I woke
the morning
for it had slept in
still in bed
and I too keen
…waiting
to turn its head
I gave
a nudge
it gave
a grudge
and rolled over
the other way
in bed

That night
I kept my dream
while people slept
I dreamt
ignoring
the day
come the
morning
the sun
stood still
of it’s own will
and I, falling

In hope for light
and life  
I dreamt this dream
and wept
a stream of sleep
while wailing  
many a day
in mourning  
I watched
my defeat to
keep the 
dawn of day
hiding away
dying

Wake-up to a Day, that's spilling Sunshine
and let Sunlight, keep nourishing your Soul.
If there are Grey Clouds and Rain around U.
Don't Worry, as up there's God in Control.
Inhale the Beauty that surrounds U,
look at Nature from near and far Away.
Discover God's beautiful Gift to Mankind.
Thank Him for having given U this Day.
When the Day is Done and Dusted
and the Sun is setting beyond the Hills.
Wait for the mighty Moon to show up,
as U sit patiently near your Windowsill.
The Universe is wrapped with Darkness,
eagerly waiting for a Spark to Light.
That's When Romance shows up with Aces
and Passion keeps seeping thru the Night.

~for Isabel, Alex & Wendy, Theo & Rose~

be reading Whitman and Hafiz,
adding some Shelley and Frost,
for (no salt) seasoning, might add in
a biblical, King Solomon’s be-loved,
sugared Song of Songs…

won’t need to go far, on my nightstand,
search & reach, to love and preach to
generations next, a lesson last & simple:

read, read, read there by learning,
how to first define, then preserve the
variety of feelings rising from within!

here’s a starter morsel from Walt,
sort of a summary of how to do it,
all well and proper…
poppy

”This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families,
read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life,. re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

Walt Whitman

Preface to Leaves of Grass, 1855.
Walt Whitman, c.1887.

Just the least
      just a pinch
               is magic
stirs the seven seas!

Your pretty little
          beauty spot
            is big indeed!
Piques the waxing moon
            revealing new skin.
Ah therein the day
           at the end of the day
dips into the depth of the blue
            never sleeps
roams in starry dreams!

Neither Earth or sky
               is deep or high.
The first light drops
                upon the rose.
The secret is secret no more
              sings the nightingale
interpreting the dream
          down the whole lit up sky
yet a twilight comes on the way.

Just a glance of you
wraps the entire show away,
towards depths so profound
and heights so high
yet unseen by any eye!

She used to be alive
Not hanging on by a thread
Not worrying if she’d survive
She was living life instead
Then the lights went out
And the fears began to shout
And she sat in the dark with no desire to face another day
Out of place, out of grace
She retraced all the ways she had failed
Then she thought why waste another day?
There’s nothing left to say
Nothing left but today
Plans already underway
But there must be a reason to stay

A time cuando todo el surfimiento ceases to exist,
Donde dolor es just a dream,
Y el amor is truly free and truly felt,
When we are hecho completo en Christo.
Mañana,
Cuando tenemos time to finally stop and actually ask each other,
Cómo estás haciendo?
When we have el tiempo a cocinar,
And to finally have a meal together.
Hasta Mañana.

I got bunches of hope,
full of honey and milk,
rooted to your *****,
dressed in a pinkish silk,
It is craving your babyface,
wandering around your manhood,
invoking copious amounts of grace,
In order to devour as much charm as it can,
gently sluicing sediments from your weary right palm,
massaging it twice and coating it with fragrant balm.

There, In the centre of our old black and white patio,
I am Injuring the rushing longing inside my ruins.
that dares to leap onto your shoulders and make poems.

What sacrifice could I assume to make our souls entwined with a curse of permanence?

Through the bleak midnights
I sent some exclusive prayers.
Against the foggy distance, between our aches,
I stood numbly, with the urge to yearn for some touches, brimming with caresses.
My shoulders were full of tenderness, lured by the spreading lights beneath my calamity.
Our shades reflect on the waiting northern beacon; we are there, above all the sleeping folks, matted with white obedient doves, angelically, like the chosen lovers.

You are wafting above my carelessness like an aged, crafty hope.

Bearing in mind that, starting from this verse, I'm utilizing as much tenderness as I can, tolerating the brainstorming of some beautiful expressions I had saved, on the American manual lexicon that I craved, your mushy wings are too soft to ponder manipulating the ruin's hell, keep your baby heart classy and friendly so you can dwell.

There are days that you are glinting like a concealed jewel, joining the stars through their ceremonies, acting cool.

I'm too rigid and miserable to smash. Your whole integrity dares not mess with the unsolved poetic puzzle in its cache.