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I don't want this to be
Like a movie I'd see
I want the good, the bad
And all the boring in between.
the room of tears was waiting for someone suited for grace,
for bridging the gap between our wounds
a dream of togetherness filled with white smoke
the joy winged and grounded
as the immanence of the divine
tears roll with a new hope to find generosity
in the human form
Sun tracks high through
a Carolina blue sky.

Down twisting turning roads I fly.

Nothing quite like a Carolina morning,
Sweet Baby James rings in my ears.

Clouds mingle with the mountains
water flows from the rocks like fountains
My God I wish that you were here.

I wish you were here,
Whispering sweet love songs in my ear,
as we while away the mile on the road.

As much as I love to wander,
I'll never stray for long,
Your voice, it always calls me home.

For a Carolina Morning 
no matter how beautiful,

Is never quite as beautiful alone.
Riding my motorcycle through the country roads of
North Carolina from the mountains to the beaches
and everything in between just makes you feel alive!
It's here already
one long day of sunrise and sunset
time knows no division
the very end     -      is not yet

Perhaps it will not come
but ours , it will be certain
you can be sure of that
we'll close that final curtain

So eat and drink my poet friends
be content and be merry
love and live and laugh
our life will not tarry.
our life will never tarry.
On the small balcony,
they sit blanket wrapped,
just past midnight.

Earth smells of rain,
cloud dazzling secrets.

As he leans in,
not for a kiss,
but to give a piece
of his past
to her soul.
:)
Digo que português
é uma língua mentirosa.
Distorce, engana
e ainda goza.

Digo "Tenho saudades".
Não pode estar correto.
Como posso eu ter algo
quando não te tenho perto?
A poem in my mother tongue, Portuguese, about the word "saudade" (longing). In Portuguese we tell someone we miss them by saying what directly translates to "I have longing", like something you have. That's what this poem is about. Here is a translation:

I say Portuguese
is a lying language.
Distorts, cheats
and even makes fun.

I say "I have longing".
That can't be right.
How can I have something
when you're not by my side?


It sounds a lot better in Portuguese, I promise
Parkinson's is not a stranger—
it's the shadow in the room
I try to staple to the wall
but who always finds a seat
staring at my hands
like they're already his.

He is jealous—jealous of the clay
that once softened beneath my thumbs
jealous of how my fingers
could command a world into form—
curls and strands of bolts and wires
shapes and contours of emerging faces
from nothing but faith and patience.

He wants to take that all away—
he wants to steal away my hands.

My hands—
the ones that pointed at shooting stars
and said There, son, wish.
The ones that held sorrow like it was glass
and never let it shatter.
The ones that cupped water
from a mountain stream
built sandcastles and kingdoms
wrote love letters and goodbye notes
and every poem in between.

Parkinson's is not polite—
He shakes me not to wake me up
but to remind me I am falling apart
in small bite size morsels—
inconvenient razor-sharp tremors.

He wants to convince me
that every stroke of my pen
is an affront to gravity—
that each line I draw
is a negotiation with more failure.
He leans close and says,
Why bother, brother, sculpting worlds
with hands that no longer listen



These hands—weathered and worn out.
They have kissed a thousand stories into being
held loved ones in the rawest nights
lifted others from the floor of themselves.

These hands are ink-stained prophets
keepers of promise and possibility.
I have built entire universes in my palms
and no thief—no trembling thief
in the guise of a disease—
will erase what I have made.

So if Parkinson's comes,
hands outstretched,
grinning like he owns my ending—
I will raise my broken fists
however crooked, however cracked
and I will write one more verse
before every period,
from every last stanza
from every poem
I ever wrote
rains down on me.

He can shake me—
but he will never steal the art
I already gave to this world
to just make me into a caterpillar
with broken hands and broken wings.
Here,
Let me wet
your quill
That's what
I call
a fresh
start
Gone too soon,
too far away,
far beyond reach,
without saying goodbye.
Only memories are left now.
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