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9.5k · Dec 2015
Aztec Warrior Dec 2015
I Fell In Love With You**

I fell in love with you
syllable by syllable,
word by word,
poem by poem
imagining the moon’s
dancing affair with stars,
twinkle by twinkle.
And then
all at once
like the explosion
of a super nova
affecting distant galaxies
and down to my very soul.
I fell in love with you gently,
the way a dew drop
glistens in the morning sun,
the way a flower often opens
to a moonlit song.
But like all love worth holding,
it turns to fire-
wild and consuming;
you have become the flames
dancing across my skin,
smoldering brightly
within my heart
turning me into the sweet smell of ash.
I fell in love with you
then quickly,
the way a meteor flashes
as it skims across the night sky
or hearts melt
within an ******* sigh.
I fell in love with you.

Aztec Warrior 12.4.15
forgot to add the music.. enjoy
5.3k · Jan 2016
Not A Poem
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016
Not A Poem: A Personal Message to Hello Poetry and A Pledge**

None of what has been going on here at Hello Poetry makes any sense but it is hurting many poets here and driving many poets/friends away (8 and counting)... my only thinking is that it is a deliberate attack not only on poets but poetry, and these web sites where poets gather and is part of a growing american culture of barbarity.. it's like those U.S. drone attacks done from behind closed doors that no one sees coming and then everything and everybody gets destroyed... it must stop and we must stop it!

For all those who are interested, I will do the same as Quinn has done and post ANY and ALL private messages that are character attacks or personal attack on me or my friends (if they allow); or ugly comments left on my poetry... Walt Livingston’s  comment on Quinn’s poem should not be tolerated here at HP, and called out for its inhumanity. It has nothing to do with poetry or the poem he left it on. Not one thing he said can be verified and this kind of thing has to stop. It’s like watching Fox or CNN news- ******* opinions posing as news and training us on what to think.

Also, for the record, if anyone receives a message claiming to be me do 2 things, first ask me if I actually wrote it sent it and 2 send it to me... I do not really know (that is I do not yet have the proof needed) who or how many are behind this, BUT I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS TO CONTINUE AS LONG AS I AM AT HP. And this goes for any other site I may visit. So please block me now all who think I will not stand up against plagiarism, attacks, harrassments, trolling, stalking, and any other form of oppression.

I also know that I may lose a few friends in doing this. To them, I can only say, that this is not a reflection on or directed to you in any way and I am sorry if this has hurt you, deeply sorry...


PS  Oh, and by the way, the friends I am referring to know who they are, so if there are any questions about this,  message me and ask me.. no one has the right to declare friendship without my say so...

Wish I didn't have to say this, but since part of the sneak attacks have been done by people using other people's names to pick fights and attacks... yes it has gotten that bad.. That insidious...

So poets of HP, Let’s write poetry, support each other with mutual respect (even if and while we debate the content/ideas of a poem); build a community of poets that is a MODEL for the way human beings should and can treat each other, with mutual respect and listening to and seeing our diversity of ideas and nationalities as a great advantage to art and society and to ourselves... this is not a call for love and peace, since this will have to be fought for, nor is it a call to live and let live... there can be no place among human beings for these attacks... as well as no “free speech” for wreckers and attackers..
Let our language be poetry
Let our words be open and honest debate over poetry and art
Let our hearts be filled with fresh new ideas about life
Lets create wonderment and awe with our pen!!!!  
Come on HP poets, Lets Go!!

Aztec Warrior 1.25.16
Well, this post has sure caused an uproar. I am tempted to say, ya'll deserve each other, so *******, but that would be foolish and wrong of me and get us no further, and the attacks on each other would continue and the real poets, those who want to actually write poetry and have it read and appreciated are leaving. So the first think I want to add to this post is: Quinn, and the rest of you (Rick who is "r'and also "woody", a few others; along with Gary L, Nagi,and I think Jack and Vicki were named in Woody's comment that is not gone) STAND DOWN!! No more poems, comments or messaging spreading rumors or attacking people for who they like or block or what happened  months ago or at another poetry site. STOP.

Look everyone who actually cares, someone (and all admit they do not know who he is or was) by the name of Walt Livingston posted and ugly attack. It 's one of the reasons why I posted the above post. This WAS NOT a defense of Quinn, as it is a method being used in several poetry site to create dissention and havoc.  No one knows who this is and yet everyone thinks they know and they spread this rumor far and wide to anyone who will listen. It has to be Quinn he just wants attention. It has to be 'r" he's been attacking me forever and on it goes round and round until it is almost impossible to find the truth. The truth is someone created that account and look at the results Instead of pointing fingers and coming up with all kinds of conspiracy theories, lets put or know how together and find out.

I do not know who this is nor will I speculate. But I will say this, all of us at this point are being played!!! And attacking each other is not helping to get at this problem.

No matter what Quinn did or didn't do at WC that got him kicked off, there was continued trouble at WC that Quinn had nothing to do with. Does this mean Quinn is innocent, no, it just means this mess we are dealing with is bigger than one individual. Look I know you all don't agree with me on this, Which leads me to the main point.

I put the center or heart of the above post last for a reason. To make it stand out from the part where I was saying what I would do to prevent attacks on me and friends (if allowed). Maybe I was wrong in doing this because you all have ignore it. Or at best gave it some general nod and then went right into attacking each other trying to prove who was the real hero/heroine and blah blah. Why?? Why couldn't these points be the glue that can help sort out this "sad state of affairs at HP"  as someone put it. They certainly do not detract from the "Rules of Conduct" Eliot has posted. and everyone "agrees" they will abide by. They could actually act as a banner of sorts that people could come around and express why they like or dislike them and as a means of determining disputes. But I am also convinced that if these points do take hold it will be much easier to root out and identify anyone or someone who is provoking bs on the site.  Are they perfect? hell no. And that is why it will take many many of us to do this including CRITIQUING THE POINTS. But there will be no tolerance of knocking at people for any reason.   It's easy: critiquing points, yes; critiquing people, NO..
I hope I am not talking to the wind here...
Aztec Warrior Jun 2016
The Stanford **** Case
Statement from the Young Woman Who Was *****
June 10, 2016 | Revolution Newspaper |

Editors Note: The following harrowing and courageous "victim impact" statement was read in court by the woman who was assaulted and ***** by ex-Stanford student Brock Turner. It has been released widely and is reposting it here. As Sunsara Taylor said in "The Stanford **** Outrage: Reason Enough to Make Revolution": "Her letter is 13 pages long and everyone should read it. In its entirety. Out loud. In classrooms. In church groups. In families. On sports teams. On air. Her pain must be seen. Her battle against despair must be supported. Her courage must be multiplied."*

Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.

On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends.

Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party.

When I was finally allowed to use the rest room, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my ****** and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.

Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “**** Victim” and I thought something has really happened.

My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my ****** and ****, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon pointed right into my *******. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my ****** smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for *** because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.

My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my ****** was sore and had become a strange, dark colour from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find [my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.

I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been ***** behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone.

After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair dishevelled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was **** naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognise.

This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can we really say who’s at fault.

And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own ****** assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.

The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a line-up, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know.

He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me.

Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.

Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that my *** and ****** were completely exposed outside, my ******* had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an ***** freshman was ******* my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.

I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful lawyer, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this ****** assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly *****, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.

When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His lawyer constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.

Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his lawyer saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right?

This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The ****** assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering questions like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside?

Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What colour was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.

I was pommeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify and I learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the cl
it has taken me days to shake out the feelings I have around this case and that one of every 4 women are *****, abuse assaulted in their life time.. think about that for a moment.. 1 out of every 4... this means almost everyone knows someone or has been through what the young woman is describing in her statement read in court.. there is no "buts" in this case, and if anyone has to come up with some kind of "but" then unfriend or follow me right now as I will not tolerate any excuses or apologies for these horrific attacks on half of  humanity, along with this I would add a ******* as well... the voice of this woman needs to be heard everywhere... repost, twitter etc etc everywhere...
3.6k · Nov 2016
In The Name of Humanity
Aztec Warrior Nov 2016
Some people say and will say, let us unite and heal. Unite round what exactly? Fascism??  This is at best a pipe dream and in reality a nightmare for billions of people everywhere on the planet. There can be and there should be no unity with fascists and a program of global violence and destruction (already under way for several centuries now)..  An historical reference: People who say this are actually saying "be good Germans" do not protest or resist the death camps and slaughter of Jews and others. Their cry: "Uber Germany - Uber Alles" - "God, Fatherland, and Motherhood".  In our case 2016, it is non whites, Black, Muslims, Mexicans, GLTQ people, women and abortion rights, and the environment that will be the targets of this "resurrent America"... and why would anyone want to "unite " with this?? In the name of humanity, I will not unite, collaborate, conciliate, nor capitulate to a fascist America.

In this light I offer a statement / message that is being distributed throughout this country and where ever people are protesting and resisting, including to people in other countries who are looking to us to see what we will do. Here is the link:­html

While I encourage everyone to read  by following the link, I am also going to post the message below.

In the Name of Humanity,
We REFUSE To Accept a Fascist America
Rise Up... Get Into The Streets... Unite With People Everywhere
to Build Up Resistance in Every Way You Can
Don’t Stop: Don’t Conciliate... Don’t Accommodate... Don’t Collaborate

Donald Trump has now won the presidency. Under the slogan “Make America Great Again,” he has viciously attacked Mexicans and Muslims, threatened to deport millions and boasted that he will build walls and close borders. He incites people to fear and hate those who are “different,” or who come from other countries or nationalities, or practice different religions. He crudely demeans and degrades women, and openly boasts about molesting them. He’s a champion of white supremacy who has insulted and threatened Black people, and whipped up a racist lynch-mob mentality. Trump has mocked the disabled.  He is an aggressive and unapologetic militarist, who threatens to use nuclear weapons and will have his fingers on the nuclear codes. He openly advocates war crimes and crimes against humanity"including torture and killing the families of people accused of terrorism. He plans to pack the Supreme Court with justices who will gut and reverse the right to abortion, gay rights, and other important legal rights. He calls climate change a hoax and his policies will wreak further devastation on the environment. He has attacked and threatened the press and stirred up his supporters to do the same. Trump has utter contempt for facts and the truth, and consistently lies to advance his agenda. As for the rule of law, Trump went so far as to openly threaten his opponent, Hillary Clinton, not only with jail, but even assassination. Donald Trump is an outright fascist. And he is now the president-elect.

Fascism is a very serious thing. Fascism foments and relies on xenophobic nationalism, racism, and the aggressive reinstitution of oppressive “traditional values.” Fascism feeds on and encourages the threat and use of violence to build a movement and come to power. Fascism, once in power, essentially eliminates traditional democratic rights. Fascism attacks, jails, and executes its opponents, and launches violent mob attacks on “minorities.” In **** Germany in the 1930s and ’40s, under ******, fascism did all these things. They imprisoned millions in concentration camps and exterminated millions of Jews, Roma people (Gypsies), and other “undesirables.” And ****** did almost all of this through the established institutions and the “rule of law.” This is where this goes. And yes, ****** himself could “talk graciously” when he felt it would serve his interests and lull his opponents.

Trump did not even win the popular vote, (even though he did win the “electoral college” which decides elections in the U.S.). ****** himself came to power through democratic procedures, including through the process of elections. Should people have accepted ******?! Unfortunately, they did, at a horrific cost to humanity. Today, with nuclear weapons, that cost could be far higher.  

In the name of humanity, we must refuse to accept a fascist America!
The fact that Trump won as many votes as he did must be understood. The fact that he got more than even 10 percent of the vote is disgraceful and reveals some very ugly things about America. So why did this happen? The world today is turbulent, full of changes. Those who supported Trump’s fascist program were overwhelmingly sections of white people, especially but not only white men, who yearn for the days of open white supremacy and American global *******, and the blatant subjugation of women. A significant minority of white people did oppose him, but we have to confront how deep the racism, the national chauvinism, and the hatred of women is woven into this society... and not give in to this, but vigorously challenge and fiercely oppose it. 

But even more than this, Trump was backed by powerful forces in this society. Beyond those who directly supported him, the media, the Democratic Party, and others treated him as a legitimate candidate, refused to call him out as the fascist he is, and now call on everyone to accept his ascension to power. All the major powerful forces in this society bear the responsibility"it is they who have, over decades, either built up this fascist force or have “enabled” it.

You cannot try to “wait things out” with fascists. Those who lived through ******’s Germany and sat on the sidelines, looking on as ****** rounded up one group after another, became shameful collaborators with monstrous crimes against humanity. Trump and his regime must be resisted and defied, beginning now, in many different ways and in every corner of society. 

Reconciliation and collaboration would be nothing less than criminal and deadly. Literally. Come together... resist... and let the whole world know that we will not allow this to stand!
it is a wonderful sight here in NYC to see so many youth and others out protesting, marching and opposing a fascist America....
2.9k · Nov 2015
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
(Where I worked, they set up TV’s in the cafeteria to watch the continuing coverage of the events of 9/11. I had become known as a sort of poet and many asked me to write something, a poem about 9/11. In the printed version which I handed out to people, they translated into their language the word ‘******’ and into the poem. The company did not like it cause they wanted to whip up the patriotic jingoism and calls for revenge. Thankfully this poem helped to stop this at this factory.)  

911 Thoughts

“Our grief is not a cry for war”
--Artists Network, Refuse & Resist

“..and the poets down here
don’t write nothing at all,
they just stand back
and let it all be”
–‘Jungle Land’, by B. Springsteen

“Beto nki tutasala” (‘What are we doing’)
--Old African saying

New York City 9/11/01:
She walks down the street
peering side to side
showing his picture to everyone who looks.
Tears streak her brown skin
as the reality of his loss
sinks deeper in,
yet searching, as if just looking
will make him appear by her side
an ease the vacuum of why that
echoes mockingly in her heart.
Friends have asked me,
write a poem about these events, Red.
Write about 911,
and the horror from the sky.
Tell us what you think.
Can you give us some hope
that when the dust
and tears
settle from our eyes,
we will still be able to see the sun.
What words can I use to describe
or even surmise all the reasons why.
How do you explain to your grand kids
the war has come home.
They have put us in harms way.

