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Mar 2016 · 379
10:00 A.M.
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
This tells me I'm running
Out of titles,
The air is coming
From the north and stirring the trees.
So now you know the weather.
And well the title tells the time,
So this is the end of this
Poem, and now sports.....
Mar 2016 · 762
Give Me A Reason
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
Man, so tired of it,
Like a long day's journey nowhere,
I'm waiting on the moment,
But the moment just don't care.

I'll stay and do my part,
Because misery loves the company,
But give me something,
This love is almost done with me.

     Give me a reason,
     I'm standing in a corner,
     Give me what ain't there,
     Still here for her.

     Give me a reason,
     Baby we watching time pass by,
     Love me baby love me,
     I ask the hourglass why....

I'm smoking my last cigarette,
Almost done with the pack,
I'll be going to the store now,
Don't think I'll be coming back.

But if you share with me
Share with me a smoke,
Baby I'll hold back with you
And maybe share that one joke.

    Give me something,
    I ain't asking for much,
    But frigid don't do nothin,
    And nothin I can't touch.

     Give me a reason,
     Say anything just one time,
     Say anything,
     I'm running out of rhyme....

Reasons why,
We can't be done
Reasons why,
Baby you're my only one.....
I want to put this to music. I just don't know how. Anybody?
Mar 2016 · 722
I Wish....
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
I wish that the color of my skin,
Full of spectral bliss,
Were able to mold the world,
That whatever I touched would
Fill up with sunlight.
I walk the delicate desolation
In the twilight of the people's lives
And they seem so sudden,
Like a brief Dahlia bloomed and gone.
Let me for one moment take
Them to a poet's mind,
Change the climate of their hearts
That they might drink the sun
Of audacious hope
In a balcony of conscious sight,
Sinking deeply into the better humanity,
Let them break the devices
And speak in words what
They have lost to typing and even writing!
Oh for them to know the quiet passions
Of the universe of a poet's mind,
Oh I wish these spectral hands
Could color the world;

It remains a hopeful metaphor.....
Mar 2016 · 403
San Anto: Into The City
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
I retreat prompted by a certain
Charm for older things
Into my mechanized city:
A scene of 1920's buildings
Awaiting seeker of history.

    I sit by a grand oak
    With a book in hand
    And find a storage dimension
    Of Pecan and Ashe trees
    Whistling to Poplars in certain
    Winds between the River and the
    Town that runs through it.

Here in a walk with the River
I want to rest my soul
A destroy all other thoughts
Of complacent voices.

      An old cantina was placed
      At her heart, inside a Catholic
      Crucifix with Christ watches
      Over the patrons as they drink
      A merry round with old friends.

A profound feeling in the city,
I gaze at the Old Mission
Of the Heart, I remember her well,
The Alamo lights up my city
And perhaps my whole world.

     There is a tower of many Americas
     Compelling the watchers,
     Its as if the mercy of her heights
     Allows you to fly in the air
     Seeing certain histories from there.

I enjoy her charm,
San Anto at her heart
Is a maiden of loyal charms,
All resignation is set aside
As old voices speak to you,
And they  seem to say,
"Welcome, welcome old friends"
My charming downtown. Old style city.
Mar 2016 · 327
Father
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
There is a mountain that every child
Always looks up to, and the name
Of that mountain is Father.

Guide of the labyrinth,
Weaver of strength and protection.

Not unlike the stalk of a tree,
I have seen you age without grace
Familiar with shadow and thorn,
Your enormous branches triumphant
At the core of my spirit.

Vanquisher of fears,
Vessel of the child's adventure.

And you are a guide to the clouds,
A hidden tenderness that allowed
Me to grow, I will never forget
The lessons you taught me,
And the ones you let me learn
On my own.

Father of my life,
The old man is a peak to the stars.
For my Father.
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
I see a fool of man in the mirror.
I'm writing about myself in reflection
To my reflection.

I sit down and burp, I say excuse me,
And there is no one around.

I shave and feel my face,
I point at the man in the mirror
And say" You da man!"

I write a philosophical poem about silence,
Suddenly I am in a league with Socrates.

I look for my keys and call myself stupid for
Losing them. I give myself a break.

I step on a nail at work and watch the blood trickle
Out of my foot. There goes a pair of socks!

I give a dollar to a homeless man.
I feel as though I may be a philanthropist.

I get on the bus and eat my lunch,
I then ponder the physics of the universe.

I'm here writing my thoughts about my thoughts.
Does this make me a thinker? I think.....
My thoughts, honest approach. :)
Mar 2016 · 1.9k
The Art of Silence
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
Silence is listening
                   For the music;
Knowing when to be still
                   To hear one's self.

When the body stands silent,
                    Everything moves;
Silences are the noises,
                   The echo of everything.

