Alimento del alma
trigo en la mente.

Transporte invisible
maquina del tiempo.

Castillo vagabundo
voz del universo.

Si hay dios del tiempo
eres la diosa omnisciente.

Ritmo cardiaco
instrumento del mundo.

Risas de niños
crujir en la madera.

Te escucho,
te siento
y luego te canto.

When your heart is broken,
there is no automatic cure.
Your internal grief will grow,
and will never go away,
just slowly become easier to deal with.

Days, and months will pass.
As a smile rises on your face,
a gently curved plastic,
only to hold those who know nothing.

They sit on your swing,
pumping their legs
forward, backward.
But they only rarely move.
Their movements are forced,
by the showers of tears, and expeditious winds.

The heart ache is stable.
Yet will eventually go numb,
nothing will ever be able to cause the same immense pain.
The guards rise up,
neglecting connections.
Flirt.
Smile.
Fake it until you make it.

You will hear the crowds telling us over and over,
"It WILL be ok".
I'm here to tell you it won't.
Never.
So, find useless distractions.

I don't know what sprouted this mischief, the first 2 lines teased.



(sonnet #MCMLXVIII)


I'll have me fun in solitude as where
No supercilious frown may cast a pall
Upon my gaity, if't must be.  You all,
Who sniff at silliness, can with an air
Of sensible hauteur drink your despair
In prim tea cups, but as for me, grey's shawl
Cast off as t'were, for brief fun, why sip gall
If laughter tickles sans grim reason's glare?
Its in my blood, I think they said, that sense
Of jolly merriment a thread which'd run
From old to young 'mongst relatives, though whence
It came I can't quite guess.  And when 'tis done
I'll sit with you and be too glum, pretense
Of better ways a front.  Don't you have fun??

10Feb13d

Your words
aren't like other words.
You don't settle for
meager first drafts
or gritty grammar. No,
your words are
purified with fire,
refined like silver.

Teach me your ways
Great Poet,
Your strong metaphors
and precise language,
discipline me in
intentionality.

Instead of adorning your walls with lavish gifts and hollow gestures, I left them as they were
The most beautiful things aren't that way because of what we give to them
They just are.

Hey I,
I just wanted to say hi,
Not that I'm trying to pry,
I think you're pretty and I,
I feel like you're making me high,
And I,
I'm just a bit weird but I,
I want you to notice me so I,
I just want to say hi

April...my early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVIII)


Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence
More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail
Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale
Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence
Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense
Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail,
These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale
Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence?
O me!  The blacktop sports thin puddles fer
A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to
Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk.  Were
It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who
Shall--what?  I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor
As saying is, and recall Mum:  all we knew.

14Apr17c