The Black House

A Gypsy's Kiss

He loved her beneath the shadows
of Pichoca trees where white
palm leaves blew high into the
winds and vanilla vines swirled
and twisted into superfluous webs
of calico threads.

This is where she played on her
swing, suspended barefoot among
the grandeur of rock formations that
labyrinthed to a sheer cliff, which
descended into the still waters of
a ghostly lake.

The porous lava of her skin was
carefully woven with the sweet
milk of life given to ghosts in a
dream, where modesty rose like
silence and atoms vibrated into
solid waves of pure color.

Grays and plums drifted across the
sky when they danced among the
eucalyptus that adorned moss covered
stones where the smell of burning sap
from copal trees served as incense
abound in the humid air.

Serenades of gypsy music and gothic
melodies terraced the red caravan with
one voice under the taps of falling rain as
the lovers kissed and sang in the silver
moonlight inspired by Majorca wine and
fried fish served with burned mango.

It was the stuff of poetry!

Time (Vietnam War)

At the time it seemed
the most important thing in life,
Vietnam...

She picked up the syringe
uncapping the needle
making the mistake of meeting his eyes.
Not a flinch
he made no move.
Masculine flesh and swirls of black hair
hard to imagine the soul's barely there
not to linger overlong with her eyes
she stares up at the ceiling
to staunch her tears.
As time flies by
he cuts her a look
and steps back in his mind.

"Rollin' Death"

Nobody noticed
Red Blood on White Walls
The music plays on
The fire of life no longer burns.

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night
are calling
I'll set you free .

Brannif Airlines
The pink airplane flies
destination unknown
many will die.
114 degrees in the sun
humidity well over survivable level.
Mekong Delta
knee deep in thin mud.
Reddish black- shiny blood sucking leeches
breeding
in standing brackish waters.
Burning cigs and bug juice,
ham and lima beans,
waiting for the enemy;
the soldiers were teens
and no one at home ever heard their screams.

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on.
Nobody cared
They were too caught up to see
Too caught up to hear
Ignorant and filled with fear.
Unsaid
And the music plays on.

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

Ambushes
Booby Traps
encountering and returning fire,
purple hearts and bronze stars
instead of racing fast new cars.
Hot and humid nights of heavy artillery ,
this was their life in the military .
Never run with your finger on the trigger,
"Puff The Magic Dragon" never saw his face!
My God why would you send them to such a place?

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on .

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

Discharged from the army
they arrive back in the world
the place they fought for and used to call home.
Not an ounce of courtesy or even a smile
directed their way.
More hostility and disgust
of hatred and protests
so fashionable you see
to blame the warriors
never setting them free.
No hugs or kisses or pats on the back.
Void of glad to have you home again
thanks for being a friend.
The shouts of murderer
resounding in his ears!
Was it because he was wearing infantry brass?
Did he look like a murderer?
Man, they should all kiss his ass
for the sacrifice he made
they can all perversely preach hate
directed at the hero
whose fist we find clenched in mouth
to keep himself from crying
Oh why did he escape dying?

Red blood on white walls
And the music plays on

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

"You don't want to cross me, *** with me."

" Shhhhh, you're safe now"

His survival mechanism
the instincts by which he lived
so as not to die
were kicking into high gear
for the second time that night.
Beyond conscious thought
he found his weak-kneed self
reacting to her voice.
She was his salvation
he had found his truth,
but hanging in the air
was dark red smoke.
Nobody knows what they've done to him .
Nobody knows that he's gone .

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on .

Spend some time with me
Escape reality
Shadows of the night are coming

Angel on your shoulder

I'll set you free.

The Old Country

Strange perturbation
charmed the heart.
Into another world
came the high land
filled with old cottages
and a little tavern
that served hard candy,
musty rolls
and Kosher cheeses
made
of artificial rennet.

Summer Tea Party

Dainty teacups accommodate the civil tongue
as azure cornflower petals are dispersed
Amidst rich twining of expertly blown
Cherry-scented tobacco.

A private word in the corner of the dining
Room illuminated by a cherubim candelabra
Gives insight to destiny, a future in tealeaves
Among the trigger of family jewels.

Bare shoulders as silken as a pink rose,
Conceal the chains of possession,
A maiden's corset,
Beneath a careless shrug.

Despite a ferocious wind blowing,
Under currents of humor
By the cotillion of hand painted
Fans
Held by debutante elbowed gloves
And the dangerous vague apologies
Of unsuitable overwhelmed suitors,
Furtive smiles switched sides
And turned coat with progress.

Interesting times we live in.

The Summer of '76 in collaboration with Allex I Spires.

Heat unfolded over the New York neighborhood of Washington Heights in the summer of seventy-six driving my Puerto Rican neighbors and myself from our non-air-conditioned homes, away from Chico and the Man on teevy, and into the streets. Tienda Boricua was blasting salsa music that got all those people dancing, all of them but me. I stood uneasily among a mist of swirling hips, and spinning bodies.

A dark brown version of Freddie Prinze stepped through the crowd and offered me a cup of rum.

"How does it taste?" he asked.

"Bittersweet, like first love."

We danced.

Summer in Calcutta

It never feels like summer in Calcutta despite the sweltering heat. The house is bleak, and by the gardens, mounds, stones and trees a serene yellow-green glassiness chills the speech of the lovebirds.

My mother-in-law is in the kitchen boiling tea the Indian way, bringing the water to a boil, separating it from the stove before pouring it into a Bone China decanter. I see her add the exotic tea leaves and spices with care before covering it with a "tea cozy" letting it sit for three minutes, slowly brewing. She gives me a playful and reluctant look of anticipation. Once ready, she filters it into fine, delicate cups adding milk and sweetener to taste.

She takes a sip sampling the brew and smiles before offering me a spoonful. It has a unique flavor, one brought about by the variation of culture, language and customs. We both bow our heads in agreement but no words are exchanged. There is a calm in the house, on the land, not to be mistaken for peace, just a deadening quiet.

In the next room an illustration by Edmund Dulac hangs on the white wall and I dream about Queen Scheherazade telling her stories to King Shahryar. I want the same enthusiasm of an artist over the mere order of a solitary home impatient over her lover's absence.

Sympathy for the Devil.

Incubus Walks

He walks the roads encumbered with rocks
sorrowfully weeping at the thought of
proceeding alone.

Rivers run swiftly in his honor
yet he stumbles very narrowly escaping
nearly falling into the water.

God's Goodness entertains his sound intellect
, which jolts the journey ten times harder
while ravenous birds circle around him.

The sun raises one-third of its course dispersing
his body with unwholesome dampness, yet he grins
and carries on touched by the gesture.

Generous things happen when the balsam of life
is plenty. There are melancholy times of white orchids
in a dearth of rum fricasseed in mischievousness.

Huckleberry slashes harbor wild wolves that scramble
preying on spirits against malignity
feasting
on unsuspecting women with sensual desire.

Moments of tautening muscles tease and suckle
honey colored skin while tongues outline the soft
inside curves of rosy lips.

Vanity gives way to repentance as Incubus travels
beneath the darkness while the threatened incursion
of a whimsical old woman foretells of his arrival.

There is a single “main line” of evolution, culminating in “man.”

The Apex

l

Microbes joined the pull of water
over a restless lake, slowly whirling
into the secular air, hungry for its
pure smell.

ll

Daylight faded into cold nights
charged by an electricity that
exposed the elusive truth of
science.

lll

Evolution lit the horizon with
a natural glow where mists of
sands began to fall, startled by
time.

lV

The clouds and winds changed
color, bestowing their heart's force
with darts and dots of muscle,
skin and bone.

V

Space vibrated over blues and
greens where the drinking heads
of the bison leaned back against
painted nudes.

Vl

Instant sprays of sweet white
sank into sheets of brown-red
earth, the milky spill of the
pulsating moon.

Vll

Androgynous stars fermented
the power of genetic
knowledge while all life
flourished.

Vlll

We've always known this
place. It's where the two
rivers merged, linked by the
nostalgia of firelight.

Inspired in part, by The Tibetan Book Of The Dead.

670 words

Gods Of The Realm Of Clear Light

Lobsang Gyatso had relinquished his will to his assassins in humility and peace and without regret. He lay immobile, fixed in the warm sands of the windless noon's haste. He tried to involve himself in the scene but his mind focused on the white beam of light instead. The light separated him from his body, starting small but growing larger as specks of dust danced in its whiteness. He felt like a child, alien and lost in a swirling mass of mark less matter. He panicked as he saw another circling mass in the opposite direction, a much larger pattern that would bisect his path somewhere. He was still tainted by his karma but his memory was as clear as the light before him. Lucidity came over him as he started to meditate on the death process. Remembering the words of his Blessed and Most Holy Dalai Lama, "Be scared for your human side cannot help that. But do not fear, for your spiritual side cannot be afflicted;" he removed the links of chain that kept him grounded to the material world. A strong rapid motion fell across his body and he felt himself sink into the Earth as the Earth dissolved into Water. Through currents and tides, he became the child of the day. He saw his Uncle's Dairy Farm in North India where he often played and quenched his need for milk. He experienced the existence of another child in another part of the world and tasted griddlecakes with maple syrup, and organic oatmeal and applesauce. As he passed from the Human Realm into the Animal Realm he saw the cold yellow eyes of a starving dog ready to strike him down. An Indian in a sheepskin coat stood between them and the hound greeted the Spirit Guide, coming to rest at his feet. As he entered the Hungry Ghost Realm he experienced the pain of social injustice, repression, lack of education, nutrition, clothing, housing, and good health. He felt himself become absorbed by smoke as the Water disseminated into Fire. He was sucked in a vacuum filled with red light into the Hell Realm and felt the absence of happiness. He smelled the sulfur, strong and hot and rank and was overtaken by the shrill, frantic laughter of the lost souls that yapped and strained like wild animals. Fire absorbed into Air as he awoke in the Demigod Realm. He was engulfed by the appearance of darkness and felt as if he was slowly losing consciousness. There he was reunited with the spirit of his mentor, The Most Holy Dalai Lama. He celebrated love, peace, truth, knowledge and felt compassion for the Lions he should have feared and hated. The demigods felt jealousy and desperation at his resolve as Air passed into Consciousness. He looked up, down and around himself and saw his body of blood, skin, bowls, and bones become a memory. A strange sensation touched his soul, as he became seepage of moisture again, somewhere between Earth and Water, a place of Rebirth...In the Foothills of the Sierra de Cachimbo, a baby is born to the Kaiyapo people. Kruakruque, The Kaiyapo Chief draws blood symbols in the entrance of a sacred cave as part of an arcane celebration. A bright white light fills the region, slowly turning to an iridescent glow. Fish become abundant and are visible to the naked eye like crisp white stones. The sick are healed, the dying find renewed life as a network of intuitions become One among the cries of a newborn, while...In Lhasa, Tibet an unusual light fills the dark night sky. People who witness it become blind. Suffering and violence violate with affected easiness. War in all its rigidity furiously attacks all logic. A child is born from an unclean creature, half man, half animal in the personification of Death itself. Evil and all it’s Dominions nod at Good. The Battle is on!