Without being heard
               The silence becomes visible,
The footsteps of the light
               Can be heard in the meditation.

The silence walks with you
              As the world makes you silent,
The idea is to hear the music
              That is in the quietude of your peace.
Mar 2016 · 842
Alone In The Dark
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
The sun has stopped at midnight,
Its sky caught in a tapestry of stars
And there are certain shadows
I recognize.

I am hidden with the secrets of my desires,
Alone with the guilt of my soul,
The lost wings of the Fallen
As I wear a burden around my neck,
The fountains can never quench
The darkness,
The tears are a storm inside me,
Because I have fallen from the highest
Peak into the lowest abyss.

My dreams are hidden here,
The colors lost to me from the
Stilled light,
Behind a sea of failures
I leave the sky behind me,
I surface at a destiny sealed by the past,
Like the ignorant bliss of oblivion.

And I weep at the boredom of it all.
When your depressed, it *****. So don't be.
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
Oh, the big whole life
That fills all mystery
And makes everything so small....

She stares out a window
At the center of her world,
A sorrow
Like a dark magnolia
Which changes when touched.

She had a wall around her
Until the day she let's it go,
A turbulent dream that keeps her
Awake, to guard herself from
Everybody else.

Oh, her she is a dove,
A tranquility she knows nothing
About,
He told her she was beautiful
Holding  his breath when he said it.
And the fragile destiny
Can be seen in her absence,
Her voice is darkened
And was gentle like air,
But the night is now born
Under her eyes,
The light escapes her as she
Walks with eyes to the earth,
She can't feel a thing
Because the pain numbs her,
Familiar to her like family now,
The razor is a new friend.
She cuts the life I to her,
Along with the jelly beans she grew
Up loving,
The blood runs down her thigh
And the flavor
Melts into her mouth.

Why is this normal for her?
She asks herself with a half smile,
The landscape of her life
Is a dream trying to feel
Anything.

I know her innocence
Has more than this razor,
And all her heart is stuck
In a painful fragility,
Touching what she sees as real
The days pass,
The scars number every day.

What destiny will free her
From the closed heart?
What steps will she take to free
Herself,
That the cage might become a bird?

Who will rescue her from the wolves,
While she bleeds herself
Into oblivion,
Some day,
Oblivion may take her home.
I know you are hurting, I know your pain. I know what it feels like to feel nothing. Write the pain away.....
Mar 2016 · 375
The Apparitions of Poetry
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
Echoes in a mist of words
                                   Echoes
Through the verse laid like light
                                   The luminous
Behaviour shredding the shadows
                                    The poet
Becomes liquid in the foliage of life
                                     They cannot see
The reflectors of the inner words
                                       A poems life
Is a scattered spectacle of past apparitions
                                        The body
Of words fills in the eye's void
                                        This phrase
Is the final perception of this piece

Surround yourself with words.
Feb 2016 · 1.3k
Dreams of a Poet
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Enormous earth
Crawling over water,
The eagle's flap is a whirlwind
Across sudden forests,
Tops like pointed greenery
And formidable roots.

She is caught in the moonlit aureole,
Shimmering like waves on stars,
The wears her flattery,
The echoes of enchantment.

Stilled in a frame, through a window,
Adrift in the generations of home,
Wrapped in memory, a picture
Remains,

Visions like a poet in a new world
Held captivated by the blue sun
In the diamond reflecting reflections
In the depths of the endless Word.
Feb 2016 · 449
Love Quantified
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Perceptions,
           (The heart desires,
             Action at a distance)
The slow burning
Needs when the eye meets.
       Was she there before?
       The manifest destiny of its mechanics,
       How world upon world was stacked
       Until finally what the heart
       Wanted comes to be.
The fire's ancient name
When the name burned
As the first words spoken
Into existence.
      Quantum lovers to the atomic
      Extremes, the matter cannot
      Be mathmetised, fate rarely explained.
Great the string,
Silhouettes of her body
In a thousand bodies,
Only one looks his way.....

        Fallen star
        In the endlessness of many worlds
        Beneath the eyelids electrified,
        The girl, only the girl,
        I see through a tunnel
        Like destiny in a wormhole.
Tiny energetic particles,
Trillions inexact,
They lay motion into desire,
The motion becomes a walk,
A walk become a word,
The word becomes them both.

