i walked in a garden
i saw roses, daisies, bougainvilleas
pagoda and peonies too
and somehow they reminded me of you

the roses reminded me of your lips
how it's so red and lovely
how it curves whenever your smile along with your eyes
how it separates when you laugh

the daisies reminded me of your eyes
how it slowly blooms beautifully in morning
how lovely when it slowly closes at night
how chatoyant it was when touched by light

the bougainvillea reminded me of your being
how you stood strong despite everything
how you stayed lucent and beautiful
how you let yourself bloom in many colours

the pagoda reminded me of your skin
how it's yellowish and eternally beautiful
how smooth and soft it was
how selcouth it seems in my retina

the peonies reminded me of your heart
how it's still exquisite despite of its fragile figure
how it's still eesome even though it looks wrinkled
how it stays strong and pulchritudinous

walking in the garden felt serendipitious
it felt like walking
inside your existence
and i liked it.

rainstorms fiercely bulge the waves
toss honeysuckle and bougainvilleas
blow their blossoms high
towards the rainbow
that in sunny moments
sparkles over volcanic hills

A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.

The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The ***** undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish...
****** of boorish births,

Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,

When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.

Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover--
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.

My grandmother likes salami, God, and bougainvilleas
I like to think she likes tenuous pink things-
but then there’s the salami.

One day she taught her daughters to string neck-
laces from bougainvillea petals
like-ponies-in-a-junkyard

I think I chewed too much bubblegum in mass
because I picture God pink
an ethereal globe of a poppable pale pink.
And for some reason, I like to think Brother
Charles saw that too

I bet my lungs are somewhat pink:
more pink than my berry red blood
but less pink, sweet and/or hairy
than a cotton candy poodle.
I forget if they were strawberries or rasp-
berries too

There are things that are pink
but then there are things that are pink
and shadowless.
Like subterranean lungs,
God, the future, and
the smell of flamingos in the dark

The future is still pink and
somewhat fruity
like a lukewarm strawberry milkshake blushing,

or was it maybe just the taste
of my pepto-bismol stained lips.

One of those ponies was my mom

I no longer
seem to know
roses busily
bloom
this time of year
bougainvilleas  
flaunt themselves
over the fence
I hold my mug
while mulling
over warm cider
a  cheap steam
spa
treatment
for my face
is born

Half-moon pops out of cadet blue sky's pocket
no stars yet tonight

Neighbor's worn white chimney
looms above
six foot cedar fence
laden with returning fuchsia Bougainvilleas

Overgrown Bird of Paradise stretches
wind slashed leaves
in desperate hopes of letting
light into its heart

Mosaic stepping stones
mark a vivid trail
to so many plants
whose names I do not know
that continue to bloom and grow

Caribbean blue metal lizard scampers
across garage wall
as nearby pensive garden goddess
gently cradles dead blossoms
in cupped palms

A lone Blue Jay glides over
the pollen dressed
pool surface
toward willowy flowers
in terracotta pots
that are busy sending
fragrant messages
to my patch of suburban serenity.

The furniture was Oaxacan wood
finished in plum, red blood
with brightly painted finials
haunting little animals

a lazy, creaking fan
whirred on, above
in gasping bursts, too tired
to cool the room
and only moved
the paper bougainvilleas
glowing - orange, peachy, red

my feet, ever ecstatic to meet
the cool of clay saltillo tiles
red faced, happy to have escaped
into this mirage,  my one thought
being margaritas

It is longer spring here
down at the bottom of the world
(if I were being truthful
at the very bottom of the world
spring is a mere matter of degrees)

Here in the land of Oz
we are in Autumn,
yet driving today,
the sunshining through
the last  of the clouds and
the waratahs red and vibrant
competing with the yellow
sunshine cascading drops
of the wattles , all outdone by
the bougainvilleas with their
bursts of deep, deep purple

the smell of lemon myrtle and eucalypt,
giving a zinging zest to the air
you could well believe that
nature did not get the memo...

Under these pines, these bougainvilleas
petals blow across the wind
red sails on gravel sands
clouds blue laced black
pitch of hurried birds fly
disappear in darkest skies
a sudden storm at the window pounds
slant of raindrops crash
splash of puddles, the iridescent ground
sun bursts through a field of clouds
the desert pure redolence, calm
a silent rainbow touching down

Let us form new languages,
languages of beauty and love!

Let's make far reaching extrapolations
that'll blossom into blissful bougainvilleas.

Please!
Let us frolick in fabulous fields
of bountiful wondering.

We will speak in the
words we've named birds.
In the names we've worded flowers.

I can tell you now that my pupils are spreading their wings like the center of a sunflower as it grows

Simply because you are
the glory of the morning
and I am because you are
and we are because we are
indeed!

A long blossomed sunshine spiral smile!

I can tell you I'm feelin'
free free chickadee
ya see the tweet tweet
melody?

I am the blue jay in the summertime,
and the junko in the winter.

Ah I'm the melody,

I'm the robin with the
red breast in the spring time
and I am a shiny black blue crow
come the fall. Find me singing!

Find me caw, caw!