Beauty is all around you. All you have to do is, turn around.

A Tribute To All Writers And To Those Who Inspire Them.

So, why did you become a writer?

The Mystic Vagabond

I was five years old when I first invoked the Moon Goddess. I wasn't a High Priestess and Wicca was a foreign word to me. I was just a kid taking a midnight stroll around the neighborhood with my mother. We did that often when my father was home screaming out in pain and waiting for the Nyquil to take effect. Back then the doctors sent cancer patients home to die with no more than an over the counter drug to deal with the physical discomfort. That night, like many nights before it, we walked. The usual crowd was gathered around Dominick's Social Club. There were men playing dominoes and cards challenging anyone to a game as a young group of women watching them were drinking gin and tonics. I could see the Go-Go dancers on stage every time the door opened and closed while a yokel was trying his hand at clever lyrics and catchy tunes on an acoustic guitar. I loved the fast paced action of the nights and the way my mother's soft hands held mine in the sense against calamity. The rendezvous were always the same but this night things were different. Solemnity was whirling around in the gutters of casual litter. And I loved the darker iridescences, the moments of just being. It was then that the eye of a vagabond caught my smile. He spoke some poetic gibberish about a lover's sighs for accessible bliss and the spirit's vulnerability when it stands before an inflexible. My mother compared him to an idiot minstrelling without bells, but there was something about his face. One sole face at night is an inconsistent thing, like a photograph of fate, one voice repeating, one tireless chorister, in the luster of a full moon. "A stone never changes, " He concluded. And with that prophecy everything around me seemed to magnify. There was an odor evoking orchids and when I looked at the moon it had a peculiar purple luminous flittering mist, like a momentary color where essences were changing. A cool wind was blowing, swirling about the mist with motion and force. I was drawn to the freshness of the moon, the freshness I found within myself. It wasn't a transformation. It was a moment of heightened rational reasoning and knowledge where the cool air passed into harmonious heat. My ears popped and I remember my head turning, my eyes searching the mystic vagabond out, only to find him gone. We reason these things out later in life; the words spoken, the voices in our head, but beneath, far underneath the surface, our souls know that the nothingness has a point and it is not beyond the process of thought. But it is a choice. Time comes and goes with silence, solemn sentences, and interior monologues. I am now the poet, searching for other naked beings with free spirits that will ride the cosmos with me. Our voices born from the body of the world!

The Flight Of Angels

Maria Roblero arrived alone at El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá surrounded by memories she wanted to escape. Flickering blue lights flared and circled around the pale-face of this well dressed young woman in white patent-leather pumps. The pink silk of her dress clung neatly over her naked shoulders displaying the pearls that adorned her neck. She looked sinfully modest with downcast eyes and ponytail hairdo; afraid to breathe the air, to touch the faces, to leave her fingerprints on the surface of others as she climbed the red carpeted stairs to the upper level.

A group of college students wearing brightly colored Bermuda shorts and overcoats were standing around the El Llano En Llamas Restaurant, looking at a map as if they were lost. Maria wondered what would be the last thing they saw in this country before their plane departed to the States. The sounds of cheerful voices coming from the kitchen grew louder and rolled so beautifully with the smell of coffee, warm bread and peanuts. Her nerves tightened as she took a seat at the end of the bar.

The restaurant was full to capacity and a man with a microphone appeared on stage from behind a heavy blue and gold curtain. He was addressing the audience as he held out a deck of cards. Maria tuned him out along with the laughter of the entertained crowd. She felt her whole life had been determined by a card game, a roulette wheel. Trembling, she felt terrible embarrassment.

A strange sensation played over her skin and she shuddered as a handsome middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair explored her thighs. He found only goose bumps and old scars as he leaned into her. She recognized him from her village.

"Hello, Maria. You didn't mind traipsing all the way over here, did you? He said.

"Did I have a choice?" She replied.

"The world is filled with choices, Maria. What's the name of the game they play?" He asked as he motioned to the man on stage.

"Don't you know? I thought you were good at playing games." Maria replied.

"If I knew I wouldn't be asking you." He said as he waved the bartender over with his hand ordering two Aguardientes.

The bartender wasted no time in accommodating him.

"Sugarcane of my valleys and anise of my mountains," He said as he tipped his crystal shot glass against hers.

Adolpho Murano was the kind of man that the local people feared. He was wealthy and used to being catered to but deep within him was a savagery that loved to take advantage of beauty, innocence and tragedy.

"Drink. Do you not like it here?" He asked.

"I prefer a more casual and cozy atmosphere." Maria replied with disdain.

"Sometimes we just have to accept the incompatibility of systems, Maria." He said.

She hated the way he said her name. She hated his voice, his touch. And every time she looked into his eyes, she remembered the incident back in her village when he approached the child of Ernesto Gutierrez at the Aguas Escondidas breakfast grill. The little boy was sitting at a table eating the soft white pulp of a slice of bread when Adolpho put a bullet into his head. Payback for the child's father not making good on a loan.

"This restaurant has sentimental value for me," He continued. "My ex wife held her divorce party here. Right before I killed her. After I got through with her the authorities couldn't tell if it was a man or woman lying in a pool of blood."

He held one of Maria's arms low behind her back as he spoke.

"I understand." Maria said.

She was only eighteen but old enough to trust her instincts when it came to men like Murano. She would not struggle with the dilemma of free will or whether she did or didn't have a choice in the matter.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked.

Maria gave a half smile and said, "Yes."

They made their way to the hotel, which was located five minutes away from El Dorado International Airport, and seven blocks to the United States Embassy. The room was decorated in different shades of rose and amethyst. Maria imagined herself standing on a high cliff where a mighty Angel came to her defense throwing all the cruelty, sex and tears into the sands below, as Adolpho made her undress.

On his hands, in the breath of his mouth, was the slick scent of Maria's coconut musk body lotion. They fell into the bed, having sex. They stood in front of mirrors, having sex. They pressed against the glass of the steaming shower stall, having sex. And each time Adolpho slammed Maria against a wall or into the furniture, she envisioned herself back at the Airport lounge.

With every finger that raced over her body she saw the whirl of lights and her father's hands over a deck of cards. With every thrust and sudden shriek of pain, the roulette wheel increased its speed as Adolpho drew more and more into his power. The wheel held her fate and so she submitted, losing herself in the swirl of color.

Gambling wasn't a choice for her father but a condition that held consequences, rules and balances.

"You're the best bet I've ever won," Adolpho said.

The scent of Her lingered in the hotel hall long after he left. Long after he did everything to her that a man could possibly do to a woman.

In Colombia at mid-morning the church bells ring mingling with the sounds of tourism and poverty. What an individual sees before their plane takes off depends on their circumstance, like the end of one world or the beginning of another.

Brian's poems

These are all the things that people should remember about their greatest
love...Their Soul-mate...

For Theresa...

I will Remember

I will remember
The first call I received
A voice so soft and beautiful
Almost too much to be believed

I will remember
The day that I proposed
And how she reassured me
We will never stand opposed

I will remember
How lonely I had been
Until we found the courage
To let each other in

I will remember our fist kiss
I will remember our first time
And Angel I will never forget
The day you let me call you mine.

Poem # 2

A poem about a car and its final and most important mission...

For Theresa

Transportation

This machine is far from perfect
Much like its operator
There are flaws and imperfections
But it will take me to her

I'll clean it up as best I can
And hope my best is good enough
The body isn't what it used to be
But the heart and soul are tough

It has been scuffed and dented
Very much like its driver
But yet it still survives
Getting older.but still alive

And even if it's not as pretty
As perhaps it used to be
It is still quite strong and powerful
And will help bring me to thee.

Poem # 3

To the fortunate ones among us...Along comes the one...The one who was meant
for you.

And you know you were meant for them...

For Theresa...

I Know

I know my love is out there
She speaks to me each night
I know She is the one
I know that this is right.

A Midnight Angel
She was sent from above
She was sent to me
So I would again know love.

In my darkest hours
I hid inside the night
Until She arrived
And brought forth to me her light.

She's the sun and the moon
And the crystal clear streams
She's the Angel
Of my dreams.

Poem # 4

Dedicated to the one who holds me together...until we are together.

For Theresa...

No More Goodbyes

I miss the sweet sound of her voice
I miss the beauty in her eyes
I need to hold her close to me
Dear One, no more goodbyes

She's beautiful like an Angel
An Angel flying high
And the love that I do feel for her
Is the kind that never dies

And the only wish I have tonight
Save to have her by my side
Is simply this.

No more goodbyes.

Poem # 5

A simple message of caring and the desire to protect someone you love.

For Theresa...

All Our Tomorrows

For all of our tomorrows
She will never need know fear
Because each and every single day
I will keep her safe and near

For all of our tomorrows
No matter how rough the ride
I will never leave My Empress
I will stand right by her side

For all of our tomorrows
From the moment the day begins
I will hold my Dear One close to me
Through the nights that never end

For all of our tomorrows
She is the one I will protect
She is my one and only love
The one the Angels did select.

Poem # 6

Leaving a place of safety is difficult...Arriving in a place of uncertainty
is scary...But when the reward is worth the risk...You go for it.

For Theresa...

