Out To Sea

I want to live wild and salty,
with legs drawn up like pillars of sea salt
pulled from the ocean floor,
blinking up at the sun,
bleaching in the dry heat;
arms of kelp,
slender, soft, bitter,
reaching out to the diamond dapples
in the water-skin above;
a tongue like tidal waves--
foam and noise
speaking tirelessly,
smoothing out the sand;
and lips like coral or thick anemones,
words sliding in and out like clown fish--
bright, quick,
darting though tunnels of throat and mouth,
swayed by currents,
pulled out to sea.

Looking Down from La Rocca

In the hues of something
from Picasso's Rose Period,
clay tile roofs stretch into the horizon
and fade into farms.
Contrasted against the
nickel-stained leaves of olive trees,
the town looks dyed by the sun
in the color of dryness.
Dog-eared and drowsy,
a village sits quietly in the valley,
waiting to house a fairy tale.
If this were a Disney movie,
a pink-cheeked heroine
would be singing from a window.
I want to fall asleep here,
in the smell of hot weather
and the shade of twisted tree limbs,
with the hope that slumber will
help me dream the view into immortality.

Shattered

I had this summer day
where you were fire and I was sand,
and we melted ourselves
into a rare and perfect glass.
Maybe we can be like marbles,
well-rounded and varied,
or maybe we can magnify
and burn splinters in the pavement.

Today I see the faintest reflection,
smooth but dirty, old and cherished,
like the way that you broke me
and smashed life on the floor.
We've been devitalized;
presently I hold just one sliver.
Maybe we were fragile,
or maybe
we can meld again
and mold our lives inside.

The Bee Box

In this small box, my love,
you'll not find a ring,
but instead, a brave little bee.
He'll be dead by morn, having given his life
defending his flowers against me.
I felt his sting
while picking the small, purple pansies
growing wild along the roadside,
in hopes of an afternoon bouquet for you.
And I grieved the sting,
more for him than me,
knowing full well the price he paid
for my small pain.
And I allowed him his victory,
leaving his flowers as a memory,
and brought you instead
this brave little bee,
who proves there is love
even in the smallest
of things.

The Unsung Hero

Dream deep the story of the night
Where temporal ties have no meaning;
In a land where strings of puppets and quantum obscurity
Disappear under the weight of an unbridled subconscious;
Where subdued cries against tangible oppressors
Take shape and form in the dreamscape as the tapestry of tonight.

Whether hero, adulterer, savior, or victim,
Visiting far horizons or aiding lives in distress--
Nobody's hero closes eyes to turn the tide, save the day,
And find infinite fulfillment in personal pain or pleasure.

The waking world with its goals made not met
Is forever dwarfed by night's tales yet untold.
We'd spend eternity here if only we knew the way--
Forever dreaming our passions and paving over our regrets.

My Loneliness

From the monastery window
I can see children
Hunting in the woods
They call me Father
But I cannot take away their pain
Perhaps I should let them catch me

My Beauty y Mi Tierra

I stand before you
And I wonder what you see.
Do you see my deep, brown, almond-shaped eyes;
My full lips and long, dark hair;
Skin the color of brown sugar;
My hips made for the salsa and plena music of my land;
Hands that can make expert tortillas and play congas?
Do you see the mountains and sunsets of my land,
Or my beautiful flag, glorious in its wave?
Do you hear the song of my coqui, as it sings my people to sleep?
Do you lose yourself in the clear waters and white sand of my beaches?
Or smell the guayaba and mango trees after an afternoon rain?
Listen closely inside of me,
Hear my ancestors humming boleros
With their Indian eyes and smooth black hair,
As they dance unknowingly to the song of the wind.
These are the wonders of my land and of my people,
The things that make me who I am--
My beauty, y mi tierra.

Coma

I gather words
like sunflowers, sweet
in my mouth--a
slack pocket that
once tumbled
together lemon
sours and
butterscotch.
Stuttering
neon in parched
dreams; words
pool while
morphine swells
my arteries. My
name is oven-
dried chicken
bones in my
throat.

Duty

While waiting patiently
For another rebuke,
She plans dinner,
Thawing poultry,
Privately packing pain into poetry.
Upon arrival,
He feasts predictably
Upon her mind.
How productive this pastime has become,
Seeds of anxiety perpetually plowed
Into a fertile psyche,
Bud perennially into paranoia,
Keeping once opulent fields
Obedient and still,
The occasional weeds of opinion
Plucked then poisoned at the root.
Ripe growth pressed
Continuously
Into a flatly laundered hush.

Colors

A purple sound comes humming
In a yellow dawn's full bloom.
Red eyes read the rising
Of another marbled moon.
And the jagged, blinding whiteness
That crowned the sightless night
Sleeps above blue heaven
And the rainbow's prism light.
Green life lifts and stretches.
Aqua waves anoint the shore.
Brown bodies kneel and kiss the earth.
Black yields to blue once more.

Weathered Trees

Behind the naked stone you crouched
in hushed concern,
waiting for the sun and rain
to change you from a seed to tree again.

A thousand years, with great elan,
you held your ground
against the tempest tossed,
your dignity and grace not lost.

Now your leaning trunk and branches
tell of frenzied gale.
Lo, your presence clearly shows
the passing years and which way
the wild wind blows.