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 Feb 2016
The Dedpoet
After the human dream is gone
And we are born again in mythologies,
The sea, the forever sea will remain.
What is the sea? What brought forth
The liquidity both violent and old,
That which gives and takes life?
You are the sea, I am the sea,
And everything is new again washed
In the waters, blood and all.
The sea which is kissed by the
Reelection of the night
And drenched by the star during the day,
The ocean, vast and enigmatic,
We return and she will never answer.
 Feb 2016
The Dedpoet
There is but one inside each of us,
The magnificent irony that is you,
The gift of emotion and darkness,
Light and the solemn silence.

In each there is a word never spoken,
The lord of his or her pen stroke,
Like a library of dreams
Disclosed to the insensible mind.

In vain with each passing day
The infinite ache of the lifespan
Becomes an accessible garden
And fountains of immersive memory.

And to die is but to awaken,
We toil in the philosophy of words,
Without strength or direction
Writing sorrowful verse.

Haiku, sonnet, free verse,
Stars, skies, oceans, meadows,
All are symbolic to the perceptions
In the void of the eye's twilight views.

Painfully we probe the depth
And fathom the darkness,
Heaven becomes a metaphor,
Hell seems too real, the Power....

Long before me or you,
The dead poets took the dark
And shown them in the light
In his or her fading dusk.

The gallery of poems,
Impalpably dreaded like life,
And we are the dead whom write
Of life in the setting sun.

Power, which had written this poem,
Disfiguring the poet, perpetually dark,
The word speaks through us,
The curse is to observe as it all passes away.
 Feb 2016
Elisa Maria Argiro
Summertime on Broadway
in Spanish Harlem.
Wide sidewalks glinting
with mica, as I walked alone
up this hill in our neighborhood
for the very first time.

Flag Day, my parent's anniversary,
and a wish to give them flowers
I would buy all on my own.

Inside the hushed florist shop
the flowers and plants
seemed ready to interview
any potential new owners
who wished to take them home.

A dignified, kind woman,
spokesperson for their domain,
looked down at this earnest
little shrimp of a girl in a
striped T-shirt and shorts,
who wanted so much
to be taken seriously.

Respectfully, she opened heavy
glass doors where the roses slept
in orderly, long-stemmed rows.

Heady, chilled. Their fragrance
enveloped me, and still does.

I chose one red rose, and one yellow,
and the woman solemnly wrapped
them like a baby in swaddling clothes,
adding baby's breath and fern leaves.

Cradling my paper bundle, I walked on home.
Something deep inside of me had made that choice.

It felt as though the flowers knew what I wanted
to say to my cherished mother and father:
That this life they were creating for us,
was abundantly full, and balanced.


Time flew by, and one day I learned
from a holy and compassionate sage
that my heart had chosen an ancient
symbol for fullness of life:

Two flowers, one red,
one yellow, whispering
the secret of life
to the heart of a child
who wanted, more than anything,
to actually hear it,
who wanted to know,
above all else,
what was really real.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
 Feb 2016
Elisa Maria Argiro
That day, something got into me.
Approaching the corner of 155th
and Broadway on the Upper West Side,
my friend and I were only a block from home.

Either we'd been on a mission for candy necklaces
or bubble gum cigars, from the place where the guy
was always grumpy, never actually scary,
and the sawdust on the floor, the real cigars
in fancy boxes, were something to wonder about.

Or we had just scored our first fresh sugar canes,
one each, and much taller than either of us.
The kindly Puerto Rican green grocer, proud
of his new shop, hoped we'd try the plantains
too, getting a kick out of our delight
in what he'd always known.

The light was red, and we weren't in a hurry.
I just got curious about this trap door on the side
of the old cast iron signal post,
and decided to see
if it would open... and it did.

Smiling to myself, an uncommon, delicious
sense of mischief lighting me up inside,
I calmly flipped a switch.

Instantly, all four lanes of traffic, heading north
and south on Broadway came to a screeching halt.

The feeling of power was intoxicating.
And unforgettable.

Had I been an older kid, had the policeman
who happened by been less lenient, had anyone, God forbid,
been injured, I could have been in some serious trouble.

Injury never entered my mind, and maybe the officer saw that.
All in all, I got away with the only really naughty thing
I did as a child, and still get to smile.
And remember.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
 Feb 2016
Chris
~

*Only because
she touches my heart
in a way it has never been
touched before

Only because
she makes me smile
and I could never
ask for more

Only because
my life is filled
with all the love she
brings to me

Only because
she gives me strength
to be the man that
I can be

Only because
my every dream
of perfect love has
now come true

Only because
she looks in here
did I post this saying,
I love you
Hi there beautiful, I love you. :)
 Feb 2016
Walter W Hoelbling
I release you, my beautiful and terrible
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don't know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my children.

You are not my blood anymore.

I give you back to the soldiers
who burned down my home, beheaded my children,
***** and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.

I release you, fear, because you hold
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.

I release you
I release you
I release you
I release you

I am not afraid to be angry.
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afraid to be loved.

to be loved, to be loved, fear.

Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.

I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won't hold you in my hands.
You can't live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart

But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid of dying.
Joy Harjo, leading contemporary Native American poetess
 Feb 2016
lluvia de abril
'When you leave
don't hesitate
don't look at me
don't pretend to forget
something of yours, returning again
for just one last kiss
or the look in my face
that says I am okay, I will live

When you leave
there is no need to pack
all worth taking is mine
and I will need everything

you cannot
take a thing;
not the look in your eyes
before our first kiss
or the part of my soul
intact and inked
in the letters you wrote
that Sunday, last spring

I will fight to the death
to hold on to your gaze
at three o'clock in the morning
when you think that I sleep
and you quietly sing
sleep baby, sleep

I will keep every
word, every phrase
and, yes I will keep
every sound of exhaustion
when our bodies embrace
and the joy that it brings

You cannot retrieve
a caress from my skin
the light in your smile
dreams that we made or
the sound of your voice
when you promised to love me

When you leave
you will take just what's yours
an absolute me
my heart following'
 Feb 2016
lluvia de abril
How many times
would I return
in an attempt to be the storm
that claims your heart as an abode
on a day which no longer exists

How many
to create my earth
in subtle grooves upon your back
until the seeds of every kiss
begin to live, feeling your motive
and your warmth

How many
to reclaim the fruits
of tender mornings gone
contrary to the wind as whispers
from your lips

How many before the storm's
inevitable retreat
leaving only white flags
white flags in bloom
ceding to time
as scars
and beauty marks

And how many more
would I return
before the clouds break
in the sun

I do not know
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