Accuracy of your acrostic arrows,
Ride the wind with utmost ease.
Claiming each bulleye with poetic precision,
Hands steady, unswayed by the errant breeze.
Endowed with talent, unsurpassed finesse,
R**egarded by peers as the wise-worded wiz.

Consciousness,
mindfulness,
philosophical enlightenment -
Live for the **** of it.
Camus was right to breathe in spite of the tide of crushing emptiness.
The boulder gets heavy,
the bones grow weary,
the mountain is steep and we are steeped in irony.
For life can be deadly and death's rows of gravestones mark homes for freed slaves,
their crossed arms hiding scars
left by the teeth of nihilistic grief beatings and
surgery scalpels set to carve by
frequent false
alarms.

Sisyphus took but one break,
to hear the chains rattled from the gates,
hellish obsidian, vermilion flames licking lumps of silica grains
mixed with ash and a black tar splash.

And Orpheus sighed on the lyre and brought tears to the eyes of the most vile,
while Sisyphus
paused -
not long,
but a lifetime for those still free to subside
to dust, from blood and guts,
when their time arrives.

The trials of life,
the striving rites and lavish gifts of light to defy
the black and empty dusk still fail.
Eurydice grows pale as Orpheus turns to see her cheeks
losing every trace of peach hue,
eyes emptying,
lungs leaking their
last gale.

Struggling again, Sisyphus is sent
tumbling down the face of the great mountain,
grabbing gravel and sand and gashing gaps in his hard leather hands.
Bleeding ash,
not blood,
hot red mud dripping from the thick lacerations,
mixing with the sickening avalanche of wasted effort and waylaid plans.
Repeating the climb up the steep peak,
bones creaking like a clock's gears,
rattling off the seconds,
minutes,
hours,
years
until the watch stops its
panicked hands.

Until then we will toil unswayed
as we wear stones to clay,
carving winding paths in spirals up the mountain's waist.
No calm for those with breath,
no rest for beating hearts.
We must live in spite of life,
and then sink silent
to the earth.

You laugh to realize your life's perfect
As you chase the Cheshire,
Watching yourself run.
Thin as glass, you dare to be the skyscraper.

Unbreakable.

Your life beside you.
Your past behind you.
It has made you stone.
Unswayed by roads.

You choose your own.

As pitch reflects off pitch,
An unending forest before you.
Fireworks thrown back towards you.
You remain unflinching,

But forever touched.

Figures with hands the size of the heavens.
They flash again, but only for an instance.
Tears held by pride,
But none less meaningful.

Wind in your hand empowering you,
As you stare at a universe of gravel.
a jungle of wispy greens,
The travel brings you back again.

Life is wonderful, I won't let it spoil.

As I walk towards the shrine of blood and gold,

Reeking of the fallen and of the old

Unbeknownst to what might lay beyond,

A ******* in what comes after, a ******* in what came before.

This sack of maimed flesh that you see

A conquered ***** of the soul

This skin worn by all but one

A temple broken down to the bone.

Where once was a mind delighted,

A crown of jewels, of dreams of flight and

Of merriment and of might

A child of the stars that I once was

Burnt embers of olden coal that I am now.

Hence here I lay, astray, with no greed

No rage, no radiance and no leads

A destitute of life, fed and dressed

A king of the barren, a pastor amongst the wicked and unblessed.

And as I stand now at the altar of the fallen ghouls,

From suitor to gatekeeper of my own poisoned muse

Guiding sheep to a slaughter frayed

A purgatorial monument, unraveled and unswayed.

