Poem

You are currently browsing the archive for the Poem category.

Bad little voice

bad little boys

sing a llulaby

that kisses me bye-bye

Kill me softly with my own locally grown bad feelings

murder my ego

because it wants to feel me good

Little hell constructed comments that eat me up away

far far into the depths of low self steem, sing a song

a lullaby that puts me me down, please, please,

because that’s all I know what to do about my self image

autodestruct it by sheer will

am sure the psych industry will be psyched to know another case

just blew up its cover

. it’s nothing but autodestruct.

Upon my eyesight catching an everyday nature scene

A simple little bird

perching on a new, perhaps a year old twig, sprouting early may leaves

cause of its weight, twirled.

Before it, the blue vault.

& I wonder: when was the last time I layed on the grass to watch the clouds pass by?

The lush green fields call

thunder roars

lightning menace

Strike a past we long to be now.

I now know Spring is here.

Arachnid traces whirl outside my window.

The multilayer colored string plays its tune.

This silent music rings hollow.

I see but the wind play yet its vibrations fall in deaf ears.

Yet I delight so
in
the colors
the sun strikes
on its silk.

How I wish I could hear it sound.

I plow the clouds
undust the cumulus
Santa Ana winds breeze by.

It is march
idle and restless.
Evidence is aftersought.

I gather intentions
pack them tightly.
Pursue wild dreams.

This wandering I
so easily scared
Is a wannabe Heron.

This Heron seeks
yearround
habitats.

Yet you instrument
death
at dawn.

Like an old
tune
in Spring.

A cacophony
slicing
scythe.

New year
meant nothing.
This Aries dusk.

I.-

The eagle landed
on a cactus
back yonder.

II.-

Butterflies flew
driven
by Santana Winds.

III.-

Yes, I remember
Satanta.
Like a late autumn.

IV.-

Immobile
I stare,
this waft embraces.

No idea
what am doing.
Nor the horizon either.

1.-

I stopped dreaming
of a liberated Aztlan.
It was enslaving.

2.-

I became one with the past
Two with the present
and thirsty for more.

3.-

I read about Aztlán
and I wrote about Raza:
I was made after its image.

4.-

I am utterly lost
seeking meaning
out of the blue sky.

The word forms me

La palabra me forma

labra

I saw it today -¨

There is all kinds of seeing

one of them is seeing when one reads

Una de esas es ver al leer

No se acostumbra ver al leer

pero eso es la palabra: ver: verbo.

Vi

Vi en sueco significa <em>nosotros; </em>we.

Vi.

Leer requiere ver. Aceptar que la narrativa de la mente es un estado en sí; una evolución mental; una manta expuesta a la palabra y esta haciendo de las suyas con nuestra manta.

No sé cómo le hagan los que leen Braille

pero los videntes vemos letras y estas que están sujetas al latigo de la estructura rehusan ser sometidas al azote del tirano estructural; aparentan estructura en su fuzzy logic .

Y vi que es un desmadre ese. Waché que la palabra es bronca. Claché a la brava ese.

Una voz, una palabra, un vocablo me llevo a otro y terminé en ese remolino que es la historia.

Al ultimo ni supe who the fuck quién am I.

So I took a stance, en vano, i förgäves, in vain.

Funny, I thought, pensé, cómo la palabra lográ formarme, be who quien soy. The I so elusive, the word that refuses to be possessed. The palabra is not God to be had but a silly old flirt – un viejo cuqueo que nadien ha logrado imprisioned.

La palabra traiciona, no es un Dio a poseer; de no ser así no tuviere tantos amantes dispuestos a sacrificar toda una vida por ella.

yeap.

Listening to You/Me I was prompted to republish an old poem I made of my impressions of Stockholm.

You/Me

Taking an aimless stroll
Through these tacit atmospheres
I gaze about aloof
Near throngs of people by

Slowly making headway
An halcyon wanders into view
A solace embraces my senses
That wavers through and by

Along noised urban voices
People sway to and fro
Intersecting between spaces
Leaving only hollow voids

Seized by their loneliness
I’m enjoined in their silence
It’s a gentle ruck all around
Smoothly going in a haste about

In a boisterous stillness
Lulling back and forth
Leaving me nearly deaf
In this crowded isolation

I saw the birth of the Swedish Savannah today.

I kid not.

My body in tune with the frolicking of the pasture,

Though frost bites its teeth lack strength.

Though only for an hour, a part of the day.

I know the morrow brings its bitter wintry surprise.

Inasmuch as the cloud that crosses the Astro Rey

to remind me:

Bitterly where I am-

The window isn’t that big, really.

The view, however, offers endless horizons.

It was at this point that I observed the many shades of lights a normal late May day could offer before the midnight sun struck its aura in full force at 9 pm here in the lovable highlands of Sweden.

I really saw the yellow strike bright new green shoots.

Shadows are not just black as I affirmed today.

No, the slow turn of day to night proved otherwise.

Its icy white vault stared me from above.

I follow the direction of the sun rotate.

It was then, yes, between the frame of my window, and the deep horizon that I saw:

an insect flew by.

Carpe diem indeed Carola.

J

* dedicated to Träcentrum in Småland

It is 6 pm in this Nordic land.

I saw the sun rays today.

Them beasts come out at night here.

And their shine on the spider’s silk

play with the wind.

I ventured a look, at the distance.

To give my fixed eyes on the computer a rest.

Tis was then I saw the rainbow of colors

resisting the force of the Nordic winds.

A spiders trajectory

right across my view.

***

And

I recalled

from a stint

a squimy being

crossing my path

the earth worm slithering

made it through

on the asphalt

That’s when I knew

no car has passed here before.

***

I peer through the window

and the common landscapes

are robbed its given attention

A spider has drawn

the sight

before me.

She is fat with the land

this early spring.

Scattered cumulus

bright grey blue

new shoots about

steal

the moment furthermore.

Afuera: outside the county’s light prepares itself for the night. I remember those oranges in Tijuana at first sight. City gradual light. Its intensity oranges minutely.

As well, the remains of an autumn that refuses to let go, smears the horizon with grey blue metalic orange like 9-ish a now now bygone.

I see them spiders still. Smack before me. They 69 on the 4 squares that make my window.

One looks down, the other up.

Now they have synchronized.

And my sight is caught in a web.

Thou
doth confess
one’s lips
crack:

tis
heat
this
winter

whose need doth dictate the compass towards
said
palms
that beat
dried nordic read -s-

oceans seeking liberty

upon
eyesight
falling
on a
crackled old map

where
old Milky Way bears

obsidian
in
a heartbeat.

I
See
keth
quench
know
not
what.

tis this state I now best.

I saw thee go by
A fleeting presence
crossing my eyesight
A foregone conclusion
this present is
.
I felt the fractures
drawn
on the kitchen curtains
drawn to me
A
present
foregone
your ghost
of a second ago
a moment now lost
yet ingrained
in my memory.

This ordinary event
you were just passing by after all
made my world turn ever so slowly
slowmotionwise
I realized
or smelled the roses
till paranoia struck
dark forces
drew their nasty sword
cut in two
un presagio
no deseado.

y
e
t

the fleeting millisecond unstained
by the dark
illuminated
a memory I hold
at a cost of course
such
is
life’s tapestry.

« Older entries