john-a-alsoszatai-petheo
Dominican
Born and raised in the Caribbean, English is my third language. I taught anthropology for the last forty+ years. Now I am retired. I am single, though I have been married twice. I raised three sons who are married, and pursuing their careers. I am a grandfather several times over. Poetry and photography are avocations for me. Music is a passion, though I do not play an instrument. I prefer to go by Sandy to my friends. I would like to invite you to contact me. I am an outgoing and positive person with a good sense of humor. I look forward to hearing from you.
As always, amazing, Will.
So much there in your poetic words,
like countless shapes in the clouds...
clouds which frame the sun, and those that are inclined to rain.
Poet, philosopher, artist, all know the freedom
and occasional dangers of obfuscation.
They do not fear it.
They paint, and paint,
with brushes and words of many colors and shades,
while the sunbather and the farmer wait
for their share of warmth and rain.
All is not always as it seems.
The crow learns that, at the drive-up
one has to pay his way, to "have it your way" at Burger King.
And still, despite it all,
the farmer's crops and the suntan continue to confound impotent anxiety,
while the crow makes his way beneath the benches
where random crumbs embolden him to claim his own victory.
So passes another day in the life of a poet.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.
We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.
J. Sandy
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.
We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.
J. Sandy
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Late last night
in a crumpled bed
all my courage gone
when my dreams all fled
you were on my mind
as if you were here
though I reached for you
you were nowhere near.
Rain upon my window,
rain within my heart
makes me weak to wonder
have we grown apart?
Will this coming morning
bring you back to me?
Or will a misty daylight
tell me: "You are free"?
Soft the rain is falling
as I think of you
sweet caressing outlines
of the one I knew.
Will you still remember?
In my heart you stole
bringing life and meaning
to my very soul.
Still, the words unspoken
but actions did approach,
commitments never given
with nothing to reproach
I turned and said my prayer
forgiveness in my heart
and wished you new beginnings
with love if we should part.
It must have been while thinking
that sleep at last won out
and sometime in these hours
I woke and looked about
the clouds had all departed
a sunrise morning's day
beside me you just whispered
"I'm here, my love, to stay."
J. Sandy
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Illusions come in many forms, many guises.
They often take shape, many forms many sizes.
A blank canvas or blank slate
our minds create
--children of our imagination.
Identities bulldozed by need
we rush to plant the seed
to quickly take its form,
tender and loving
or lustful and cunning
we miss the deception
see only reflection
and crassly miss the person
beneath its shackles.
The canvas a prison
is passive, not active
releases its captive
to our great surprise.
"I thought that you loved me"
"and how could you hurt me?"
with sorrowful tone
we cry "I'm alone."
The romance is ended
the love you defended
was never to be
you just could not see--
and somewhere we see them
departing in freedom
but often we miss the whole point.
True love's not possessing,
will not be repressing,
will not be demanding
nor will it be binding.
True love will empower
does not make one cower
it gives us the strength
to be happy and free.
And should you still ponder
the nature of wonder
be troubled no more
just open the door
let jealousy burn
And if they return
your joy will be great
for it is your fate
that they'll leave you no more.
J. Sandy
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
Perhaps I never knew you,
perhaps we never met
Perhaps it was enchantment
that made my heart forget.
Perhaps it was the magic,
reflections from the start;
Perhaps they were illusions,
Illusions of the heart.
Reflections of the softness
that once enveloped me;
Of quiet reassurance
when I learned to be free.
Perhaps I didn’t notice
perhaps I wasn’t smart
To live in my illusions,
Illusions of the heart.
I gave myself completely
without a backward glance;
So glad to share my secrets
unknowingly perchance,
That in total surrender
I merely played the part
Deceived into believing
Illusions of the heart.
And now that love has ended
and you’re with someone new
I see the sad reflection,
still thinking that it’s you.
I wonder if you meant it,
what made us grow apart?
How could the time erase now
Illusions of the heart?
J. Sandy
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
As I reflect on slow dainty sips,
The light from the window
Disclosing your tea-wetted lips,
I remember thinking that your profile
Was sweeter than soft caressing rain
On the strangely distant windowpane
And that your features betrayed
The subtle art of nature's paint palette
As surely as she had conceived
The embrace of a summer's eve.
The rhythm of droplets lost in time
Whose steady drip, drip singing
Formed a calming refrain
Played host to
The afternoon canvas of exuberance
Which now bleeds its
Pastel colors to oblivion
On the pages of my mind.
You had a compelling innocence then
Which could not conceive of boundaries
While your twinkling eyes
Recalled in me the
Urgent spice-aroma of
A hot midday field of wildflowers
Full of defiant life and
Nearly exploding from the neck and temples.
In the half-light of the study
I marveled at the hue of your
Cinnamon-cream skin
In its summer blush;
The delicate symmetry of your lips
The easy confidence of your laughter
Your casual, almost unkempt hair--
Inviting a touch or a caress--
Which conjured within me
An urgent near-irrepressible expectation
Of the scent and feel of your embrace.
You were made for love
The kind of love
Which fills each moment,
Each glance, each act,
With the awareness,
The intensity, and
The passion of a lifetime.
Your eyes opened to
Well-guarded secret possibilities
I had not dared to entertain before.
And as I became overwhelmed
by your beauty
and the sweetness of your voice
my eyes returned to
the flower in my hand
its color and scent
enchanting reminders of
you
the only missing puzzle piece
which can complete
the longing in my heart.
J. Sandy
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
In earlier times the destruction of a man was routine.
Harsher realities, physical labors, simpler medicine.
Today, routine is unrecognized.
Many toil in settings which prompt no alarm.
Gnarled hands are not in view, while gnarled souls are in review.
The class distinctions and disdain
Are replaced by a new refrain.
Drugs and alcohol are his fault,
No thinking stops the assault!
Don't you know that we each, were equal at the start?
Can't you hear our call as children, each playing his part?
Our pains, though different, are just as real.
Analysis of our histories nothing will reveal.
"They were all good people once."
Could they be still?
Who is that inside that hollow shell?
...
C'mon, let's go...
-- J. Sandy
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
Love is…
Asking and being asked how your day went.
Wanting to see the world from the other's point of view--even, and especially if it is different from yours.
Quietly anticipating and being always willing to act on the needs of the other.
Being happiest in the other's company.
Always assuming the best about the other.
Pitching in without having to be asked.
Not letting fear or embarrassment stop you from always communicating how you feel.
Always wanting to know, and be willing to listen.
Sharing life goals, disappointments, sorrows, joys, and triumphs.
Lots of small daily things, not just the big things.
Making love--not just having ***
Feeling whole and complete because of your relationship with the other.
Feeling supported and empowered to stretch and reach for all you need, to be you.
Doing everything in your power to help the other as they grow to reach for self-realization.
Making allowances for the other, without keeping a tally.
Quiet happy times, alone, together.
J. Sandy
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC