Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Nov 2015 · 609
POEM 88
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
Basho On The Night Stand**

I.
I found Basho sitting on my night stand;
he was measuring the distance
plum blossoms flew
when blown by Autumn wind.
It was an exercise
a mental confrontation
of spirit and nature
that is oft mystified
into confusion.

II.
Why is it
that the resonance
from the meeting of frog and pond,
leads most to a mythical,
non-existent god
or karma
or zen?
When it is pleasing enough
and real, to listen
and appreciate
the dynamics of tingling synapses
and neurons leaping
in a conscious mind.
To be in awe of the beauty of the leap.
To sing the notes that ripple
out in waves.

III.
Found Basho’s ancient pond
saw his huge frog leaping with
resonance and splash.

And I was awed by the Ker-plunk!

redzone /Aztec Warrior 8.17.12
Wandering in notebooks again.. written when I was using pen name 'redzone'
Nov 2015 · 952
POEM 87
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
Senryu #10
Being in love is
like walking a tight rope with
out a safety net.

~~~~

Haiku #112**
whale songs are whispers
written on ocean waves in
haiku melodies.

Aztec Warrior 11.3.15
Nov 2015 · 676
POEM 86
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
MONSTER SLAYER: GEORGE

Summer clouds,
billowing white, amidst
a blue ocean,
speak in the language of
rabbits, turtles, whales,
of knights and warriors.
Moving slowly
with majestic determination,
calling all to look,
imagine
and create
those night time lullabies
to help small children
sleep
and not fear
those monsters
in the closet,
under the bed,
or in the room
down the hall.

All too quickly
they learn the monsters
are real, alive and well;
are the ones sitting
on the edge of the bed
singing of woodland creatures,
pretending their sharpened teeth
don’t leave scars that
never ever heal.

As a young boy
I would watch those billowing
white clouds
and imagine knights and warriors
carrying sharpened,
double edged swords,
advancing on this ocean blue
as they headed to my best friends bedroom
to cut off the heads
of these monsters
and stop those sweet lullabies.

Today, summer clouds
hung, draping their whiteness
in such a way
I saw your face.
A tear streaked your cheek,
but the there was also a smile.
I remember you pitching fast *****
that hurt my catchers hand,
as batter after batter
swung and missed.
You were that good.
I remember us mixing a
toxic concoction
with my chemistry set
and killing a colony of ants.
It was a masacre.
That night we both had nightmares
of ant armies seeking revenge
and swore we would forever
protect all life
as penitence.
For a while
we were best friends.

And then
the monsters came.
You were 11,
in fifth grade when
you finally fought back.
After the monster attacked
your mother and sister,
you found your sword.
As in the epic tale of George the Dragon Slayer,
the battle was fierce;
blood everywhere;
but George,
the boy with the lightning fast ball;
the boy who apologized for killing ants;
did the bravest thing of all -
he slew the monster!
*

George -
you were my best friend
they took you away
and I have never seen you again.
I never got to tell you
I was so happy you won!
George -
you were my best friend
you taught me to be brave;
to stand against all monsters.

(Written using the pen name:
~~redzone 4.12.14
Posted using the pen name Aztec Warrior)

Note: The other day when it was so warm and spring-like, a memory from long ago floated around in my mind. His name was George S., and for two years, he was my best friend.
    I wanted you to meet him, and tried in a more poetic form to tell you some about him. He came from another country. He, his mother and sister had fled from his father who abused them. But he found them and for a short time things were ok, until the horrors began again.
    This poem is for all who know what abuse and oppression is and have survived because of your courage in battling these monsters. It is also for all those who in one way or another have not been able to do this, in spite of their heroic efforts. Our hearts are yours forever!
     George, where ever you are, THANK YOU. Cause at a very early age, you showed me what it means to be brave and to stand up against injustice and abuse.
Last night a poet asked me how I could be so sympathetic to those who have suffered abuse since I myself have never been abused. One of many reasons is because of George. We talked, he cried and I tried as best as an 11 year boy could to listen. He would never let me come into his house if his dad was home. In some ways I guess I was his release. But he was the brave one!!! I remember telling him he could stay at my house, but he said that he had to go home cause his sister and mother needed him. Ironic, cause that was the night he used his sword (a butchers knife he had hidden). That next morning when I stopped by his house to walk together to school, there was a cop car outside and told me George was taken away.
Nov 2015 · 821
POEM 85
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
BECOMING CONSCIOUS AFTER EATING A YELLOW MOON**


yesterday I ate a yellow moon
as it rode low, and slowly
encountered a twilight sky.
it tasted like vanilla crunch.
but you know, eating the moon
gives you a headache,
like the kind you get if your face
was slammed against the wall,
then kicked in the gut
when you were down.
the kind of headache
I’ve had since I was three;
at least that is what I was told.
I can’t remember much
about those early days.
besides the headaches,
I have been deaf since ten
and I carry a limp as well
as a glass eye
from having philosophical
discussions with each cellar step
as I bounced down.
I now find it hard to open the cellar door
cause I swear I hear crying
coming from down there.
I know it must be me
sprawled on the blood soaked floor
and I think I might go crazy
if I saw myself.

~~~

you know what’s really crazy though?
for the longest time
I loved him; would follow him
do everything I could to please him.
bring him his pipe
or the newspaper
get him coffee.
except on those days
where his eyes were red
and he stank of ****. thenI would plead:
“oh daddy. don’t be mad at me.
please don’t hit me. no,
no, not mr. johnson, that
hurts so much.
I’ll be good. I promise.”

~~~

even now, I think I love him.
I never meant to push him back,
to knock him down the stairs
I guess if I had called
the ambulance right away
everything would have been okay.
but the judge said that it was wrong
to stab him so many times;
to cut off his johnson
and stick it in his mouth.
somehow though,
I never understood why.
it’s not like he begged
for mercy
and he never once cried!

~~~

I am home now,
back from another conversation
with electricity,
sitting in my room
at St. Mary’s starring blankly
at this huge, yellow moon.
as I savor its vanilla crunch,
I am trying to understand why
I feel like I am to blame?
trying to remember if I ever smile;
work up the courage to hate him.

(Written under this pen name)
~~redzone 10/29/02
Posted as Aztec Warrior 10.31.15
I have been reading a lot of poems that deal with abuse of one shade or another and wanted to add to this conversation. This aabuse is far too widespread and need to be forced into the light of day and STOPPED.  So there are no misunderstandings, I personally have never been abused. I know of and am friends with many who have been and continue to suffer in open and internal ways too numerous to mention. I hope that perhaps knowing you are not alone in this will be helpful.   Aztec
Nov 2015 · 485
POEM 84
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
HUMAN NATURE**