New York City, 9/11/01
Yes the ‘war’ has come home
so many innocents have paid
a blood price for a
globalized monster
grown, nurtured, raised
in the dark soils of the USA.

Southern Iraq, 9/8/01
U.S. and British ghosts
swoop down on a ‘radar installation’
that turns mysteriously into a village.
8 civilians known dead,
many others injured.

Baghdad Iraq. 2/91
Clutching her injured child to her breast,
she flees collapsing buildings
while thunder surrounds her,
she is looking frantically for shelter
from ‘smart rain’
pouring down from the night sky.
Explosions that almost drown out her
Screams for a lost generation;
how do you rebuild a generation?

West Bank / Gaza, Any day
Young comrades pick thru
blood soaked rubble of once homes
looking for survivors of
‘made in the USA’ helicopter terror.
Or picking up stones to fight off
‘made in the USA’ tanks
spewing out ‘collective punishment’
needed for new Israeli settlements.

Beirut Lebanon, 1980
Safely, miles out to sea,
the USS New Jersey
spits out salvo after salvo
painting the city with fire storms.
Thousands die, thousands more
made refugees in their own country
punished for harboring
Palestinian refugees who refuse to
recognize ‘stolen land’
now claiming to be Israel.

New York City, 9/11/01
The view of passenger jets
lingers in our vision.
Over and over they seem to play with,
then mingle with those towers
until only twisted steel,
burnt flesh,
and crumbled cement remains
creating a mass grave.

Vietnam, 1970
The village explodes.
Children running
flesh singed, burnt
as liquid fire drops
from high flying 52's.
******; an English word
which in Vietnamese, Chinese or Khmer
Means DEATH!
(Imagine here the words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese and Khmer.)

Hiroshima / Nagasaki, 1945
150,000 human beings now only shadows
seared into the concrete,
human outlines
that still scream their agony
heard even today by anyone
who doesn’t have selective amnesia.

New York City, 9/11/01
What words can explain the loss
of loved ones, friends?
What words can capture
the vacant look of the black woman
seeking her young daughter
who had her very first job interview
on the 104th floor?
What emotions are left
after the search for loved ones
finds only gray dust and charred stench
whether in New York or:
Baghdad, Beirut, Belgrade, Gaza,
Chile, Guatemala, El Salvador, My Lai,
Sudan, or Mogadishu?
What can prepare you for the
sickening sweet scent of
burnt flesh carried on lazy breezes;
of dust coating everything with
the stink of human blood?


And now there is talk of
And preparation for:
More words that the people of
the world understand all too well:
DEATH! (The words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese, Hindi, Urdu, Ctujarati, and Khmer are not formating when I cut and paste. Imagine them here.)


Every day now the powers that be
prepare us for even more untold horrors;
hype us with red, white and blue views.
Pass on to us today’s NEWS:
“Congress passed new war legislation today”;
“unnamed sources report that”
“a high government official who wishes to remain anonymous”;
“the word at the White House”;
SPECULATIONS: there are 50 governments that harbor or support terrorism.
Several undocumented Arabs have been arrested trying to buy illegal chemicals
INNUENDO: known terrorist are said to have links to Afghanistan.
RUMOR: the next attacks could come as early as 9/22;
Air Force One was threatened today;
terror may come in the form of chemical or biological;
All the conjectures ‘fit to be news’;
Bin Laden is the one, Iraq, Iran,
somebody in the Sudan,
someone, somewhere has to be made to pay.
Conjecture pumped out continuously
why, we got it straight from heaven
so it must be true!


New York City, Aftermath
For many the future is hard to imagine,
uncertainty weighs heavy
like an echo that bounces endlessly
off tenement walls.
Like the way the “WHY’S”
multiply with each official explanation
and grows from whispers to amplified
crescendos of NOOOOOOOO! NO!
Not in our name.
You cannot exploit our grief,
our sorrow for so many lost lives
into your “holy war of retribution”;
into your vision of “Homeland Security”
and more repressive police powers;
into your call for Justice envisioned as an
Americanized world.
The people of our planet
do not need another
unjust war. And yet,
as long as this system continues,
as long as organized greed,
backed up by Washington bullets reign,
these horrors will continue to
rain from the skies.

Afghanistan, 10/07/01
Today the bombing began.
More horror fell from the sky
as talk of even more countries, people
are added to the “suspected list”.
One thing is sure, those hundreds,
thousand who have already died
had nothing to do with 9/11.
How long?
How many more will die
before we put it to an end?

~~redzone 10.04.01~~ (edited 10/07/01)
(written while using the pen name 'redzone'
reposted by Aztec Warrior 11.18.15)
I wanted to add this poem because many have 'forgotten' who actually unleashed the hooror of ISIS, Al Quieda, and the Taliban on the world. Not enough space to go into all this here, but if you are aagonizing over what is going on in the world, I suggest that a visit to will help to understand not only what and what is behind these horrors, but also a way OUT of this madness...
2.6k · Jan 2016
POEM 119
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016
Piano Cello Interludes*

I am listening to music,
piano with cello interludes,
thinking about you.
I hear the passionate sadness
mourning from the cello
as the piano weaves hollowness
and melancholy from black and white
minor keys.
I feel the disconnect
between the requiem’s movements
and the reality
of an alive, beating
but confused, sullen heart
fighting to be free.
It always amazes me
to hear the bow guiding the strings
in pulsing tempo
to the fingers caressing ivory
in such a way
that only a smile
can answer in return,
allowing for a kiss of life
in the midst of chaos
and death.
In moments like this
I want to sit beside you,
place your hand in mine
and tell you all I have learned
and know;
all the secrets
that wander through my mind;
even those held in
dark recesses,
and filled with spent emotions.
But I know I can’t.
Not because I don’t want to,
nor from fear,
though, to do so is scary
since it would mean giving you
my heart.
No, not because of this.
Rather, cause
I don’t think
this is what you need
or want.
Life is complicated,
complex in its existence
and it is this contradiction
between desire’s want
and equality’s need;
between what’s flesh
and what’s fantasy;
between art, aesthetics
and reality,
that guides my choices.
It’s how this contradiction
thereby shaping
and changing reality.
It is this contradiction
I hear,
feel and taste
in the weaving of piano and cello.
Music living with us in the gutter,
while enticing us to look at the stars.
I am listening to music,
piano and cello interludes,
I see vast galaxies,
and shooting stars,
Knowing this,
this music of you,
will last a lifetime.
~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 2.24.14

enjoy the music that goes with this poem
I wrote this poem almost 2 years ago now,  for a wonderful, sweet friend who posted here and at WC. She was special to me and no longer posts because of personal reasons and because of harrassment. I miss her in so many ways, her poetry, its rawness and yet beautiful, her challenges and the way she has handled them with courage and the hugeness of her heart...

I wrote this on my birthday and gave it to her.. This poem is very special to me and think it is one of the best I have ever written. So, my friend, where ever you are I think of you often, miss you, and send you my love..

Thanks to all who read, I hope you enjoy it..
2.2k · Sep 2015
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015
(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

'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!'

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.

'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.

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?

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.

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?

