Through the world's eyes, there can't be enough loving.
But have I loved enough?
When do I become done?

The moon doesn't care what I will regret.
The rain won't remember my stories.
The desert already knows all about illusion.

That I could control the rat babies being born and eaten by the cat,
Their tiny heads leftover in the grass.

That I could undo the night on the mountain,
The coyote that ran under my car, too dark to stop its body.

That I could prevent the roadrunner from picking off my hummingbirds,
One by one, like beetles on a cactus.

That I could keep the hawk and owl apart,
Afraid for the hawk, because the owl always wins.

That I could force the snow, or the winks from strangers on the trail,
Or the beating of my own heart.

That I could halt death at my door, my lovely door,
Set close by the rosemary and hummingbirds.
How could I leave the feeders empty?

I am not in control, but I am made of hope.
The over-feeling fool in the deck.
Heart-struck and blind to the dangers of the cliff.
I stand right on the craggy edge.
Oh—how stunning the view!
Destined to die for beauty once again.
This time under the big sky, stooping to kiss the rocks.
To lie down with the deer a million times.

The shooting star shot across the black sky, but I missed it.
Is that what sin is?

We fly too close to the hot sun.
Because nothing is more natural than burning up in the sands of the desert,
After a long fall.

But I cannot leave my hummingbirds.
But I cannot leave my deer.
But I cannot leave my mountain.

Who will give the hummingbirds their sugar water?
Who will mourn the packrats when I am out of sight?

But I must go when I go.
To be golden like the cottonwoods in fall.
The cottonwoods chase the waterways and that makes them holy.

Dying is the letting go of the deep breath.
Dying is falling asleep in the fog, when the cold front moves on the mountain.
Slipping into that courseless moment of oblivion and the long exhale.

And then there is a new star.
It streaks and shoots, lighting up the black sky.

I see it now.

All the stories fold into me.

I am finally full enough and I am done in the desert.

I have not been to Mexico,
But I hear the nights are beautiful.
I know you’ve seen the Puerto Rican bays,
When the water’s waves are weaved with stars.
But does it match the soft spoken nights in Mexico?

My friend you are,
But little do I truly know of you.
Like a Mexican night I’ve only heard,
But never seen.
I know that you shine brightly,
Like stars in Puerto Rican waves.
You just don’t show your value in glittering waters,
More in a dulling gold.

But I believe,
That what I do not know of you is simply a glory worthy story.
That you are deeper than a South-American key,
More to tell than just simple things.
I know you as a man,
As the loyal friend.
But what I do not know strains for my attention.

For you have a great story,
One of which I must pursue.
I know you are indifferent to your inner light,
I told you I must draw out your inner truth,
In order to tell of you.
You simply shrugged,
Said, “Write it as it should.”

But this is how it should be,
Speaking of your hidden glories.
And owing you apologies.
For the times I swore to you,
Upon an empty hand.
As well as the times I had prodded at your identity.
Maybe you do not accept,
Maybe you do.
It never really mattered,
We’ve bonded like kin.

After studies in sciences,
I await waiting kindness.
For never have you cared what others had told of me.
So still we wait at the trees by the street,
Awaiting a brother,
Awaiting your mother.

I still recall the weekend we vacationed away,
In the heart of freedom’s way.
To others it was a city,
To us it was amazing.
Late nights late,
To meet the pace of others in the group.
Questioning histories,
Like studies in theology.
It was early one morning,
Over coffee and hotel breakfast pastries,
That I told you, “I have truly nothing to write of.”
Then you suggested, “Why don’t you write of me?”

I was quite puzzled,
By what seemed a meager challenge.
But realizing by pen in candle light,
I had not a word to write.
For not enough I know of who you are truely,
To construct a truly meaningful piece.

So I did my best,
I chose to reflect what you mean to me.
As someone truly true,
With words you chose with choice,
Not merely of spite.
Every king needs his throne men,
And you are mine as much as I am yours.

Someday I’ll know all of your story,
Someday I’ll understand,
Someday we’ll trip to Mexico,
Spend a night alone,
With the silent soundings of a Mexican night.

Or maybe we decide,
That we ought to see,
The stars in the waves of a Puerto Rican bay.
Really it does not matter much,
As long as we travel as brothers.

Because we work as men,
But at heart we are boys.
Seeking something,
To please our childish hearts.