Many come from lands
that seem light years away.
Speaking tongues that tickles,
as neurons flow in an open mind.
Strange, yet like the sounds of Jade,
makes you giggle as you realize
all that is being said is,
“Hey Red, how are you doing man?”
~~~
Many come looking for HOPE;
work, a way to feed their young ones.
Many come simply to survive
the destruction
that once was home.
They come to escape being disappeared;
come because of disappeared loved ones;
sons, husbands, daughters
found some day, maybe, in mass graves.
Disappeared by:
Ton Ton Macoutes,
Death Squads, Dincote,
Special forces conquistadors,
or any number of SOA trained
armies/soldiers stamped with:
“Made In The U.S.A.”
~~~
They come to ‘live free’ or
find ‘democracy’, ironically
to the very place
that is responsible for this disgrace-
fullness committed against humanity.
~~~
They come to live
and yet, their dreams are of
HOME!
Home where there is peace.
Home, where jobs are meaningful,
not enslaving.
Home, where the land is yours
and crops plentiful,
allowing you to live as human beings.
~~~
These are proud,
brave and daring men
with names like:
Thanh, Aftab, Simon, Mukesh
and Donovan.
These are determined, dignified women
with heads held high
and names that seek the skies:
Ekta, Mai, Kenya, Nazma
and Sing.
~~~
Looking out at their varied shades of skin,
wistful eyes, reflecting like
fall leaves in a vast rain forest,
it is easy to get lost
in these cold waters of diversity.
Looking
Lost
Wishing
Dreaming of a dripping wet world
as seen from outer space;
AS ONE.
No borders,
No boundaries,
flying thru a blue, cloudless sky.
Breaking ALL traditions chains.

(written using the pen name)
~~redzone 4.2.01~~
Posted 10.31.15  Aztec Warrior
This is a poems I wrote a while ago about the  last placed I worked in before being laid off and moving to NYC. It was "International City" and I loved the diversity.
Oct 2015 · 707
POEM 83
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
Steel**

In the morning,
even before the sun got up,
you could smell it.
Thick fog
covered everything with dust.
The dust from
tall chimneys
spewing out
the mornings breakfast of ****.
It was like this
every minute,
every day,
every year
since the foundry was born.
It was fog-stench;
you breathed it,
you ate it,
you drank it;
it defined you
then spit you out
as lung cancer,
breast cancer,
the Big "C".
And then you were no more.
~~~
I lasted 10 years
til they kicked me out.
10 years,
and then they modernized
until the foundry disappeared
one day in its fog.
Today it covers another city,
in another country
carrying its dusty fog
to identify another people
with its cancer.
Another people who once
had beauty and lives.
~~~
10 years
carrying hand held  red lava,
pushing it into molds
fast - sparks flying -
burning skin;
and above this din, words -
"hurry boy,
don't let it freeze."
~~~
There are many of us now,
roaming dust covered streets,
spewed out
like last nights trash,
wondering who we are.

( written under this pen name ~~redzone 2/12/14)
Aztec Warrior
Note: I worked in a steel foundry
for 10 years carrying 100 pound ladles
of molten steel; pouring into sand molds.
It was heavy, hot ad ***** work.
I have many leg burn scars to prove it.

© 2014 redzone
another of my "work" poems
Oct 2015 · 1.6k
POEM 82
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
While Waiting For The Train #4


Sitting here, thinking about work
and the inherent contradictions
of housekeeping.
Or, should I say:
Sanitary Engineer,
Building Maintenance.
In reality, all it is
is an old fashioned janitor.
Or, as some of my friends say:
“Old **** janitor!”
Affectionately,
but also with an edge.

oo0oo

But this isn’t what I am thinking about.
No, it’s more the routine
and its mindless activity.
As we often say:
“It’s the same old, same old”;
or, “SSDD”;
same ****, different day.”
Today for example,
it was a Thursday Monday.
It’s always a Monday of some kind.
And Monday kind of describes the job too.

oo0oo

This too, is not what I am thinking.
It’s more the executive decisions
a janitor must make.
Decisions that determine
the ‘smooth’ functioning of a factory,
office, or where ever.
You laugh!
But really, it’s true.
Ever go to the bathroom
and there is no toilet paper?
See, I exaggerate not.
Or what if there were no
forks, knives, or spoons
in the lunch room.
Then what?
Are you really going to eat that
crispy green salad
with mushrooms and feta cheese,
smothered in ranch
with your fingers? Please!

oo0oo

But, even these earth shaking decisions
are not what I am thinking.
It’s those ever present,
critical questions:
sweep, mop, then pull trash?
Or should I pull trash, sweep
and then mop?
This monotonous rotation
determines the rotation
of the earth around the sun;
the phases of the moon
and when will I clean the bathrooms,
causing the most inconvenience
to everyone.
This by the way, is most satisfying
and one of the few perks of the job.
Sweep,
mop,
pull trash;
sweep, mop, pull trash.
Or, pull trash,
sweep,
mop!
It can give you grey hairs,
all this responsibility
and decision making.

oo0oo

Sitting here, now on the train home,
a brilliant,
not to mention uplifting,
idea rampages through my tired mind.
Tomorrow
I am going to be rebellious-
an open radical!
A free thinker!
Tomorrow, I have decided
will be “Liberation Day”.
“Janitors of the world unite!”
Tomorrow there will be a revolution,
as I,
the **** Old Janitor will:
mop,
pull trash,
then sweep!!!

(written as~~redzone 5.14.09 - Aztec Warrior)

© 2014 redzone
ahha, memories from when I last worked, before being laid off.. I wrote several more about this job and will post if I can find them. So this is dedicated to all those who have a job and special thanks to Kalypso whose poem on "domestic" chores reminded me of this poem.. Thanks K
Oct 2015 · 400
POEM 81
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
TRAPPED
( a friend once said to me they felt 'trapped',
like they held nothing and felt so alone that when they walked
they left no tracks to be seen. Thinking about this, I
wrote this poem)
~~~~
Stepping into shadow,
I can feel its allure;
Its safe place features,
Even though it’s all sinewy.
Blue smoke tension swirls,
Images appear, disappear,
But I am hidden from their meaning.
*

In the distance I hear music.
Rhythmic beats clash
But cannot get through these clouds;
Cannot move my feet.
I am alone in this shadow.
It is a place of safety
Where my feet leave no tracks;
Where my movements
Have no touch.

In the distance,
Just on the other side of this cloudy wall,
I hear you call my name.
My open eyes see only grays,
Blacks,
Some swirling white-
All else is eaten by
I don’t care.

You call out again,
Disturbing my shadow.
“Hey Aztec, are you living?
Or are you dying?
You only get to choose one.”
I don’t wanna choose.
I don’t wanna live.
I don’t wanna die.
Let me just stay here,
Surrounded in grays and
Swirling blacks.  
Here, where my feet leave no tracks.
Here in the comfort of oblivion.
*
Yes, I am dying.
Leave me alone.

Aztec Warrior
Oct 2015 · 426
POEM 80
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 80**
(Cover Me)

“...this whole world’s out there
just trying to score
I’ve seen enough
don’t wanna see any more.
I’m looking for a lover
who will come on in and cover me..”
          Bruce Springsteen, “Cover Me”, from ‘Born In The USA’

~~~~
No matter which way I lay,
half my bed mocks me
with loneliness,
with the chill of emptiness
and “what the hell is the matter
with you,
you old coot”.
Yet, not so old
that I forgot
the warmth of a feminine sigh,
or the scent of her skin
as she drapes her leg
over my thigh
and nestles closer to me.
“Cover me”...
...with your wildly spiced
vanilla sunshine
and deliciously tempting,
ruby lipped serenade
as you touch your lips to mine.
“Come on in and cover me”;
where there is no rain
or snow,
only your springtime breath
traveling over me;
only my summer kisses
wandering all over your
intoxicating contours,
through shapely valleys
and fields,
scaling and nipping
hardened mountain tips,
while enticing your arched back welcoming
and staring into
your desirous eyes.
~~~~
Yes, imagination twists inside
calling out from my empty bed,
cover me - covering you
with currents of naked skin
swimming in timeless exotic seas,
counting our hearts’ rhythm
of should be’s
but are not.
~~~~
So, yes,
still looking for a love to
come in and cover me.

