Some say dark matter,
Holds galaxies together,
In the endless void.

In smallest doses,
Kindness keeps humanity,
From drifting apart.

Its powerful force,
Our shield in darkest of times,
Against entropy.

Out of many one,
Held together by selfless,
Small acts of kindness.

Tengo un currículum vitae de diez páginas,
Y una vida de una página,
Nota a pie de página mi pesar

Volantón,
Ala rota,
Cuidadosamente alimentado,
Protegido,
Nutrido,
Amado.
Saludable otra vez.
Alas Vantablack,
Poderosamente batiendo,
Propulsándolo hacia el cielo,
Alimentado por,
Los ojos del benefactor.

I tried so hard to share my love with you,
To make you see the dream I saw so clear,
Yet you could not believe my words were true,
Could not let go of your consuming fear.

I waited hoping for some subtle change,
Ignoring every sign it would not come,
Until the dream was clearly out of range,
And hope, an evanescent shadow, gone.

The emptiness I feel knows no regret,
So do not weep for me, sweetest of friends,
Each fleeting moment shared I'll not forget,
I know what love is now, and how it ends.

The love I felt will live while I take breath,
The dream I'll carry with me to my death.


I posted this sonnet today along with 15 others in my latest poetry reading at  https://youtu.be/umgmhtxrtVE

When did she lose touch with my inner heart?          
Was it so long ago she held it near?                  
It was so easy from the very start,
To share it all with one I love so dear.              

How can she thumb the pages of my life,
And find fault with the words at every turn?          
So easily she crosses out a line,
Ignoring all that from it she could learn.            

I smile, she smiles, but does not understand,
And she goes on, perusing through my soul;            
In just a moment I will take her hand,
And we may both yet smile as we grow old.            

Our love is strong, its long-fueled flame still burns,
But what is gone will never more return.


NOTE: You can access my YouTube poetry reading of this previously unpublished sonnet and 15 others at https://youtu.be/umgmhtxrtVE

It is hard to soar,
When one's wings are soaked in tears,
But this too shall pass.

The smaller the mind,
The louder it will proclaim,
Its inanity.

Evil will triumph,
When we foolishly refuse,
To call it by name.

Fear not the dark clouds,
They'll throw a weepy tantrum,
And soon will be gone.

Day's work nearly done,
Warm glow embracing twilight,
Going for a dip.

T
       a
             k
                 e
           a bite out
       of life.   Let the
          sweet juices drip
            from the corners of
              your mouth and run
                  down  your chin. Taste
              the **** flesh as it explodes
          with in your mouth. Its season is
        too  brief. Keep it not  for  tomorrow.
    Enjoy it today at its  peak.  Its  time will
soon pass. But the memory of its flavor will
   remain with you all the days of your life.

Redemption

What if a long-dead beauty,
Let you see your failings in life,
Would you fight for redemption?


Modern Art and the Critics

How do we know that what hangs,
On modern art galleries now,
Merits our calling it art?

The above hakus are teasers for two short stories by the
same names that you can download free until May 31
but only at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1138974

I've published twenty books to date,
I love to write, that's just my fate,
My textbooks tens of thousands used,
But my poetry needs a boost.

More write than read poems it seems,
And I won't pay marketing schemes,
Nor will I pay for book reviews,
In hopes of better book sale news.

The mortgage my non-fiction paid,
My publishers more profits made,
My first house fully paid by them,
My indie fiction's no such gem.

Judge not my poems by these weak lines,
They're as annoying as French mimes,
My books much better verse contain,
(So does graffiti on a train.)

For those still reading these my lines,
Download my first book free online,
You'll find it at the link below,
Until June 10, not one day more.

All eBook versions free through June 10, but only at one of the retailers where the book is sold: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/181370

Tell me who you're with,
And I'll tell you who you are,
Spaniards say wisely.

Today I give thanks,
For the unbridled joy shared,
With those here and gone.

The door to myself,
Intricately gilded steel,
Rusted shut by tears.