I know by now I’ve been thinking long,
Much too long of this wandering ponder,
Of us as great friends.
But I do know that it would do us good,
To spend a night sipping colored sodas,
On the dusk streets of Mexico.

For now though,
I’ll go back to wishing in whispers,
To know a night in Mexico.
On the roads of stained clay bricks,
Hopefully walking around, laughing, with you.

So I’ll see you after science studies,
Greet you with the same hello,
Because no great man walks alone.
I am great,
So I’ll walk with you.
Knowing us as friends,
Not a matter of where we are.
So goodnight to Mexico,
I have all the friendship I need at home.

cruse la frontera
Cruse el mar
Contra las tormentas
Todo para tu mirar
No mi pararon las balas de un güero
Por tu amor mi converti en tu Guerrero
Cruse la frontera por ti mi Mexicana
Para que vivemos juntos en nuestra
Casablanca

my tears clearer than the ocean
yet my emotions rival the waves
i wish my happiness didn’t fade like the sun at the end of the day
but growth is what i wished for and i accepted whichever way
didn’t understand the toll it would take
i kiss my peers as i waste away, i love you all i wish i could say
under my drunken spell i forgive my ways
all the days i rot away, my insecurity remains the same
fill me with venom, treacherous rain
there is only so much my frame can take

November 1974- 2023- Sonnet 75.

The two of us re-married
RDD=BBA JPC=ASG, we became one
my first true love and I again;
one of countless times
rddbba style.

Joy and happiness
is all we know
as we lay beneath the starry sky
One promise fulfilled at a time.

Our pain is nothing
but distant
and faint memories.

Our boundaries know
not a single enemy.
Not a single foe remains
alive.
Our friends are
a legion elites.
~~~~
By:Karijinbba
All rights
(Thanks for reading love you all friend or foe)

i said goodbye to the desert
spit out a few grains of rust and sand
as i sat in the back of my mother's grand marquis
i was bidding farewell to the long plaid skirt i wore to school every day
the school that was mercifully unmarred by bullets
the glitter on the popcorn ceiling of my grandparents' home
the smell of an overwhelming saturday evening
which stank of discarded waste and cigarettes
we were going somewhere special
goodbye nuevo laredo

eight years later
i said goodbye again
to a neat little home
nested tightly amongst the bricks of others
a hilly backyard
bluebonnets sashaying on the side of the highway
mexican restaurants every three blocks
that could never replicate what i once had
stars and stripes holding steady in the shade of a sycamore tree
a glittering city in the distance
i was in love
and i was going somewhere special

i was elated to escape
both of my previous lives
always finding myself awash with uncertainty
adrift as i committed and uncommitted to a series of distractions
from the beastly recesses of my pruned little brain
that snarled about hopelessness
abandonment
a lack of worth
and motivation
maybe i knew i was meant to run
since the moment of implantation

my new neighborhood is impeccably silent at night
no hollers to strain my ears for
no ominous pop-pop-pops
(was that a firework or could it be...)
no jovial music with thundering basses and large round drums
i eat pork drenched in teriyaki sauce
and drink green tea in the evenings
on the train, i gaze at the empty stares of other passengers
my gaze is also unreadable
i practice the strokes of a kanji
one, two, three...
my husband and i meander through temples
heavy and groaning with the weight of a thousand years
of life
benevolent buddhas and Cheshire-grinned demons
i can't help but think of the message of a western God
that my mother recited to me every night in the black of our room
sometimes i shuffle my feet in the square space of my living room
to the tune of cumbia

i used to think that i didn't have an identity
no confinement to a culture conceived by the likes of men
but i am what i am
and i never actually escaped

Pan dulce se sienta en un plato de pastelería en mi cocina
Rara vez tocado, pero siempre admirado
Fresco y colorido y lleno de variedad.
Los panes delicados quedan sin comer
Todavía los compro como recordatorio de
Mi familia en otra tierra a un mundo de distancia
Parece más cercano cuando estoy rodeado por el sabor, los olores y las texturas de la casa de mi padre biológico.
Mi Familia
Mi casa en Mexico

Somewhere in northern New Mexico
a writer claims
that the first two weeks
after a long hiatus
are the hardest.
After all,
scratching the words of the Gods
on to a loose leaf paper
must be arduous for those
out of practice.