Aztec Warrior 10.27.15
The quoted lines are from the Springsteen song, "Cover Me". Song embedded here:   https://youtu.be/dkaSxmvZnGs
Oct 2015 · 479
POEM 79
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
WHISPERS*

I wanted to tell you,
to allow my words to roll,
then sway, like the way
Autumn air mingles
within the halls where
Lester Bowie played
“I Only Have Eyes For You”.
These laughing chords of
light-hearted brass fantasy
seduced you to
my intimacy;
surrounded you with
warm arms and
to dance you to a calypso embrace.
                  Or, so I hoped.

I wanted to tell you,
to sing my words,
fill pages
with the sound of poems
read just before the sun
disappears the night,
and we are sweet with
the scent and sweat
of liquid rhythmic sighing.
                 Or so I hoped.

Instead,
all I could do was blush,
then whisper your name
as my trembling fingers
traced your slightly
parted lips.

~~Aztec Warrior 2003~~

https://youtu.be/jRgERvzZf74
an older poem that I found today digging around in old poetry notebooks. The music is Lester Bowie's Brass Fantasy version of
"I Only Have Eyes For You"
Oct 2015 · 397
POEM 78
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 78**
A Crystal Moon

“... deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die....”
–Pablo Neruda, ‘Your Laughter’
from, “The Captain’s Verses”, 1972
~~~~

In the sky
your crystal moon
shines on me,
lighting a pathway to you.
But even if your light went out,
I would still find you as
your laughter sings
from mountain tops,
forest glens
and spring cooled streams.
And I hear your laughter say:
“Come to me.
Find me in these meadows
filled with betrayal’s sorrows,
drenched in heartbreak’s melancholia,
and drowned in ocean’s tearful waves.
Come, find me in you.”
~~~~
In the sky
a new moon reflects
in your eyes
as invisible rays
entice me to say:
“Dear one,
let’s climb over these walls,
roam through life mysteries,
and into lilac gardens.
Cocoon us from hurt’s shadows,
and hand in hand, let’s
reach for the stars.”
~~~~
But, in the sky
a crystal moon shines,
it’s beams searching for you,
wondering if your laughter
will be heard again.
~~~~
And I, broken
and lost in the ground,
wonder when I will die.

Aztec Warrior 10.21.15
A wonderful friend here has been re-posting some of Pablo Neruda's poetry and being a huge Neruda fan, wanted to try to write a love poem in the style of Neruda. Not sure I succeeded but... and thank you Kalypso, for enticing me to get out my Neruda books and dig into his poetry more deeply...
Oct 2015 · 426
POEM 77
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
Cynicism*

Urban(e) smells
suffocate our human(e)-ness
struggling to remember forests,
but still sparing with ghosts.
^^^
We use to howl and rage,
even dance at the Moon -
cursing its phases and
orangeness.
Now we only nod,
that American ****** nod
as it influences our moods;
rationalizing our ability to ****
everyone, everything
different than us;
allowing us to watch indifferently
at Gaza ethnic cleansing
as phosphorous explosions
replace both sun and moon.
It’s like watching small birds
hung by their necks
swinging
like ornaments
from brown, barren trees,
thinking: “Aaah, this must be
post - modern art.
See how their eyes bulge
and their wings droop just so
in a compelling, nihilistic sway.
Haven’‘t I seen something like this before?”
Yes, there has always been
‘strange fruit’ dangling from
the grand vistas
of the American scream.
^^^
But today,
they say  -
“We can be proud to be Americans again.”
Oh goodie!
But where is humanity in this?
And will humanity ever see the forest again?
Or dance and howl at the Moon?

Aztec Warrior
This was written after the last election and all the hype. Since we are once again witnessing yet another "democratic facade" I thought it appropriate to share...
Oct 2015 · 409
POEM 76
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 76
Words, Distance, Space*

*I have been thinking lately
about words, distance and space
and the time it takes
for my words to reach you.

Do they become elongated
while traveling through space,
over endless miles
of far away lakes,
forests,
rivers and fields?

Can they navigate over the chasms
made by countless obstacles
and endless nights to
allow for a magical touch?
Will our word fingers embrace
in a waltz
played in Neruda’s tones
and echoing to the world
as we go?

I think Poseidon in the depths
and Venus flying in her orbit
would weave mythical
‘imagical’ stories
if such words conquered
time, distance and space.

Aztec Warrior 10.19.15
I was thinking lately, even with modern communication technology, how it is sometimes difficult to share words with a friend.
Oct 2015 · 424
POEM 75
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
TIME

Time is measured by the beating of humanities heart.
It sings of liquid fire
And the cleansing of
Selfish greed, do unto others,
A waste land of sterility.
Time is the relentless efforts,
The unrepentant boldness
Of 2 lovers breaking with
Old musty winds;
Of drinking from crystal cool pools
With red moist, needy lips.
Time is pounding thunder.
"Cause the **TIMES
they are a changin'."  

Aztec Warrior
OOOPS... made a mistake and didn't give credit to Bob Dylan for the last line in this poem. (my emphasis though) It's from a poem/song he wrote back "in the day" and was a kind of rallying cry for the times...
Oct 2015 · 1.4k
POEM 74
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 74
A Voice And Colors


did you know
there are colors
in her voice?
not just your normal hues,
but sequined shades
that hypnotize within your heart
as she speaks,
and you are pulled under a magical spell.
there are subtle shades
of reds, greens, yellows,
even blues
that as of yet
have no names
but shine like imagination.
they twinkle,
then shift
drawing you closer to listen
as she sings you
a siren’s enchanting poem.

and my heart starts beating.

Aztec Warrior 10.18.15
some explanation...  some, write about love with wonderful "imagination", an imaginary love, even if not directed to anyone in particular... this poem is a dedication to that wonderful imagination and imaginary love and to her voice that sings about it... hope you enjoy.
Oct 2015 · 1.0k
POEM 73
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
LISTENING

Poetry is so strange;
like a stiletto sharp moon
it shines our hearts
with midnight wonders.
And, by its glow I read,
"our deep cosmic loneliness
and our starboard hearts
where love careens,
we are listening,
the small bipeds
with the giant dreams."


Yes D.A., we are listening
to the pulsar songs
played in the universe.
We are listening
for others,
who just may be listening for us.

Seduction is like this you know;
subtle, uncertain,
even fragile at times;
yet irresistable as Lilacs
beckoning the moon.
Seduction is also a
summer down pour
we willingly get caught in,
jumping greedily
in puddles,
laughing,
just happy to be together.
We listen to the patterns
water splashing made;
listen for others
to hear what they have to say,
even if they were many galaxies away.

*
We listen.
We wait, but not idly.
We listen, write poetry
sharp, like a stiletto moon.
And, under its midnight glow,
hold hands.


NOTE: the bold quoted lines are from a
poem called "We Are Listening", by
Diane Ackerman found in her book
entitled "Jaguar of Sweet Laughter".


*Aztec Warrior
Oct 2015 · 486
POEM 72
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
Music Liberation*

Staring out the window,
listening to morning colors
mingling among the last of night's hold,
I wander through this song of
stardust memories.

I hear it calling in notes that
ride tight G clef
of 6/8 time, then
syncopate into a be-bop dip,
laughing through the pulsing lips
and swaying hips
of a jazz playing quasar.

Meandering through this beating
blue noise haze
I hear you softly say:
"In the spirit of pulsar improvisation
let our wild, unfettered imagination
create a world littered with
musical reverberation.

In an earth cleansing,
blues chasing human beat,
let us hasten each step,
until our world has been won."