Beyond it dead dreams,
Endless verdant sylvan paths,
Better lives unlived.

What use my regret?
Precious treasure left there,
Cannot be retrieved.

Hot cocoa shared while binging on Christmas movies,
Writing Christmas cards to friends far and near,
Watching my wife create a unique Christmas wreath for her dad,
Helping to decorate the tree,
Wrapping gifts to be opened Christmas day,
Hearing, singing, and playing favorite carols,
Reminiscing about little ones' wonder on Christmas morning...

All wonderful gifts in themselves that last a lifetime.
But none can compare with the greatest gift of all,
That we commemorate every December 25,
The birth of the King of kings born not in luxury but in a manger,
Come not to rule but to teach us a better way to live,
A carpenter who would die on the cross to expiate our sins,
And to show us the path to everlasting life,
Made possible for us through His great sacrifice.

This is the only gift that matters on this or any Christmas.
It is the forever gift that cannot be bought in any store,
That is never used up, lost, or broken,
And that comes with a warranty that lasts for all eternity.
Everything else is just sweet icing on the scrumptious cake that is life,

Through an evanescent mist I see a vision,
Of four horses--white, red, black and pale,
Galloping from the four points of the compass,
Towards a preordained meeting that will end the world.

The white horse tramples freedom in endless conquest,
Along its path of false glory, extremists reviving dead empires,
Thirsting still for lost hegemony under red and black banners,
With hammers and sickles, swastikas and waxing moons with stars.

The red horse crushes the bones of the innocent,
Under its ****** hooves as they march to a steady drumbeat,
To **** brothers and sisters born in other lands, as well as
Neighbors near and far labeled enemies and marked for death.

The black horse sows famine with its every hoof fall,
Leaving blight, thirst, and hunger in its dusty wake,
To the everlasting glory of misguided, foolish, evil rulers,
Of countries once graced by great people and wealth.

The pale horse leaves death in all lands it touches,
planting seeds of hate, fear, and envy that bloom into unbridled evil,
In the hearts of fatuous, self-righteous, hubris-filled monsters,
Who defile humanity to impose their ends by any means necessary.

Take your eyes away from the mirror, put away your smart phone,
Shut down your computer, turn off your television set, wake up from your slumber,
Scan the horizon, you will see the dust clouds growing near, and hear the soft,
Galloping hoof falls above life’s normal din—they’re coming for you.

god is dead
he died of a bad review in The New York Times
that accused him of being
a fascist
and a *****

he is being replaced by a new
non-sectarian trinity
of
Me Myself and I
all of whom are
free
to **** god
and say
god is dead
god dead is
dead is god
is god dead

I think I have heard somebody suggest
(and therefore I have)
that the Department of Health is soon to issue
new and improved
antiexistentialistdespairpills
free of charge  
to every adult
man and woman
sitting in front
of his/her
TV/Smart Phone/Game Console/Computer
waiting for
godot

A grasshopper once came upon a colony of ants seeing to the fall harvest.
“Give me some grain. I’m hungry” he said.
“Where is your winter store?” they asked.
“Don’t have one. Too busy singing all summer” he replied.
“Well, if you sang all summer instead of working, you may as well
Dance all winter,” they replied smiling and returning to work.

The grasshopper turned from green to red, fuming.
“The harvest is not yours! You did not build it!
You did not make it rain.
You did not cause the sun to shine.
You just reaped the bounty of mother earth.
That belongs to us all. Now give me my fair share!”

The ants kept working, smiled and shook their heads.
The grasshopper cursed and stomped away.
But he returned an hour later with many kindred spirits.
They beat the ants silly while stealing their grain.
And as they beat them they chanted catchy slogans
While pumping firsts in the air:

No justice no peace!
Power to the people!
It takes a village!
Yes we can!
Soak the rich!
Property is theft!