A poet can feel your pain
And express his own
He has an opinion
And will stand alone
He will tell of things
He thinks in the night
He only cares
About what is right
He will make you think
About life and who you are
It may be painful
It may open a scar
You will know by his words
That his mind does burn
And even if you disagree
You will soon return
Because he will tell you
The truth as only he can
And in this world of rhyme
Only the strong will stand

A few months ago
I knew we would speak
As I thought about this
I imagined what I would say
To a roomful of children
That I’d never met before
It was 2:00 AM and I couldn't sleep
So I jumped up and wrote most of this on the spot
Just so you know
I’m not a professional speaker
But I am a person
Just like you
And I know how I feel about things
I started writing because I became tired of war
And because I want my children to know how I think
So I’m here to talk about poetry
I view poetry as a combination of art and opinion/experience
But in reality
I'm here to talk about life
Your teachers are helping you
They are giving you the tools you need
So you can take care of yourself as an adult
They teach you English and Spanish
And Math and Science
But these are just like a hammer
Or a saw or a drill
They are in your tool chest
You know…
In your mind
I like to call it the braided mind
Because it's a blend or a braid of three things
The Intellectual
The emotional
The spiritual
And as a child you are trying to develop these things
I think being a poet can help
In my opinion most failures are due to emotional immaturity
It seems that school typically concentrates on the intellectual
But the emotional side is very important
And you need to develop this too
So I have a question for you
And I find the answer to this question to be very important
It helps as you interact with people
It helps you be a true poet
Can you put yourself in another person's shoes?
Can you UNDERSTAND their problems?
What about this question?
Can you accept the truth even if it conflicts with everything you believe?
That’s a tough one
I have two other questions
Do you have a need to be cool?
Are you a trend-setter or are you trendy?
I used to worry about stuff like that
The answers to these questions involve lessons of maturity
That's why I ask
I know it is difficult to go against the grain
To stand alone in a mob
It is a huge personal challenge
So what is it about emotional maturity that involves poetry?
It can teach to think for yourself
To be unswayed by the wrong thing
Even if everyone else disagrees with you
The poet offers his true feelings without regard to criticism
You are the poet
You are not affected by mere opinion
You are affected by truth
Here is another question
How do you feel about life?
Because we want to know
Because you are the poet
We want you to make us see what you see
With words
We want you to make us feel what you feel
With words
If you can think like this
And open your mind to the things around you
Then you will always feel alive
This is the way I try to think
And because of this I am never bored
I didn’t say I wasn’t boring!
I said I am never bored
Because my mind is always feeling things
And then I communicate
The ability to effectively communicate is critical
That is why you study the rules of language
But what are you going to do
With what you have learned?
There are so many possibilities
But what you have to know
Is that nothing is impossible
Look at me
I’m 53 years old
That’s probably pretty old to you
And it sounds old to me too
Just the other day
I received an offer for senior citizens
Senior citizens!
Like my life was over or something
But look at me
I’m here talking to you
It's because I decided I wanted to speak out
I wanted to be a poet
And I started down that road four years ago
So I was already old when I started something new
But look at you
You are young
Is it too early for you?
Like some say it’s too late for me?
NO!
You can start now
You can start thinking
You can start being who you are
But will you dare
Or will you worry about what someone may think?
Understand what I am saying
I’m not talking about doing what you want
So you can hurt someone
Or cheat your way through life
Or disrupt your teacher
I’m talking about being who you are
And not being afraid
Being tough
But not stubborn
Being able to care
But not obsessing
Being able to forgive
But not being easy
Being wise
But not arrogant
So what about poetry?
Do you think that men write poetry?
Do you think that men have feelings?
Do you think that men can make rhymes?
You better believe it
Because men feel things like women do
We all do
We can be mad
But don’t stay mad
That’s the secret
We can feel sorrow
But don’t stay sorrowful
It’s a matter of understanding why
Why do you feel that way
Then deal with it
Because if you deal with it
Then you own it
Then you control it
So it doesn’t control you
When I am sad or mad
I don’t just fall apart
But I don’t deny the feelings either