'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.
1.9k · Aug 2016
Fire & Rain
Aztec Warrior Aug 2016
Fire & Rain**

Several mornings ago
I woke up to a rainy tomorrow,
today though was a raging fire.
It singed all my thoughts of you,
burnt the marrow you placed in my bones
leaving me painfully hollow.
Rain and fire,
rainy fire
and acidic spit;
how foolish to think
I would see you again...
Woke up tomorrow,
wrote down this poem
with the pieces of me lying around
cause I never could find a friend.
Sweet dreams have disappeared
in a long and lonely day
where the sun shines
on a Winter’s wind
and icicles form on my shriveled skin.

“Yet I always thought
I would see you again”
Fire, spit,
and lonely
rainy days,
though this is the end
of those foolish thoughts
of seeing you again.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 7.19.16
(Note: the quoted line is from James Taylor’s
song, “Fire & Rain”; as is the inspiration
for this poem)
thanks for reading... here is the link to the song,
"Fire & Rain" by James Taylor..
"but I always thought I would see you again"
1.8k · Aug 2016
Snow Falling On Cedars
Aztec Warrior Aug 2016
Snow Falling On Cedars**

The Dream: Death 1

snow, falling on Cedars,
soft and gentle,
is like your whisper’d breath
spoken in silent wisps
of warmth felt seductively
on my ears.
Each flake
a kiss,
a thought
of lavender
and honey’d dew drops
caressing my lips.
It’s a sensual touch
the way my face
curves into your fingers;
into the smile
of your eyes
finding the sparkle of mine.

The Reality: Death 2

snow falling on Cedars
is a Winter’s kiss;
the emptiness of white,
of hard pack’d earth
and its message of death.
Your fingers are cold,
your lips frozen, lifeless
and wrinkl’d with the too sweet
taste of rancid fruit.
It is a brittle, cruel love
that mingles in this wasteland,
and influencing hope
and the dreams of light
with the bleak melancholy of despair.

The Finale:

snow falling on Cedars,
the darkness of vengeful breath
covers everything with the
emptiness of white;
like whispers of silent death.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 8.13.16
...thanks for reading
1.8k · Sep 2016
Butterfly Flutterby
Aztec Warrior Sep 2016
Butterfly Flutterby**

The music swirls Cherry Blossoms,
pink petals fluttering in the air
as if plucked by morning notes
and you glide in dawn’s sweet touch
like a slow butterfly song.

Break down:
hey hey baby
come come
my lady
are you a butterfly
all fluttery sweet
and crazy down,
maybe you’ll dance with me

Flip side:
this fusion, hard rock
and hip-hop
swirls cherry blossom petals
fluttering in your crazy breeze
of sweet tasting
butterfly notes.
Baby baby
you are a
sweet butterfly song
in my heart...

Come come
my lady
and I will help you sing.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 8.27.16
Note: I drew heavily on the song by Crazy Town, “Butterfly”
the song embedded below.
....thanks for reading...
music is
"Butterfly" by Crazy Town
1.6k · Aug 2016
Dream-Walk Sunset
Aztec Warrior Aug 2016
Dream-Walk Sunset**

From the Highlands they came.
Even before we saw them
we felt the earth shake.
Drums pulsed,
feet danced
to ancient runes,
to didgeridoo
and haunting pipes;
danced to dreams come true.
From the Highlands
to the sea,
marching to those cliffs
over soft white sands
they came.
Magical Fae and Folks of old
traditional ways
where life and death
were just Gaia’s breath
in harmony with the rest,
a dream-walk sunset.
Can you see them?
There- they dance
to a sound so bright
you can see it
even in this dark night.
There- they float
on Witch and Fae spells
to set the world right.
There- all those points of light
billions and billions they
march to anciet songs
of magic held in the notes
of the didgeridoo
and Asturian pipes.
Over the Highlands they came
marching to the sea
and those cliffs
above soft white sands,
magical Fae and Folk of old
traditional ways.
Will we join them
in Gaia’s dream-walk sunset?
Or just watch
as they fade away?

Aztec Warrior/redzone 7.24.16
...thanks for reading... here is the link to some Highland Music,
"Busiindre Reel"  by Hevia
1.6k · Dec 2015
POEM 101
Aztec Warrior Dec 2015
POEM 101
Devouring You In Poetry**

I awake to tangerine,
red licorice skies
staring at me with
chocolate covered caramel eyes,
creating apple spiced flavored,
cotton candied words
that kaleidoscope
off my tongue,
down my chin
moving my finger tips
to drip
gooey marshmallow
and smiling butterscotch words
across your lavender scented,
sleeping rhythmically
cherry cream *******.
With desirous morning sighs
your blueberry lips,
and open arms
invite me in;
into your humid jungle folds
to bathe in your gorges
and waterfalls,
unleashing my coppery nouns,
my amethyst adjectives
into your liquid opal synonyms,
devouring me in your rich tones
of ****** poetry.
With our metaphors
deliciously spent,
and a golden sun
rising toward the moon,
you nestle even closer
and whisper
in alive, wild poppy hues,
“tonight, my love, fill me with haiku,
as I come to you in sonnets.

Aztec Warrior 12.11.15
it's Friday....
enjoy the music:  Madonna, "Fever"  from her ''Erotica" albumn
1.5k · Oct 2015
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!”
but also with an edge.


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.


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!


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.
pull trash;
sweep, mop, pull trash.
Or, pull trash,
It can give you grey hairs,
all this responsibility
and decision making.


Sitting here, now on the train home,
a brilliant,
not to mention uplifting,
idea rampages through my tired mind.
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:
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
1.5k · Sep 2016
Life: A Carnival
Aztec Warrior Sep 2016
Life: A Carnival

In so many ways
we are a human freak show,
just a breathing carnival attraction.
So get the ******* your high horse,
look around
be mesmerized,
and wonderized by a world of awe.
Let’s get real,
move a few strands of DNA
from here to there,
drop some chromosomes at the deli
to re-arrange their eating patterns
and we would see that
those mindless amoebas down the street
is talking our language.
Of all the billions of species
populating this planet,
we humans are the most
ignorant, opinionated,
**** for brains fools.
We puff out our stupidity
on a regular basis,
books, movies, music,
TV and social media
there is no end to the
racist, slime eating,
brought out in grand displays
as “experts”
in a single hour
of opinion disguised as “news”
on Fox, or CNN,
a menagerie of fools.

The world is a marvelous place,
alive with diversity,
which we should embrace.
All of us, humans wide,
emerged from Africa,
humanities origins
10's of thousands of years ago.