Aztec Warrior
(written several years ago

https://soundcloud.com/user-520857625/audio-recording-music
Oct 2015 · 1.0k
POEM 71
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
A JOURNEY**

The night-stone, carefully placed
in the small bear skin pouch,
discusses drum beats with
amulets, charms, powders and
even a small wren’s yellow puff feather.
All creating within the power
of his ancestral soul.
This small obsidian,
chipped and flaked smooth stone
held along its edges the
blood of the animals
sacrificed to keep him alive;
giving him their spirits,
their views on how the Mother evolved
as well as their precious
shapes as he passed
from one world to the next.
His bag was rich medicine
and served him well.
~~~
He stood looking over
a vast valley plain
and could hear the stream
wrinkle smooth the rocks
as its mountain waters
continuously flowed.
He could see the honey bee
making love to the poppies
and clovers as well as
the sweet daffodils.
He could taste the pine needles
dance on the musky,
early morning soil after they
were awakened by squirrels
looking for a game of tag.
And he could feel lightly
the sway of Oak trees
moving slightly by the notes two hawks sung
circling, whispering, hypnotizing
their wary prey.
~~~
Looking out over this
green smelling plain
he could feel the vision swell,
as guided by this trance
he searched his pouch for
the blood star he had captured
one spring day while
riding the back of old Turtle.
Looking out over this
amber hazed horizon
he felt himself walking
talking with Grandfather
asking the meaning of rain,
wind and snow that carried him
gently to Big Mountain.
“Grand Father,
where is the beauty?
Where is the peace
above and below us?
Grand Father,
why are we still blind
to the wolf’s howl
and the cawing of the crow”
~~~
Standing atop Big Mountain,
holding in his left hand
the red star cloth
he begins his journey.
“Grand Father, let the wind beat
this drum of resistance
that is our human essence;
let the rain soak our hearts
cleansing us worthy to find
the path of snow and its soothing
warmth to make the Earth whole.
Grand Father, I only know
Babylon must fall.And this crimson star,
dripping with the people’s tears
can lead us back to the heights
of Big Mountain;
to the beauty and peace
above and below;
to our long lost whale songs
sung by the night sky
and seen in our children’s eyes.”
Carefully placing the medicine bag
around his neck,
holding it and smiling,
he takes the first steps..

Aztec Warrior
Oct 2015 · 676
POEM 70
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
THE TASTE OF SYNONYM*


The odor of stale beer danced
with the steel blue smoke,
while Ska beats filled the air
with electricity.

As the room filled,
a thousand words spoke
all at once, loudly,
making it seem like a small riot.
Amidst the noise of confusion
and polemical anticipation,
I saw you stare.

You came at me with tight jeans,
a feminine sway,
and a slightly ruby smile.

You came at me
like an afternoon thunder storm
with lips tasting of cinnamon- synonyms
and dark brown eyes.

But it was in the symmetry of nuance
and the way you nestled easily
within the folds of my arms;
the way faded jeans and
oft washed flannel shirt
felt like home.

It was in the symmetry of morning delights,
of your creamy antonyms
melting on my tongue, that inspired
as I  explored your perfumed valleys,
roamed your mountain tips.

And I went to you in simile,
with a smile that said:
I walk no longer in shadow,
but in the moonlight of your eyes.

I went to you
with Neruda on my lips
and Enigma as my guide,
singing the Blues in Haiku tones,
painted as inquisitive whys.

I came at you
with poetry in my heart
and your synonymous taste on my lips.

I came at you
like gentle summer sips
of sonnet-flavored rain.

You came at me in synonyms;
and I replied  with cinnamon and rhyme:
come, speak to me of time,
art,
and the rhythm of the night sky.
                                                            ­          
Aztec Warrior

https://soundcloud.com/user-520857625/the-taste-of-synonym
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 69
(A Dream Spoken in 2 Parts)

I.
The sky, falling,
why does it melt
when you read poetry?
The earth sways,
then stills
as your silken words touch.
And all I want
is to be lost
in your soft, gentle voice;
and melt in your sky.
II.
The moon, rising,
why is it on fire?
I hear words gently breathing,
is it the Pleiades singing
teasing Orion’s chase;
or is it the siren’s call
enticing ocean waves?
And all I want
is to burn in your flame.

Aztec Warrior 10.12.15*  


https://soundcloud.com/user-520857625/audiorecording
Oct 2015 · 879
POEM 68
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 68*

The curtain dances the breeze
through the window
chasing the sun slowly
across the wall
until it highlights your face.
You begin to stir,
one eye opens
as your hand
reaches over to
where my heart is racing
toward good bumps.
You move closer,
place your head on my shoulder
and return to sleep,
as a dream’s smile
covers your lips.
~~~
I have always loved
watching you sleep;
your breast rising,
falling
to the song
only you sing.
~~~
This song,
the one that wakes me
to the morning sun,
that carries me through the day,
is also the song
that now eludes me,
shatters my hopefulness
and carves shadows
all through my heart.
~~~
Every morning,
as the curtain dances
the Autumn breeze
and the sun climbs my wall,
I wonder,
why have you gone?
Will I ever hear from you again?


*Aztec Warrior 10.7.15
Oct 2015 · 574
POEM 67
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
LET'S KISS THE SKY

“Wild thing
I think you
Move me...
You make everything
Groovy...
Wild thing
I think
I love you.....”
~~Jimi Hendrix version (Live)

Splashed across
the Monterey screen,
a Jimi scene
where he is on
his knees,
guitar aflame
as red ember fingers
entice,
urge each flickering note
to wail, screech.
Black, all colored
fingers encourage
a generation to
take it higher,
be the fire
burning down an
oppressive society.
“Wild thing,
I want to know for sure...
You move me!”
~~~~~
Back in the day,
as we often say,
Babylon was
on the run.
People planet wide
were having fun
like agitated atoms
escaping the sun
in great solar storm flares
spurred on by
Mao Tsetung
and the red East
rising of Tai Shan.
While in the beast’s belly
stood the Black Panther Party.
Red Book’s shining light
held high, displayed proudly.
In the other hand
they held
the guns
of liberation.
There were many who
impatiently
awaited word,
‘Let’s go! Now!
Seize the time
Seize the hour
Off the pigs,
Seize the power.
The sky was there
with red tinged clouds
waiting
wanting to be kissed
by the surge of humanity.
~~~~~
That was then.
We have rounded
histories bend
never reaching
the top of Chingkangshan.
This is now
a new generation
a youthful crowd
seeks a new hour,
a righteous power
to topple those
old ‘Ivory Towers’.
~~~~~
That was then
we rocked the boulevard
with our deeds
our urgent words
and necessities.
“Let’s not speak falsely now
the hour is getting late.”
Each day
saw some new advance
a new dance.
For a short
wonderful breath
we had the upper hand.
We had the bourgeois
on the run.
They, shaking at rustling leaves;
we, laughing as they flee.
That was then,
this is now.
We have rounded
histories bend
never reaching
the top of Chingkangshan.
~~~~~
As I replay
that Jimi scene from
30 some odd years ago
I can’t help thinking,
We had them on the run?
The flames from Jimi’s alive guitar
spoke to us
and we replied,
‘Wild thing,
you move me!'
And as we round
histories bend,
I can once again
see the snow caps
gleaming in the sun.
This time
this time we will
reach over top
of Chingkangshan,
we will boldly say,
“Excuse me while I kiss the sky!”