   They explode like comets
   Too close to the star,
   The spirit intertwined,
    Evaporation of perceptions,
    Both accidental and fated,
    The quanta come together.
A series of waves
That take part in duality,
Two lovers, immeasurable destinies,
Coming together,
A scarlet queen,
A quartz king,
Fire on the head of the energy.
      Silent in the moment,
      He holds her hand,
      Connectivity on the sub atomic level,
The wheel spins,
The procession of the heart
Began as multiple universes collided,
The love devours all destiny,
In a rain shower of possibility,
The boy meets the girl,
They fall in love,
In this love quantified,
All the matter and energy
Swim in a pool of desire and need,
Never can it be measured,
Destiny is but
A prelude to a kiss.....
Feb 2016 · 268
Portrait of Her Smile
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Half smile,
The rare dimple in perfect
Pleasure to the eyes,
But never outlandish laughter.
( Like a woman who knows she has
You in her trance)

   Hip bent to one side,
Arm defiantly attached to bent hip,
Her dress of flowers flow like
A mobile garden,
The air seems to glide around every
Curve and dress wears her well.

The eyes of men
Become magnetised,
Through which the world
Is observing her magnetic frame
The smile piercingly gradual,
Yet playful, still a touch of vulgarity.

Woman, whose smile
Beckons a portrait,
You walk with depths
Unknown, but the abyss
Of your smile
And the eyes jumping in.
Feb 2016 · 675
A Walk
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I escape from the hole,
      All is far away,
The night is undead,
   The living are not alive.
I walk interminably departing myself,
     Today is easy,
Right now is not a word.
    The restlessness circles my being,
The poem seems to follow,
      I whisper a secret to the verses
And the stars become dotted inklings,
     The night is enormously quiet,
But my mind is resounding words,
      They beg to come out,
My walk will take forever,
    But I am already home
Scribbling the lines to this poem,
       A walk becomes a metaphor,
This poem becomes reality
Shutting doors,
    The poem becomes me,
I have no name to call myself,
     I am ravaged by the words,
I write to see myself.....
This is writing for me. This is my need, my passion, a way of life for me.
Feb 2016 · 382
Fragments in the Night
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
A star and its flurry of appearing
Brethren as they push their way
To the eyes that wish to see,
Its shine which was not there before
And in seconds reaches what took
Millennia to reach the globe of
One's eyes, and the glory that falls
Upon us, what does one do with this?

It slowly comes together
In the depths of the heart,
The hope of forgotten dreams well up and spill their way into existence,
We constellated the sky not in any
One star to lay a wish on,
But instead have used a multitude
To feed the light that haunts
The black night.

And before the pieces come together,
Remember that the heart ,desirous
As it is, will gives the clue to hope and dream
And the key to putting it together,
One only need look up into
The starry abyss, fill it out
With what we can see and make
The dream a reality,
As fragmented as the sky may
Be,
It reflects the fragments of
The broken dream.

So I pierce into said sky,
Make my own constellation,
And when the stars are realigned
Into the order of remembered hope,
There I can see it,
I remember hope can change the stars.....
Feb 2016 · 736
Ode To Don Caliente
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Don Caliente,
From the distant places where
Men are men,
And rumored ,the women are also
Women.
And so he has come riding his
Motor scooter with his khaki pants
And thong sandals,
The checkered shirt that drives
Deer wild, and just enough unbuttoned
To see the neanderthal hair below.
      He is smooth with the chikas,
The scent of raspberry floats
In the air, his favorite snow cone,
And it drives women wild,
Well the children anyway,
They begin searching for the raspa man.
   He is considered a ladies man,
Some call him stalker,
He just likes to be consistent.
    Yes Don Caliente,
With his golden smile,
Others argue its yellow tarter,
But still he smiles away!
   His metal nerves as he approaches
The married women,
His rubber jaw as he gets knocked
Out by the husbands,
   Ay! Don Caliente,
No is never an option!
Smile, its Friday!
Feb 2016 · 575
Pace Write
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Like ashes swarming
Sunken in the debris of the form,
Or even the crossroads
Where a stop is received open,
Holding the pace bearing down
On one's reach, far out in the distance;

Where am I going in a rushing brush with life?

The question questions the self,
An answer spades the mirror,
So quick like a plume of smoke
Out of a hurried motor,
The comet that comes and goes
Slicing generations in waiting,
To and from encircling eternal likenesses,
Uncertain about Faith's certainties,
the ceaseless wheel keeps spinning,
A dizzying compass.

The why is immobile, the what is is the experience.

I half shed a tear when another
Bites the immortal dust,
What is a damp ravine drawn
At the cliff of a road lined with stones?
All is erosional,
The enormous draws out endlessly
With poignant time,
So I pace myself
Down to the exploding minute,
Because time only burns
But never passes.....
Feb 2016 · 1.7k
San Anto: Westside Survival
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Take a ride with me,
Give me your ear, your eyes;
Like stellar days of old,
I will tell no lies.

     You see my days weren't complicated,
When the rivers ran red,
    It was a bullet or the money,
Family gotta stay fed.

Your silent gestures cannot fathom
What was my everyday,
Like the hardened hollows of my soul,
I took my gun to the park to play.

    This was my life
From my chest into these words,
    Every link in the chain,
I am tied down by haunted verbs.