We humans are a carnival,
a side tent freak show,
all diverse and magnificent.
And to all those idiot
religious fanatics,
USA, USA ignoramuses,
de-evolve your brains,
slither back under your rock,
go back to your ancient,
long gone
humanoid origins,
become like you are,

Aztec Warrior/redzone 8.28.16
Note: yes it’s a rant after watching an hour of Fox
CNN and MSNBC news... I must go throw up now.
Apologies to Natalie Merchant whose song “Carnival”
is embedded below, her song is a much more kinder
celebration of our diversity.. I on the other hand
cannot stay calm in the face of fascist fanatics
pretending to speak for human beings.
....thanks for reading...
the music link is to Natalie Merchant's, "Carnival"
1.5k · Sep 2015
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

(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’.)
1.4k · Aug 2016
Radiation Burn
Aztec Warrior Aug 2016
Radiation Burn**

Cancer is a mother;
snap, crackle, pop,
yet they zip, zap
and radiate me.
They won’t allow a
glow in the dark blush,
or allow some super powers;
no Spiderman,
not even the Hulk- sheeesh!
But they did suggest perhaps
Wonder Woman instead
since their hormone therapy
is medically castrating me-
all in the name of science
and to be cancer free!!
Yippee and yahoo
not to mention
radiation burns!!!
I guess there is always a price,
a “trade off” they say.
So move over Superman,
Wonder Woman is in the house!
Oh, and by the way,
could I borrow some red lipstick,
I already have a magical whip
and I’m looking for
a heavy date Friday night!!

Aztec Warrior/redzone 7.28.16
Note: if you can’t laugh at what life
throws at you and also yourself,
cancer will eat you alive...
thanks for reading... and here is a link to some music:  from R.E.M.
"Everybody Hurts"
1.4k · Jan 2017
For Mom: b. 1925; d. 2016
Aztec Warrior Jan 2017
For Mom:
(b. 1925; d.2016)*

She held on to the sunlight
longer than anyone thought.
Palms swayed as she breathed
in all her strength,
all her power
until it all calmed
Night cooled
as barren
descends, now
a dark that sings no stars
or sweet songs of life.
Her last breath
carried by crows
brushed across my cheek quietly
as I did not get to her in time.

As my sorrow fingered with my heart,
I saw the hungry abyss descend with her smile,
Still I heard in her whisper,
“do not mourn for me,
like our ancestors before,
I have found the balance
in natural tones;
in the music of stars
and in the songs playing
on Owl’s wings.
Do not mourn for me, my loves
I am alive still in the flow of worlds.”

There is a weight
taller than Denali;
heavier than Big Mountain;
I carry it with me
in my back pack
next to my jeans and dreams
as I follow her tracks,
smiling with her life.

Aztec Warrior/redzone  12.29.16

For all of you who "liked" and or commented on this poem I thank you from the bottom of my heart... your words are a comfort to me and my dad (I showed him the comments)... you have touched us deeply... I hope all of you the best...

And Nagi, you are wonderful in your kindness and a special thanks for shinning a "light" on this poem....

....thanks for reading
music is from Dax Johnson,  "Rain"
1.4k · Jul 2015
Aztec Warrior Jul 2015

The moon speaks
with its silver tongue,
lighting a path
through your bedroom window,
reflecting the contours
of your beauty,
as its words of silver
poetically tickle your dreams.

Aztec Warrior   7.27.15
and by request, Chris Green as co-poet writer...
1.3k · Jan 2016
POEM 115
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016
Spirit Ghost**

I was listening to
Guns N Roses yesterday;
to Axl’s “Sweet Child O Mine”.
It’s funny cause
I always thought he was singing
“Oh oh, sweet Caroline”.
Ever have that
fantasy meets reality, or
is it reality’s fantasy feeling?
Can’t answer that one
and my guess is that
some mountains should never be climbed.
But Slash’s guitar riffs
pull me in and I start to sing,
“Oh hoh oh sweet child o mine”,
oh hoh oh sweet Caroline
as dark hair carries the wind
spiraling me into the fragrance
of moon soaked lavender,
lilies and a hint of wild sage.

“Where do we go now”?
I do not know
but there are Juniper trees on the horizon,
and dust mingles with sweat
as the sun rises to calm skies.
Walking this path
brings me face to face
with a dancing voice in the wind,
a ghost spirit seeing
present and past,
a sweet voice of healing, she sings
just when I needed it most.

I would love to dance you under the moon,
braid and feather your hair
in the old style of soft caring
and sing of the moon’s shadow
smiling in your eyes.
The music shifts,
moving more gently
into a song of renewal,
into the circle dance, into
“Ly-o lay Ale Loya”.
Come, dance,
circle, counter-circle;
let me show you the friendship,
the spirit in the ghost
you have shown me.

Aztec Warrior 1.22.16
I hope this small poem shows the respect and admiration
I have for a friend who has shown me her strength and
calmness and treated me as a human being.
She is a more than special.
1.3k · Oct 2015
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
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.
1.3k · Aug 2015
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
1.3k · Sep 2016
"So Kiss Me"
Aztec Warrior Sep 2016
“So Kiss Me”**

down by the raging river
under the shady tree
in the middle of the day
            kiss me
under the silver moon light
with fire flies glowing
and dreams dancing
along the milky night
           kiss me
oh oh be my sparkling
forever, whispering sweetly
your lips tasting me
like it was our first
          kiss me
swing swing me into your
guitar-scape melodies
out on the valley green
yellow and wildflower blue
          kiss me
“so kiss me”.... “so kiss me”
more and more
kiss me

Aztec Warrior/redzone 6.24.16
Note: the title of the song by Katie Melua
....thanks for reading..
the music link is to "So Kiss Me", by Katie Melua
1.2k · Jul 2015
Aztec Warrior Jul 2015
It has been said
that when a gypsy witch sings,
the moon's silver tongue
speaks illusion in haiku,
and its beams tickle
feathers in your dream catcher.

I am no witch,
but in the darkest moments of night
where shadows dance uninhibited
with Milky Way stars,
I find serenity in your songs,
and I blow sonnets
of silver sensuality
over the contours of your beauty,
to tickle your dreams.

Aztec Warrior 7/28/15
Written for a poetic friend who said they were waiting to be tickled by a silver moon.... hope she likes... ;0)
1.1k · Aug 2015
Inside Your Heart (POEM 37)
Aztec Warrior Aug 2015
POEM 37 (Inside Your Heart)

A man can tell
a thousand lies
and never blink.
But I say this:
my truth lies within
the bold sensitivities
of your beating heart.
Look inside and you
will feel the touch
of my warm lips
and know that,
like Neruda’s Isla Negra,
and its coconut sands,
I will carry you in my heart
and yearn for
“a thousand kisses deep”.

Aztec Warrior 8.2.15

(Note: must give credit to Poetessa,
as her poem on Leonard Cohen
chased me to hear him read his poem “A
Thousand Kisses Deep”. Hauntingly beautiful.)
1.1k · Jan 2016
POEM 113
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016

A dirt blown wind
stings my face as I walk
this dry river bed below the mesa.
It is a barren time of year and
cold, with some snow on the ground.
This is the land of our ancestors,
it calls to me
even though I now live in a larger city
east of Four Corners
and the Four Sacred Mountains.
It is in the hogan of my Grand Mother’s family
that I am learning the ceremonial dances-
the Blessing Way;
to sand draw the signs
and dance the dance
that can heal the diseases
of the belegana’s hatred
for our traditional ways:
the Ghost Dance of the Sioux;
the Katsina Songs of the Hopi and Zuni;
the Circle Dances of the Cherokee.
Belegana society teaches our young
the ways of money, alcohol and ****,
of scorched earth, casinos
and death.
I am only a small part People,
my moccasins too new
and still hurt my feet.
And yet, I would willingly sweat out
every ounce of belegana blood
for just one glimpse of seeing
the full moon rising over Big Mountain;
of watching Coyote dancing
to Kokopelli’s flute;
our People happy, in balance
above and below,
no longer forgetful of our Origin Songs.