Sometimes we carry these feelings with us
And they eat away at our insides
Why?
Because we don’t really confront them
We let them sit there
Ready to pounce
So how do you do control that?
For me that’s where writing comes in
I try to express what it is that I am feeling
Then I write about it
And it becomes easier and easier
Why?
Because it’s my true self
I know myself
I know how I feel
So I tell myself
Then I tell you
And when I am willing to tell somebody
That’s when the magic starts to happen
Now… I feel things
But it’s not always about me
Sometimes it’s about someone else
There is something philosophers call a priori
That means you can see something that is true
Without having to experience it for yourself
And when you can feel that pain
Without experiencing it yourself
Then that’s called empathy
That’s when you put their shoes on
That’s when you know about their life
Then you realize they are real
Just like you
And then that’s when you can speak
About others
About right and wrong
Because then you don’t have to wait
Until it happens to you
Because what kind of life is that
Just waiting for something bad to happen
To you
Before you care
Maybe you are already angry
Maybe you aren’t popular
Maybe you’ve been picked on
What should you do?
Pick a fight?
Steal something?
Do something wrong?
No!
Think about Martin Luther King
He was made to feel less than a man
He didn’t have the rights others had
Just because of the color of his skin
He was humiliated
Do you know what that word means?
Do you know how that feels?
To be intensely made fun of
Or ridiculed
But what did he do?
He stood up for what is right
He used his anger wisely
He didn’t strike back
But he was not meek
He stood up and said
That is wrong
And he knew he would be hated
He knew he would be in danger
But that anger became the fuel
For greatness
And change in mankind
And he did not strike a blow with his fists
He just walked and sat
Where he was told he could not
He turned the other cheek
But he held his ground
And he won
Because they knew he was right
And what is right never loses
It just takes someone to say
It’s time to be right
What about Gandhi?
He was a small man
He was one man
Like Martin Luther King
Gandhi was a lawyer
But you don’t have to go to law school to understand
But to instinctively know about right and wrong
Means to know in your heart
Nobody has to tell you
You don’t have to read it in a book
You just know
And he knew
But he didn’t strike a blow
He just walked and sat
Where he was not allowed
And he became a great man
So what does this all mean?
It means you can think now
It means you can know now
It means that you can stand up
For right and against what is wrong
Because when you do
You will become very powerful
People will respect you
Some will fear you
I’m not saying walk around pointing fingers
But I am saying stand up for yourself
Don’t be swayed
Don’t let someone convince you otherwise
You are ready to be a leader
For good
Why not today?
But you do not have to wait
For something to happen
You can write about it now
You have your mind open
Remember
I’m not too old to live
And you’re not too young to live
So we both will express our feelings
And become poets
Because there is a dignity to this
It teaches you to be human
And to be alive
In any situation
Regardless of where you are
Or who you are with
Because life suddenly has meaning
In every moment
And you can be a part of each moment
If you let yourself be
Will you?
There is another challenge
Accepting truth
Sounds easy
But it’s not
To be a truth-seeker
You must be willing to be open minded
You must be willing to change
No matter what
Because the truth is the truth
It doesn’t care what you believe
It lives in its own world
To be a poet
You must be free
You must be willing to speak
About truth
Not to make yourself look good
Or to justify yourself
But for the sake of truth only
There is nothing like it
They say it can set you free
And it is true
I know it to be true
Because in my life
When I was honest
Not in a hurtful way
But in a compassionate way
Then I was able to be free mentally
Free of worries
Free of burdens
Because there was nothing to hide
And I knew I was in control
Of my mind
And nobody can brainwash me
I will listen
And I will consider what you say
But I won’t automatically believe it
Just because it’s on TV
Or the internet
Or because somebody said it loudly
Loud doesn’t mean right
Loud just means loud
So to be a true poet
You have to tell us what you really think
That means tell us the truth about your feelings
No matter what it is
Because when we read truth
From someone’s heart
We are drawn in
Because that is a rare thing in this world
It’s not a matter of making rhymes
It’s a matter of life
And people crave honesty
And sincerity
And courage
Tell us about fear
About sadness
About joy
About sorrow
Are you ready?
Inspiration has its own clock
And when you feel these things
Your pen will know what to do
This is what we want
From you
Can you do it?




Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona

Pain is inevitable,
Suffering is optional.
The crossroads of success,
Is always constructional.

If we could become tress,
Solid and stoic, deep rooted
In Mother Earth's flesh;
We could stand firm
Through the tempest, unswayed.

But we are only humans.
Covered in darkness.
Hiding behind our fears,
Timidly withdrawing from
The ominous tempest.

So, embrace the fury,
The daunting gales that
Once were scary.
After all, you can't
Stop the waves,
But you can learn to surf.

And even if you sank,
Deeper into the void,
At least you'll drown
Knowing there was
Beauty In The Struggle.

They say love's a big word, but I think I know better
Cuz it's only 4 letters
I don't see what the buzz be bout
Love is drug and this drug have you tripping out
Straight hallucinating, seeing things that ain't been around
They claim love is blind, well that's partially true
Because you're blind to the crap that they do towards you
Like cheating, deceiving, misleading for no reason
And they still have you believing 
That you don't wanna be leaving
But retreating is your best option
Or at least a start
Cuz if you stay then they'll find a way to shatter your heart
Cuz your guard's down and your head's all the way in the stars
But they're still on earth, looking for the one with better cars
Jewelry, clothing, anything worth cash
This love thing is crazy, if you still call it that 
Cuz I ain't seen real love but I heard of it tho
And the story on hand began a long time ago
You know girl meets boy
Boy likes girl
Boy wants to give that one girl the whole world 
And the girl loves boy cuz the boy had hell to pay
Gave up his time and money just so he can make her day
And because of boy's actions the girl is so happy to say
"I love you boy", and the boy replies right away
"I love you too
Yes my love is true
Will you agree to be my wife"
And girl says "I do"
And they live their lives
Then their hair turns gray
Then she dies his wife
And he dies unswayed
By any other woman that crossed his way
It's sad to say that this love is nonexistent today 
Because boy meets girl
And girl is a bop
And the girl wants his heart
But the boy wants the top
So she gives it to him praying that she can see the day
That they're married with kids in the house across the way
But boy ain't thinking that far
He only want the pink
And then he get that late text later on in the week
She said "bae I ain't bleeding down there"
He said "what you mean?"
She said "I think I'm pregnant"
He said "I gotta leave"
And girl starts to cry cuz she thought their love was everlasting 
Now she's a single mom and all her dreams are in a casket
And boy chilling looking for his next target
This isn't love, it's a drug in an unstable market.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine cars with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.
    Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
    That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Thirteen thousand strides progress
Blind leathern tread with gritted teeth
Stride hard rough bracken heather strive
Incipient thought embrace the scarp
Bent shoulder strain web strap entrench
Sharp body lean oppose the wind
Slow pitch forward cold lash rain
Pause..Shrug pack .. Lurch on again

Rough rock scrape pass
Sharp edge hand scrape
Each tread ascend dull lactic ache
Stone eyes cast up
Embrace dark peak
Surge on .. Dig in..
Embrace the pain
Aggressive stance.. find strength begin
Engage the enemy entrenched within
With comrades in adversity

Side glance reveal
Grey brother tight
Mordant ploughshare gleaming bright
United thought strong purpose right
Grim grimace glower grinding on
Helping hand support and share
Exchang-ed glances sing the pain
Relentless climb advance distain
Strong ******* stride bogged into mire
Grappling cragfast handclasp dire  
Entropic  spirit brief despair
Revelatory cause unswayed
Each cloistered personal crusade
Burst upwards into sunlight flame

And stand with vision intertwined
Each grim companion lasting friend
Eyes meet brief recognition shout
We know what it’s all about

These clasping minds
Empath embrace
Profound cognitive self aware
To follow where few others dare
These comrades in adversity

facing one’s fearsome demons,

                                                 not unafraid... 

                                                   ­              but resolute

                                                               ­                 and unswayed!

My heart is made of ash
Its fire burnt out long ago
Passion is fleeting,
A burning candle ignited then
Blown out by the winds whisper
And it seems I took a match to my heart
And set it too suddenly
While your match burned out
Because you were reluctant
To hold it towards your own

My heart blazed like the sun
While yours remained frozen in time
And every kiss I gave
Were fireworks exploding on the skin
Whilst yours were gentle snowflakes
That I would try desperately to catch
But they would melt away
Before I could memorize their delicacy

And that was where I went wrong
Believing you were delicate
When you were made of stone
A statue unswayed by the storm
I felt every raw, uncensored moment
While you experienced barely a spark
I believed our love from the start
But you doubted every second

In shadows deep where moonlight wanes,
Where whispers dance in eerie strains,
There prowls a creature of the night,
With eyes aglow, a chilling sight.