  Kindle old fires
And set your daily a blaze,
I survived with deep wounds,
   To the past I am a slave.

Give me my homiez,
All dead and gone,
Give a sip of that Henny,
I'll drip some on the lawn.

  This is me,
Just an old ****,
I'll remember the tombstones,
On bent knee I the marble a hug.

Today I am whipped
Among all the sorrows,
But being a survivor
Give me hope for all the tomorrows.

The westside,
Like a weary night *****,
No coming back, no coming back,
I can't take no more.....

Pick out a casket
And don't remember my name,
Anonymous me,
A Dedpoet who carried the blame.
Feb 2016 · 921
Mother
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
" There is a name of God on every
Child's lips, and the word is
Mother"

    I looked upon her body
That began to leave itself
Suddenly into some stairway
I could not see in my grief.
    
    Mother of the Light,
You took the dawn with you.

The gilded heights that took
You, not the blameless bullet,
But the fleece of flesh you wore,
Now shed to spread your wings,
       Watch over you children's
Children mother of biological blood.
   Cover every atom, every electron,
With your mist that went away in
A flash, your delicate nature be blessed
Hovering over the earth.

    Ceremony of children,
Loving a mother never stops.
Dedicated to my Mother, Yolanda Hernandez Gonzales
Feb 2016 · 345
Poetics for Ants
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
The anthill erupts,
A deluge floods the Amazon
Of grass and crittery things.
There in the open wound of earth
Lies a fallen gift from the fire
Above that rains embers of fire.
A chunk of life that gives life,
Fallen from the giant walkers,
Its tube shape can feed thousands.
And the water hardens the earth,
The flood done for the day,
They begin their march upon
The gift.
The embers meaning a cookout, the tube shaped object that feeds thousands is a ****** that fell, the flood being the Waterhouse.  ;)
Feb 2016 · 333
Half-Empty Religion
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
In the stone city of life
Where images circle blasphemous
Putrefied ideolized deities,
   Carved out of morals from
Their former sins, washed in the Rage
Of time, the stairway of years
Has fallen victim to forgetful dogs
In love with a doctrine read blindly
To justify eating one's own *****.
      Within their water we drink
With the stained images in the waters,
     Combating in a paradise of caged
Jubilation, we become a circus act
Of empty faiths,
    Idols exploding with pastors
Armed with ideas,
Sharpened tongues from a library
     Written by the Sun,
Twisted by the thugs with Holy Spirits
That daunt the saint,
Plotting Edens in their own image,
    We beat each other for the same God,
We ask a name,
Bible,
       Quran,
               I see the body of Moses in both,
Where is the other God?
   The same clouds we look at contain
  The same sins we follow from our
Misreading Shepard's,
       This is high voltage rhetoric,
The industry of Heaven,
     The money of hell,
Cain is well,
Abel unable,
The followers of blind leading seeds
To the dirt,
Grow smeared in to the faith,
Roots of dust,
The fallen have come,
On the knees of blood,
We crown the snakes.
Faith is a personal choice. God cannot be forced on anyone man, if this were the case, we would all be angels. Think about it.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
The Beginning

Beginning
At the duck pond,
A little boy alone.

And a small paper boat
That sailed a way the monsters,
And a soft voice comes to him,
A little girl asking about his boat.

He says the monsters are gone now,
So she takes him by the hand
And walks away to the playground,
He never looks back at the paper boat.

And the eternal present sank the boat,
He played with a new friend,
An understanding of monsters
And they became each others peace.

The Middle
Times that shine in youth
And there she was at prom
With her peace she still held
His hand like the pond before them.

They danced as the years danced,
The youth soaking in all firsts,
He kisses her under the stars
And promises forever in his eyes.

She lay at the blanket before him
Ready as a flower blooms,
They make love as a sacrifice
Of virginal clarity of truth.

The End
Was still the youth, but college
And adventure called them both
To different places and different
Times were to become a reality.

She kissed her kiss of forever,
He held her in their final summer,
Never let me go she whispered,
And he held her ever tighter.

The summer ends,
And the Fall as life is a fall,
They say goodbye and promise
To stay together forever.

              
              The Middle


The beginnings
Of a twenty something man who just
Lost his highschool girlfriend,
And the girl became a woman,
All is a guarantee too change.

The promise was so much to take,
He held on as long as he could
But her dreams took her away
And he became a normal guy.

She meets another man,
He holds on too long,
She marries and has some kids,
He let's her go in his mind.

The Middle of life
Is rarely how one recalls it,
But the time of his life was with her
And he never marries.

She divorces a man that never loved
Her for who she though she was,
Her thoughts drift to her lover,
Her first love, she begins a search.

And time is a force,
A force of her heart when she sees
His face, the pounding that it took,
She realised she never stopped loving him.

