.
A symphony congregate among the instruments
the lyrics of his journey, finding
in the indigenous, fighting for those
left stranded in their suffering.
Before Bolivia reached out her hands to capture
him, he had
already changed society,
unrest of the weak, building
the beauty of civilization.
I dreamt of a wanderer traveling to find
existence, exploring the unknown
of the land
of his continent and found
in the presence where his destined
given him an esoteric path.
I found Che in my dream along the coast
traveling up the Andes to
Macchu Picchu as the Venezuelan Symphony
him in his wandering.
on wires, bridge building
capture your beauty,
spectacle of amusement.
between two nations
degrading another while
just wants to exist.
down from the calm
the rushing gorge
falls in winters
eloquence of majestic beauty
to wonder and eyes to see.
harmony of repetition
never cease even in
a quick view.
Flocking in factories and human touch
natural beauty is not for the few
eyes to see the rush and watch the calmness.
Consider him, colored,
South failed to
from the Union.
Consider him, colored,
self-educated with a vision
a trait, a
vocation, to earn
status in this new opportunity.
Consider him, colored,
Tuskegee Machine’ built
vocational vision to
in their new freedom.
Consider him, colored,
its first President
A name that
may have been
his former master.
He might’ve have said, “We are colored,
proud. We are colored!
no less than equal opportunity.
colored—we are human,
equal to every man,
equal to everyone.”
He is The Tuskegee Machine,
slavery at birth, destined
to lead his
people to prosperity
Consider him, colored,
brilliant—with a voice
of truth, a
vision to progress
in the new
Consider him, colored,