Amongst the hibiscus, crimson blooms,
Their petals soaked in midnight gloom,
A vampire lurks, his thirst unbound,
In silence, stalking without a sound.

He yearns for blood, a crimson stream,
A haunting echo, a silent scream,
And in the garden, where hibiscus weep,
His hunger stirs from slumber's keep.

Yet amidst the darkness, a delicate grace,
The hibiscus blooms, a fragile embrace,
Their beauty rivals the moon's soft glow,
A stark contrast to the vampire's woe.

For in their petals, life's essence lies,
A crimson hue beneath starlit skies,
But to the vampire, they hold no cure,
Just reminders of what he must endure.

So in the night, where shadows creep,
The vampire hunts, his hunger deep,
And though the hibiscus may wilt and fade,
Their beauty lingers in the darkness, unswayed.

© fey (24/04/24)

I give you the freedom
to interpret “We” in general
or as just Us
two

may your Intimacies show you
what will guide my pendants
of thought kindlings.
I leave it undisclosed  too.

We are evanescent, Juliet.
Yet complete in how shattered we are.
A fractal.
We can’t trace our fingers over tangible frames of the ways of Connections,
clogs of the paths
Love cracks
from what we believe we have already surpassed.
We know we have no capacity of learning with clear logic
how We work,
what Philia makes of Us
and what we make of it,
how the seeds of uncertain Passions
find their way through
and out of Us.

It is indeed a huge insecurity of ours:
trying to find, trace
(on a lone garden wall
made of bricks and creepers),
and keep in our fragile handling
what these feverishness coming
out of hand do with us.

But then we
stand behind the other
(optionally or not: of our self still),
in the same way
uncovered,
insecure
and trembling
if I make it right, or rather we make it right.

The hands of both parties come
in one click and then
though we accost errors
we make our perfectly imperfect
clingings with some glass in that wall
as we again and again come
and will come into
lessons,
which seem new
but stay one and the same

or saddened by the world ideas that will keep on putting us through questioning “Who am I?”
with our silences filled with answers
that we will keep on becoming
and accomplishing without ever taking sentient notice.

I take you as we are.
You take me as we are.
We stay strong in that pair
of trembling hands that
though they do not know
what is ahead of them
or already as Them
when it comes to Love
or any pure emotional arousal
we make of ideas, we accept it.

We won’t ever encompass it
but it encompasses us.
We welcome how much we don’t understand
our bodies or how all of that
and even more flows
and will flow,
we are it,
teary from resilience.

Errors - not
Broken - not
Nought these names made up for perceiving *** and bodies,
these measly words as enough as one isolation to a whole abandoned waiting room at now

I stay in full apprehension and readiness
of what I come to exist
as and what feeling becomes me,
I won’t chain myself to
the scheme we might draw
with chalk on that garden wall.

And be that too alongside please,
simply of.

I am, will be there,
standing,
unpassing,
going through all the same strangenesses
alike,
yet kissing each
and every one
on their ivory breathing ribs,
because they only seem
to be deformed
and at unease.

I will stay in Love.
I will stay outside of it.
Without naming it or putting it
to any formality

let all these questions be a waterfall on you and welcome each and every one of them.

We don’t have to understand them.
We just will be.
We will stay as questions and just let it be. We don’t have to be apart.
We don’t have to be bound for eternity
with pacts or our bodies entangled.

I simplistically. approach.
these hurt questions with a stupefying tenderness of giving
each and every one of them
a chance to.
A thin line of peach freeze.
Sentinels of senses themselves, my arousals of then.
Phronemophilia stays unswayed. I am still in the same bliss.
Let see where we as consciences will grow and shape to.

In the end
it is seen
that loving anyone or anything
was only the pathway to solely harbouring ourselves and Love itself.
It is unchanginly It.
Same verily sacrum in choice of

then

now

lest ever.