The end can be happy sometimes,
And he gets a letter in the mail,
I'm in town, the note said,
Come see me.

He rushes and sees her stilled in time,
As beautiful as ever, they make love
As the first time, two weeks together
That made a lifetime apart worth it.

But she had kids in another place,
He could uproot the life he had,
They say goodbye once again
And something about it felt final.

    
                  The End


The years pile like snow in winter,
And winters breath came and went
Like the seasons, now in his forties
He realised all he wanted was to see her again.

He sends her a letter to meet him at the pond,
She says he has to come to her,
She wasn't feeling so well,
And he flew like a dove in its miracle.

Her children come to greet him,
And he felt like they should have been
His from another life,
The reflections of life's mirror.

The middle years came,
She had battled cancer for years,
He stayed with her through the battle,
And married her with no regrets.

He was with her only two years
But it was the most fun he ever had,
At the hospital the doctors new
That visiting hours didn't apply to him.

As the cancer ate her last days
She made him promise one last thing,
He said he would find her
Where ever souls might go when they leave.

And the end can be a beginning,
He stands at her grave,
He holds her flowers
With tears for everyday.

He went home to where he began
His life, where they first met as kids,
He holds her picture in his pocket
And a sheet of paper he begins to fold.

He puts her picture in a paoerboat,
He sails it away into the pond,
He remembers like it was yesterday,
At the duckpond, a little boy alone......
OK so I'm crying right now, aren't you?
Feb 2016 · 638
The Other Side
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
The light has a pulse.
There is no in between of darkness.
This perception is the only reality,
What we touch and see
Under the limited spectrum
Our eyes are allowed.
         My eyes see nothing,
My hands feel worlds,
         My thoughts create the shadows,
In the shadows I cry for the light,
        The light scatters my world,
On the other side
        Light cannot see me in the dark.
The ever growing battle of good and evil within the self, the battle inside we face everyday, our thoughts are scattered.
Feb 2016 · 749
Inside The Labyrinthine
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I am alive buried in an avalanche
Of thoughts, every depth
Is the cavernous nature of being
By myself, living by myself,
And looking for myself
In the wade of the dark waters.

I cannot accept this me.

I write, I perceive, existing.
There is a thousand mirrors
With echoes in the labyrinth,
My voice
Cannot listen to itself.

Why am I screaming.

I feel like a prisoner
In this chamber
Of a universe's mind,
Thoughts of a playful dahlia,
Maybe I am naive.
The me inside me
Cannot exist without
The me that does without
Thoughts.
Two way existence
In a one way mirror.

I don't know the reflection.

Wounded man
Of a voiceless persona,
Who am I to know myself
Against a labyrinth of mirrors,
Each an odd reflection
Of a past that becomes infinite,
Buried beneath a thousand of me.
Feb 2016 · 428
Alive
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Everyday people,
Everyday faces,
Everyday the same.

The sad ones,
The lonely ones,
The few moments in between.

All of the repetition
Speaking in repetitive
Statement one heard before.

And to have to be alive
Knowing that there all there
Is to life is is to live!
Feb 2016 · 1.8k
Aztec Dreams
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
   " Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)

Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....

And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
My last name being Gonzales has Spaniard roots,
My blood and heritage is far more on the Aztec side.
Dedicated to an ancient people lost, but not dead.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I grew up in a tough neighborhood,
Seen and experienced every kind of
Street hell you can think of.
Its no secret I was a drug addict,
I beat that.
Its no secret my mother was shot dead
In front of me.
I beat that.
All who know me,
Well, you all may not like me after
I told you I was dead.
I beat that.
So for those who are fighting,
Those who are bullying,
I send an open invitation to bully me.
To hate me, to write bad stuff
About The Dedpoet.
Leave all those other guys alone.
I can be your punching bag.
Because I can take it,
Because after all,
If we met in the streets I would
Hug you with a haiku,
I'd lay kisses on your cheek
With a thousand sonnets from
Neruda.
I'd read you Octavio Paz
Until you realized you are not a poet.
Poets do not bully,
They understand, they are philosophical
Word artists whom write the human
Condition and deal with the chaos
Of this world with peers.
So bully, so whomever you are,
Attack me, someone who knows
What you really are.
I can take it,
Just leave the real poets be,
This is an open invitation.
Let the fun begin, if you have the
Metaphorical ***** for it.
Leave my poets alone.
Feb 2016 · 598
Poem of Sex
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
This is a poem of ***,
Simple in nature, I am writing about ***.
Facing the day filled,
I stroke your thighs in the womb
Of the day, we birth the dawn.
Full light comes to
Our bare bodies
Entangling light and dark.

This poem is about ***,
The profilic and harmonic presence
Of a thousand fingers probing
Each other, the kind of animalistic
Pleasure that brings together
The link of man the beast,
God, oh God,
The sensational foray into freedom
Of the body, into the wild!