Departure

It was 3:00 A.M.
I had packed up the car the day before
I packed the things I thought I would need
And the things I knew I could not survive without
Now it was time to leave
We had just celebrated the one year anniversary of our first call
The gas tank was full.
I had bought new tires, insurance and registration are in order
Time to go.
I put a few sandwiches and sodas into a cooler.
I kept my road atlas out even though I didn't need it.

"I took her to be a challenge and went into the night."
A line from a song that always moved me.

I had made this trip before.
The difference now was I was running toward something.
Not running away.
Every mile that ticked off of that trip counter meant I was one mile closer
to her.
I saw nothing ahead of me but a long stretch of pavement
And the pictures of her that were taped to my dashboard.

I listened to my cd's as I watched the mile marker numbers progress
I tried to keep my eye on the speedometer
Couldn't get to her fast enough.
Every song I played reminded me of her.

"Wheels go round and round you're on my mind".
I tried to stay away from the mushy stuff though
It's hard enough to concentrate when all you want is to be there.

I had played out this scenario in my mind
For far too long
Now it was time for action
Now I had to get in the car, turn the key, go.

And never look back.

Poem # 7

A brief comment on knowing when to risk it all for the ones you love...

For Theresa and Margaret...

The Decision

An escape was hardly possible.
The gates were massive and strong.
She wanted to fly free, to run to me
And I had to rescue her.

I needed her in the day.
I needed her at night.
I needed her outside those walls
Free to explore the challenges
And the beauty of our love.

For far too much and far too long
Her sweet beautiful daughter
Was also a prisoner on that island
In that off-shore prison.
So I took my ship and crashed it
Into the gates of those high walls.

I held them open with all my will
As the guards tried to close them,
But my Angels flew towards the opening
The one that I had made for them.

I knew they could not pass my ship
And yet still escape
So I set to destroy it.
Destroy it so they could be free
The cannons fired inward
My ship broke in two
But I did what was right
And My Angels both got through.

I had made my decision
My Angels carried me away
And our love soared.

Poem # 8

It is only those who have never known love, who think they do not need
it...And it is only the foolish among us, who think they can survive without
it.

For Theresa...

Without Her

Without her, there is no me
Without her, I cannot be
Without her, I cannot feel
Without her, life can't be real

She is so very beautiful
Her voice is like a song
Her laugh is like the chorus
Without it I can't go on

She is my Angel of the morning
The afternoon and night
Whenever I talk to her
I know that everything's alright

Without her to say she loves me
I know I would not survive
It's the beauty of her heart and soul
That helps keep me alive

She taught me how to love again
She brought me back to life
I need her with me always
I need her as my wife.

Poem # 9

A poem about how two people who had once been hurt and lost, had found and
learned to love again...

For Theresa...

Fallen Angel

Beautiful but frightened
I saw her from afar
I knew that I did love her
She was the one I hoped to find
My sweet precious Angel
The one who truly knew my mind

And knew my heart as well
And spoke to it so true
Thus and so, I can't forget
And I will always cherish you

She was afraid
So was I
We'd both been hurt before
Then we both decided
It need not be so anymore

We let each other in
Absolved ourselves of sin
We picked each other up
So we could begin again

My sweet Fallen Angel
She knew just what to do
And I knew as well
Because I had fallen too.

We picked each other up
We showed ourselves the way
Two fallen angels
Who got up and flew away.

Together.

Poem # 10

All things in life that are of value have to be battled for...and when you
know the cause is just...you fight the good fight all the more...

For you, Theresa...

The Most Sacred Of Rooms

The most sacred of rooms
Are at the end of the longest halls
The most priceless of treasures
Are behind the strongest walls

She who is my Love
Was one such priceless treasure
Her walls were very high at first
Too high for me to measure

But I climbed those walls of hers
A little bit each day
Hoping with all my heart
That she wouldn't get away

My first glimpse of her.so beautiful
Like an Angel from above
It was then I knew I'd found her
She who is my love.

Poem # 11

Most of us build castles to protect ourselves...But sometimes you have to
lower the drawbridge and open the gates...And trust.

For you My Sweet Theresa.

Castles

I will be your castle
Your fortress and your home
And when you are within my arms
You will never be alone.

I will protect you from all harm
You will never need know fear
And should you ever become lost
You will know that I am near.

Each morning when the sun appears
And you begin your day
I will kiss your lips to let you know
I am with you all the way.

Each evening when the sun goes down
And I hold you close to me
We will know that the love we share
Was truly meant to be.

Poem # 12

Something for my Angel...She who helped me through them before and
always...I love you! My Sweet Theresa...

Thunderstorms

Outside late last night
there was a big one.
That was cool though,
I have never been afraid
of them.

Even when I was a kid,
I love the sounds!

The rain.
The thunder.
Almost like
I could ride away
on them.

I loved them
as a child would,
when I knew I was
safe,
protected.

Back then
I got off on imagining
space aliens
attacking!

Now
I only enjoy them
as long as the power
doesn't go out.

Did I lose something
along the way?

Now
when I hear them.
I worry
and I wish.

I worry
that the electricity
will fail
and all lines
of communication
to my Angel
will be cut.

She saved me
with her love
and helped me
tap into
my inner strength.

Everything
would be so different
if only we
were watching this storm
together.

And I wish
that I could be with her,
holding her.
And that we could
watch
and listen
together,
in each other's arms.

And ride away
on the sounds
as one.

Poem # 13

Love is like most things in life...When you don't seek...You find.

The House And The Room

It was dark and it was late
Exhausted but I can't sleep
A shot of brandy to numb the cold
I lit a cigarette and went out
The night is cool and clear
I look up and I can see Orion, The Hunter
When I come back it will have moved
But it will still be there
I embrace the darkness even as I fear it
What secrets might it contain that have yet to reveal themselves
What dangers lurk in the shadows of which I am not aware

Walk with me I say aloud
Even though no one is there
The street, both strange and familiar
The house, old but elegant
Confusion now
A thousand times I've passed this way
Never saw this house before
Or had I
For reasons I can't now explain
I felt compelled to approach the door
My God it was she who answered

The woman of mystery
I had dreamt of before
Now stood before me in the shadow of the open door
Was this another dream
I didn't know, I didn't care
She said come in as she took my hand
Come in out of the darkness
She led me to a room
Candles lit the night
Shimmering lace curtains draped everywhere
Reflected the softness of the light

She was so very beautiful
This Angel I named Midnight
She said this is your room now
You can stay here
As long as you like
I said I would
If she would stay too.

She smiled and said I'll stay here with you.

And then she put out the lights.

And as she held me close to her
I knew that I was safe
I no longer felt alone
I knew that I was home.

Poem # 14

This is a testimony to two "damaged" people who put each other back together
again...Thank you, Theresa...I LOVE YOU!!!

Damaged Goods

A beautiful crystal vase,
Lay broken on the floor,
Damaged beyond repair,
Lost forevermore.

The woman to whom it belonged
Was prepared to throw it away,
When a man arrived to tell her
There was another way
I can rebuild this if you will permit me...

He glued it back together
With gentle hands, and careful labor
Undertaken, not of lust
But of love and true devotion
And when he gave it back to her...

It was still far from perfect
There were some cracks and flaws
And still a few missing pieces

But she liked it even better
Than it had ever been before...

She knew it was a labor of love.

Poem # 15

Dedicated to my only love...My sweet beautiful Theresa...

Beauty

Beauty is that thing
That comes from within a dream
Beauty is that which shows the truth
A truth before unseen

Beauty is a wish
To know the nature of I willed
Beauty is what I see in you
A wish from my heart has been fulfilled

Beauty is a life with you
A life I thought I'd never know
Beauty is any journey we take
Wherever it might go

Beauty is to truly care
Beauty is the love we share
Beauty is a wish come true
Beauty is what I see in you.

Poem # 16

An expression of love to the one I call My Angel...

A True Goodnight

I watched the tranquil slumber
Of she who is my love
All the ghosts from my past have vanished
All thoughts of blame or failure
Are very distant from me now
I turned off the light
And raised the window
So careful not to awaken her
Gently I slipped into bed
By the moonlight I could see her
As if for the very first time
I reached to softly wake her
She already knew that I was there
We held each other, oh so tight.
We became as one
It felt so right
As need paralleled desire
In the immense complexity of love.

Poem #17

I Love You, Theresa

I love your name
I love your voice
I love your laugh
I love your sense of humor
I love the way you write
I love the poems you write for me
I love the beauty that's in your heart
I love the depth of feeling in your soul

I love your beauty both inside and out
You are the one I cannot live without

I love the way you make me feel
Like nothing can ever hurt me
I love that I can be myself
And you will still accept me

I love the way you make me smile
And believe there's nothing I can't do
You're what I've wanted all my life
My Angel...I love you.

Dearest One, I wrote this for you late last night (or very early this morning). Once again, this won't be finding its way onto the short list for The Pulitzer, but these are my words and they are for you. I hope you like it.

For Theresa...

You are my precious Angel
The one I waited for so long
In your heart I see such beauty
In your words I hear a song.

Your love has brought to me
A joy I never knew
I feel so strong and safe now
Because I know your love is true.

My love comes to me at night
She is with me through the day
I know I am complete now
Since she said that she would stay.

She is my dear, sweet Angel
The one sent from above
She is the one I waited for
She is Theresa, my true love.

-Brian

Something for you...I wrote it, I hope you like it...
------------------------------------------------------
My Angel's voice is beautiful
Just like a sweet love song
Her laugh is like a melody
And I have to sing along

To all the powers that be
Please protect her from all harm
Until I can be with her
To keep her safe and warm

She means so very much to me
She gives me a reason to live
And in return I promise to her
All the love I have to give

All I ask is this
Of those who are above
Protect My Sweet Theresa
Watch over My True Love.
-------------------------------------------------------

As usual, I don't think it's very good...But I hope you liked it anyway.

I LOVE YOU

This is for you...I hope you like it
-----------------------------------------------------
NEVER

I cannot talk to anyone
The way I can talk to her
I never want to know again
The way that things once were

I never want to feel again
So lost and all alone
She's the Angel who guided me
Down the road that leads me home

I never want to wake again
Asking what's the point of going on
I want her there right by my side
To help me face the dawn

I never want to end a day
Saying goodnight so far apart
Without her I am not complete
Because she has my heart.
--------------------------------------------------

I LOVE YOU

Once again, these words are not even half as beautiful as yours. But they are mine, for whatever they're worth...