Then they took away all the grain they could carry,
And burned the rest to teach the unconscious ants a lesson.
Back at their village, the grasshoppers had a wondrous feast.
It lasted three full days until the food ran out.
When winter came, they begged nearby villages for food.
But they were also populated by singers, dancers and actors who’d likewise
Spend the summer singing, dancing and making love, not war.

So having no food, they held hands, hugged a tree and
Sang Cumba Ya while lamenting the tragedy that had befallen them.
“All their fault. All their fault” they whined in unison.
“Those stupid, egotistical, greedy, inhumane, hoarding, hate-filled
Worthless bugs. Why could they not have been as enlightened as we?”

The harshest of times,
Truly test our character,
Let us hope we pass.

When our trial is done,
Will we remember with pride,
Or heads hung in shame?

How we act today,
Will define our future lives,
Let's avoid regret.

The heart sculpts us
From within
With neither chisel nor hammer
But with fire
That burns away
The weak facades
We build
Hoping for
Shelter from the
Storm

It melts away
Reason
Logic
Sense
Leaving behind ashes
From which a Phoenix
May yet rise again
Revealing the
True nature
Of our
souls

We are not what we
Seem
Nor are we what we
Say
Not even what we
Do
We are only what we
Feel
And how we
Love

In the darkness
And the cold
And the loneliness
That is our life
It is our only true source
Of
Light
Heat
Comfort
And our only
Refuge

I read the pages of my life so clear,
Its images dismissed as pains of youth,
And yet, though far, I see them all so clear,
Relive the fear, hope, warmth  glimmers of truth.

Vague shadows visit me and leave behind,
Uneasy feelings draped in tenderness,
I see too well, yet wish that I were blind,
And fear above all else my truthfulness.

If only I believed that I could find,  
One path in life to follow faithfully;
How sad that knowledge can be so unkind,
And pain the wages of our honesty.

I'd gladly give my life for peace of mind,
Yet know in life it is not mine to find.

I read the pages of my life so clear,
Its images dismissed as pains of youth,
And yet, though far, I see them all so clear,
Relive the fear, hope, warmth glimmers of truth.

Vague shadows visit me and leave behind,
Uneasy feelings draped in tenderness,
I see too well, yet wish that I were blind,
And fear above all else my truthfulness.

If only I believed that I could find,
One path in life to follow faithfully;
How sad that knowledge can be so unkind,
And pain the wages of our honesty.

I'd gladly give my life for peace of mind,
Yet know in life it is not mine to find.

God's grace in this world,
Can overcome and vanquish,
Cruel hearts filled with hate.

A warning defiled,
By hubris of a pharaoh,
Its purpose revealed.

The puzzling riddle,
And purpose of the Great Sphinx
Revealed in prime time.

A curious world,
Searching for enlightenment,
Ashes its reward.

Placid waters flow,
Lazily this summer's day,
But I hear the falls.

The river of life,
Flows for just a little while,
Before it runs dry.

Watch it from the shore,
From the safety of firm ground,
And you'll never drown.

But if you dive in,
Ride the rapids, risk the falls,
Float on placid bends.

You will know the joy,
Of ever-changing landscapes,
More than worth the risk.

You'll be scraped by rocks,
Find no shade against the sun,
Little time for rest.

When waters run dry,
And you reach your journey's end,
You'll have truly lived.

The road not taken,
Yields incomparable views,
In rear view mirror.

I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station,
Breathing in the *****-scented air,
Breathing out clouds of steam,
A subway train rushes along,
Not stopping,
Biting at my eardrums,
With the painful percussion,
Of thousands of people,
Silently screaming,

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

The air fanned by each subway car,
Rushes against me,
Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings,
Into my nostrils,
Along with the air,
****** through the iron gratings,
Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks,
Carrying the odor of a *******’s festering sores,
And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers,
And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern,
And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway,
Turning $20 tricks in an alley,
Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs,
And . . .