Oh, sweet sin of heavenly pleasure,
The silent screams!

To the feast!
Feb 2016 · 301
Hellopoetry Blues
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Today I have no hearts,
I feel the anxiety of my poem.

I haven't seen a single lighting
In such a dark procession of grey,
Forgive my poetry for how little my words are.

On this morning everyone, everyone goes
By passing my words of poetics.

And I don't know what else to write,
All that is left is the sigh of this piece.

I've connected to the world wide web,
I scream among the faces, I am alone!
If you want poetry, my words are here!

Because of all the days of this life,
I slam so many doors on my own face
And a loneliness seizes my soul.

Today no one has left a heart:
Today I have died a little inside.
:)
Feb 2016 · 706
Love and Devastation
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I grew wings
For you,
And became an impatient moth
Circling your fiery brand.
      
And I became like water,
Your thirst from the storm,
Daily you drank of me,
The drought in my body.

So I became a wild dahlia,
And you cut me from the stem,
The flower that grew had not yet
Known what it was to bloom.

    Devastate me,
I am blessed with every wound
Your love opens, blessed is your knife,
And praise the alter, I await.

      Cut me a thousand times,
     I am your crimsoned lover,
The rose blood is flowing with your
Everything, I bleed deeply.

      Instead of a ring of promise
Love, I will make a ring of thorns,
I will wear a necklace anchors,
They would drown me into you.

      Devastated:
You will see me smile,
You will see me hurting.

      And when you realize the love,
You will cry for me,
And you will be mine forever.
Feb 2016 · 427
Me At The End of The World
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Its a divine day to think about
The apocalypse, to walk along
The final shores before the
Tsunami take me!

I take a walk in the night wonder,
I look on hopeful stars and think
If the inter- continental ballistic
Nuclear warhead will strike down the skies.

Sometimes in abstract silence,
I see comets the size of a football field,
They pass me by and say hello,
But they never seem to end the world!

And standing upright looking into
The oblivion, I feel the cool breeze
And sense the Ice Age coming on,
Then it all comes to a stop:

I realise I am just a man with
Too much time on his hands
Watching networks news and
Find that the end of the world is
Everyday.
Fear mongering trying to keep the people under control.
Feb 2016 · 1.0k
Happy in the Void
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.

And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
      Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
   The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
    A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
    But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
     On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.

     I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
      I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
    Though I remain incomplete.
The void here represents the thoughts of poetry, I am addicted to the words, the words of my predecessors
Whom were also haunted by words.
Feb 2016 · 1.4k
San Anto: Chorizo and Egg
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Whether I'm out on Military Drive
With my Ruca cruising the street,
I can't stay alive
Without that special meat.

I'm talking bout early morn,
Looking for a place for some comida,
When you need that taco like food ****,
You need it in your Vida.

Yeah, you have buevo ranchero,
Or maybe some bean and cheese,
But I need me some vaquero
To fill my Mexican needs.

So make me a taco,
Make it chorizo and egg,
I'm just a typical vato,
Cmon, please don't make me beg!

And now you know about my favorite dish,
Eating Mexican is like a granted wish.
From the San Antonio series of poems for my city.
Feb 2016 · 380
You Were in The Rain
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
You were in the rain
With the drops gilded by the sun
Dripping on your smile with
Their moist wings.
The rain with its transparent
Eyes and crystalline forms
Reach out to me from memory,
Memory which is carried by every storm
Like tears on the window
Ringing you face to my mind.
They play my heart like liquid
Violins, an orchestrated thunder
In my pain.
I remember when you left,
It was raining
Pouring down like broken glass,
I feel your presence in every drop.
Feb 2016 · 940
Stellar Soul
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
In that moment your soul sailed
Off into the profound unknowns,
With heavy eyes watching you go
And God's rain falling on those
You left behind;

There in the flint of the final star,
Becoming yourself once again
Into the ocean of stellar waves,
Your shoulders that burned before
Have found their wings once again.

You shall birth a Nova's light across
A stream of unknown universe,
Filling the empty space that was
And is now no more an oblivion;
You become a solar being.

You have vaulted the quiet reaches,
The timid space between stars you
Have birth a system that will grow
From your presence, and when the seed
Has grown to have it's own shores,

The first delicate breeze of your airs,
The birth a your new amorous Earth,
You will become a song without words,
An orchestrated living constellation.

And the long embrace we feel from
Your absence, the abyss left from
Your departing, it will be filled
And as we look to sky for Hope's
Sake, we will see a new place
In the night sky.

Your star will say, " I am here",
You're light will press against the
Eyes of those you left behind
And the arms of your light shall
Embrace everything we miss.