For You, Dear One...

I love my sweet Theresa
I love her more each day
I love my dearest Angel
Let nothing take her away.

I love my sweet Theresa
She is my priceless treasure
I so need her in my life
To a degree one cannot measure.

I love my sweet Theresa
For I had all but given up
Until she came along
And stopped to pick me up.

I love my sweet Theresa
She who rescued me from strife
I love my sweet Theresa
She who brought me back to life.

-Brian

I know it's not good enough for you, but I hope you liked it anyway. I did my best 'Cause you deserve the best

I love you

Words

Seven words I need to hear
“I love you, Brian
Please stay near”

Seven words I need to say
“I love you Theresa
Never go away”

Six words just for you
“My Beautiful Angel I love you”

Five words for the Princess
“Maggie I love you too”

And four words that I hate to hear
“I have to go”

But the three most important
Are only for you
Theresa Cecilia,
“I LOVE YOU”.

Theresa

Theresa is my Angel
She flies on wings of light
And no matter how deep the darkness
She will see me through the night

Her sweetness and her beauty
Are like none I've ever seen
The depth of her warmth and feeling
Is like something from a dream

When she says she loves me
I know she truly cares
And there's nothing that can hurt me
No cross I cannot bear

I love my sweet Theresa
She means the world to me
My love for her is absolute
A love that was meant to be.
---------------------------------------------------

I LOVE YOU ANGEL

I dreamed of an Angel
A dear, sweet girl
I knew I would find her
It's not that big a world

I found her by chance I guess
Or maybe by design
But I know she is is The Promised One
I need her all the time.

I can't be happy without her
I need her in my life
She is my one true soul-mate
She is my perfect wife.

Your Forever Yours

It’s something I can’t stop
There’s no point in letting go
I think about you every single second that I know
You are touching my life
Like no one ever did before

You said the words I longed to hear
In the middle of the night
Come stay with me, no danger here
Your words so sweet and so sincere

I can’t help but want you

And all this love I have inside
Is for the one who saved my life

I just need you
Like the air that I breathe
Like a sun that lights the night
You're forever in my heart
You're forever in my life.

I SO WANT
-------------------------
I so want a day
When she is not so far away
I need to have her near
She takes away my fear

I so want to hear
Her voice from the next room
She makes me feel so happy and safe
She is the light that shines through the gloom

I so want to feel
Her body next to mine
She is so sweet and beautiful
She is everything that is fine

I so want her at my side
I so need to feel her touch
I need her love and tenderness
I need her oh so much.
-----------------------------------------
I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!

Brian

June 30 1969 - July 3 2006

Making Love To Frank O' Hara

A gin tonic burns my skin, bathes me with the pleasure of your first name. I cool myself in the white sculpture of your words, waiting to be colored. Sometimes I can be so damned literary, and you, so damned raw and quirky. When the lights go out I will disappear into a world of free will driven by the sweetness of Frost. But you don't mind. You like the incongruities of my behavior and trust that I won't die in the falsity of sentimentalism.

I could walk with you through a million exchanges of intimate yells that call me to ignore the rules, to just let go and enjoy the fuck. Anything can come when I fondle the erection of the poetry that bursts out of you. Your freedom liberates me, corrupts me with the creative act of your sex. I enter the echoes of your soul, trembling, swaying, straddling your essence.

You remove the condom between my lips and smear them with the juices of your tongue. I want to fuck you. I can handle love like this, being outside myself for awhile, floating on the brim of a lake, riding the waves of orgasm as I hear your elegies to Rachmaninoff and Schoenberg play in my head. There's a faint trace of pain in your relaxed honesty but you quickly remind me that it's simple and interesting.

Tomorrow I will pleasure you with horizontal and vertical strokes, taking you inside my mouth-completely. Tomorrow we will be New Yorkers together, drawing shallow breaths between the brick and mortar of a no nonsense city. Tomorrow I will ask you questions without waiting for you to answer. And tomorrow I will leave you for Merrill as you watch me say goodbye.

"Good girl!"

"Don't be obedient. Be excellent!"

Dragons Guard The Moon

There’s an old wives tale about a writer who buried his life story in the garden behind his southern home trusting that someday it would be unearthed and understood by a gentle soul, a chosen soul, a soul that knew the power of incantation and the ramifications of a world without balance, a soul that would leave red footprints of fire wherever she walked.

***

The scent of flowers wafted through the winds of Hartselle, Alabama and the whole town seemed to have a sleepy abandonment to it. I felt as if I was in the beautiful surreal world of traditional America but at the same time I also sensed its watchfulness. There was an uneasy feeling to the land, a sensation of unfinished business and effigies to the dead. I don't know why I felt the sudden urge to pray but I did. Maybe I wanted to penetrate Heaven, to reach in and bring him back to me. This place was his home, it was where he lived and died, where he spent hours telling me that he loved me, so my spirit would remember when he was gone. And now his words are circling around me in his absence. Was it his destiny to die when he did, like he did? Is it my destiny to spend the rest of my life grieving for him? I think maybe it was/is. Perhaps the lesson resides in our souls, in reaching what breaks us so that we can grow into stronger, more compassionate beings. Heaven has a way of pulling itself away from the decaying Earth, yet I still cannot help but believe that with the decay comes renewal.

Renewal for me came at the closing of each day, when the sky turned a deep blue, and the air was sweet with the scent of flowers. The night always added a little side-step to the routine of daily life. I sat on the front porch swing of our home watching the lizards skittering through the front yard, lifting their heads to the silvery rays of the full moon. The open road held a white mist that rose and fell against the blinking lights of the fireflies. I remembered how Brian and I would amuse ourselves on nights like this, sharing gossip about the neighbors and recalling the time we made love in Gila Khan's cave. But country roads always have blind curves, and the day Brian died was when I encountered them. It's always been surprising to me how you could be walking down a certain path and get yanked back to the point where you're left dragging through the underbelly of an unsymmetrical plane.

"Turn the page and get over it!"

I listened to the rhythms of the house and felt his presence, heard his voice, saw him standing there holding his pet tarantula Gwennie as she caressed his face with one of her appendages.

"Fuck you!" I say. "You promised to never leave me and you did."

The orphans of the night are wailing but I can't see to hold them when they cry.

There's a name somewhere, on the tip of my tongue, estranged. My body adjusts and stretches out as my head hits the pillow of soft silk. I miss you, (I think to myself) miss you, as I rock back and forth slowly suspended.

When I awoke the next morning the sun was just starting to rise over the rim of the house. My stomach was grumbling. Sometimes I can forget to eat for days. It was raining heavily and as I got up from the porch swing, a lizard darted out from the base of the steps and crossed the pathway in front of me.

"I love thunderstorms!"

"I know sweetheart, I know," I said to myself and went out back to the garden. The altar to Brigid held food and gifts that were soaked with the downpour. I took the straw image of the pagan goddess of fire in my hands and walked through the wet red earth back to the path that led to the house. Sepia tones seemed to blanket the area. I trampled through the stairs weary from gravity leaving footprints in my wake as Azaelas and Roses bloomed from Brian's diary.

La Cotorra De Eloina-(Eloina's Parrot)

After nine years of marriage, Mary knew that the holidays were not a good time to ask her husband for a favor, but she wanted to visit Eloina one last time before the New Year. When she was a little girl, the daily visits to Eloina’s Manhattan art deco apartment were always something her older sister and mother looked forward to. Mary, being a child of nine at the time, was somewhat frightened of the woman everyone referred to as ‘la bruja de la calle Arden’ –The Witch Of Arden Street.

Eloina was a robust woman with a beautiful face, and skin that was as black as coal. She came from Oriente, a little province in Cuba where Mary’s mother and father lived before the revolution, before moving to New York City. I guess this is the age where Mary became fixated on all things magic, when her memories took on their own momentum. She knew early on that what she would learn from Eloina were magnificent stories about life, death and the power of spirit, so she decided to someday write a book, even though she had no idea where to begin.

But now in her forties, all that excitement seemed so far away, so inaccessible. She was a grown woman who had to ask her husband’s permission for everything, even to take a shower. One could classify him as a brutal rendition of ‘the ultimate macho man.’ Even his facial features were sharp, well defined and scowling. He was an illogical man to the point of being highly self conscious of his obvious misgivings and when it came to Mary, he was overwhelmingly inaccurate about who she was as a person.

Mary spent the next few hours pacing around her husband, bringing him water, beer, making him lunch, dinner, all the while collectively breathing in the opulence she had once known in Eloina’s apartment. She did that often, retreating to her innermost thoughts, recollecting what once was. It helped her escape. It helped her feel safe. And after a bout of clinical depression that caused her to gain fifty pounds, it helped her lose weight. Eloina would call it meditation, but after not being allowed to see any of her family and friends for years, Mary called it survival.

Survival for her was a mere flirtation with the oddities of life, with the people and things that made her feel beautiful, with the wondrous gateways between the silent past and the stark reality of the present. When she was a child of five she had a dream about The Chicken Man of New Orleans. He laughed, kissed her hand and told her, “Love isn’t where you find it but where it finds you.” She thought she had found love with Oscar, she thought they made the perfect team. He was the cynic, who saw the world as a disaster and a disappointment; she was the optimist, who saw true love and beauty among the madness.

The moon was full the night she met Bob. How she met him isn't important, what is important is the way they immortalized their love for one another. He had skills as a writer and wrote the way he lived, with a quirky sense of vision masked by utter brillance. This is the man she saw in her dreams as a child. The one The Chicken Man of New Orleans told her about so long ago. Bob was her soul-mate.

For a little over three years she carried on the secret affair. She hated calling it an affair, because in her heart she had already divorced Oscar and married Bob. It isn't important how Oscar found out about their affair, what is important was the way Mary, for once in her life, stood up for herself and for her love. She packed her things and was ready to walk out the door. Then came the phone call.

I left out an important detail in Bob's description, he was a heavy drinker who had aquired cirrhosis of the liver as a result. And aside from that fact, he smoked a lot too. But Mary loved him as he was. I say as he was, because on that fateful day she was to walk out on Oscar, a relative of Bob's called to tell her he had passed away in his sleep.

