Oh month of bloom,
I wander through the greenery
To gather myself,
I see honey and fragrance
From half opened budlings,
I could not be any more sick!
          My beloved grey Winter mistress
          Gone to the birds
          And their songs that wake
          Me from my depressed slumber!
A bird flies from tree to tree,
And no windshield is safe!
      I salute the thorns of every rose,
      I wrestle with the inevitable
     Approach of Spring poems,
     An avalanche of sweet seasoned
     Words falling from villainous
     Repetition, seasonal song of the
     Lofty new flowers,
     Oh my nemesis Spring!

Because on the darkest nights
I see faint rays of the purest light,
And among the fatal deceptions
lost in exalted sorrows,
       I know that there is still poetry.
When the words are welled
Inside a throat like a fire
Waking from its slumber,
Rain the embers to paper,
      The words like a familiar pain,
      Speak as the darkness speaks,
      Take in the honest friend,
      Let them take you to tranquillity.
Because when I am at my blackest,
The poem understands me,
It speaks to me,
Cries with me,
I give my darkest to its white surface,
       A cave serrated by light,
      The words will speak in the night,
      They will light the way
      To new dawns,
And you are never alone
If you have read these words,
Because through them,
We become as one.

She snaps a picture:
They shine like blood diamonds,
A million come,
A million gone,
Lost in the individual masses,
A sea of black faces
With suffering in the eyes.
Displaced for rocks,
Displayed as a photo
In a page,
In a doctor's office
And the white man shakes his head.
His name is called,
And the magazine will stay for years,
Just a photo with no memory.

Because once I hated myself,
I didn't know who I was,
Depression ruled me,
And I never knew life in its forms;
      Suddenly I saw a place,
      Words had shapes and life,
      They held things like truth,
      But most of all truth of self.
See, if you write honestly
Then you can see outside
Of yourself, you become
More aware of the world.
     I figured the world was crazy,
     But I found a certain beauty
     In that too, so I wrote my depressed
     Self, all my pain.
I wrote for me,
to discover myself,
And you know what?
I found that I can tolerate
The world around me and
My crazy self through these lines.
     Now, I don't hate myself as much,
     I try to help others expand their
     Understanding of this artful
     Therapy, and I leave those
     Who cannot see beyond their
     Yesterday in that place.
Poetry is a way of dealing
With life's pain and social
Sharing of the craziness of poets.
But sometimes you see those
Who cannot move on,
Be careful, sometimes misery
Loves company.

Hey there,
Its been such a long time,
My arm is still in your murky water,
And I'm still here waiting for you.
But it's time to let you go,
I see you breathing under water,
And I can't wait for you anymore.
You brush away the hands that reach
Deep into your pain,
And though they know,
You just can't let it go,
So I can't watch you become a fish,
Because my life has to be lived,
I'll miss you and remember you
When you breathed air,
So now I'll let you swim away.

Where are you poet?
You poetess?
I search and become everything:

A pen of the sun's fire
Writing on a slab of jade,
I come face to face with all poets,
The roots of their soul dividing
Themselves dissolving into words
Writing the passionate fire sitting
On pillars of clouds,
A thousand moons surrounding them
Each like some serpent god,
They write the darkness like
Guardians of the night,
A stallar vertigo into the words,
They become like flowers
Of the Resurrection and in a lightning
Flash I am on a terrace of gold
Watching over a field of flora
And the storm's of April's pains
Comes to them each as a moon
In the sorrowing takes each word
And swallows them into verses,
They are the testament of wounds.

And still even more,
All are alone in the abyss they all share,
One man stands tall and says,
"Alone with everybody!"
He smiles as each poet places themselves
In a whirlpool of time,
They find a moment invisible
And make it a mirror,
It reflects forevermore the broken
Images of their past, they piece
Themselves upon a verse of shadows,
A verse is born and a piece of them
Stays in the past.

Suddenly there are those who live,
They are reborn from the womb!
They see daylight in the sorrows
And find happiness in clusters,
A perfect memory where the man
Loved the woman, her touch is like
An immortal fire burning into the focus,
His touch is a cascade of rose petals
On her naked body......

The young poets gather,
The defeat the circular days,
Fantastically naive and flamboyant,
Their moments flare like a sun's
Lost kisses on  magnetosphere's outer
Skin,
The procession of new pain
Fills the paper as they write an ancient
Language unbeknownst to them,
Their blood to papyrus, Sanskrit's
Unified language.

I see the poet's in their middle years,
Strong flavors mixed with heavy grief,
The clandar Is splattered in blood
While their dream sails away in paper boats
Sinking in the sea of forgotten hope,
They sculpt words of deep guts
That penetrate my spirit,
Time becomes a race against their pens,
Their fire blue into the jade
And life is lived on a string of theorise,
They become enlivened in the children,
Enormous mouthfuls of hope
Arisen from soils of regret,
And the perfect words ripen
Like a midsummer's harvest,
They spontaneously eat the fruit
Of life's labors and digest words
With seeds for the planting of more.

I turn my face in my search and see
The years turn golden,
These are the poets with life full
In experience and they write like
Youth writes, but written already
With eyes of indecipherable experience,
Their wounds are closed but written
In fresh blood, I could not understand!
They burn and are not consumed,
Their words are eternal in
Endless galleries of Picasso like
Verses, the words penetrate
Leaving me hopeful and confused.
I wonder if I would ever write
The light and the darkened like
They that balance both....