I think our love is special
Because we never give up
Not ever
And because for us
There is no limit
We believe in each other
In the same way we believe in our love
With all of our hearts
And I think we have every right
To think that our love is special
Because every love story is
And when that love story
Can outrun the sands of time
We will still remain
Strong and unswayed
For our love is undying and true
We are fighters
And we fight for what we love
We fight for each other
So that we're never alone.

I miss our walks in the rain,
when we used to live
in wonder and anticipate
the future, when we used to step
on water and laugh,
happy in that moment
of togetherness
and completeness,
away from the abject world
that poses questions
and answers,
in our own little
wonderland,
seemingly unaware
of the possibility
that things may go wrong,
and conscious of the faith
that great things are to come.

I miss our walks in the rain
holding each other's hand,
only to wriggly free
and skip ahead,
only to hop in merry;
leaving one to watch,
one to wait,
not always together
in battling life's
undue favors of time.

I miss our walks in the rain
for when it poured,
we'd wait,
holding time still
by sheer will,
unafraid;
not of the consequences
but of bearing them,
for isn't that what
the walk was all about?
It was us preparing
to march ahead,
with our head held high
into the storm,
unswayed.

In each life's quest, unique paths unfold,
Yet one truth remains, unwavering, bold.
Amidst tales of men who've traded their soul,
Surface appearances may oft deceive, we're told.
Not all that gleams with a golden hue,
Holds the substance and worth that rings true.
For within gilded tombs, lies naught but decay,
Worms, the silent heralds, claim their final sway.

Had we possessed wisdom as daring as youth,
In limbs strong, while judgment spoke truth,
Our answers would be etched in ancient scrolls,
But alas, our journey's pages, the wind now strolls.
Farewell, dear ambitions, as our pursuit grows cold,
Time slips away on the wings of vain-nity, we're told,
A labor lost, indeed, in the clutches of frost.

Everyone treads their path, unique, unswayed,
Yet Death's embrace awaits, undeterred, unfrayed.
What accounts shall we offer, once life's curtain is drawn?
A leap of faith, yet no bungee cord, not a bond.
As the future unfolds, mirroring our origin's lore,
Reason and faith lost, a civilization's core,
A generation labeled, entitled and remiss,
Yet let us pause, reflect, dispel this amiss.

The hunter's blame befalls the prey, unaware,
Birds of all feathers, converge in their earthly affair.
And in due time, true worth shall stand tall,
Rewards bestowed, earned, by each heart's recall.
For it is in the balance of merit we find,
A legacy shaped by one's own design.

It is the heart of me
that she does not
even bother to see,
a red bridge that breaks
collapsing into
a darker crimson pool,
I set this mess
before her,
expose my scars,
as I worship hers,
whisper gentle affections,
promise fierce protection,
but she turns away
unswayed by the fruits
of my heart,
and I turn away
forgetting the self-love
I struggled to attain
and succumb to
that old familiar pain.

Each June for three years, we vroomed
Up the back of a mighty seaside brontosaurus.
The Judge and I knew the deal.
Avoid talk of religion and politics and go to church each Sunday.
And be nice, share and enjoy yourselves. Love you boys.

Whilst we lazed about, cooked and played Sega Mega Drive,
Charlie dashed off in his crisp white BMW
To do Troy knows what
Utterly oblivious (or secretly oblivious) of the Trojan horse that now lay within.

Upon a received revelation of the Rock, I retained reconnaissance
Of Charles’ cunning charms and the beguiling of his brood,
Leaving me unswayed by the generous gifts and family feasts,
Adding to my appetite to attack.

Made to bathe together, Charlie’s Cinder later scalded me
With a coal that turned my heart to ash,
Elevating his own ego and solidifying his own existence
By scoffing at my member as a little worm.

Time to breach the horse, slay and burn,
Taking along only the Helen of healing humanity with me.
No, better yet – I’ll leave you to your adulterous ways.
Forsaking duty, filial predators and mercenary megalomania.

Now that I know you, I wish to flee from your house forever.
Stop me so that you can destroy me. Little secret – aim for the head.