Archives:  Written 1998*

https://youtu.be/7DGGFx7Zmbw
This is another poem written a while ago and pulled from the archives.
Oct 2015 · 669
POEM 66
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
ON THE TRAIN

Intro:
   1) “To be or not to be. That is the question.”
        – Shakespeare, from “Hamlet”

   2) “There is but one philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Whether or not the world has 3 dimensions or the mind 9 or 12 categories, comes afterward.”
        – Albert Camus, from “The Myth of Sisyphus”
    
   3) “Yes, I thought. You can ponder this or analyze that til the cows come home, but the real question is whether all your pondering and analysis will convince you that life is worth living.”
        – Brian Greene, from “The Fabric of the Cosmos”
    
    4) “ Now when you come up against the great gulf that often, and even generally, exists between the conditions and suffering of the masses of people, on the one hand, and what you are able to do about that at any given point - when you run up against that repeatedly, everyone feels a definite pull which expresses itself in moral terms: how can you stand by and not do something about what’s happening to the masses of people?
          – Bob Avakian, from “BAsics”  
_____

World music colors the air
with Mexico, Ireland, India,
the Middle East and Africa.
Colors-rich, deep, nothing pastel,
primeval
and it’s hard to sit still,
hold my  peace
while these rhythms paint
the pulse of my body.
I can feel the sticky humidity
of jungles fragrant with bougainvillea,
and bromiliades dangle
from every note of Les Nubians.
Talking Drums answer in response.
While trumpets call out
staccato style,
hot with salsa,
a reflection of my uneasy mind
wondering what I will find.
In spite of these colors,
and tunes,
shadows hide in these runes;
it isn’t an easy ride.
*
How do you write about dying?
Could I write a poem
the way Mozart wrote his “Requiem”;
feverish, delusional
yet his notes flowed from his fingers
like a tempest brewing
in an open flame.
While my words are shards,
splintered in millions
trying to make some sense.
Yet this pen won’t leave my hand
it demands to be heard.
*

“Have a nice trip home”, they said.
But these nerves are tensed;
they vibrate
the way this train is bouncing
on the tracks.
Within the swirl of colors and words,
stirred and mixed musically,
we raise our questions,
speak our art
and tell our stories.
There have been many.
Countless, like endless grains of sand
washed ashore in the cosmos.
But what happens when they end?
What if a story winks out
like a dying sun losing its light
as it becomes a black hole.
Or a symphony comes to its last note.
Then what?
Will there ever be another?
A continuance
or something new?
Extinction is final -
it is a *******.
***
Dad, you say that it matters,
that this family name
has reached its last branch.
But why?
Humanity will go on.
What is in a name anyway?
And how did it come about, our name?
But more, what have we done?
Yes, we existed.
We loved, fought and died.
We played, married,
raised family and did what we thought right.
But have we disturbed the universe;
make waves in the ocean’s tide?
More importantly,
did we live and die for the people;
sacrifice all just to make the leaps
to change the world?
Here is an infinite truth:
billions have come and gone
now lost to history;
billions more will do the same.
Our lives are finite,
yet change and matter,
in one form or another
is infinite.
In this ever changing world,
have we strained to the limits
to touch matter,
affect its taste;
attempt to move its direction
in the service of human kind?
Have we simply gone along with the way things are?
Or, have we made a difference?
Have we really lived?

And isn’t this the only truly philosophical question!
_________
Conclusion: Further thoughts:
     1) “But it is only through fearless engagement that we can learn our own limits. It’s only through the rational pursuit of theories, even those that whisk us into strange and unfamiliar domains, that we stand a chance of revealing the expanse of reality.”
          – Brian Greene, from “Hidden Reality”

     2) “Your life is going to be about something - or it’s going to be about nothing. And there is nothing greater your life can be about that contributing whatever you can to the revolutionary transformation of society and the world, to put an end to all systems and relations of oppression and exploitation and all unnecessary suffering and destruction that goes along with them.”
          –Bob Avakian, from “BAsics”

4/30.12 (began 2/12/12)

https://youtu.be/rkhtjCr2fF4
Music: Angelique Kidjo, "Voodoo Child"
I wrote this coming home from a trip to see my parents and listening to World music
Oct 2015 · 612
POEM 65 (A Winter's Tale)
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
A Winter’s Tale


It was a Winter’s tale
you told as soft,
fluffy snow,
fell around us.
Your eyes danced excitedly
with the laughter in your heart,
as you announced,
“we are, all of us,
miracles;
tied together
as one.
And when we die
we fill the sky
with our light.
We become the stars.”
Castor,
Cassiopeia
Cepheus.
~~~~~~
“Do you believe in miracles?”
~~~~~~
No,
not really.
There is no reason
for our existence
and yet,
we are tied together
in countless ways.
I believe our light
returns to the star stuff
from which we were born.
Andromeda,
Gemini
Pleiades...
~~~~~~
I believe
in you;
light’s miracle
found twinkling
in your smile.
Tempting me
the way Benny
enticed Joon.
The way Peter Lake
kissed Beverly Penn.
~~~~~~
No,
I don’t believe in miracles.
But, I believe
in the miracle
that is
Cassiopeia,
Pollux,
Cepheus....
The light
I found in you.

11.23.14*
https://youtu.be/lNy4UNY5KW8
I wrote this poem for/to a dear sweet friend under a different pen name, almost a year ago. I wanted to share it here. It is part of a series of poems but I will only post this one.
Oct 2015 · 674
POEM 64 (Changes)
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
CHANGES

.....”and if the elevator breaks down,
go crazy!”
--Prince, from “Purple Rain”
~~~~~
Is it possible to
hear the rain whisper
to the forest
as it falls between
thirsty trees;
as it converses
dark oboe concertos
with musky,
leaf cluttered earth?
Or to follow
water’s cycle
from the calmness
of the hurricane’s eye,
seeking each molecule
as it links with
oxygen green skies?
~~~~~
Impossible?
But, these random acts,
riotous developments,
are common place,
hum drum, every day
rainbow dreaming
compared to the
possibilities of human
creativity
interactions
and conscious probabilities,
of touching inside
subatomic flows,or standing beside
Jupiter’s cyclops eye
as it penetrates into the soul of
a wicked Miles Be-Bop note
exploding the myth of
humanities inhumanity!
~~~~~
****!
Genghis Khan,
Attila the ***
were angels
gleefully dancing
on the head of a pin
compared to the atrocities of
“human nature” fables
of “selfish genes”,
“bell curves”,
Broca’s brains,
or some god fed, bred
morality of “original sin”,
and “semper fidelis”.
Even Alexander,
slaughtering only hundreds of thousands
in his conquests
built libraries and
stood “enlightened”
compared to today
“****’em all, let God
sort it all out” mentality;
or a more accepted version,
“why, some of my best friends are...”
~~~~~
Have you ever dreamed
a different reality?
Of feeling the wind
in a Van Gogh wheat field?
Or, flying on his “Starry Night” beauty?
Have you ever hoped of being a “Centennial Person”?
Human,
not the robot
powerless automaton
making a handful prosper
while we bleed
nuts and bolts of
everything for a price,
everything for sale.
While for most, we need
need, just to live.
And they say
I am insane
crazy
out of my mind!
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!
Excuse me as I laugh
in your face,
as I look to create a place
to take off my hat
relax, and call home.
Like the black Panther,
Quetzal, or Leopard
I too seek the musky
earth and canopy
of verdurous rain forests;
to bath in crystal,
sun reflecting mists
of mile high water falls;
to drink from mineral rich
mountain streams.
~~~~~
Like sister Elephants
raising their new generations,
discussing the re-emergence of Kalahari
after a Spring thunder storm,
I seek the unfettered
creativity
collectively
voluntary comradery
of human minds
working for the common good,
sharing in the common efforts
of a world made better
as future generations
discuss blue green
oceans where we all
first emerged so many
millennium ago.
~~~~~
I am ready,
still fairly young.
Proletarian sisters, brothers
hand me a gun,
hurry cause
I can see the
Revolutionary People’s Army
storming old
**** encrusted
bourgeois citadels.
What force can stop us?
We are the mountain wind
sweeping down
thru valleys,
over plains.
We are irrepressible,
irresistible.
We have a world to win.