I find all poets in the middle of forever,
I see their walls of frightful memory,
Their home for tomorrow's bloom,
The self knowledge turning in
On itself and becoming wisdom,
They drown themselves in clarity,
Cling to audacious hope,
Remembering the nocturnal nightmare
Of the past, they are endlessly broken,
Always fixing themselves in words.
And I wrote a poem for them in
My mind:
    
        Poets, you little gods,
        The fire of life in your pen,
        You write the existence
        Forevermore on a slab of jade;
        
       I see the souls and angels
       Reading a book of every poem,
       I see God reading to understand
       His strange and wondrous creation
       Called the poet.

Here we dilute ourselves into many
Things to stop our world
In the middle of its course:

Your skies are caught in dreams,
You bloom only flowers you recognize.
It hides the truth between
Your ears,
It hides the selfishness of your poetry,
The sighs of life in your grey solitude,
Your tongues are thirsting for something,
And you have become a pop cultural
Verse of repetition,
And the world will catch you
From behind your skies,
You can no longer hide in your abyss.
  
   And to state what I mean unpoetical,
   I see the hate rising in a tide,
   The world I know ignored in this forum
   Of intelligence, hate gaining tide.
   Of people ignoring the bigger picture,
   Where are you?
   I see nothing of the tsunami that
   Has overtaken the country here
   In this place where poetry and political
   Topics mesh more than you know,
   This is your voice,
   I implore you to change your flow.
   We live beneath this destiny,
    Beautiful Earth,
    But if we stop our words,
    Are our words even of worth?

So you are a man,
Shackled,
A man that weaves
Together fear and confusion
Beyond what is known skin deep,
A man overblown with
Certain landscapes and familiarity.

What words come out
From your version of Heaven,
From your Heaven to other lands,
The red winds that blow deep
Tickling strings of rhetoric

Listen,
You are what misunderstood
Like a certain star that refuses
To pass light in certain spectra,
Different star,
Wrong star,
Dying star,
And your sky will be taken away
By hypnotic cages
And civilized torture

Speak, speak a confession citizen
When you are found
Guilty and your manhood
Is bled into submission,
     You will see no sunsets,
You will bear a cross never your own

You, man,
Born in the tide of crystalline confusion,
The world is predicted
And the tombs are full of
The innocent by faith

I tell you because I am a man,
And I do not know what kind you are

Problems, they are problems,
Is it you who blow up the constellations?
You dance on the heels of Jihad,
Do you not?
Are you not guilty by faith?
Now that the angels cry,
Tossed into the fray of which God
Is holier,
Tell me, is this fair,
Fair the torment,
Fair the fear,
Fair the justice of manipulation?

Answer me, answer me
Man of faith,
Because I too am confused,
I am bound by love of country,
Yet tormented by ethics and morals,
****** this humanity!

Now, now I must know,
I am splintered into many people,
However I am also your friend,
The day burns with rhetoric,
I do not know you man,
I cannot seem to help you,
Much less help my understanding
And soon,
Soon I am called unpatriotic,
They shall call me traitor,
Because I wish to understand.

All I say,
All I know,
Tell me,
Why have they caged you?
Say nothing,
I can't believe you,
Say everything,
I doubt every breath.

And now I speak as a man,
I speak to you,
I am a poet,
And to write humanity is my curse,
No allusions,
No metaphorical terms,
You Muslim,
You Man,
I do not understand:
    
          On the moon God watches
          On the wind the angels cry,
          And men do not speak,
          They cannot understand.

With a sigh I wake from a dream,
The cold morning fills my eyes
And that wonderful place
I was just now begins to haze.

I question everything,
I  breathe myself into existence,
Here and now,
The quiet longing fills me
As the beginning of this day repeat
As a thousand before them

      I must seize the here,
      Trouble grasping the now,
      My last returns to secret
      Cold peaks.

Did I lose my life in the dream?
I'm here now, am I?
Is this another dream, born from
Loss and pain and everything I
Hope to gain?

I am lost in the morning:
Coffee,
Surely I will emerge from this stupor,
I blink and I am walking toward
My tomb of toiling,
Compensating life.
Sometimes in the middle of my work
I can meditate,
A single mind and body emerges,
The cradle of my being becomes
An iceberg thawing unshed tears,
I am winning/losing my day.

Stop! Enough!
I feel faceless in a sea of faces,
Said my mind
Stuck in its grind,
The hours are vapor.

        Withdraw into ghosts,
        The eye with you always,
        To lose the self is to-

I am the mirror of a reflection,
The reflection does not live,
God the stranger in my prayers,
I myself, the essense of me
Is not my definition,
But if I am what I do,
Am I nothing?
God, lord of my conflict,
I pay my bills and taxes in the architecture
Of your world,
Why am I in slow decomposition?
In this parade of shadows,
Where is the true meaning?

      Child of the dust,
      Time is no promise,
      Do what you can
      While you can do it.

Evening:
Home and my forehead is taller
And taller,
I sense the moment faded
But here,
Life I am your hostage,
I am tired again,
I begin to freeze again,
Luminous cold setting in
On a deep darkness,
Fill me with liquid love,
I drink and I fall into another
Dream/life.

I'm a United States citizen,
Fifth generation,
And I might be sent back to Mexico.
  Because in the here of the now
  The people stand at the crest
  Of the paper moon,
  Its almost eclipsed
  Because Obama was
  Never more than words.
So we look for anything,
We are thirsting for something,
And the Trump card falls
Into place, he's full of ****,
But he's full of **** in
Full public.
See we know the establiment
Needs to be dis- established
Because they sing like mockingbirds
To another mockingbird,
And Hillary the woman
Is still a politician:
    Oh the patriot,
    ****** fool.
    He still believes
    In America!
    And why cry the democracy?
    Why poetise the political?
And the patriot said-
          Because I am what I am,
          For love of country,
          Freedom of my freedom,
          I am the people,
          We are the voice,
          And America once had a dream.