Aztec Warrior 1.15.16
1.1k · Aug 2015
Aztec Warrior Aug 2015

The sea is calm tonight,
reflecting star light
and a Summer moon.
Walking on these wave swept sands,
I see you swimming the salty tides,
diving under
then emerging,
your playful smile
moves an ocean breeze
across my face
and I warmly reply:

Saturn’s in the 5th moon;
stars dance to your mermaid’s tune
and I build sand castles
to shelter you from coming storms.

Breath me into your waters.

Aztec Warrior 7.31.15
wanted to write something nice for a friend who heard sad news tonight... hope they like it...
1.1k · Jan 2016
POEM 109
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016

December dreams spiral
thru the whiffs of smoke,
emanating from forest hidden Cherokee homes.
They pirouette the way notes
imagine Lester Young’s
tenor music to be;
the way Blue Jays flap
while protecting their territory.
The Eastern mountains,
snow covered and brown,
rise gently as I walk
yet provide glimmers of ancient valleys
carved out by receding ice.
There is the feel of human destiny
washing me as a breeze
sings thru wild peach trees;
And a breeze lifting sharp talon hawks
with its hunting melodies
carrying the owl's secrets
thru even more exotic landscapes.
Over looking the Talamaque River,
I rest on the brown
frozen earth becoming
lost in ancestor dreams.
I can see the blood flowing west.
I feel the tears soaking the ground
where Dogwood now grows.
And Grandfather speaks to me
with a warm sun in the ‘long ago tongue’:
“Redzone, it is good to
have these memories.
To remember the trees
the bear and the chic-a-dee.
One day, May will arrive with the morning crows
and Turtle will once again discuss
constellations with the Moon.
Our people, will no longer be forgetful
of who we are and how far we have to go."
December dreams spiral
thru whiffs of smoke
and Lester Young plays
with the flapping Blue Jays.

~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 12.15.01~~
(written after finishing a collection of poems
by Ron Welburn called “Coming Through Smoke
and the Dreaming”)
This is an older poem written when I was using redzone as my pen name..  it is also influenced by some of my Native American heritage..
1.1k · Sep 2015
Aztec Warrior Sep 2015

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

(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)
1.1k · Jan 2016
POEM 117
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016

     “I was discovering
     the laws of misery,
     the wounded, worn out heart,
     and the sounds of the dead, tearless,
     dry, like falling stones.”
         ~~from ”The Injustice”  by Pablo Neruda

Stones have always been our tears
leaving deep ruts
carved into brown weathered skin.
Stones, filled with our blood
littered over many trails
splashing crimson,
staining the already ochre ground.
Similar it seems to the way light
sometimes becomes a green dancer
spreading out neath the forest undergrowth.
These tears,
stones of sorrow,
stain the earth with our children’s fears,
with our fallen lives,
with our endless
sewing, cooking, making bread,
planting corn, sowing and reaping
our dreams of despair
like black coal
gouged from the earth.
It has been such since
the first grains of sand
were washed ashore
carrying simple strands
of carbon life.
And so it will continue
till all are made into
tears of stone
leaving deep ruts
made crimson by our silence.

Aztec Warrior
...silence = complicity
1.1k · Jul 2015
Aztec Warrior Jul 2015
It's hard to walk
the dunes of depression.
Not only from the loose shifting sands,
but the presence of soul eating,
demonic illusions
that pretend to be poetic
yet are just rotting, hypnotic words
hell bent on falsifying your mind.

The ironic indentations
in this madness
is you are standing amidst
blue sky lithium dreams
of xanax desires,
stuck with rainbow's
colors pounding at you,
making you think everything is fine
as the whole world burns;
a "one day at a time"
horror show
that shouts a *******
symphony in B sharp major.

no wonder
I love the "blues".

Aztec Warrior 7/12/15
May my sweet friend find peace
1.1k · Aug 2015
SoHo (POEM 34)
Aztec Warrior Aug 2015

South of Houston,
an ethnic divide
that turned into yuppiedom
and new hipsters,
but not the Beat kind.

I miss those snaps,
the Nueyorican taps
of bullet fast words
steppin’ into the streets
with wild eyes beats
and the howling rage
at hypocracy.

Now all you find
is dead eyed
zombied out,
but starbucks energized
and freaky fellows,
all into themselves
as though they
knew something
more than the chase for
money and ***.

And they say this
is the American Dream;
follow the greed
as humanity burns
to pay for these pleasures.

SoHo, Village groupies
who long ago
gave up their tongues
and their eyes...

Aztec Warrior 8.2.15
WHOA,  a titled poem
1.0k · Feb 2016
POEM 123
Aztec Warrior Feb 2016

"How long shall they **** our prophets as we stand aside and look?”    
             ‑‑ Bob Marley

Saturday morning,
the scene's the same
round and round
suds and foam,
round and round
energetic flashes of life
play, giggle and roam.
"Can I have a quarter
to play video games?
Hey mom, can I get a
soda and some chips?"
It's always bedlam,
even at 3 am,
always the same
neighborhood faces
some smiling, others
wrinkled like
clothes with a stain problem.
Clothes and lives
sharing destinies.
***** clothes, old and worn,
*****, hard driven lives.
Both, beat and torn,
both trying to get clean
fresh from this
bone weariness
reflected like patched knees,
lost buttons,
mismatched  sox
or  those brown  streaked ******,  
reflecting our brown stained lives.
Round and round go the clothes.
Round and round so goes our lives
that no matter what we do
seems always in need of mending.
Round and round
women, kids
and clothes in tow.
Men, if  there,
in the background,
but always  fighting for control.
Sometimes though the  juke wails
joyful music prevails
causing feet to tap
and lips to smile.
Maybe some Miles
or hip hop Coup
announce a new rinse cycle.
Some young'un dropped the  coin
but you can see
all are keeping time
with  these way out songs.
Finally,  eyes  reveal hidden,
no more suppressed,
clothes  are folded musically.
The kid knows his tunes,
out jumps a "classic";
"Redemption Songs".
Marley at his best
conscious style, a request.
"Won't you help me  sing
these  songs of freedom.
Redemption songs.
They're all I ever had
redemption songs."
You can see it in
lint filled air swirling,
eyes  gleaming,
kids screaming;
you can taste the hope
and dreams.
A  joyous hunger
of patched  jeans,
men and women sway
in unison. For 3 minutes, 25 seconds,
on this very early morn,
the possibilities of relations
rinsed  clean
of men and women
folding clothes
smelling fresh,
wishing for a better way.
It is only a glimpse
this Saturday morning.
A round and round
that holds promise
as old, worn clothes
and leave refreshed,
On this morn
a few eyes, alert
leave singing;
"Redemption songs,
they're  all  I ever  had,
these  songs  of  freedom."