She saw the look of shock and contentment in Oscar's face and resigned herself to the destiny that had befallen her. Of course, life with Oscar got worse after that but she eventually became comfortably numb to his raunchy intrusions and beatings. Yes, there were many of those, before and after Bob. But Mary managed to maintain her polished exterior.

The last beating she received was when she asked Oscar if they could visit Eloina's house on Christmas Eve. I refer to it as the last beating because that was the day Mary died, the day he finally went too far. As Mary lay dying she said, "Eloina, quidado que vas a matar esa pobre cotorrita!" -"Eloina be careful you're going to kill that poor little parrot!"

Eloina liked to place her caged parrot under the shower on a hot day in order to refresh it and keep it cool, which often scared Mary, for the bird didn't seem to find it at all enjoyable. And when Mary paced around Eloina's apartment, awestruck with fear at the walls covered in religious paintings-the altars, amulets, candles and gold statues to the various Gods and Goddesses, Eloina taught her that no one has any power over you except that which you give them.

My mother relinquished the power Oscar had over her with her death and with her defiance of life and social convention. I know father came for her that night. There was a beautiful full moon out. A tragic poet's full moon. A moon that lets you know you are in love and that it will last for all eternity.

Radium Kiss

We had cocktails and spoke of Moliere,
the usual round of poets and novelists
drawn to the gnashing chords of the
night's electricity.

Lost in the past we prayed and reached
for austere stars that reminded us to
sleep under the stirring blue spirits
of Bohemian Pines.

You laughed and took notes meticulously
summoning the aurora borealis into
the crimson residue of your pen's
dissolving breath.

A gypsy moon edged over a cliff and
brushed against my hair succumbing to
the sun's radium kiss, as I stretched under
you beneath the glowing distillation of time.

I watched while you signed your name in the
morning sky against the white palace of
the little cottage house where your bicycle
lay carefully placed, decorating the exterior.

But the screenwriter in me is skeptical that
the ride down the cobblestone streets
will leave me infinitely searching for the
open book you left on the table.

Love Beyond The Rules

I went back in time amidst the flowers
that crumble upon touch to understand
a minute's worth of oblivion.

Gathering clouds in the sky set off
lightning that kissed the distance
bringing rain and vapor that fused every
cell in my body.

The perpetual tempo of the battering
thunder materialized as memories of us
echoed through my system.

What kind of liaison were we that explored
love beyond the rules?

As I lay beneath your arms, predator-sleeked,
the swirling sand of the surf siphons
the protective barrier of my thighs and I feel
the median between lust and love come alive.

Moisture is all around us. Your sweat drips
between my legs, creating a salty warm stream
that serves as lubricant.

The heat of your breath suffocates my
consciousness as you slide in harder against
me, conflicted, but oh so certain that you
render my thoughts invalid.

I gaze at the hazel of your eyes shimmering
in the moonlight and I am spellbound as you
cup my voluptuous breasts feeding your
famished carmine-stroked lips with sweet agony.

I hold your rhythm as my hips lift to meet
each one of your thrusts, until your moans radiate
through my soul, until we reach the zenith
of our celestial bodies, until our sex becomes
an aberration.

No words are needed. No useless punctuation
to mark the barrenness that has been extinguished.
Instead you play with my tousled hair and revile
me for thinking you gone.

On the beach I find the etchings of a balloon
upon a filmy rock. And I wonder where its creator
went. Me, this simple woman, alone in the storm,
owner of oblivion.

The Memory Castle

My body is a memory castle
where dormant handprints mark
an eclipse of rising waves
that fondle pink breasts with
the detail you crave.

Our white breath in the dark
rustling through the rough-dangle of
our arms embrace hushed by the slow
disintegration of sunlight couched over
twilight, incites tranquility.

I am the smallest particle of matter
sea shelled in the rhythmic meter of your
universe, condemned to drown in the
celestial monastery built around the torture
of reckless abandon.

You pinch at the thumbprints and rake through
soft thighs inflicting a whimsy of sweet milk
that subsides as you procure your pleasure
from the inviolable flower, unfolding. Our spirits
earn this place, all love travels through time.

My body now pares and permeates with the
moon-burned splendor of your sweat as I view
the art of your lurking soul, visible
in the currents of water that move with slow stride,
warm, with deep motion.

Funeral At The Louisiana Bayou

Their cries were blistered with desperation
as they passed through the gates of hell
smoky with acid rain and malevolent spirits
filled with disdain.

Gratitude's heaped high against a requiem of
silk robes and myrrh incense where personages
of flesh and bone couldn't hear the prayers of the
children whose tongues had stopped with time.

Night-blooming cereus blessed the funeral deep
in the Louisiana Bayou, blanketing the moonlight
on the river with unfathomable appeal while
transition shredded skin into crumpled up millennia.

We knew them. We felt the previous currents of their
submicroscopic energy reverberate with precise
sweetness over the electric lick of photons
that seared through the twisted core of green fields.

We experienced the fear of the craven as they turned
and ran, their faces flushed beneath the whiteness
of the moment, when the ashes of the dead were unearthed
and scattered in water rituals under a pagan's embrace.

Jettisoning waves canvas the boats smeared
charcoal against a blood red sky, while
birds sing through leafy encounters of bestial beauty.

I track and plow starved
for the sake of my soul, as darkness opens into light
with the memory of you.

The imagination of children is a wondrous thing

On Aether's Favorite Horse

They frolic eight thousand feet above air
sailing the east winds on the back of Aether's
favorite horse.

Whizzing over plains to foothills, they dance
through a breeze whispered by the sea above
the devotions of silver waters.

Coolness turns its path into a shadow where
a gull hovers over pastoral tranquility stained
like flecks of paper, under water, under sky.

Tonight they will traipse the moon with impish
bare feet, haunted by the whiff and tang of fresh
rosemary.

They will smear the phosphor runways and bubble
their way through covens of puckered-up lupine,
waiting to be kissed.

Scents of complex music, jiggle and chink as they
navigate through flattened earth and chain-link
fences leaving trails of yellow feet stained with
dandelion-smudge.

Together they will land back at the picnic grounds
where their imagination once took flight under the
minarets of the iron-oxidized sun.

Together they will eat chicken and tally the bones
as marshmallow trickles down from their lips. And
as the children that they are, they will remember that
the same loneliness that closes our hearts, opens us
again.

Small Poems

Love Eternal

The crystallized
love of our home
is reflected
in the lamplight
of its windows.

Embrace

Click of buttons.
Black slip.
Warm embrace.
Surface to skin...

Crescent moon,
Across oceans.

Discovery

Swift lightning.
Rushing earth
under our legs.
Words carried
by waves...

Flesh becomes spirit.

Mourning

I call you from your sleep.
Your beautiful voice
distinct in the darkness,
answers.

Widowed

Here I sit, alone,
typing out poems,
thinking of you smiling...

Missing you always.

El Gallito (The Rooster)

Simon, bajate de ese campanario antes de que mates a alguien!

Life was pretty easy in Cuba before the revolutionaries took over. Every afternoon Simon Del Valle, the local Roman Catholic Priest, would get drunk on communion wine and climb up on the church bell tower with rifle in hand, taking pot shots at anything that moved in his vicinity often revealing all the secrets told to him in the sanctity of confession. And every afternoon Lucio his brother, who was the local Babalawo, called out to him, avoiding the flying bullets, begging him to come down from the bell tower before he killed someone! You could set your watch to Simon's responses. He would continue shooting, ringing the bell and yelling back at his brother that he was a demon sent by the devil himself to corrupt his pure soul.

Grand pap would sit in his rickety rocking chair outside Dad's store named El Gallito (The Rooster), with a cup of espresso in hand, laughing and smoking his Cuban cigars. The smell of coffee and tobacco permeated through the surrounding area and I remembered thinking that someday this scenario would stay forever registered in my mind. My father would often stand by Grand pap on a slow day, which was most of the time, to watch the events unfold.

"He just called Sra. Adeliada a prostitute, says she's sleeping with Jose Martinez." Grand pap would tell Dad as he smiled big exposing some gold teeth before taking another drag of his cigar.

Dad would just stand there and smile, keeping Grand pap company before he scolded Simon down from the bell tower. Simon always listened to my dad, when he didn't fall asleep up there after exhausting himself with threats and gunfire. My dad was one of those iconic type figures everyone looked up to, straight laced and decent, and with a genuine caring for each one of the town's people. He was known to all as Luicito and often many would come in and ask for monetary help and my father would happily comply. He purchased a huge house in El Vedado for his childhood friend Miguel Angel, and Mom was always kept in movie star style both in clothes and in store credits. She used to frequent the biggest department stores often requesting that all her purchases be delivered to her home. The workers at El Encanto more than graciously accommodated her for all she had to do was mention she was "Luicito's" wife.

Old Cuba at sunset brought with it pachangas at Auntie Sofia's house. Conga and merengue rhythms, strung up chili peppers that lit up door frames, darkened rooms, Cuban cigars, cafe con leche, meat patties, Coca-Cola, sandwiches made from deviled ham mixed with cream cheese, and even some gambling on the side. Everyone always had a wonderful time and bonds of close friendships were established, never to be broken. Even Simon would dance and be somewhat civil at Auntie's Sofia's. The highlight of the evening was when the American tourists arrived, and Lucio gave them a tarot card and spiritual reading, warning them about each other giving each one signs of betrayals, gossip, often pretending the spirit of Elegua had entered his body. The blue haired Americans, as he often referred to them, would turn on each other with each one of his revelations and when the arguments got heated enough Lucio would pretend to faint as the others ushered the unsuspecting Americans out of the home, with tons of their money in hand.

They say that a vulture of silence will eat away at your gut. When Grand pap and Daddy came to the United States, Cuba was never again uttered in the new household. Auntie Sofia stayed behind, as did Miguel Angel, Lucio and Simon. We never saw them again, yet sometimes when I close my eyes, I'm there. I'm at daddy's store, watching Simon on his bell tower, I'm at Auntie's Sofia's dancing and eating surrounded by love and feeling oh so safe and protected. I once asked dad why he kept so silent about the past.

