I retreat prompted by a certain
Charm for older things
Into my mechanized city:
A scene of 1920's buildings
Awaiting seeker of history.

    I sit by a grand oak
    With a book in hand
    And find a storage dimension
    Of Pecan and Ashe trees
    Whistling to Poplars in certain
    Winds between the River and the
    Town that runs through it.

Here in a walk with the River
I want to rest my soul
A destroy all other thoughts
Of complacent voices.

      An old cantina was placed
      At her heart, inside a Catholic
      Crucifix with Christ watches
      Over the patrons as they drink
      A merry round with old friends.

A profound feeling in the city,
I gaze at the Old Mission
Of the Heart, I remember her well,
The Alamo lights up my city
And perhaps my whole world.

     There is a tower of many Americas
     Compelling the watchers,
     Its as if the mercy of her heights
     Allows you to fly in the air
     Seeing certain histories from there.

I enjoy her charm,
San Anto at her heart
Is a maiden of loyal charms,
All resignation is set aside
As old voices speak to you,
And they  seem to say,
"Welcome, welcome old friends"

There is a mountain that every child
Always looks up to, and the name
Of that mountain is Father.

Guide of the labyrinth,
Weaver of strength and protection.

Not unlike the stalk of a tree,
I have seen you age without grace
Familiar with shadow and thorn,
Your enormous branches triumphant
At the core of my spirit.

Vanquisher of fears,
Vessel of the child's adventure.

And you are a guide to the clouds,
A hidden tenderness that allowed
Me to grow, I will never forget
The lessons you taught me,
And the ones you let me learn
On my own.

Father of my life,
The old man is a peak to the stars.

I see a fool of man in the mirror.
I'm writing about myself in reflection
To my reflection.

I sit down and burp, I say excuse me,
And there is no one around.

I shave and feel my face,
I point at the man in the mirror
And say" You da man!"

I write a philosophical poem about silence,
Suddenly I am in a league with Socrates.

I look for my keys and call myself stupid for
Losing them. I give myself a break.

I step on a nail at work and watch the blood trickle
Out of my foot. There goes a pair of socks!

I give a dollar to a homeless man.
I feel as though I may be a philanthropist.

I get on the bus and eat my lunch,
I then ponder the physics of the universe.

I'm here writing my thoughts about my thoughts.
Does this make me a thinker? I think.....

Silence is listening
                   For the music;
Knowing when to be still
                   To hear one's self.

When the body stands silent,
                    Everything moves;
Silences are the noises,
                   The echo of everything.

Without being heard
               The silence becomes visible,
The footsteps of the light
               Can be heard in the meditation.

The silence walks with you
              As the world makes you silent,
The idea is to hear the music
              That is in the quietude of your peace.

The sun has stopped at midnight,
Its sky caught in a tapestry of stars
And there are certain shadows
I recognize.

I am hidden with the secrets of my desires,
Alone with the guilt of my soul,
The lost wings of the Fallen
As I wear a burden around my neck,
The fountains can never quench
The darkness,
The tears are a storm inside me,
Because I have fallen from the highest
Peak into the lowest abyss.

My dreams are hidden here,
The colors lost to me from the
Stilled light,
Behind a sea of failures
I leave the sky behind me,
I surface at a destiny sealed by the past,
Like the ignorant bliss of oblivion.

And I weep at the boredom of it all.

Oh, the big whole life
That fills all mystery
And makes everything so small....

She stares out a window
At the center of her world,
A sorrow
Like a dark magnolia
Which changes when touched.

She had a wall around her
Until the day she let's it go,
A turbulent dream that keeps her
Awake, to guard herself from
Everybody else.