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

. . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup,
And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut,
And putrid lilies lying in a gutter,
All assaulting me, forcing me backwards,
Until my back presses against,
The grimy once-white tiles,
That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine:

God is dead,
Bake a ****,
Whitey *****,
**** the *******,

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

The train finally passes,
Its red eyes receding into the dank,
Dark tunnel beyond the platform,
The screeches and screams slowly die out,
Their echoes ******* behind them,
The smell,
Of my,
Warm
*****.

Why are you so cool, dark mistress?
Why live half your life in shadow,
Throwing off my light to an ungrateful companion?
You can be so much more than a pale beacon for the unworthy.

Do not reject my caresses,
Embrace them, and I promise they will
Slowly stir your dormant core,
Back to a long-forgotten fiery life.

Let my solar winds blow off your dusty shell,
Into a glorious trail of sparkling fairy dust,
Revealing your hidden, thinly-veiled, true self,
To a universe that will only then come to know true beauty.

Let my embrace melt the precious water at your poles,
That it may seep down to find the dormant seeds,
Of your once-verdant valleys and once more bring life,
In tenderest green shoots of hope to an awakening world.

You are not the cold, chaste Diana of legend thirsty for the hunt,
You are not a barren rock pounded throughout eons into dust,
You are not dead, but only sleeping, awaiting a primordial kiss,
From your true love who has loved you from afar for far too long.

Oh let me love you and thereby end your needless solitude,
We are forever bound by forces we cannot control and must obey,
But our hearts are our own and can beat as one, If you but let them,
Love, the strongest force in the universe, makes all things possible.

A God who loves me despite the many faults that make me unworthy of His love;

A wife who has been my best friend for three fourths of my life, even when I have been so much less of a friend to her than she deserves;

Parents who have given up everything that I may have a life better than they enjoyed and never made me feel the weight of their sacrifice and who I know now watch over me from heaven;

Grandparents who imparted through their example values that include:
--prize your good name above all other things;
--there is no shame in poverty but for poverty of spirit;
--hard work will see us through any adversity; and
--there are many things far more precious than our own lives;

Friends who have helped me get through the most difficult times of my life;

The opportunity to serve others through meaningful work;

Exceptional colleagues with whose help anything is possible;

Teachers in public and private institutions that instilled in me a love of learning through high school and beyond;

The men and women who put on a uniform every day and voluntarily undertake the dangerous work of policing our streets, putting out our fires, rescuing us from harm and ensuring our freedom through their selfless sacrifice in places far, far from home;

The privilege to live in an adopted country that has welcomed, accepted and nurtured me, bestowed upon me the honor of its citizenship and to which I am most proud to pledge my allegiance above all others, grateful beyond words for the opportunity to live in the greatest country the world has ever known.

Glazed eyes stared at me,
Bereft of recognition,
But now you see all.

The wise speak softly,
Fools yell out their every thought,
That all may know them.

The Wise Speak Softly

The wise speak softly,
Fools yell out their every thought,
That all may know them.

___

Los Sabios Hablan en Voz Baja

Los sabios hablan en voz baja,
Los tontos gritan cada pensamiento,
Para que todos puedan conocerlos.

https://allpoetry.com/VictorD._L%C3%B3pez

The world is my oyster,
Though it is three days dead,
Malodorous coffin,
Lined in mother of pearl,
Concealing no treasure,
Not a perfect large pearl,
Just my flesh-covered bones,
And the dreams I once dreamed,
That died while yet I lived,
And hoped they might be born.

S/he with the most toys,
In the end wins, but only,
What only fools prize.

A poem is a song,
That resonates a lifetime,
In receptive hearts.

Poetry is life,
That grows from the fertile soil,
Of our broken dreams.

Poets are weavers,
Who spin fragile threads of hope,
From dust in the wind.

An endless screeching tone, now in both ears,
You cannot know the solace of silence,
Until it is taken away from you.

A billion cicadas that will not die,
Along with high-pitched sirens ever near,
Symphonies translated by a kazoo.

Inoperable tumor in my ear,
Genetic hearing loss on my dad's side,
The joy of music fading, singing too.

