I have not been to Mexico,
But I hear the nights are beautiful.
I know you’ve seen the Puerto Rican bays,
When the water’s waves are weaved with stars.
But does it match the soft spoken nights in Mexico?

My friend you are,
But little do I truly know of you.
Like a Mexican night I’ve only heard,
But never seen.
I know that you shine brightly,
Like stars in Puerto Rican waves.
You just don’t show your value in glittering waters,
More in a dulling gold.

But I believe,
That what I do not know of you is simply a glory worthy story.
That you are deeper than a South-American key,
More to tell than just simple things.
I know you as a man,
As the loyal friend.
But what I do not know strains for my attention.

For you have a great story,
One of which I must pursue.
I know you are indifferent to your inner light,
I told you I must draw out your inner truth,
In order to tell of you.
You simply shrugged,
Said, “Write it as it should.”

But this is how it should be,
Speaking of your hidden glories.
And owing you apologies.
For the times I swore to you,
Upon an empty hand.
As well as the times I had prodded at your identity.
Maybe you do not accept,
Maybe you do.
It never really mattered,
We’ve bonded like kin.

After studies in sciences,
I await waiting kindness.
For never have you cared what others had told of me.
So still we wait at the trees by the street,
Awaiting a brother,
Awaiting your mother.

I still recall the weekend we vacationed away,
In the heart of freedom’s way.
To others it was a city,
To us it was amazing.
Late nights late,
To meet the pace of others in the group.
Questioning histories,
Like studies in theology.
It was early one morning,
Over coffee and hotel breakfast pastries,
That I told you, “I have truly nothing to write of.”
Then you suggested, “Why don’t you write of me?”

I was quite puzzled,
By what seemed a meager challenge.
But realizing by pen in candle light,
I had not a word to write.
For not enough I know of who you are truely,
To construct a truly meaningful piece.

So I did my best,
I chose to reflect what you mean to me.
As someone truly true,
With words you chose with choice,
Not merely of spite.
Every king needs his throne men,
And you are mine as much as I am yours.

Someday I’ll know all of your story,
Someday I’ll understand,
Someday we’ll trip to Mexico,
Spend a night alone,
With the silent soundings of a Mexican night.

Or maybe we decide,
That we ought to see,
The stars in the waves of a Puerto Rican bay.
Really it does not matter much,
As long as we travel as brothers.

Because we work as men,
But at heart we are boys.
Seeking something,
To please our childish hearts.

I know by now I’ve been thinking long,
Much too long of this wandering ponder,
Of us as great friends.
But I do know that it would do us good,
To spend a night sipping colored sodas,
On the dusk streets of Mexico.

For now though,
I’ll go back to wishing in whispers,
To know a night in Mexico.
On the roads of stained clay bricks,
Hopefully walking around, laughing, with you.

So I’ll see you after science studies,
Greet you with the same hello,
Because no great man walks alone.
I am great,
So I’ll walk with you.
Knowing us as friends,
Not a matter of where we are.
So goodnight to Mexico,
I have all the friendship I need at home.

I waited for hours in an office lobby,
Just for them to tell me there was no cure for what I was suffering.
I walked a mile,
In another man’s shoes.
So I walked to  another,
To the next doctor,
Just to be told again, that there was no cure.

Wendy; My shadow is too heavy, can you fix it?
Doctor; Shadows don’t weigh anything.
Wendy; Mine does.
And it’s getting bigger.

I waited again,
Yet still the answer was the same.
That there was no cure,
For the sad music I hear in my ear,
That makes me age hundreds of years.
It makes it seem like my mind is run by rusted gears,
It must be from storing the salt for my tears.

Mother; I thought you were sleeping.
Wendy: I was being sad.
…
Wendy; I’m not always sad.

I didn’t go to another office,
I ran out of ones to walk to.
Running is a concept I never understood,
Why are you always running from, or to?
Why can’t I just run,
Away from nothing, for I have nothing to run from.
To nothing, because I have no more things to run to.

Detective; Can you fly?
Wendy; I could,
I don’t think I can anymore.
Detective; That sounds dangerous.
Wendy; It is.
Was
Detective; What can you tell me about him?

Why can’t they make a medicine,
That makes you forget?
I don’t mean alcohol,
I just asked to forget, not to destroy the place in my mind where the memory was.
Why can’t they make a syrup,
It could taste like peppermint.
That you take at night,
And wake up and forget.

Wendy; I asked you to stay.
Peter; Did you?

People ask how scientists know it’s truly fall,
And people tell them about the Fall equinox.
That we know it’s Fall when the sun dips below the horizon,
On both halves of the globe.
That the coming of fall is when the people in the southern side of the earth,
Have spring.

That is how science knows it’s fall,
But how do we know the date, the hour?
I could tell you when fall is here,
But it won't be down to the minute.
I know fall has come when the winds turn cold,
And the leaves of the oak trees are bleeding.
When the streets are empty of the children playing,
When I sit on a fallen birch log on the beach,
Staring at the water, but I’m shivering in a flannel,
And the water is frozen over.
When i come home and the tea kettle is going,
But all the summer lemon tea is put away.
Little changes in these things, they will lead me astray.

