I started writing to give recollection to my name.
I mastered the pages so I could hopefully forget yours.
But that failed,
so remember me as disappointment.
For the words on this page emanate the
same failure as the organic,
breathing matter holding them-
living them-
believing in them that I was as gifted as
the others before me who wrote sonnets
dedicated to forest green eyes.

Probably your green eyes.

****, forget forgetting your name.
It was carved into the tree that
conceived my paper heart.
And, by chance, did you use the same
knife to engrave it that
you did to tear me to shreds?

Classic of you to expect a rhyme.
The admiration bleeding from my poetry
cannot be captured in "love" and "dove,"
so to hell with you.
Yet, thanks to you,
came the spark of a nameless girl
with words that incinerate.

I have advice; although, I'm not sure how
it will taste:
remember me as a legacy.

Our history is buried 6 feet deep,
and the worms are excellent archeologists.

Each night is
precisely set
like a  gem
within  a dream.
Immersing in
the fluid grandeur
of darkness,
the night
swings  around it,
when one
looks back---
the day has
already become
a past dream
in an irretrievable realm.
The excesses
darkness commit
in a frenzy
in the night's geography.
excites me.without an end.
And what the moon
does to annul the
handiwork of darkness too
fascinate me.
Night is the story
of contrary crafts
calibrated to perfectly fit.

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
peacefully,
serenely.
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....

Curt

the blue is a prim,

and pretty room, draped

with musical games

of chance,

for settling here.



harp strings

relay the vital net,

after shakespeare.



the visitors leave.



lord byron wrote

of hours of idleness;

the letters below,

and all the while

you have no love for me,

worrying over the empty barn.



sbm.