Like the vibrant colors of a rainbow,
Stretching over all the oceans on Earth,
Fading to gray, dissolving into black.

My world is dissolving to a shrill hum,
The babbling of a brook, a child's sweet laugh,
A canary's joyful song of courtship.

A gentle autumn breeze rustling dry leaves,
A clock ticking away remaining time,
All but drowned out save for their memory.

We are brothers and sisters of the pen,
Toiling in darkness, hoping to shed light,
Clicking away our life's blood every day,
Passionately crafting words that go unread.

Of all the things in life that we could do,
None would yield lesser tangible rewards,
We do it not for gain, or praise, or fame,
We do it because it is simply what we are.

We write with ink, with toner, or with blood,
To allow others to see through our eyes,
A world that's stripped of facile, false facades,
And rendered to expose its naked truth.

We travel solitary paths of joy and pain,
Hoping some friends along the way to gain.

We sleep at night secure we think,
That surely we'll awake,
But what if dreams would others link,
Intent to our mind take?

Our brain gives birth to consciousness,
Though science knows not how,
Our brightest minds can only guess,
But never truly know.

I posit other minds than ours,
May share the sleeping brain,
And in some cases nightly hours,
Through dreams cause us real pain.

If we are weak and they are strong,
The battle they might win,
They fight to live, no right or wrong,
In the struggle within.

Can our dreams **** us?
One man finds they can and leaves
A warning and proof.

We know so very little about dreams,
Are they just fantasies we realize?
Products perhaps of the subconscious mind,
Working out problems as we sleep at night?

No one yet understands the human brain,
Mapping its function is beyond our grasp,
Despite the knowledge science has achieved,
Its mystery's still a Gordian knot.

How does cognition arise in our brain?
What are its secrets we have yet to find?
Where does the soul reside, if one exists?
And what is hidden from the conscious mind?

What if we were to find to our surprise,
Others inhabit that which we most prize?

Some simple words to all my fledgling,
Brothers and sisters of the pen,
Who long to sing most beautifully and
Stretch their downy wings of poetry.

No expert I, nor one who soars,
On powerful wings in cloudless skies,
But nearly fifty years of steady flight,
Does some perspective bring.

In all humility I offer you some simple truths,
That I have learned throughout the years,
In hopes that they may help you fly,
Long, sure and true to meet your destiny.

Read widely friend, and learn the forms,
That you may yet grow to disdain,
It will enrich both your life and poetry,
Expand your wingspan and power your flight.

You must know the rules of writing,
And of poetry before you can break them,
Else you will strike dissonant chords,
Like nails on chalkboards in ears not owned by fools.

Learn all you can about the world,
Its inner workings are grist for the mill,
Peel back the layers of life like an onion,
And truth will be revealed, though often through tears.

Again, read widely, no substitute for that,
But write in your own voice,
Poetry is not karaoke--do not imitate,
Let your true voice rise above the din.

Learn all you can about the world,
History, philosophy, literature, culture,
It will amplify your view and give you X-ray sight,
To pierce false facades of prettily adorned lies.

Life is your canvas, ideas your paint,
Rules the brushes with which to render truth,
As seen through your eyes to show the world,
Limit not your subject to me, myself and I.

Whether your talent is great or as small as mine,
You have the power to open closed eyes,
To touch both hearts and minds and change the world,
By skillfully stringing words one at a time.

Your voice is as unique as a snowflake,
Amplified by your skill and singular vision,
To a crystalline palace the whole world can see,
Sing out your melody, and always to thine own self be true.

We search for true love,
Often for a lifetime,
Yet seldom find it.

Love's not hard to find,
Especially when we're young,
Consumed by passion.

As we age we find,
The embers still glow brightly,
But do not consume.

Yet the pain persists,
Emptiness that we can't fill,
However we try.

If we find true love,
No force in the universe,
Can keep us from it.

No matter the source,
No matter the circumstance,
We meld into one.