I was asked, why do I write and all I could think of to say,
was because I believe.

I believe looks matter.
There is
healing in a look of compassion,
love in understanding,
comfort in tears cried with me.

But one look away, ignoring
can break a heart.


I believe touch matters.
There is
care enclosed in a hug,
relief in a hand placed on a shoulder,
encouragement in a touch on the passing by.

But pulling away, distance
can break a heart.


I believe words matter.
There is
acceptance in words of forgiveness,
restoration in mercy and grace,
healing in kind, soothing whispers.

But one word out of bitterness, hatred
can break a person.


I write because I believe words matter.
I write because I believe you matter.

Sometimes it takes
thousands of words
to heal a broken soul

and I want to tell you,

I will write
word after word,
paragraph after paragraph,
page after page.
As long as it takes,
I will write until you finally believe
that you matter.

One
        dead yellow finch is enough

for me to interpret it
as a message
                        that my freedom
is dead.
               Hollow bones
   so easy to break
by larger things

                               And I just
all of a sudden
became very frightened of the
things around me

            Fluorescent lights humming-wheezing
Long Hallways With No Windows-
                                                        ­      anywhere



signs that lead me to
believe that there is
                no escape, if I
                              needed to.

Today

I saw a dead yellow
        finch
                    its body crushed
on the cold black pavement
    of the parking lot

I remember our
conversation from 3 days
ago.

What would you be
                      if you could be
                              anything?

(i took a few seconds
to think.

a bird.
a bird that should never be caged.
a yellow finch, tiny and powerful and proud)

"a yellow finch."





I'd like to change my answer

                    to something less
                                           sad.

Its not always so great to live alone
I wish I could be with you
Just talk and share a bowl of cereal
Refrigerator magnets
Pictures on your wall

Sometimes I wish I didn't have to come home
and sit alone

I bet even t.v would be better with you

I bet things wouldn't be so dull
If I heard just a moment of your laughter
Echoing off the walls

Lights would shine brighter
Even the lightbulbs would glow like el sol

Make dinner
Listen to music

I would turn down the t.v
So I could better hear you singing in the shower
I wouldn't mind vacuming
If your feet walked my floor
I would sit like a child
Underneath the lights on the vanity
As you brush your red hair
And make jokes about whatever we want

But you aren't here and you never will be

So instead "Ill get smashed on southern comfort"

Cherry orchards are beautiful this time of year



memories of you  , I



surrounded in the comforts of spring



warm and pastel light



a beginning



we lay within those purple flowers



I never knew the names of



pink blossoms slipping from the sky



like the snow thought left behind









secrets



how they burn within  



yours ravaging the soul



your hidden heart torn



the words you couldn't say



and your bed of novels  



how your dreams floated on others words  



and you wished , and wished ,  and wished



that somehow  ,  I was the one  



  





I lay on the rock by that tiny lake  



my eyes closed



and you tickled my ear



"wake up you beautiful man"



in your delicate hand , a blue feather



you wearing a sunny halo



the gulls circled and called in the sky



you curved your body over mine









I lay awake at night



eyes staring back into the black  



trying not to remember



and it's raining



I think of you crying



tears you were never afraid of


buried in loneliness



and I swing at the night



reality crushing  



with no goodbye



your final gesture









and now ,



I walk along this shore



under the struggling sun



and I hear a cry



on the wings of a gull



remembering your face to the sea



and little purple flowers



here , alone





copyright 2011 Robin Christopher Amaral

The mushroom
The unfolding

instant of creation (fertilisation)
not an instant separate from breakfast
It all flows down & out, flowing

but that instant:
not fire & fusion (fission) but a moment
of jellied ice, crystal, vegetative mating
merging in cool slime splendour
a crushing of steel & glass & ice

(instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)

far-out splendour

heat & fire are outwards signs of a
Small dry mating
~~~

event in a room
event in space
a circle
Magic rite
To call up the godhead
spirits, demons
The shaman calls:
“When radio dark night…”
We are eating each other.
~~~

The Voice of the Serpent
dry hiss of age & steam
& leaves of gold
old books in ruined
Temples
The pages break like ash

I will not disturb
I will not go

Come, he says softly

an old man appears &
moves in tired dance
amid the scattered dead
gently they stir
~~~

I received an Aztec wall
of vision
& dissolved my room in
sweet derision
Closed my eyes, prepared to go
A gentle wind inform’d me so
And bathed my skin in ether glow
~~~

Drugs are a bet w/ your mind
~~~

The cigarette burn’d
my fingertips
& dropp’d like a log
to the rug below
My eyes took a trip
to dig the chick
Crouch’d like a cat
at the next window
My ears assembled music
out of swarming streets
but my mind rebelled
at the idiot’s laughter
The rising frightful idiot laughter
Cheering an army of
vacuum cleaners
~~~

Mouth fills w/taste of copper.
Chinese paper. Foreign money. Old posters.
Gyro on a string, a table.
A coin spins. The faces.

There is an audience to our drama.
Magic shade mask.
Like the hero of a dream, he works for us,
in our behalf.

How close is this to a final cut?

I fall. Sweet blackness.
Strange world that waits & watches.
Ancient dread of non-existence.

If it’s no problem, why mention it.
Everything spoken means that,
it’s opposite, & everything else.
I’m alive. I’m dying.
~~~

1st wild thrush of fear

-A phone rings
There is a knock on the door.
It’s time to go.
No.

This morning I woke up with a scratch on my glasses.
I don't know how they got there, I was asleep.
My world was turned upside down because of my glasses.
Something so small, so subtle, but so key.
Once divine, now earthly, my glasses once were.
Lost in a turning cave of batter I feel like dough.