Exposed

Shall I bear my essence,
And carve my beating heart,
A stilled relief of consciousness,
Painted to an art;

Is it a shame to know I care,
The little boy still speaks,
Exposed to wind and rain,
And criticism's sleet;

Thought by word,
And turned around,
These marks I cannot flee,
Characters show expression,
Words exposing me.

The Pen

Can I stop the wind from blowing,
Catastrophe I see,
And end the rising tide of ocean,
Drowning suredly;

I stand before the masters,
Slaves and in between,
And slowly raise my head with open mouth,
Hitherto unseen;

Times mold upon form sets hue upon see,
Your shell is hardened and glazed,
I stand before you,
I bleed a dark case,
Others have surely bled too;

The path is filled with fallen leaves,
Wither in silent song,
The heals of sealed perspective,
Deaf to crunches set undone;

Frantic for the potion,
To divine the open mind,
Pour upon impassable,
Set motion of a kind;

Voices carried thru the air,
In every shade of yearn,
Fall failed despite the carriage,
Nurture stacked against the turn;

We build our own reflection,
Tiny mirrors at a time,
The silver painted backing,
Society's or mine?

The image we becometh,
Roughed out in early bloom,
Is the remnant of our essence, that
Fights to live,
In battles strung,
'Gainst outer world,
'Long pathways bits left strewn;

There are traps to sensibility,
That do not snap nor sting,
They anchor in the background,
Twist discordance in a ring;

Snares befall our wary eyes,
Cataract and blur sincerity for guise,
No deed nor absolution,
No pity to a bend,
No song for the impassioned,
Brings false judgement to an end;

Tears another plead,
To soften, crack or scratch,
The emptying of sorrow,
In pooled epitaphs;

Still a shined resilience,
Still nothing stays to seep,
Not straying from the pathway,
Varied hues will not keep;

Self the redefiner,
Self the Pompadour,
Self masks us righteous,
Truth the only cure;

The feeling of your surety,
The surge in feeling right,
Feeling the addiction,
Confuses right for sight;

So bleeding now before you,
In form for now again,
Truth stains to raise attention,
Penetration with a pen;

Pea Shot

Oh, to be free and unlocked from our plight,
To emerge from the sludge and break from the slod,
To slip like a pea shot from its pod,
To bid my conscience good night;

Rattle Can

I step to an edge,
The updraft a thrill,
I gasp at the beauty below,
A stretched verdant valley,
With spilled over greens,
And wonder of this should I know?

Rattle Can, Rattle Can, rattle some more,
Rattle Can, Rattle Can, I shake it 'til sore;

I pick at the corner and guide the page over,
Words at the top to below,
Something is missing,
Soon I'll stop guessing,
Is purpose of reading now sorrow?

Rattle Can, Rattle Can, rattle some more,
Rattle Can, Rattle Can, I plead to restore;

I stare at the park, dotted with trees,
I sit in the shade, I hear children's glee,
My hand feels at ease on the worn wooden bench,
I smile and wonder, is this re-memory?

Rattle Can, Rattle Can, rattle some more,
Rattle Can, Rattle Can, my smile hides a cry;

I gaze at the pictures stuck on the page,
Arranged in a way for my eye,
Some turned and yellow, while others are fresh,
Can't I stop wondering why?

Rattle Can, Rattle Can, rattle some more,
Rattle Can, Rattle Can, tears for your store;

The fill of the magic continues to fade,
Returning a strangeness to world,
Strength is my weakness and fog now persists,
The weed is only half old;

We hold hands and hers look like mine,
They're warm and I start to cry,
The hug is the first of my life.
There is warmth and love in her eyes,
Then tears start to form,
All I have for this stranger is why?

Rattle Can, Rattle Can, spare me your store
Rattle Can, Rattle Can, rattle no more.



En memoria de mi abuelita,
Yolanda Cornejo y su
batalla con Alzheimers

Southern Down

Don't know why,
But heavy thru the mind,
An ankle yoke tight,
Bindin' me to blind,
To all that's sweet,
And covet'd in life,
Washed cold all over...

This winter's last harangue,
Absorb'd right thru,
Chill'd preservation not feelin' worth the due,
Don't wanna look beyond,
Don't wanna lite jus' yet,
Some mental states worth reapin',
Even dark lowly few;

The creep of lightless moments,
When agony afoot,
Serves to keep the senses churnin',
And memory imbued;

The fault in bathed luminescence,
Is blanket songs of air,
That fail the dark recesses' spark,
When light doesn't dare;

The same suddenly goes different,
And knowing takes a breath in,
To understand and cogitate yur life,
From other planes within;

So scream is but a whisper,
And despair a cold employ,
A thanks to my inheritance,
And further that it's coy.

Looking's Doubt

Ugly flower, ugly bloom,
I do not see what I like,
I do not see my making,
I do not see any part,
That I have formed,
And fed thru life;

Ugly flower, ugly bloom,
Foreign touch and feel,
This is not my always liking,
Not my chosen version real;

And what of that before me,
And what without what should,
To what does habit's liking,
Shadow real away from good;

Should I peel my own obstruction,
Shall I look beyond redoubt,
Shall I shiver 'way abstraction,
Rename ugly, other beauty,
Re-look seeing, looking's doubt.

Eyes of Me

Eye to see,
Eyes of me,
Still is always changing,
Dispense with haste,
The day to day,
As life looks back,
But not your way,
Our senses always aging;
You fantasize the grandness,
Picked of day to day,
To see glory from your final sight,
But hold!, Fantasy may stray,
And all that fills the viewpoint,
The all beyond the scars,
May settle with the moments twix,
Those all important stars.

AM images

I pass a rack of used clothing among dated household items at this old man's yard sale. I spy a faded grey skied suit, long-tired and divorced of form, and know that once, someone stood eight feet tall with pride the day first purchased. I sit outside La baguette listening to the courtyard busker's mastered french cafe repertoire. The butter of the warm croissant coats flavour down my throat as a wee wren balances on my finger long enough to share a piece of my experience.