"You're turning your back on reality, " I said.

"You think I've turned my back on reality? It's the times that have changed my Teresita and we must look forward with clear conscience, " he replied.

Times changed. The espresso has been Americanized to a mellower blend, Cuban cigars have been banned, and I want to remember.

I want to talk about it and remember, I want to write about it and remember, when Grand pap and Dad were still alive in the country they loved and that loved them back.

Times changed, and I have a clear conscience.

A Tale Of Exile

A loving tribute to Alicia Alonso

The dawn was just breaking in the sky when the parade reached the Ballet Nacional de Cuba. The austerity of the place hit me like a cold wind. It was majestic, clean and in perfect order, but on it was the zeal of the revolution. I studied in that hall with its lofty vaulted roof and its panelled walls when it was Havana's Gran Teatro under choreographer and prima ballerina Alicia Alonso. She was an impressive looking woman with pale complexion, dark eyes, and fine strong features. Her black hair was short, curly with a few wispy bangs that hung down over her forehead. She knew her music intimately and when she danced she became the metronome behind the melody that stretched muscles and stripped thought, suspended in beautiful contortions of frozen acrobatics. There were days of ecstasy and fear under her direction.

"Why did you become a dancer?" she once asked me.

"I take pleasure from my audience, Maestra." I replied.

"We are not put on earth to take pleasure."

I received a stern look and had to hold an arabesque pose for what seemed like several hours. My body sweated and burned. I closed my eyes as the stillness took over and the smell of the ocean breeze from the open window counterbalanced my own body odor. It was like being caught in a liberating dream where I was rising higher and higher above the white capped waves until mind and body were calm and quite clear. I opened my eyes and smiled at her, she smiled back, one breath heavier than the rest, in a carefree reception of celebration.

It's funny how the soul keeps the heart, mind and spirit in suspension even when destiny pulls them apart. Over thirty years have passed since I defected while on tour in Paris. The Cuban national anthem plays and I now stand on the same spot where I had stood on the day of my arrival to the theater as a young dancer. The scene becomes surreal among a spray of Cuban emblems and flags. Alicia surfaces. She can hardly move or see. The crowd cheers crying out her name with joy. And I, her once beloved student, find her even more beautiful than ever before. It is true the years have passed and we can no longer dance in our old age, but our bodies still shape and form the curving shoreline of Cuba's golden beaches embalming the moonlight with nostalgia, reminding us that we do not drown, but rise from our histories.

Homage To Azrael, The Angel Of Death

Warm was the nightingale in boasting intimacy;
Black was the sky, carcased in a tomb amid the
graves of spiry buildings dwarfed by circumjacent
lands.

Mindful of his dread command, vindicated, un adieu'd
Azrael engrailed in a pitiless wire of reflective
beams snatched from Hell, blasts through the Eternal
night.

On his tempest four thousand wings, four faces pen
whatever Fate records as harmonies ricochet, leaving
no intimate word or personal trace behind ail-stricken
mankind.

Flesh perishes, the hour itself ruled from birth time,
Linen sheets are spread down draped around white
beginnings so small, self wrapped beyond Earth's bounds,
silent.

Flocks and herds chilled numb with consuming fear,
lipped through rhymes of psalms, what doest thou here?
Shivering footsteps follow his melodic tune; human orbits,
pilgrimage.

All musick breathes its last, all magick is an enraptured soul,
and the heart holds sweet remembrances, a prophetic song, as
Azrael's oracle beats, holding your life's blood at His
call.

I Love You

For you Brian. My only love.

There are voices we hear,
memories the moon undresses
returning us to cerulean
aluminum nights.

We've retold the stories
of our lives
and tasted the metal
while bathing
in the blue grandeur
of torrent starlights
that soaked our senses
and saluted our loins.

We've been seized
by the fires!
Seized by the flames!
We've been gilded
by the sweet maelstrom
of one another's sweat.
If love is born
by the tender lips
of Orion's naked storms
then my dearest,
I love you.

Into the celestial air
I go.
Into the purple mists
of our arms embrace
I go.
The white heroine
of your darkness,
I become.
Somewhere between
meteors and moonstones.
Somewhere between
wife and widow.

Urban Voodoo and Santeria...

Blood Sacrifice

Yellow flowers charge with the sweet
edge of dark skin over white
hands casting shadows in sacred
transmissions to the beat of the thrums
on distant drums.

A nighthawk spans the skies and is melted
down to earth free of feathers and scales;
lungs and gills offered up as sacrifice
with warm blood. Iba Orisa iba la de o,
ase mojuba.

Cold rain crystallizes their breath
as they chant and shriek the incantations
of the loa from an ancient book
of sea folded paper once buried in a twist
of salted foam and wet sand.

The botanica in Washington Heights
holds the bare feet of the faithful
on humid linoleum, while over the city
a purple fog hangs rippled with the breaking
of intermittent sunlight.

Succubus....They Fall

She can bring them into play, with a touch
she says
should they like to believe it is all true.
From the stars that shone out in the sky,
those days
to the solid earth ground beneath their feet.
But dreams and shadows hide the real world
from their eyes
and splendid visions of orchids that flush the cheek
are mere visions after all.
So as if by chance
they drink from phials
precious elixirs, virulent poisons of necessity
and with illusion and perfectly erroneous
natural interpretation

They Fall
They Fall
They Fall

They bend forward to catch a kiss
from the Dark Angel dressed in black
bluish hue at her fingertips
gloss
disconsolate and melancholy stares.
Black pendants rattle
against treacherous and wicked dealings.
Hissing whispers rise and fall
among penetrated rampart after rampart
of harsh shrieks and laughter,
unpleasant contemplations,
as darknesses' cool breeze sets upon them
seasawing with pleasurable sighs.
Without reproach and painful mending

They Fall
They Fall
They Fall

Incongruous medley of cosmic songs
jostle one another in short compass
under a single window.
Red bricks grimed to black
forcing souls of men to wither and die
as their bodies decompose slowly
under an exquisite symbol.
Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken,
cannot be imagined
except amidst a quaint, poetic fantasy
to some foolish folklorish tale.

Haitian Voodoo...

The Salty Skeleton

A hand forged pony shoe digs out of the ground on an old logging trail in the woods of Decatur, Alabama. A black man and a white woman dance horizontally among arrant spices of herb bushes and scented vines, setting a small part of the pantomime. They are oblivious to the shrouded figures heading their way. Ten men wear the breeches of white masks. The patriarch of the group grabs the woman. She looks up and catches her breath. He takes out a hunting knife, cuts at her eyes and slices at her mouth while calling her a nigger lover. The laughter of evil is heard through the fierce recanting screams between the sobs. Each take their turn beating, spitting, cutting, penetrating her more deeply than any words. The leaves are shaken as sun bleached stones are heard hitting the black man's flesh with fatal magnitude. Blood flows over the edges of earth into the crevices of leaves. Silence lies on silence.

***

Elsa May Smith sucks on some sweet berries that have ripened in the wilderness. Her lilac perfume hangs in the ecstatic air, a paranormal souvenir of her daily visits. The battering of voodoo drums is heard from the nearby house as the day creeps down into night. Blood crosses smear the trunks of trees and a hen-cock crows.
"The spirits live as you live." Clothed from head to toe in white apparel Mamma Della emerges with cigar in hand. A barking dog at her side also announces its presence. Elsa May exhibits a bold grin on her face. " I brought you something, child." Mamma Della makes a motion with her wrist turning the object in her hand three times counter clockwise as she inhales and exhales manic puffs of smoke from her cigar. The mutt lays down quietly by her side. "This belonged to my grandmother who passed it down to me and now it's yours, three times blessed." Elsa May holds the pendant in her hands. " It's so beautiful!" Mamma Della licks her fingers and puts out the cigar. "It's made of Dendritic Quartz. It will bring the energy of the stars into your soul, heal you when you are sick, and heighten your consciousness. It will protect you from all harm. Take it child! Wear it too." Elsa May graciously accepts. Mamma Della holds Elsa May's face in her hands that show all too well her fifty years on this Earth. "Words that come out of us like words from within tie us to those we love, forever."

They begin to walk. A storm is brewing through the crying of winds, which has the mutt spooked. He takes off in a sprint ahead of them. Mamma Della laughs and looks up at the sky, "The physical world is meaningless tonight." As they approach Mamma Della's house, music from a radio plays. An old woman sits on a porch swing, the tiny sized radio at her side. She fiddles with the tuning and antenna feeling her way with her fingers. Deep scars are displayed across her face, eyes and mouth. "How is your mother doing?" Elsa May asks. Mamma Della sighs as she looks at the aged woman on the porch swing. "Dying of diabetes, dear one."

The interior corridor of the house holds a representation of Baron Samedi-The Loa of the Dead. He is wearing a top hat, black coat tails, sunglasses, and is smoking a cigar. An altar is erected in his honor with various candles, symbols, colorful beads, bells, samhain oil, and rum. Mamma Della's son, Marcos plays the voodoo drums. Elsa May gives him a knowing nod and Marcos responds with a flirtatious smile, still tapping the rhythm out on the drum.
"How far along are you?" A raspy almost unintelligible voice from behind them surfaces. It is Mamma Della's mother. Elsa May turns around and puts her hands on her stomach. "Three months." She looks back at Marcos who is in a trance still tapping on the drum. Mamma Della turns to Elsa May. "Are you ready to do this, child?" Elsa May agrees and with that they walk up the spiral staircase into a scrying room. The room is painted completely black and is empty except for a chair carefully placed in front of a large oval mirror. Mamma Della instructs Elsa May to sit. "Clear your mind and your heart, be open to the forces that will guide you." Mamma Della's mother brings an herbal drink and hands it to Elsa May. "Drink now." She says. Elsa May drinks and starts to feel her head spinning. She is nauseous. Trying to keep herself from passing out she focuses her eyes on the mirror. She dreams a little and feels the dark. Images start to appear in the mirror, and then voices. Like a film playing.