You will find yourself in new waters,
Know yourself in the sun,
As your soul catches the solar winds,
Make sure the star you birth
Winks for the eyes of those
Whom shed your tears.
For the loved ones we have all lost.
Feb 2016 · 540
Shadow
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
All that is not light
Sketches shadows:
The secrets within them,
Pleasurable vices.

Into the darkness
With its stealthy silence:
Woman of the black veils,
The thief in the night,
The murmur of the stray.

All that is light
Flees from the shadows:
The list in the *****,
The fire in the passion,
The fragrance of foreign flesh.

The nocturnal man
Seeks the midnight touch:
All that is desire
Anointed on my body,
The taste of her skin.

And the dreams
Of men happen in bliss:
The scar of the lover,
The crevices of her body,
The feverish pace of lust.

Everything that is dark
Flows in the shadows:
My light is the night,
The stars a guide,
The death of my desires,
The kiss of the veil upon my lips.
Feb 2016 · 988
San Anto: Westside Nocturne
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
The streets come alive when so many
Sleep softly into their dreams.
      The newer L.E.D. street lights pierce
The secrets on the Old 90.
    The women that the sun does not touch
Is aglow in the moonlit pavements,
Because she is a nocturnal,
     To be seen by those who cannot see
The bright sun, she shares herself
With the secrets, only known to those
That never stay.
    
       And to better fit into the list,
To better know the secret is to become
Something other than what is expected,
      A desertion of your standardised
Places, where scars can be hidden,
Everyone can dress as royalty,
     This is more common and natural,
Becoming the creature we all seem to
Leave behind.
     And here there are lovers,
Beckoningly fighting one another
For a chance at one night,
An embrace in the eternal momentary.

    And the thirst is deep,
The desire is a window to the stellar
Places, a deep freedom in the nocturnal,
        An occasion set for nightly meetings
Of souls with shadows that seem to chase,
       Street people on the Western venture,
An exchange of souls at home in the night.
A series of poems I will write to my city, my home, and the unique lifestyle of the city night.
Feb 2016 · 1.1k
Poetry, My Companion
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Poetry, my companion poetry,
Always with me in the grind,
The one I speak to in the solitary
Confinement.
         You were born out of life
That was silent until I met you,
From the fountain of words
That I am drunken from.

       Your grace in the theoretical
Chaos is what keeps me focused
As I trace the oblivion into form,
Together birthing inklings of
The journey.
     And you are the voice of wombs,
The beginning of my dreams,
The ending of my awakening,
      At times we collided and formed
The polyhedron shaped mirrors
Always conflicting the original reflection.

     But you are my friend,
All that is real in this surrealist
Pavement, I am not myself without
Your balance,
     Both crazy and sane,
Still I have not known the difference,
And I have no cover without you,
I become a picture of a child,
     Lost in the city,
Lost among the sea of eyes,
All staring at the orphan.
Feb 2016 · 807
In The End
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
In the end
I was, but I will cease to be,
A thought on the project called life.
And the thirst for answers
We don't know to ask,
Abandoned by time.

I am not what I was when I was born,
I have become someone else
In the elastic anxiety,
Which was really nothing to worry about.

What is beautiful
That is infinite,
Fleetingly we were all magnificent
In the oblivion,
        Death is a contrast,
Unlike life where nothing is guaranteed,
A revelation to our defined being.

    In the end
We we figure out the answer
To the questions that should
Not be asked,
Posthumous wisdom.
Feb 2016 · 707
My Name Is.....
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
And who the hell cares?
I will not close my eyes
Or shut my ears to the world.
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock-
     I am a born again sinner
Clamoring with a restless species:
Yeah that means you all,
Flourishing in misery
Over the shrinking planet-
     Babies making babies
And I see them all becoming depressing
      Fires, like little stars flashing
For a tiny moment the exploding
     Searching for the abyss called desire,
I cannot say my name,
      Who the hell cares
When the world is a buried sphinx
Under a questioning of programs,
    Asking:
" What's this life for!" in blue tears.
        The blood flows under
Closed wounds,
   Yesterday and today when the revolution
Was never fought and the thought
Comes crashing down against
     The youth in the dawns troubling light,
    Children, it never stops!
The dream dies at the impenetrable sky,
   Children with half smiles
And a sigh of anguished breaths,
     Collection of living dust and bones,
Into the bitter night the dove
Itself cannot rest,
    I cannot say my name,
At the right hand of oppression
    Flourishes an anger building
Like a mutilated rose roaming
    For a sense of destiny.

I fall, you fall,
      We are convicted,
Living in a shadow of nothingness,
    The forgotten scent of the dream,
These strange sounds that flutter,
     My God give me a destiny,
But I cannot say my name,
    I remain a face in an ocean
Of solitary faces,
      We look out on the road,
There is death passing through,
     A tiny rumble in the heart
Then cries:
      FREEDOM!
Feb 2016 · 651
Little Poem Yet To Be Born
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
The dove has flown away into whiteness,
The doe filled with an unborn verse.
Live, little poem- yet to be written-
And the words gnaw away like a dark wolf.