Aztec Warrior 10.4.15
Oct 2015 · 412
POEM 63
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
POEM 63
(A Very SERIOUS ‘Y’ Day Poem)


She calls herself
ninjawarriornoodlebumbles,
and she is all that and so much more.
She is a psychological thriller,
a physiological wonder,
a metaphorical super nova
with a heart that beats gold.
While she is way,
we’re talking light years here,
too old for me
and I will never ever
catch up to her zeal and maturity,
I can’t help but have goo goo eyes
and wave at her
at midnight
during a total,
full moon eclipse
as she giggles at my silliness.
Or, maybe it’s just laughter
cause I am so very young.

Aztec Warrior 9.30.15

Note: for a friend, you know who you are!!
Sep 2015 · 334
POEM 62
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
The Sword Of Un
(a Quixote song)**

My sword, ******,
now sheathed
hangs by my side
still sticky wet
covered with the gore
of apocalyptic horsemen;
their heads hanging from my belt.
Was it all for naught,
as you thought my savagery
was mockery,
false pretense and hypocritical lies,
aiming only for self fulfillment.
~~~~~
Many, it’s true,
seek only what’s in it for them
superficalities in the vain glory
of seeming warm approval
of acceptance;
seeking their own tree water
while the whole forest
is dying of thirst.
~~~~~
I seek not conquest,
but look you
eye to eye,
heart to heart,
and speak openly my words,
dripping and ******,
of devotion for you.
~~~~~
These words,
love and devotion,
are given freely,
yours to keep;
given, not for gain
or ego’s display
and paltriness.
But because within you
I see and feel all
the wonders of life.
Yes, I see your thunder storms
and distorted illusions
of delusional complexities;
and absurdities of unfair life.
And say, bring it, all of it
cause in all these contradictions,
I see you,
for you!
~~~~~
It’s ironic
isn’t it,
I fell in love with you
dancing within your poetry.
And I would ****** my sword,
slay many more apocalyptic dripping horsemen;
let my Sword of Un sing,
sever their heads
and hang them from my belt,
if I knew for one second
it would allow me
to walk with you,
fingers warmly entwined,
sharing the secrets found
on a coconut scented beach,
lie naked on sun warmed sands
and listen to the music
of your woman’s beat.
As I offer you
all the pieces of my heart.
~~~~~
I am not going anywhere.
So if you're in need of revenge,
or to avenge a wrong,
here’s my Sword of Un.
My head is lying on the block.

10.3.14

https://youtu.be/F3RYvO2X0Oo
Sep 2015 · 475
POEM 61
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
1967

It was 1967
when you wandered into my life.
The Beatles were on
a “Magical Mystery Tour”,
but you were my mystery.
Your red hair taunted my sensitivities
and for the longest time
I couldn’t understand
why “P.S. I Love You” played
when you walked in the room.
It was awhile before I realized
my eyes followed the
wishful sway of your hips,
and the slight upward turn of your lips
would ignite a fanciful beat
in my heart,
with a dream of their soft taste.
One of your girlfriends told me once,
you did it just to see my smile.

It was 1967,
the Red Guard rebels had seized back Shanghai
in a January Storm,
the whole world was in joyous celebration
turning everything right side up
and everyone wanted
to kiss the skies.
And you kissed me.


It was Fall,
Autumn's orange and browns ruled
but that kiss felt like
wild, red roses,
blue bells, daffodils
and green smelling air.
That kiss pulled us into world events
and tasted like more.

In 1967
I began to write poetry
and picked up my paint brushes again.
Mostly because of you,
your red hair hue,
how everyone smiled with you,
and the way you made me feel
like I was human.
In 1967 the whole world was changing.
We both felt it
as it affected the way we saw each other.
Lovers yes, but more, standing
in the thick of all the social rebellion.
We wanted a better world.
Hand in hand
we traveled together
for a little while.
I wish I would have loved you better,
more equally,
with more respect.
But I was a typical male,
not yet ready to give up my privilege.


It was 1967
we loved with the passion
of a changing world.
Five years later you left.
Yet I still see your taunting red hair,
can taste your Spring-like kiss,
feel your warm skin next to mine,
and be inspired by the slight upward turn of your lips.
While I put down my paint brush long ago,
my pen still spills ink for you,
still calls you ‘Amber’.

10.16.12
Note: I wrote this under another pen name (redzone) and posted at another poetry web site. But I wanted to share it with you here at HP.

https://youtu.be/Hnrsqf33MXA
Sep 2015 · 357
POEM 60
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
POEM 60
(String Theory Possibilities)

“I’ll wait for you there
like a stone...  Alone
-Audioslave, “Like A Stone
*
There’s a place in my heart
that knows only you
and becomes gooey
emotions with torrential rain
filling the deep oceans of empty space.
Strings and their theory
wrap seductively
around my needing you gravitons
and all I know is
I’m like a stone
waiting to be thrown
skipping across your heart,
leaving ripples of disruption
where new worlds are born.

Aztec Warrior 9.30.15
...no strings were attached or damaged in
writing this poem..
https://youtu.be/7QU1nvuxaMA
Sep 2015 · 337
POEM 59
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
POEM 59

October sighs
a slight breeze
that whispers goose bumps on my skin
as you walk beside me
and hold my hand.
^^^
But, I must say,
I’m not an Autumn wind,
I am the sky.
Nor am I a harvest moon,
I am the night
that comforts you with star light.
I am not a dragon slayer
but I breathe the fires of hope,
and whisper Quixotesque dreams
of sweet surrender nights.
^^^
And I ask,
will you join me
in succulent October sighs.

Aztec Warrior 9.26.15