A black man and a white woman dance horizontally among arrant spices of herb bushes and scented vines.... "Nigger lover!" Elsa May's eyes widen and she whispers "Grandfather? No!" A white woman is being violently assaulted. A black man is tied to a tree. "If we let this nigger go, it won't be safe for your mother, wife, or sweetheart to walk down the streets of the South!" Each of the men take their turn stoning the black man to death. "I can't see his body." Elsa May says. "The body is no body to be seen." Mamma Della responds. "It is from the Earth he came and it is the Earth that will fate him back to us by the power of Ghede. My love, my husband." Mamma Della's mother says. Elsa May stands not noticing Marcos in the doorway, the sounds of the voodoo drums, silent. "Reincarnation. His! How is that possible?" Elsa May asks. Mamma Della moves in close to Elsa May, and places her hand on the girl's stomach. Marcos grins as Elsa May looks on in horror. The bareness of the house is filled with the breeding and bearing birth of harmony. And retribution.

On Hiv, Aids, Life and Death...

White Horses

The blue stained glass windows dimmed the moon making an eerie cross pattern on the floor. From nods to winks the faithful came to pay their respects obeying the call among lavish saints painted on emblazoned glass, a stintless attempt at glorifying the Lord. My mother responded in kind to their cares, griefs and guile but I found no burning faith among the enkindled crowd or the votive candles. The dark casket that held my father reflected a solitary light that seemed to dangle in mockery. I knew he was going to die. I knew it when I walked through the hygienic corridors of the hospital. I could smell it; death. No amount of good deeds or prayer-induced ravaged knees bent on church aisles would change the fact that death haunted those halls far and near. Phantom smells lingered; a mixture of medications, disinfectants, alcohol, iodine, perfume, blood and food. I saw him there in gaunt gardens, alone, eaten away by cancer and deep pain. I experienced his likeness each and every day for many years until he moved me not at all; but the heart like those walls retains the tale telling tears of time, like a picture, like a spell...

The new Surgical and Pregnancy wing of the hospital opened today while I was in Julian's room spoon feeding him like his mother once did. He had already left a good part of this world and could scarcely speak but his sense of humor was still sharp. "I'll have a martini straight up, very cold, and stirred to perfection, " he said. We could hear the festivities taking place as we both struggled to find comforting words for one another. He had neither appetite nor taste for even his favorite things and it was difficult for him to keep a bowl of chicken broth down without vomiting. I tried to make this night a positive night because I knew it was the last time I would ever see Julian alive again. There was a certain smell in his room that was never present before. It was the same smell that rose from my father's body right before he died. A wintergreen alcohol and licorice smell against layers of dry, dying epidermis. I spoke to him about James while I was bathing him in bed. James was Julian's life partner and true soul mate. We all met back in college while boarding at Fordham University. I was looking for my room when I walked in on Julian and James. They were naked in bed together and Julian was giving James a massage with his favorite chocolate mint Kama Sutra oil. I remember the flow of his hands as he smoothed the oil on to James' body with such beautiful tenderness. Now I'm frightened. Frightened to talk about James knowing the same fate awaits Julian. But Julian loves to be reminded of James and the times we all shared together. "I felt so alive beneath the warmth of his breath. His beautiful eyes made me think about anything but death, " he says. "I don't mean to make you cry. Do you remember the time you wore those gaudy silver glittered shoes to Tavern On The Green?" he asks. I remembered. It was the day we found out that James was HIV positive. A waltz was playing in the background and Julian and I held eachother listening to violins while slow dancing, saying good-bye to the blue afternoon.

I have a secret: before James died I went to church, got down on my knees and prayed a chaplet to Saint Michael The Archangel begging him to spare James'life. It was then that I saw this angelic figure floating down over me, shimmering in the light. It was a familiar figure. I had seen it before in my youth when it was time to say good-bye to my father. There was a faint breeze, a cool innerness that wedged itself into my very soul and I realized that tomorrow is a gift and the people we love are everywhere, even the ones who have passed on. You can touch them, call upon them, they are not lost. I lay on Julian's bed now recalling the amazing afternoon of angelic light falling among prayers, burned candles and incense. He's in pain again. This time more intense than ever before. He manages to ask me if I have written any new poetry lately. I don't have the courage to tell him that I can't put the words together. That my heart is heavy with sadness. He always thought of me as being such a tough bitch. "Nothing ever gets to you, " he would tell me. It was a facade I was trying to uphold for his sake, for his inner strength. I tell him I've become bored with writing poetry, it's just not enough of a challenge anymore. I take out his favorite book of verse by Rudyard Kipling open to page 143 and start to read White Horses. He loved this one particular passage and through the gasps of sheer pain he recites it with me...

Trust ye the curdled hollows-
Trust ye the neighing wind-
Trust ye the moaning groundswell-
Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman's armies-
To chill and snap his sword-
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
The Horses of the Lord!

Saying I love you has never come easy for me but I took a deep breath as he took his last and I did it.

Walking home I couldn't help but fall in love with the full moon over the evening sky. A deep orange washed with the blue and I was reminded just how fragile it all can be. How much relationships mean and how connected we all really are.

That night the winds rose up and ranged blowing dead leaves into my bedroom through an open window. One leaf touched my hand and I thought...life's tending, it's ending once again.

Silence

Walk with me through fields
of shining flowers
where deep orchards withhold
their softest
breathing.

Quicken your heart and lose
your vision
divination's imminent oncomings
radiate symbols
of another sphere.

Gaze upon water-pools serene
and clear
that gleam under leaves
in an August moonlight,
unknown world to a changed life.

Listen, sigh, and mourn
at the silence
on what shone behind
as hope dwindles dim,
desperately driven.

Awake!
Feel your way through the darkness,
while tides wash ashore
with fleeting love, renewal
and indifference.

The Gift

A wind-dropped snowflake
on my face, marks the moment
Heaven spared your life.

Quetzalcoatl's Song

Once he spoke the language of flowers
where white maundering clouds
fleeted across the moon, high in the Heavens.

A Mazatec Indian
in the mountain range of the Sierra Mazateca
disappears in the darkness
as light comes and goes
by intervals.

Between blank walls
to regions unknown
a Shaman grumbles and expostulates
visionary insights into obscurities,
mysteries,
perplexities of existence,
amusing phrases
of mushroom drunkenness.

Crossed legged on the floor
close to the fire
breathing the incense
of pressed flowers,
and ages old traditions;
he speaks in the night
of chirping crickets
who join the crying
of each falling, dying
flake of snow.

Transformation...

The legend of Quetzalcoatl
aflames the blue of far skies,
where fountains of fire rise up
fall
and rise again
with sparks like stars for drops,
as the passing wheel of time
brings disconnected flowers
among chirping crickets
and blood red moons.

A witch ball is a hollow sphere of plain or stained glass hung in cottage windows in 18th century England to ward off evil spirits, witch's spells or ill fortune.

It can also be used as an oracle between the worlds.

Intertwining of two lives, one in this world, the other now in the spiritual realm. Looking into the dark, we continue to connect...

Witch Balls

Melancholy figures dance
on ghostly colored glass
wrinkled in water,
a likeness bursts
into memory.

My heart, Your heart.
In my hands, On your hands,
all that we've lost,
all that we've touched,
strange reality
that is this flesh,
so many parts
to our existence.

All we've been continues,
filling the air
with ozone and orgone,
shifting
with millennial dreams.

Time moves
fighting the distance,
indigestible,
choking,
soaring,
independant,
searching the night.

Dark Magnetic beauty,
love's immortal contest,
opposite forces breathe
interminable desolation,
alone,
in irreparable
stillness.

So come the winds,
the spirit's glare,
the space neons
in the darkened sky.

The sins of the past
dissolve into you,
imperfect,
with the promise
of becoming whole.

I will fix myself
a bourbon
and commence to stare
into the mirrored room
of this consciousness,

I want to be alone
in your mystery.

Drawing Down the Moon refers to a Wiccan Ritual wherein the Goddess of the Moon is invoked into a Priestess, who then becomes the embodiement of the Goddess.

Moon Goddess

In the haze of a dream
thoughts seem to move
with the cries of those
who hurried forward
drawn in by a magickal
spell.

The union, the sublimation
of our innate mysteries
flourishes
accumulating for some
centuries, not to be cleared
away in an instant.

Far-Off West
where the breath of winds
is an incantation, in the dusk
beneath whispering trees,
secret woods, valley’s shut in
by high hills, the sound of pouring
water echoes from a clear brook.

Sacred Nights.
White Moon Rising.
Awakenings!
Heard is the strange cry of a bird
as it rises from its nest among
the reeds.
The time of transmutation has come.

Blue, White, Orange, flames flicker.
Beneath the darkness, mists
and shadows kindle scents of bay,
sandalwood, frankincense.
Magical tones surging and falling,
unearthly modulations
greet
My Lady and My Lord.

Amazing circles casting
rounds within rounds
beneath the patronage of evening
stars heard rushing through air.
Enchanters
fantastically arrayed, perform
their interlude.
Workers of great and efficient spells
by secret word and mystic dance,
whirl away unending mazes, opening
portals, calling on the dead ones
who still live among us.

Spirit, Mother Of The Moon
Goddess Of The Night,
Queen of the people who danced
on Midsummer Nights,
out came the clay men.
As I lay among them, She whispered
to me.

She was whiter
than the White Moon Rising,
taller
than the highest mountain
and her eyes shone in the dark
like burning rubies.
She told me of my promised love
and secrets that could destroy young
men;
curses for the night,
blessings for the day.
Then she stretched out her arms
and sang to me.

Great serpents came hissing
gliding in among the trees
shooting out forked tongues.
They all came to her
covering her body whole,
and she whispered and sang to them
as they writhed round and round.

The ravages of time obliterate
and I bent down in a hollow place
underneath the little wax doll
of my one true love
Held High
Held Low
laid down by My Lady.
She poured red wine into a bowl
as images bore it softly
on the scrying surface.

True Power
True Magic
resides within the heart of the witch.
Drawing Down The Moon, knowledge
is imparted.
The illumination is complete.
Divine and Sacred body filled me with
white light.
Blessed Be The Lady!
Blessed Be the Lord!
Chaos in nature
and intricate dualistic fury
reborn into spirit.

The roar of a Stone King worshipping Mother who is Earth-----the celebratory dance of Her other elementals all around Him-----He is shown the respect of the Gods, as karmic balance is brought to the imbalances manifested on this planet by man ...