The eye of the world is on you,
The ink is drowning on my page.
The pearl of thought escaping
My oblivion born into a dark innocence.

Little poem yet to born
Up from the nightingale's journey
Into a subtle abundance,
Like an invasion of white lilies.

From my graveyard of angelic thoughts,
Flowing like a blind star,
The creature that is born
Like the Apple untouched in Eden.
Feb 2016 · 524
Earth Questions
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Mother, soil of my soul,
Did the oceans stretch out
Until the rock was hidden?
    
      Did the sky spin its depths
      From the pale moon that suffers
      Your beauty?

Did the lakes come from
Your crying?
Did its crystal dawns enchant
The angels to fall from Heaven's grace?

       Did the rock lift itself so high
       That they adorned themselves white
       Veils atop to kiss the sky?

Did the forest become born from
Immaculate conception like
A ****** bride?

      Did the winds of eight directions
      Grow the storms that grace
      Your melodic gardens?

Mother Earth,
I walk the valleys of your curvature,
The miracle of your perfection
Where the river begins,
I find my answers surrounding me.
Feb 2016 · 728
If Our Love....
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
If our love was not
The sleepless lover
Alone in torment,
Alone and questioning;

If the armour were not natural
As it is spiritually connected,
An abyss filling and emptying
At the whim of the lover's presence;

If our love were not
The perfect dream in a life of sorrow,
The missed lover pounding
At the door they closed behind them;

If our love were not some
Anonymous destiny,
Like a godless world guided
By chance lost without
The other but forced to
Live;

If it were not hunger,
The missing touch,
A pillow held tightly, alone;

If our love was the sky
Raining embers of burning joy,
Both a volcanic passion
And an erupting void;

If my touch was not
On your skin,
Then these hands would
Never have touched glory;

If our love
Did not evoke Eros,
If we did not become miracle
And the tragedy;

If my eyes had never lay
Upon you,
Then they would have never ooened;

If your body did not
Humm the electric for me
And only me,
If the hundreds of kisses
I can still feel pressed upon
My like moist and pure
With its eternal surrender;

If our bodies as separately
As together joined in this world,
Naked and glowing,
Two becoming one,
Our last breath the first into
One another,
Then our love is real
And a dream,
Eternal and momentary.
Happy Valentine's Day Everyone.
Feb 2016 · 511
Small
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Grand,
This day, unfolding like a fable,
And the kiss felt ten fold.

Grand,
This tiny life or big universe,
This little man or some other perception,
Living in the now.

The tile is cold at my feet,
I swallow the sun that swallows me in,
Shimmering light through the curtains,
Bright
             Renewal
                        Of the form.

Grand,
I am just me, this life
Into the great big world.

I want to tell everybody,
But I have no control,
Infinite smallness of my grandiosity.
Feb 2016 · 655
Oceans
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
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 · 414
The Best For Now
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I see the waters of old
And remember when they were new,
To know I am forever part
Part of their shimmer.

To know that dreams are an eventuality,
While life is asleep and our souls
Would meet sometime in this flesh,
Which comes as chance and destiny.

I have not known much hope,
I have not seen the brighter side,
Life has been a sad gold,
A roughed up diamond.

At times when the evenings spread
Like the sunset stretches the shadows,
I think of the tiny miracle of the moment
When I first met you.

They say to take your time,
So I will take what is given,
The great eternal moment
That I marvel at your presence.

In these waters that have no end,
The immortal flow that brought us together,
What is now and forever
Has saved the best for us.
Feb 2016 · 855
Power and The Darkness
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
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.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.

2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.

3. When Cupid calls you corny.

4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.

5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.

6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.

7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".

8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.

9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.

10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.

11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.

12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.

13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.

14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.

15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.

16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.

17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.

18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.

19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.

20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.
Feb 2016 · 377
Morning
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Empty streets,
       Squinting lights,
The ghost of a woman
      On her morning stroll,
Shadows of light,
       Birds constructing songs,
Coffee opens the invisible,
       Galloping into the day,
Ready for battle.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Or the idea of it,
Who wants to be alone?
I'm a freaking poet for God's sake,
Miserable like Bukowski
And romanticism like Neruda,
Together that makes me a hopeless romantic.
Then kick in Valentine,
Will you be mine?
How bout you or you,
No dude not you,
And love is like a berserker picking flowers
Chopping petals off with
A war ax, delicately and dreadfully.
Love, what is it?
Where is it?
And being alone don't help worth a ****,
But I know one thing,
It makes for some interesting deep
Poetry,
Though I'd rather be with someone
And in love counting the ways......
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