The coming of fall.

That’s how I know the fall is coming,
Not by watching the hours of my days.
Not based on when the sun rises in Iran,
But by the feel of the winds,
But by the blood of the leaves.
And by the tears that have fallen,
On these empty streets.

The Fall Of Twenty-Twenty Four.

It frustrates me that I’m sitting here,
Staring at a blank page.
For I feel so much.
And I have so much to write,
On this empty page.
I have seen enough to write an endless novel.
So why is my page empty?
Not full of wooded trails.
Or life's many tales.
Not even the sympathies,
Of my many brothers,
And many sisters.
My page is empty,
Alas, the poet’s dying shame.

I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.
I am born of the trees and stars, of cold winds and breezy nights.
I am a son of the red sand hills, and the lost letters to neverland.
I am the making of love and pain, of lost will and false strength.
I am the lord of memories of longing and heartbreak.

I am born of an island of stone, and seas of stories.
I am a child of hatred and spite.
I am King of a long-lost land.
I am the farmer of an ancient plant.
I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.

If it’s not love it’s poison,
If it’s not good, then it’s evil.
If you’re not warm, you’re freezing.
And if you leave you’re cruel,
And if you stay clinging on for too long, you are nothing.
So, if it’s not love, it’s poison,
And if you’re not surrounded you’re alone,
And if you're not full you're starved.
If you break you’re nothing,
You’re alone,
So if it’s not love, then it is poison.

The hands on the clock are slender,
Like her fingers,
Who used to weave through mine.

Soft was her voice,
It could grace you like an ocean breeze,
Or it could work like a hurricane,
Make you wish you never left shore.

This new winter snow,
The color of her skin.
Thin as her kiss,
Leaving me warmer than I was before.
These days I find myself missing it more and more.

But she didn't leave,
It was I,
I had to return home,
She didn't beg me to stay, she knew I couldn't.

But I know,
Someday we will find each other again,
And in time, I will remember her kiss.

Never may the dream man wake.
He slept so somberly.
I used to think he feared the world,
But now I think I see.
Never may the dream man wake.
His rest is soundless now.
Now, never to see what he was escaping.
I thought I saw the picture, but never could I have foreseen.

Never may the dream man wake.

How long does it take?
For you to see my poem,
Mr. Publisher?
You have me checking the mailbox,
Over and over, like I’m a little boy again.
Every time I open it and find no letter,
I feel the pain of self-doubt inside.

I wonder, Mr. Publisher, when will you read my work?
Or, have you read it already,
And are planning to send it back?
Using the ‘significant postage’ I left in the envelope.
Will I open your letter,
And find a cold message of rejection?
Or, will you love my poem?
Will you beg me to come publish with you?

Oh, Mr. Publisher, I need to know!
The little boy in me has grow old by now,
He clutches his walking stick,
As he goes to check his mail box.
Looking for that wax postage seal,
Red like the hide of a fox.

Mr. Publisher please!
I grow anxious everyday you do not respond,
And I re-read the poem I sent you almost every hour of the day.
My lover left me, Publisher Man,
She cursed me for giving more attention to you than her.
But matter not, does that!
That witch will see the man she left when I get my letter of approval from you!

Though, she did take most of our things with her,
Left my house a little empty, didn’t she?
Where will I sleep,
If she has the bed.
Alas, Mr. Publisher, I mind not the lack of sleep,
I’d rather spend the time waiting for the letter that's coming soon.
But how close is soon?
I remember telling my friend,
I’d be able to be her lover, soon.
But soon still hasn’t come,
As she still waits at the door for me.

Mr. Publisher, not a very good postmaster this town has!
For I still have not received your message of approval!
How strange is that?
I’m sure it simply got turned around,
It’s been days after all!
Days with no bed,
Days without my lover,
Days missing my friends.

Dear Publisher Man, have you not sent it at all?
The little boy who ran to check the mail,
Had his funeral yesterday.
I was invited, but as you know,
I was busy waiting for you to respond!
I’ll have to visit some other time,
For I’m sure I’ll see the postman who carries your letter soon.

For the first time in days I left my mailbox,
Mr. Publisher,
Well, not by choice you see.
For, you had me waiting for so long,
I died before your letter came!
What a shame,
Guess you didn’t have time for my work at all!

Mr. Publisher, not a soul came to see me be buried in the ground,
I kept telling my dear friends I could be with them again,
Soon.
But soon never came,
And the only one who will weep on my grave,
Are the crows,
And my dear friend,
That I left years ago.
Ha! Will she be my lover now?

You can keep the stamp Publisher Man,
I won’t be using it anymore.

November comes in waves,
First, the leaves turn orange,
And fall from the trees.
Second, the last summer bird flies away,
And the city is left lonely,
With the haunting song of the crows.
Third, the winds turn bitter and cold,
And those who walk the streets dwindle,
Till I’m walking the city and find I’m alone.