In that moment your soul sailed
Off into the profound unknowns,
With heavy eyes watching you go
And God's rain falling on those
You left behind;

There in the flint of the final star,
Becoming yourself once again
Into the ocean of stellar waves,
Your shoulders that burned before
Have found their wings once again.

You shall birth a Nova's light across
A stream of unknown universe,
Filling the empty space that was
And is now no more an oblivion;
You become a solar being.

You have vaulted the quiet reaches,
The timid space between stars you
Have birth a system that will grow
From your presence, and when the seed
Has grown to have it's own shores,

The first delicate breeze of your airs,
The birth a your new amorous Earth,
You will become a song without words,
An orchestrated living constellation.

And the long embrace we feel from
Your absence, the abyss left from
Your departing, it will be filled
And as we look to sky for Hope's
Sake, we will see a new place
In the night sky.

Your star will say, " I am here",
You're light will press against the
Eyes of those you left behind
And the arms of your light shall
Embrace everything we miss.

You will find yourself in new waters,
Know yourself in the sun,
As your soul catches the solar winds,
Make sure the star you birth
Winks for the eyes of those
Whom shed your tears.

And who the hell cares?
I will not close my eyes
Or shut my ears to the world.
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock-
     I am a born again sinner
Clamoring with a restless species:
Yeah that means you all,
Flourishing in misery
Over the shrinking planet-
     Babies making babies
And I see them all becoming depressing
      Fires, like little stars flashing
For a tiny moment the exploding
     Searching for the abyss called desire,
I cannot say my name,
      Who the hell cares
When the world is a buried sphinx
Under a questioning of programs,
    Asking:
" What's this life for!" in blue tears.
        The blood flows under
Closed wounds,
   Yesterday and today when the revolution
Was never fought and the thought
Comes crashing down against
     The youth in the dawns troubling light,
    Children, it never stops!
The dream dies at the impenetrable sky,
   Children with half smiles
And a sigh of anguished breaths,
     Collection of living dust and bones,
Into the bitter night the dove
Itself cannot rest,
    I cannot say my name,
At the right hand of oppression
    Flourishes an anger building
Like a mutilated rose roaming
    For a sense of destiny.

I fall, you fall,
      We are convicted,
Living in a shadow of nothingness,
    The forgotten scent of the dream,
These strange sounds that flutter,
     My God give me a destiny,
But I cannot say my name,
    I remain a face in an ocean
Of solitary faces,
      We look out on the road,
There is death passing through,
     A tiny rumble in the heart
Then cries:
      FREEDOM!

Mother, soil of my soul,
Did the oceans stretch out
Until the rock was hidden?
    
      Did the sky spin its depths
      From the pale moon that suffers
      Your beauty?

Did the lakes come from
Your crying?
Did its crystal dawns enchant
The angels to fall from Heaven's grace?

       Did the rock lift itself so high
       That they adorned themselves white
       Veils atop to kiss the sky?

Did the forest become born from
Immaculate conception like
A ****** bride?

      Did the winds of eight directions
      Grow the storms that grace
      Your melodic gardens?

Mother Earth,
I walk the valleys of your curvature,
The miracle of your perfection
Where the river begins,
I find my answers surrounding me.

If our love was not
The sleepless lover
Alone in torment,
Alone and questioning;

If the armour were not natural
As it is spiritually connected,
An abyss filling and emptying
At the whim of the lover's presence;

If our love were not
The perfect dream in a life of sorrow,
The missed lover pounding
At the door they closed behind them;

If our love were not some
Anonymous destiny,
Like a godless world guided
By chance lost without
The other but forced to
Live;

If it were not hunger,
The missing touch,
A pillow held tightly, alone;

If our love was the sky
Raining embers of burning joy,
Both a volcanic passion
And an erupting void;

If my touch was not
On your skin,
Then these hands would
Never have touched glory;

If our love
Did not evoke Eros,
If we did not become miracle
And the tragedy;

If my eyes had never lay
Upon you,
Then they would have never ooened;

If your body did not
Humm the electric for me
And only me,
If the hundreds of kisses
I can still feel pressed upon
My like moist and pure
With its eternal surrender;

If our bodies as separately
As together joined in this world,
Naked and glowing,
Two becoming one,
Our last breath the first into
One another,
Then our love is real
And a dream,
Eternal and momentary.

You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.

2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.

3. When Cupid calls you corny.

4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.

5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.

6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.

7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".

8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.

9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.

10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.

11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.

12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.

13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.

14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.

15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.

16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.

17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.

18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.

19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.

20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.