Sep 2015 · 312
POEM 58
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Intelligence:
doesn't come from books; it
comes from putting people
and the planet first.

Aztec Warrior 9.26.15
Sep 2015 · 482
POEM 57
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
“There must be someway out of here
said the joker to the thief
There’s just too much confusion
I can’t get no relief....”
–Jimi Hendrix, “Along the Watch Tower”

^^^^

While floating on the Adriatic,
I got caught in the monsoon
of your turbulence;
caught in your undertow
and the dystopia
that surrounds your heart

^^^^

But I don’t care
don’t care...  cause
it’s where I want to be;
drenched by your rain,
thundered down your darkness,
then shredded inside your lightning
and devoured by your black hole sun.

^^^^
Cause....   cause
I love you.

Aztec Warrior 9.22.15

Note: “Along The Watch Tower”*
https://youtu.be/TLV4_xaYynY
Sep 2015 · 293
POEM 56
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
It’s okay.
Really.
I don’t want to talk to you either
since there is
already too much silence
between us.
Besides,
I’m going to be busy
gluing back together
all the pieces
of this shattered heart.
Too late I learned
the hold you had on me.
Silly of me
isn’t it.

Aztec Warrior 9.12.15
Sep 2015 · 522
POEM 55
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
POEM  55

Everyone talks about demons,
but how many
have actually seen one?
I have
cause they live inside;
every time I mirror look.
They are small,
smelly ***** of blood matted fur
with sharp razor teeth, and
they never let you go.
Gnawing
biting
ripping
drinking your mind
with hypnotic cruelty
and away from the reality
of this even more horrific world;
leaving you alone
with your pain
as companion.

I don’t go out any more,
broke - no shattered
all the mirrors.
I just sit in this room
filled with four walls of colorlessness.
Sssssssssh...
Don’t talk
maybe if I’m very quiet
they will leave me alone
where I can think
about, sweet
blissful
death.

Aztec Warrior 9.11.15
Sep 2015 · 348
POEM 54
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
A Siren’s Song

is heard crashing upon this shore.
It travels on an ocean breeze,
floating on the sea’s mist
while dazzled by
rotating stars
as they wander through
this endless night.

Like Ulysses,
I cling to the mast,
tie myself to the undulation
of her sensual song
enticing
pulling
calling
me to join her
on the waves
of a starry midnight gaze;
tempting
teasing
swaying suggestively
to follow her song
into the ocean’s
mystery and depth,
into sweet oblivion
and a sailor’s blissful death.

Aztec Warrior 9.10.15
what happens after a conversation between two poet friends...
Sep 2015 · 291
POEM 53
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Candle

The light from the candle
flickers
in that haphazard sway
and reminds me of the sadness
in you eyes.
I want to hold
and comfort you
since that is all I can do.
The pain is yours
from memories new and old.
Maybe one day the anguish
will be gone, and
a smile will find your heart;
until then,
this candle flicker
is writing a poem for you.

Aztec Warrior 9.10.15
Sep 2015 · 434
POEM 52
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Kiss Me: 2 Thoughts

A kiss may be just a kiss,
a sigh, just a sigh,
but when our lips meet
I see heaven in your eyes.
^^^
There's a lot of melting
going on in your kiss.
My heart melts into your chaos;
my mind melts into morning dew;
and I am drawn by passion
to look straight at your sun
and burn in your solar flares.
^^^
Aztec Warrior  9.9.15
Sep 2015 · 760
POEM 51
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Silence Part 4


I am not sure
where conversation has gone.
How it disappeared in the shadows
wandering this room.

Words, thousands and thousands
once flowed between us,
creating friendship,
innuendo,
mystery.

Words, thousands and thousands
once spoke art,
poetry,
the conditions of life;
now they are drapped
over a limb
looking surreal
and found only in dreams,
or heard rustling in the wind
as they fade into smoky mist.

Silence speaks loudest
as you near sleep;
as your mind
holds its breath
against the darkness,
where words no longer exist.

8.18.11
last in this series on loneliness, sadness and loss of a friend...
Sep 2015 · 304
POEM 50
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Silence Part 3


Sitting here thinking,
pen laying across the page,
waiting for words
to announce themselves
with something profound to say.
Instead
I count the rain
splattering on the window
until I realize
this will be
another wordless day.

8.18.11
another in this series...
Sep 2015 · 379
POEM 49
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Silence Part 2


I sit thinking,
pen in hand, and wonder
why conversations,
once held,
filled my room
with words, metaphors,
innuendo
have mysteriously disappeared,
seeping innocuously
into the cracks of the wall.
Hidden there, I am unable
to coax them out.

8.18.11
2nd in this series....
Sep 2015 · 278
POEM 48
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
Silence Part 1


These walls speak of books
neatly aligned in rows
on wooden shelves;
pictures hang in portraits
and city scenes;
while the sun enters
through cracked windows
weaving rainbows,
as nervous dust particles
move haphazardly
here and there.
Yet, with all this motion
and occupied space,
emptiness fills this room
except for distant shadows of you.*

*8/18/11
first in a series written a while ago...
Sep 2015 · 491
POEM 47
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
SONG TO THE HAWK, OWL AND WOLF:
SONG TO SKYBRUSH


Inspired by Native American teachings:
“Each life is precious and it is important to honor our beginnings;
to remember that we effect all life.
That our lives have meaning, and
we are known by the tracks we leave.”