Krakatoa

Transient colors fling
amid a circle of unfolding
insect-wings, pacing
under the silent insomnia
of luminous stars.

Dipping waves of rings
aerial whispers of purple
spins, sink
into ever-mingling dyes
of purest play.

Transformed cones of speckled
white, pumice falls by sacred
rite,
as mystic creatures
maze and guide the way.

Dancing fires celestials know
a watchful sprite salutes
and shows,
the varying vanities
that hang in bluish air.

A wise man's passion,
a vain man's tale,
a sylph that warns the pitying
audience
the threats of fate;

while Themis suspends her golden
scales, weighing the wits of men,
directing pungent grains
of ash and dust
with angst and hate.

Night Chant was a Navajo ceremonial chant used as a blessing to protect those going into battle. It is now performed as a special ceremony for those who are ill.The ceremony is extremely private;only the immediate family can experience this chant. In honor of the power of Yeibechai I have written this poem, a new arrangement of the Night Chant.

Yeibechai (Night Chant)

She met her shadow in the darkening shade.
She heard her echo weeping through trees.
Death moves in circles through her old bones,
She is a martyr to motion not her own.

He ya we ya we ya o;he ya we ya o;he ya we ya o.
He we ya we ya o.

She walks the white sands where little swellings
appear, filtering the grains upon her hands, a fistful
tracing of a portal held in flesh is not immortal.

He ya we ya we ya o;he ya we ya o;he ya we ya o.
He we ya we ya o.

A cymbal crashes through witching cords. Sound in spirit
inhabits all. Their chant shall be a chant of death,
passed to the dim of tuneless breath.

He ya we ya we ya o;he ya we ya o;he ya we ya o.
He we ya we ya o.

Indulge no more in thymy air the thoroughfares of
the hummingbirds won't find her there. O sweet tomorrow
after today let the pure sage burn and show her the way.

He ya we ya we ya o;he ya we ya o;he ya we ya o.
He we ya we ya o.

She met her shadow in the darkening shade.
She heard her echo weeping through trees.
Death moves in circles through her old bones,
She is a martyr to motion not her own.

He ya we ya we ya o;he ya we ya o;he ya we ya o.
He we ya we ya o.

A victim of child abuse/murder gets a voice...

The Child You Could Have Been

Candy stripes of yellow and white,
hand painted on curved walls,
ionized by calcium light.
Thunder shook, lightning cracked
'midst phenomenal rotating winds.

A French window wide open,
distilling the night with breaths
of quickening air as a little boy
in a bed meditated over matters
his small lips could not express.

Summoning a dream into his eyes,
he walked on the lonely moon
while a sweet scent of bubble gum
placidly refreshed his helmet visor.

Between white painted porch railings,
full lilac branches, pink roses bloomed
as a screen door swung unlatched.

I see the child you were...
lincoln logs kept discoveries,
rock'em sock'em robots masked frustration;
twelve licorice pipes beyond seas
of a brilliant imagination.

I see the child you were
as the painter that I am,
framed in sweet dusk of night,
betrayed by the world.
A beautiful dreamer crashing to the floor.

As darkness advanced
you sped off on a cloud.
A dancer with wings,
inner mischief lit by an escorting star.
Free spirit your soul has flown,
you've chosen your domicile.

In Heaven's time are there
woods made of pine?
Do voices sing, tap tambourines?
Do your gypsy eyes still hide
behind the flight of fireflies?

A farewell kiss carries wounds
of a reckless bird, unspoken.
I see the child you could've been
as blood runs in rivulets down
candy stripes of yellow and white,
hand painted on curved walls.

Existentialism and the search for identity.

Naked Swimmers

I am the undertow that shapes sand dunes flittering purple and silently piled high against a New York City skyline and I dance with the soft silver of the full moon.

I spot the hills when dusk has fallen and give scent to white hydrangeas that rest in the damp and the dew where prayers of the faithful touch on dreams.

I am born of wisdom. I feed off the granite sands of the earth, deaf to the monotone taps of beautiful rain. And warm in its sun.

I strike without the blur of contemplation in massive chaos twisting the bodies of naked swimmers, sunny with freckled faces.

I am a mouthful of teeth that glisten while they shudder, as my soft under neck invades their lungs with water, scum and dreg splattering the sea crimson.

I shimmer randomly with phantoms of flesh and bone flung from the past and burned in unspoken ritual, ashes scattered to the four winds.

The flow of the water clears me of pollution; refuse of humanity. Listen to my labor- I am not alone in pain and practice.

The earth moves and they plunge, struggling in a drowning pool where the whirling masses of water and air define the vortex.

Think of nothing. I am the sign of it.

When you lose Faith, you lose yourself.

Old Souls And Angels

Today I stood outside myself like a sparrow alone and astray, lending an ear to your pleading voice lovingly calling me to pray.

Inside myself I felt the comfort of the dawning light of night, like an owl in the desert watching, waiting, not a soul's come into sight.

Beyond myself I saw a garland of roses pillowing upon an unslumbering sea, as the wind replied with dips and rise, crying, What's left of you and me?

I waited like a little child in a bold self-centered place,
as time flew by void of a miracle worthy of God's special Grace.

I went through the course of love's fresh-found sensations
and played with the visioning powers of philosophical divination.

I burned bridges and felt no distress when in lone times
shoots of misery caused me to commit sins of the flesh.

I stopped myself from hoping what I had hoped for before
and saw old souls and angels fly passed me amid a huge sea wall.

I took a chance without myself and sought false intellect,
among a feeble crowd of men their words I did select.

I grew accustomed to standing meek-eyed at the musical sounds of birds, and from there I withdrew from the sweet tasting dew of a whimsical angel's laughter.

Much riper in years I cry the solemn tears of what make men
a transparency. It's the unworthy feeling of being freely given, any special fate.

Time has touched this girl ghost with misconceptions and horror shows, yet I plant the seeds and feed them with love
in the hopes we all shall grow.

The sun now shines upon me, I am here and you are there. As I withdraw within myself again, my soul alone and bare.

There once was mighty passion that burned tall, high and free,
but doubt and love's long suffering left nothing of you and me.

Ice Sculpture

Oral Sex Anyone?

Chisel me in continuity where peculiar circumstances
ornate
the thirst for novelty.

Guide me imperiously, to direct opposition
venturing me free of theories
and opinion.

Lick me with futile controversy
give offense by opposing
the taste of others.

Color wheel me with quiet
incarnation ,
as my adversaries brand me
dull, and vapid.

Smoothe and tranquil the scene
with lusty aggressiveness
of sincere hands,
taming the sleepy serpentine
against the clump.

Extract pleasure from variety
and contrast,
reading me with intricacy
between uniformity and confusion.

Let me melt away
pleased with succession
and incontinuity,
where every drop offers drink
to the destruction
of the unity of the composition.

A story/poem of the birth and abduction of the Goddess Persephone. Some theorize that this story is Minoan in origins. Life, death and fertility are the main messages of this haunting myth.

Greek Mythology Anyone?

An Offering For Hades

Deep in the labouring night
a newborn's cries outbreathes
its air.
She was born of quenched love
vanquished in a storm, upon a surly
shore of a half-dead crew,
in wild October
when the wind raged round the Black-Sea.

It is said the moon reached out,
extracting the child from her mother's
womb
while bewitching reels of light
blessed her with the power of Zeus
and Demeter.
By fate's decree her mortal mother
bid life a fond farewell, sickened
with regret, freed from rumor's tongue,
her honor saved.

Phantoms wander round the shapeless sands,
dwindling in dust by the rot and rust
that time hath rendered.
Laughing in a brook treading a lonely stare
little maiden plays with whimsical nyaids,
splashing among lilies in quiet streams;
a child's psyche gifted with glorious dreams.

Her cinder-gray haired guardian watches
as blankness looms between curtains of raindrops,
splashing euphorically out of the tumbling
rhythmic swings of purple spins
that dance across Earth and Heaven;
the visioning powers of a child's soul
piercing the material screen.

In the stillness of sleep
when the twitching chimes of a day's time
have played out, figures danced in her mind
with sight
fashioned forth with the delight
of a warm eternal fire that burns
where lifeless things abide.
His whirling wheels of flames
refurbished memories of the insidious
aches of learned love and learned shame
opening a gateway that betook her.

Waves crash against an Olympian stone
surging, swaying, swelling, sinking
beyond seas that nobody else
dreamed of lest her nightmare should fade
into blind drifts of vapors cast by
Empedocles's spell.
So tells the tale of a Goddess newly
arisen as legend's moments fell thereon a gliding
leaf; a tale half told, a scheme laid out
of banality and the manifold temptations
of immortal beings bearing Persephone's
sad response to Hades selfish grief.

"It is only those who have never known love, who think they do not need
it...And it is only the foolish among us, who think they can survive without
it." -Brian

In loving memory of Brian June 30, 1969 - July 3, 2006

Quick Death Take Me!

I

In the solitude of the sea
white winds bid a warm depart,
the desperate flapping of wings
fervid with zeal, compelling air
with power, intimidating ordinary
men raw, snatched one last gust
with breathless abandon;winged-clipt
sea gull, silent seasons steal the moon
in the casement of Orion's glittering
form.I loved you well, where you once
dwelt tender upon our journey, your
forever yours, my forever mine, all
that our souls contain.

II

In those last days, you were the poet
the romantic chanticleer who brought
down for me a waning, brilliant orange
sun that shone away social thirst I once
had felt from earliest days, evaporating
my fear indicating "There is no danger here."
I followed your glance
so tender and dear, taking my chances with ease.
A promise of love slipped from tethered wanting
to a sea of joy and fulfillment.
Together we hovered along prolonging
a moment in history,
praying time would simply make it stop for us.

III

But Time's enchantments ceased and through a
gateway She betook you.To hell with blasphemy!
Why would thou give the gift of life and love
only to take it away?!
Cruelty is thy name!
Time is thirty seven, his rocky domain!
I stand here in the rain
smite upon Her Runic Stone, at a lonely cross
where bye-roads meet
red faced with anger among a multitude of headstone
grass, facing the tidings that hath slain the day
and praying with persistance and sorrow
to have quick death take me!