Over the wide cold earth,
You walk back to the door,
By the fleeting pain I endure,
I don't know whether to open
Or close this chapter.
     You come lukewarm in color
And shivering with guilt,
My heart yearns to open the door,
From a word yet to he spoken,
      The essential within which was us
Before you left,
You wear a coat of tears as your
Hand placed flat against the door,
     I feel its presence
And place mine the same.
How much of the soul
      Do you want to **** in me,
To forgive you, to hold you?
Should this be the final sky
    From whence ocean tides once
Touched us, even as gentle air,
Should I open the door in full anguish
In this flowering sorrow,
    My heart nostalgic and broken?

I, who longed to be someone else,
To weigh my words in the scales
Of judgments, to read poetry,
To hand  out my own,
Will see the world invade even here
In this place, once thought to be
An Eden of words, a place to begin again.
I see that I am at last here to face
My destiny, carried by the ruinous envy
And hatred in a war of words,
The intricate labyrinth that are verses
Designed to weave their way through
A site where philosophical change
Of the human condition can be
Discovered and even nurtured
Through words is being held hostage
By those who would not sacrifice ego's
Grasp to better the world around them.

I am an honest man,
With my open book of lies
That my poetry is a kind of reflection
On the life I have been blessed to see,
That poetry is the key to dealing
With all my years, to see the perfection
In desolation that was the beauty of
Some mysterious higher power,
That in the lampshade I write the
Eternal nocturne and I see the world's
true faces, I wait for the circle to close.

And the war of self should not spread
To those whom seek refuge from
Inner shadows, to spar with words is a ridicule
To this artful mirror.
Bow the wars of the self have spread
To poets, and the truth of poetry
Is not that of hope, but something
Much more powerful, the true nature
Of the person, which is animalistic
No matter the pretty words.
And the truth crosses my throat
As a jaded knife,
Poetry wars, oh the humanity.

In every century
You will hear of a comet lost in time;
Haley's was here an eye blink ago,
And the rivers replenish the oceans
One and again.
There will be a small light in the sky
That you will not see tomorrow
Because it is now dead,
And it died millions of years
Before the luminous rays hit
The first womb of Eve.
     There will be children grown
Into formidable singulars,
     And each one is barely here
When the sun yawns, another passes away.
    And when the sky is full
You will count the stars
With your child, just to teach them how
To count.
        The eclipse will haunt one because it is
Like a darkness that comes to visit
       In between one decade and another,
You will question yourself to see
    Where you were before.
And there are premature moons,
     Babies of the cosmos,
And you will name one after your daughters
That brought you to look
Again at the hopeful skies.
    And when you are done here,
As you leave for eternity
To the Blue Sun,
You will look back
And see the tiny miniscule miracle
That was a star being born.

High voltage poetics,
       Planting words seeds
In a field of nomadic minds,
     In a sky of dreams
Bursting above the magnetic stars,
      The skin of words
Peeled from flesh of life,
        The page is a silken weave,
The words threaded in a void,
        Syllable construction
Of a spiraling flame that invents
      A city
In a day
     In a life
In a person-

    The thought deconstructed
Into metaphysical metaphorical,
    Musical mandolins,
The mandolinist touches the foreheads,
     A pack of wild people
In the wild city nocturnal,
     The spectrum of voices
In a rainbow of verbiage,
      A wonderful desolation
As the hours fly as a writer flies,
       The Sunstone's dial
Burns time at the crossroads of midnight,
     We are a gallery of echoes,
Our history lives today
    Hushed into memory,
Diaphanous vision
    Accumulated into the mind
Vast as the moment,
     The mirrors reflect the Word
And the Word is life,
      Reasons are a geometric anomaly
With morality at the center
Of the theoretical poem:

   I choose to inspire,
Which means to live and observe
Daily reconstructing in the poems,
      But the poem is not truth;
Poetry like history is made,
    Eyes of language,
The truth is to walk it,
Inspired to live and the dream
Is written in verse.

Here in the dusk of the day I dilute
Myself into anything:

I am a hummingbird and I go fanning
The flora of the forest,
I move in a slow motion when I watch
Myself fly,
However I am also the wind which carries
Each feather in a flight of fancy,
And soon the Luna dances into my
Fluttering wings and I am lit
By the mist of living water as the moon
Makes them tiny falling stars,
A galaxy is lost in my wings,
And soon I am the rain in the night
As I cover the earth in liquidity
With my falling ways
Giving life to life,
And while the rain I covered
My sad human form walking in the
Afterthoughts of the hummingbird,
As I move into the darkness,
And I remember I am afraid
Of the shadows.