Oh, her she is a dove,
A tranquility she knows nothing
About,
He told her she was beautiful
Holding  his breath when he said it.
And the fragile destiny
Can be seen in her absence,
Her voice is darkened
And was gentle like air,
But the night is now born
Under her eyes,
The light escapes her as she
Walks with eyes to the earth,
She can't feel a thing
Because the pain numbs her,
Familiar to her like family now,
The razor is a new friend.
She cuts the life I to her,
Along with the jelly beans she grew
Up loving,
The blood runs down her thigh
And the flavor
Melts into her mouth.

Why is this normal for her?
She asks herself with a half smile,
The landscape of her life
Is a dream trying to feel
Anything.

I know her innocence
Has more than this razor,
And all her heart is stuck
In a painful fragility,
Touching what she sees as real
The days pass,
The scars number every day.

What destiny will free her
From the closed heart?
What steps will she take to free
Herself,
That the cage might become a bird?

Who will rescue her from the wolves,
While she bleeds herself
Into oblivion,
Some day,
Oblivion may take her home.

Echoes in a mist of words
                                   Echoes
Through the verse laid like light
                                   The luminous
Behaviour shredding the shadows
                                    The poet
Becomes liquid in the foliage of life
                                     They cannot see
The reflectors of the inner words
                                       A poems life
Is a scattered spectacle of past apparitions
                                        The body
Of words fills in the eye's void
                                        This phrase
Is the final perception of this piece

Surround yourself with words.

Enormous earth
Crawling over water,
The eagle's flap is a whirlwind
Across sudden forests,
Tops like pointed greenery
And formidable roots.

She is caught in the moonlit aureole,
Shimmering like waves on stars,
The wears her flattery,
The echoes of enchantment.

Stilled in a frame, through a window,
Adrift in the generations of home,
Wrapped in memory, a picture
Remains,

Visions like a poet in a new world
Held captivated by the blue sun
In the diamond reflecting reflections
In the depths of the endless Word.

Perceptions,
           (The heart desires,
             Action at a distance)
The slow burning
Needs when the eye meets.
       Was she there before?
       The manifest destiny of its mechanics,
       How world upon world was stacked
       Until finally what the heart
       Wanted comes to be.
The fire's ancient name
When the name burned
As the first words spoken
Into existence.
      Quantum lovers to the atomic
      Extremes, the matter cannot
      Be mathmetised, fate rarely explained.
Great the string,
Silhouettes of her body
In a thousand bodies,
Only one looks his way.....

        Fallen star
        In the endlessness of many worlds
        Beneath the eyelids electrified,
        The girl, only the girl,
        I see through a tunnel
        Like destiny in a wormhole.
Tiny energetic particles,
Trillions inexact,
They lay motion into desire,
The motion becomes a walk,
A walk become a word,
The word becomes them both.

   They explode like comets
   Too close to the star,
   The spirit intertwined,
    Evaporation of perceptions,
    Both accidental and fated,
    The quanta come together.
A series of waves
That take part in duality,
Two lovers, immeasurable destinies,
Coming together,
A scarlet queen,
A quartz king,
Fire on the head of the energy.
      Silent in the moment,
      He holds her hand,
      Connectivity on the sub atomic level,
The wheel spins,
The procession of the heart
Began as multiple universes collided,
The love devours all destiny,
In a rain shower of possibility,
The boy meets the girl,
They fall in love,
In this love quantified,
All the matter and energy
Swim in a pool of desire and need,
Never can it be measured,
Destiny is but
A prelude to a kiss.....

Half smile,
The rare dimple in perfect
Pleasure to the eyes,
But never outlandish laughter.
( Like a woman who knows she has
You in her trance)

   Hip bent to one side,
Arm defiantly attached to bent hip,
Her dress of flowers flow like
A mobile garden,
The air seems to glide around every
Curve and dress wears her well.

The eyes of men
Become magnetised,
Through which the world
Is observing her magnetic frame
The smile piercingly gradual,
Yet playful, still a touch of vulgarity.

Woman, whose smile
Beckons a portrait,
You walk with depths
Unknown, but the abyss
Of your smile
And the eyes jumping in.