~~~

I.  Brother Hawk Soars:

and you paint the sky
with flaming vermillion,
violet, aqua and
shimmering fuchsia;
bold tastes that flow easily
on a summer day
turning the heat and humidity
of Iowan plains into
a cool breeze with
your  flapping wings.
You always did love to fly
and showed us your world
with dreamy eyes.

~~~

II. SkyBrush Rising:

I saw you fly,
brother Sky.
First as the ferocious Hawk, then
as the fearless Owl.
Flying as the spirit warrior
to where Tama first arose
on grassy plains
and you began your this world, journey
as artist, wonderer,
seeker of Grandfather’s wisdom-
of the beauty
above and below.
So long ago, you entered this world
leaving foot prints
among untold words,
sailing down the Oronoco flow,
yet, it was not long enough.
For our world needs so much more
of you
from you.
This is the duty
and the obligation
as one of the people
that this artistic
journey demands.
Yet Dale,
you have given
and given,
and given.
Your have shown us what it is to live
no matter where
those wooden ships sail; no matter
how they impale
our sobbing hearts with pain.
You have shown us how to breathe
in life
as star gazers;
as nomads
wondering on an ever
changing universe.

~~~

III. Howling Brush:

running, roaming, laughing
as brother wolf
when I first met you,
unfettered, on
midnight trails
by the mountain lake.
I was chasing my tail
in contented circles
when you challenged me
to a game of tag,
and then to some of your grandma’s
homemade tea,
while we sat, restless, howling
under the old oak tree.
We told outrageous stories
of dancing with human beings,
and flying with condors
on cloudless skies.
You even claimed to be friendly
with an old, grouchy grizzly bear.
And I believed every word.
Even the moon made itself full
when you would howl
and paint the world in metaphor
at the PoetryCafe,
located just this side of cyber space.
Yes my friend,
as brother wolf
you were a howling Brush,
and I your open canvas.

~~~

IV. Sky’s Mysterious Brush:

flowed with colored psychadelia
and words,
yes words, shaded in pastels
as well as whimsy;
fashioned in chaotic order along
the broad strokes
of conscious designs,
reaching into the prism
of your mind,
refracting the elements of light,
turning each nuance uttered
into the evenings springtime wind
blowing across Iowan plains
and piercing a receptive heart.
It was a magical brush
filled with mystery;
filled with the thrill of sky
seen while laying
on a hill of clover.

~~

I see you flying brother Owl.
I see you running, cousin wolf.
I see you on your journey
moving along the trail
of beauty – above and below,
finally in harmony,
with Grandfather’s brush
showing you the way.
But old friend
I am missing you.
It is lonely under this old Oak
listening to the leaves
singing the old stories of
brother SkyBrush.

~~written 7.20.06
This poem is dedicated to Dale Hillard (SkyBrush), a wonderful poet, artist and friend. He passed 9 years ago. I met him on another poetry sight about 15 years ago and we swapped stories and poems and would kinda raise hell at the poetry site (good, honest fun) with many joining in "fruit cake wars". He was a wonderful human being and I think about him often. He died from HepC
Sep 2015 · 415
POEM 46
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
SPEAKING SPANISH


I do not speak Spanish,
but (pero) I say-
**** these borders
(chinga las fronteras)
that keep us apart.
~~~
I do not speak Spanish
pero (but) I feel the pain,
know the horrors
caused by
****** (E.E.U.U.) imperialismo.
~~~
I know a few words of Espanol
and I often sound funny,
y people say I speak
with a Yankee accent
(Si', es verdad)
pero in mi corazon (heart)
yo se (I know)
we, all of us,
(todos los gente)
must change the world,
make a communist revolution
and build a better world.

~~written 1.29.12

"NOTE:  Revolution Books, in NYC used to have
a Spanish speaking  open mic. At one of these events, as I listened
to the different poets read their poems, I wrote this and was
asked to read it. The translation is mine.
Sep 2015 · 2.3k
POEM 45
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
HUMAN HISTORY 2: LET'S DANCE
(A few words of acknowledgement: While these are my ideas and thoughts, I drew heavily on the story of 'Waterlily', written by Ella Cara Deloria. The discussion between the two Sioux women described below are drawn from this book. Her book beautifully details the life of 2 Dakota Sioux women and with them the customs, beliefs and beauty of the Dakota Sioux people. I am deeply in her debt.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'Let's dance.
Lets dance.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.'
-D. Bowie


I.
'Hao, Kola!'
'Hao, Kola!'
Greetings between two
darkly tanned men, black hair
long and waving erratically in the wind,
their deep black eyes smile
and embrace these two warrior friends.
'Hao, Kola!'

II.
Out in the open prairie,
under an intense blue sky,
a few sharply white clouds
float in contrast against it;
two Peoples drew towards
each other for a ceremonial sing,
as was customary before the Great Sun Dance.

Ill.
'Hokahe'. 'Hokahe'.
'Hokahe'. 'Hokahe'.
Dakotas and Omahas meet.'
Hokahe' floats on the fresh morning breeze.
Colorful war standards wave and
flirt about gracefully.
The Omahas have come to sing.
The Omahas, proud, magnificently bold.
The Omahas, self assured in painted red face,
wearing heavily fringed buckskin white,
brilliantly adorned.
With war standards and lances held high,
the Omahas were a breath taking sight.
As there on the prairie's lush green grass
Omahas greet Dakotas with ceremonial song.

IV.
Two Dakota women overheard talking:
Blue Bird: 'You met them?! What are
white people really like?
Are they gentle, kind, as their
skin would imply?'
Smiling One: 'No, they are very hard, very
stern and dull towards each
other. They pass each other without
recognition. Very unmannerly.'
Blue Bird: 'And what about the children?
How do they play?'
Smiling One: 'Oh, this is so sad I would
say. I don't understand the
reasoning behind their ways.
These people actually detest
their children. You should see
them; slapping their little one's
faces and lashing their poor little
buttocks to make them cry!
Yelling and screaming at them
anytime of the day. I have never
seen children treated this way!!'
Blue Bird: Deep in thought, hugs little
Water Lily. She feels sick with
sympathy for these unknown
children. Only crazy people
teach their children like this.
What makes white people act so crazy?

V.
The Sun Dance time has arrived.
All the different Peoples, Tribes.
The Dakota, Teton, Omaha
make good on their vows
to the Great Spirits,
renew the hopes of their families
for peace and plenty from the land.
And they danced.
Looking straight into the sun,
because they knew it was what made them one
with the world and each other.
And they danced.
Time itself was lost in the sun
and new life was begun.
And they danced.
Danced around and sacrificed on
the clean cut pole,
blessed and made holy
just for this ceremony.
And they danced.
Till the sun was thrice Earth eaten
and moon time rose full in the sky.
But now on a different scene
and a People from so long ago,
who in their naked skin,
danced and howled at the moon.
Howled at the dead and the living.
Howled and danced,
danced and howled cause they were human.

VI.
Alone,
orbiting on this blue-toned Earth
I want to ask:
When will we, today’s humans dance?
Dance in global community?
Dance on the lush green grassy plains?
Dance on high hillsides, howling at a full, lush moon?

VII
'Let's dance.
Let's dance.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues...'

~~written 10.1.98~~
this poem was written a long time ago.. I think it still holds up.
Sep 2015 · 1.2k
POEM 42
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
POEM 42

Kokopelli blows his flute
and the wind chases coyote’s tail
around the moon
tickling him into yelps
and leaps
and other hilarious displays.
From high on Chaco Mesa
the Trickster’s music is heard;
from Chinle
to Yah-Ta-Hey and
all the way to Four Corners.
It is the Hopi Yei
making fun of those
who have lost their balance
in the world today.

Aztec Warrior 9.6.15

youtu.be/XPd9be8R5bA

youtu.be/ID-hZ3pVx7w

(Note: first song is called ‘Yeha Noha’ and means “Wishes of Happiness and Prosperity’second song is called ‘Ly-O-Lay-Ale Loya, “The Counterclock Wise Circle Dance”
May you find your balance)
Sep 2015 · 1.5k
POEM 44 (Chandelier)
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
POEM 44 (Chandelier)

123, swing
123, swing
123, swing
swing from the chandelier
fly like a bird
forget everything
until morning light’s heard
and nothing exists.

123, feel my love
123, feel my love
123, feel my love
let your tears dry on the air
there is no shame
in wanting tomorrow
to never exist;
to exit the past
and just hold on
let me be your full glass,
open your eyes... and

123, see me
123, see me
123, see me
hold out my hand
lets chandelier
until morning light’s heard.

Aztec Warrior 8.26.15

https://youtu.be/2vjPBrBU-TM

(Note: Inspired by the Sia song “Chandelier”. I utilized the ideas
and some of the words to express an answer of sorts to this song.
This is another song where the music mesmerizes me and has added
meaning cause I understand the ‘shame’ when the morning sun comes up.
This poem is also dedicated to a very special friend and to the deeply felt
hope that they are doing more than ‘just holding on’.)
Sep 2015 · 296
POEM 43 (Demons)
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
POEM 43 (Demons)

Darkness dances with
and caresses shadows
while fading in and out of time.
The days are cold, bitter,
the nights colder
but you can feel my heat
if you look inside
and see my truth.
Yes, I want to shelter you,
but you will also see
where my demons hide.

If you get too close
all your dreams will fail
I will let you down.
So I will let you go,
hold you no longer
unless you show me
how to love you;
how to hold on
while these demons
**** out my life.

Aztec Warrior 9.4.15*

https://youtu.be/GFQYaoiIFh8

*(NOTE: I utilized some of the words, ideas found in the song “Demons”
by Imagine Dragons. The music in this song is mesmerizing to me, even
though I believe we make our own fate for the most part;
we are much more than ‘greed’, there is no ‘kingdom
come’ in the religious sense. We alone determine our path.
What we believe and what we do affects the world around us.
This poem is dedicated to a very special friend.)
Aug 2015 · 1.3k
POEM 41
Aztec Warrior Aug 2015
I am drinking Bourbon Street blues
thinking in jazzy riffs
of a syncopated you
swaying to those snappy beats
head held high
eyes lit with fire
pulling me into your dancing arms
and all I can do is sigh.

Aztec Warrior 8/25/15
Aug 2015 · 818
POEM 40 (Silence)
Aztec Warrior Aug 2015
I love the wild silence heard
as the Aspen whisper to Cedars
in the early morn.
It's a love sonnet
written on a summer breeze
as it tickles rustling leaves.

It reminds me
of the goose bump silence
stealing my breath
when you touch me.

Aztec Warrior 8/24/15
Aug 2015 · 327
POEM 39 (10W)
Aztec Warrior Aug 2015
It's easy having principles
if you never have to use them...

Aztec Warrior 8/24/15
Next page