~~redzone 5.22.99~~
(posted by Aztec Warrior writing as redzone)
This is a poem I wrote a while ago. I thought it was a different kind of Valentine's Day card. I hope you enjoy. The music is Bob Marley's "Redemption Songs"
1.0k · Oct 2016
"Bright Star"
Aztec Warrior Oct 2016
On this Friday night a poem to share with all who wish someone would write them a love poem. Or in some other show of affection give them love and kindness.

Bright Star  
           by John Keats

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.

I think if I would write a poem of love for the one I love,
It would be to simply voice softly in her ear, this poem written
by John Keats and given to his love,  ***** Brawne….  redzone to_,
a softly voiced enchantment in the night’s sky.
....thanks for reading...

I didn't write the poem, Keats did... Bright Star besides being a poem he wrote to his beloved, was also the movie made of this love... a bitter sweet and tragic love story...

I put this piece together 9/30 as a "Friday Night" poem and it was inspire by a friend who said they wish someone would write them a love poem...
1.0k · Jan 2016
POEM 107
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016
I’ve Said Too Much**

if you think of me
    like i think of you
then i will come to you,
find my way from this deep, deep abyss;
find my way
    to your touch
        your warm embrace
            your strawberry lips.

oh no, i’ve said too much.
i’ve opened my dreams
and fantasies
to your silence.
    and i wonder

who stole your heart?
who left you broken
on the floor with lost innocence,
flayed skin
    bloodied bones
        with chains and locks
            on all your doors?

this cruel life.
my hands around his neck.
it's for my relief,
i know i can't save you.

oh no, i’ve said too much
now you know my anger,
opened my hatred
to your silence
        and i wonder

if you ever dream of me
    the way i dream of you?
running carefree
through a field of wild flowers-
red poppies
    blue bells
        yellow daffodils
            violet snapdragons.
just happy.
cause then i would come to you.
find my way to
    your touch
        your warm embrace
            your strawberry lips.

oh no, i‘ve said too much.
i’ve opened my desires
to your silence.

Aztec Warrior 1.3.16
...thanks for reading...
1.0k · Oct 2015
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015

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
1.0k · Dec 2015
Aztec Warrior Dec 2015

(a poem by Warsan Shire. She is a 23 year-old Somali born, London-based author and educator. This poem has been posted all over the internet. I found this copy in a revolutionary journal called, “A World To Win News Service” their web address is;

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you?
breath ****** in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn't be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles traveled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the go home blacks
***** immigrants
asylum seekers
******* our country dry
******* with their hands out
they smell strange

messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the ***** looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child's body
in pieces.

i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans

be hungry
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
run away from me now
i don't know what i've become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here
I am proudly posting this poem because of the fascistic views being prominently displayed as legitiment views in american and european media and society... for inhumanity and barbarity there is NO equal in the world than what the US has done in it's entire history down to a few seconds ago... Warsan Shire's story is just one of literally millions and millions... but posting a poem is not enough, it is up to all of us to stop these wars of aggression waged by our own government
1.0k · Dec 2015
POEM 106
Aztec Warrior Dec 2015
POEM 106**
“Lose Yourself to Dance”

It’s a new year
so ‘lose yourself to dance’;
wild gyrations laughing
at hips swaying the air
in riotous tones
and happy feet.
‘Come on, come on
everybody on the dance floor’,
yes, even you
with those doubts and fears,
let me dance away your tears,
just ‘lose yourself to dance’.
I know the world’s a mess,
that we live in light and dark,
inner turmoil
of what we are becoming;
self conscious insensitivity
to atrocity after atrocity,
have we lost our humanity?
As the world,
our lives,
teeter in this chaos
let’s   STOP!
And lose ourselves to dance.
‘Come on, come on come on,
everybody on the floor’;
bodies afire with rebel music
we won’t live their way any more.
Let’s dance in our gardens,
plant our seeds,
harvest a world
without their criminality.
‘Lose yourself to dance’.
Yes even you
with all your fears,
all those self-cultivated doubts
pass them through music’s prism,
a mirror of refracted life,
a pathway to hope
and our humanity.
Come on, come on, come on
it’s a new year - 2016
everybody on the floor
join me in rebellious dance!

Aztec Warrior 12.31.15
First off: HAPPY NEW YEAR poets of HP!!!  A bit of explanation. This poem is inspired by several things all at once. First is reading a poem by Vicki ("in the savage garden") and I used some of her ideas in this poem; second is listening to this song by Daft Punk, "Lose Yourself To Dance" (the link is : ) hope you enjoy it; and third in a few short hours it will be 2016!!!  So I hope everyone enjoys the poem and has a very happy, healthy new year!!!
1000 · Oct 2016
The Notebook
Aztec Warrior Oct 2016
The Notebook

A small leaf fell from the notebook. It was Autumn colored transparency, gentle to the touch, not dried and brittle, but still seemed alive with vibrancy. Its shape was unusual to me and I discovered the tree it came from died out thousands of years ago.

The notebook, old leather bound, seemed just as old. A bit larger than my hand, you could feel wear of millennia in the symbols etched and raised on the back and spine. On the cover, a leafless, ancient and gnarly tree. It’s trunk at least 10 men, arms stretched around, with fat, ugly limbs touching the sky. It felt alive, breathing as my fingers brushed across the tree and symbols below it. An exciting warmth flowed in my mind and without really thinking, I picked up my pen and wrote my name atop the first page.

It made me smile, cause as I wrote “REDZONE”, the letters turned into ancient, ornate symbols and the space around me shifted, almost a dimensional phase in astral synchronicity but a dream walk reality. The paper, handmade papayra, drank in the ink coloring it with the passion of Time, licorice and figments of imagination.

Under my name, more symbols appeared smelling of musk, jasmine and blue nile; the words: “POET, WRITER, SINGER OF IMAGES AND PAINTER OF WORDS.” In smaller word symbols: “Keeper of our Stories and Origins”.

As I began to understand the notebook’s meaning, a single leaf materialized on the ancient tree. And a second small leaf of Autumn’s design formed as I wrote:
                                 Small leaves unfolding
                            In Autumn’s hue, written in
                                Sun rise morning dew.
                                 Leaves painted by words
                            Will cover this ancient tree
                                 With life origins.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 9.26.16
while I was staying with family past few weeks, my grandson Nicky gave me a hand made leather bound with hand made paper, notebook... he said that I should fill it up with poems and give it back to him... the above prose poem is the first entry..

hope you enjoy reading as I had in writing it...
992 · Jan 2017
Mother Is A Song
Aztec Warrior Jan 2017
Mother Is A Song**

I was born on the wind
swirling through tall trees,
downstream fed valleys
into open, high grass plains
where nights twinkle stars
and days are a warm yellow
because Mother is a song.

I was raised on her voice,
carried by wrens’ wings,
spoken in blue jay chatter
that told of black soil
giving life to African Violets
sprinkled neath tall Sequoia
as each word whispered her name,
cause Mother was a song
and I was born
to be her singer.

She often spoke in violins
sounding like a fast-moving rill
cascading over smooth rock
and deep cello metaphor
dancing gleefully through
the eons old gorge
while oboeing calmly
toward the delta’s sea.
Her seas, symphonies of blue-green
waves playing with whale pod sonatas,
dolphin leaping concertos
as clown fish nestle among coral
listening to tides and meter
where all life began
and now witnessing death.

Mother is a song
and I am born on her cymbals,
loud and angry like thunder;
raised to be her lightning singer.

Mother is a song
no one listens to anymore.

Aztec Warrior/redzone  11.30.16
(NOTE: an ode to the large death of coral in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef due to rising sea temperatures and pollution)
...thanks for reading
992 · Mar 2016
POEM 128
Aztec Warrior Mar 2016
The Chaos of Love
(It's a Friday Night **** Poem)**

it’s a very slippery *****
into the chaotic vortex called love.
sometimes it starts
with a smile and a hi.
other times just a casual passing by
and it’s the way her hips sway
and she’s not afraid to look you in the eye.

but fast
or super slow,
it always ends up
sweaty, messy,
arms and legs tangled
in a whirl wind of sated sighs.
it’s like riding a an ocean swell
crashing on your wide open shores.

i love laying on your beach
you, naked under the magic of stars,
my fingers tasting
the contours of your skin
signing my passion on your heart
as it beats to the rhythm
of your name
on the ocean’s breeze.

i love painting you,
your skin colored with smooth
tongue strokes dipping, mixing
and dancing erotically
in your emotions’ moans
as your metaphors scream
musky, ******* sighs.

I just love the chaos
of your love.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 2.27.16
Once again the music is Diana Ross'  "Love Hangover"
988 · Jun 2015
Aztec Warrior Jun 2015

I remember walking the Trail of Tears
wrapped in diseased laced blankets
under small pox filled nights.
I witnessed the first ‘Holocaust’
of middle passage genocide
and untold body count
of African lives.
All of this is the moral fabric
of today’s American values.

I saw a sticker the other day,
as I walked my small town
and it has given me some hope.
“Stop Thinking Like Americans
Start Thinking About Humanity.”
It was posted on a street light,
right there on Main Street.

And I thought,
if this view point can be found here
in Small town USA,
think of what might happen
if it were also found
in all the big cities!?

Maybe we still can find our humanity.

Aztec Warrior 6.13.15
967 · Jul 2016
POEM 146
Aztec Warrior Jul 2016
Love Maven**

In the moonlight of heaven
I see you floating
on notes of no beginning,
no end.
Taking that farm boy’s arm,
going where your feet just wanna go,
going to some ‘natural fun’...

Thinking of a life lost
in tones of forest green
and what could have been,
I know what it means
to get down, get down
where there is a lively funky sound.
‘Ipsimama’, ‘ipsimama’.

Time, in all dimensions
doesn’t recognize the ‘genius of love
or its love maven.
It just tick tocks,
tick tocks until
‘hiditihi, hipitiho’
‘bohannon’, bohannon’,
the music stops!

Aztec Warrior/redzone 5.30.16
.... thanks for reading..
this poem was written for a good friend at another poetry site, so I hope you all like it as well... enjoy the music link: "Genius of Love"
962 · Sep 2016
Cruel Summer
Aztec Warrior Sep 2016
Cruel Summer**

It’s a long cruel summer
since you’ve been gone;
starless skies
greet dreamless nights
and shadows eat my sight.
I thought it would be easy
not ever seeing you,
but everything I do
calls me to unsaid words
in many colors, but mostly blue.
Life is mostly hard,
filled with pain
abuse that makes no sense
and leaves us hollow sometimes.
Whether it’s at the hands
of those who raise us,
or the one who promises
to love us forever.
And worse, we sometimes lose
the ones we love the most-
like mourning dew
on a warm summer’s day.
I know all this,
honestly I do.
Yet I never thought
it was you I would lose.
Don’t ask me why
I can not explain
my Daliesque dream
that you would remain.
Perhaps it was my penchant
at windmill jousting;
or reading too much into
Cervantes’ and his chivalrous
Dulcinea desires
that imaged you
dancing from chandeliers
or around those gypsy fires
on cool spring nights;
teasing me into submission
and confessing my “sins”
of falling for you.
I have no words
or rationale for any of this.
I just know
it’s a long cruel summer
since you’ve been gone,
leaving me all alone.
Maybe today,
while it’s sunny and warm,
I can find my sanity,
the rationale
to get out on my own
and sing some silly
80's songs.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 6.26.16
....thanks for reading...
music is "Cruel Summer" by Bananarama
962 · Oct 2015
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015

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,
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
949 · Jul 2015
Aztec Warrior Jul 2015
The back beat catches me off guard
as the music floats
on apricot flavored funk;
drifting me on strawberry
streams of ideals
laced with mushroom
shaped dreams.
Limp watches
tell surreal time
in fluffy notes
of “who the hell cares”
and in spite of all
the multi-colored word phrases
I want to say,
my tongue is swollen with the bitterness
of a world just too ****** up
to be sane.

So, cover me with;
drown me in,
your sensual warmth
of liquid
psychedelic escape.

Aztec Warrior   7.27.15
937 · Jul 2015
Aztec Warrior Jul 2015
Some morality courtesy of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
"Give it away now";
"What I got you gotta put it in you,
Don't stop, continue..."
Oh hell, just listen to the music:

Aztec Warrior  7.27.15
inspired by the self centered attitudes that have emerged here at HP...
925 · Jan 2017
I Was Told
Aztec Warrior Jan 2017
I Was Told**

Well, I was told,
but who listens
when a heart is on fire.
I was warned
but you turned me to ash,
and I burnt so passionately
in your arms.

There’s a fiery madness here
found in your silent words
and I was warned
your touch would freeze
my heart in frost bitten sanity.
But it doesn’t matter
as this madness swallowed me whole
and I need to know
are you real;
do you care?
Or am I
just the ash falling
from your fingertips,
like a smoking cigarette
still burning in madness.

Aztec Warrior/redzone  12.8.16
.....thanks for reading.... music is  "Madness" by Muse
923 · Nov 2015
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
908 · Nov 2015
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
Scent Of A Woman**

It’s ironic, funny and strange,
even iconic,
like those Pillars of Atlantis
at world’s end;
water logged
seaweed covered,
yet still guarding
long past City Gates.
Oh, I have played the fool,
the playful court jester;
have left witty comments
to elicit a smile or two.
I have been a hero,
wielded the Sword of Un,
played La Mancha’s
Quixote, windmill slayer,
fighter for Dulcinea’s sacred honor.
I rode Appaloosa bare back
painted in warrior red
leaving my blood
soaking the banks of Sand Creek,
and valley’s of Wounded Knee.
Yes, all this
I have seen and done.
And yet not once
has the scent of a woman
said,” Come home to me.
Kiss me into the night.
Hold me until
the morning’s light.”

Aztec Warrior 11.7.15
900 · Nov 2015
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
Can’t Get Next To You**

There are words
that rummage constantly
through my head;
sad, shadowy words
filled with a dark void;
malevolent words that stab you
when your back is turned;
or staring at you
eye to eye.
It’s ironic too,
cause even with crossing a roaring river
filled with liquid fire,
I can’t get next to you.
I can’t get next to you
and I am covered
in the singed sweat of alone-ness;
where the hues of Autumn
embrace Winter’s barren-ness,
its blank, hypnotic
pull of death.

Aztec Warrior 11.20.15
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