Crispy falling leaves come quietlyyy

I had to keep back tears
when I discovered
that the plant
which I had nourished over years
      first in a ***
      then in the tiny frontyard garden
      where it had   after a while
      found its space amid the dominance
     of  honeysuckle & the bougainvilleas
had simply been cut off at the stem
by the guy I had paid to clip the hedge

     which he actually butchered to a degree
     that it looked like shrubs by the trenches of World War I
     devastated by artillery, grenades, and machine guns

I think I will not ask
for his services any more

There's this secret box under my bed...
It's for you...yes...for you
When you enter my room...
Please don't draw the curtains
The place holds my darkness and secrets...
It doesn't need the touch of light...
But the flame of the candle will support you...
Take the box and open it
You will find some stuff holding memories
of us from centuries...
Ignore them for a while
Take a look at that bundle of old yellow pages...
These are the poems I couldn't dare to complete
Do me a favor...complete them for me...please
I left spaces for your part
Write about yourself...
Write about us...
The typewriter is still on the table...
These pages do hold my soul and tears...
Do treasure it...it's the last of us
As for the secret box, take it or burn it
When you leave my place...with the poems, with our moments breathing alive in them...
Head towards that park with pink bougainvilleas...
which must be brown now...
Sit on that wooden bench under the banyan tree
And read all those poems containing us...
You will find me alive in those verses...
Give those pages your soul and tears too...
At least we'll be together there
Do not forget taking the last stroll in that park
Because...I have left the town forever.

she led me to a forest
in the deep darkened mountains

where are you taking me, titania
love of mine, it's late

we passed through the country town
lit by its lights
by it's folk
clinging to the brightness
the clarity
of their life
made of lies

we passed through the lamp lit roads
traversed by sleepers in their chariots
sodium vapor torches
that tried their best
to say
it's still day

we turn to a path
from the pavement
a dirt road
surrounded by bushes
by whistling pines
bougainvilleas
we parted from the lights
from the roads
from the people
we entered through darkness
that shone
the 6 pm light
the dusk that was more true
than noon

and she led me to a clearing
surrounded by trees
and in it's center
a bird bath
stood like an altar
a sacred platform
within the blue
ancient

and around us
fireflies
i haven't seen so many
for so long
they surrounded us
like stars around a black hole
in a cobalt void

she took my hand
and leaned to my chest
this is where we met,
my oberon
this is where it's tranquil

where we're real

You kept me out
Of the scenery
Of living
with strangers
Since I was a stranger to myself
In the garden of bougainvilleas
And Begonias
Which shouldn't have been
Together
But, my lover
You kept them at peace
With each other
Like touching the mimosa
Never felt safer

3/4/20

On a precipice:
perseverant, undaunted
rises a prayer.

2/4/20

And we learned to live
to love, uphold, win, let go:
time starts after him/.

1/4/20

I emptied my mind
of fears and anxieties,
filled it with birdsong.

31/3/20

When the facade ends,
genies back in our head trunks,
the numb trudge back home

Go back home migrant,
time stops now and who knows when
it is unfrozen!

Mayfly season, now
death is in visitation:
and resurrection

Early morning calm,
feels like the eye of the storm:
yet, this too must pass.

30/3/20

Bougainvilleas
shy smiling, deserted street -
social distancing

29/3/20

Some adorn the trees:
this withering hour, others
deck the mourning earth

28/3/20

Automobiles? no -
this morning, warbler and finch
sing where thoughts crowded

28/3/30

Not that You are not -
but this darkness is mine, Lord,
so must be the light

27/3/20

Vivid light painting
the leaves and wings swishing by
emotions buried;

26/3/20

Budding leaves season -
this pause brings to life, whispers
and colours we missed

In a beach neighborhood
with pink plastic flamingos,
lawn jockeys, palm trees and
bougainvilleas on manicured lawns.

She sits staring out the window
while brushing her long brown hair.

The chihuahua yaps to be picked up,
Kathy gives in and puts the feisty
pup on her lap.

imagine this
you awoke to the chirping of mayas,
to the crowing of your neighbor’s chickens,
to the sound of vehicles jolting by the holes

you felt the amber light of sun,
kissing your cheeks
while it exposed the spiders forming
cobwebs on the corners of your room

what a pleasant day, wasn’t it?
to see children by the street
playing patintero
while you watered the bougainvilleas
your mother loved better than you

then you remembered it was Saturday again
and a friend’s mother would come,
selling a basket of bananacues

you quickly grabbed a copy of Jessica Zafra
from your bookshelf with a collection
of novels that you bought
from pickpocketing your father

you marched your way
down to your living area
through the stairs filled
with potted pothos and jade plants
your mother treated like little kids

today must be beautiful. you thought.
so you checked your phone,
hoping for an invitation to a beach.
because why not?
with this sky reminiscent of turquoise,
your skin yearned for the sun

instead of an invitation,
a forwarded message
popped in your screen:
the fourth murderr of the month.

a man shot dead in broad daylight
along the diversion road
in a barrio next to yours.

the spot turned red
as the blood of the man streamed
like a draining river.
people circled the murdered
as if it was news to them.
reality was, it had become a norm

gunshot after gunshot.
you heard them like bad songs on a stereo
and how could you turn it off? stop it?
you had no idea

you see, waking up
in this beautiful island is a bliss.
you get to watch the cinematic view
of a horizon where the sky kisses the sea,
while you stand firm on the pristine shores,
listening to the gentle rustle of palm trees

yet it was only a facade

on this island, where shores shimmer
like jewelry and lush greenery
abounds in beauty,
lies a darker truth

while the murdered men sleep
in agony of injustice,
the culprits loiter in this island,
smoking, plotting the next fire

A street sense awakens
the purple rage.
Ah. Bougainvilleas,
the winter has set in.

There was no encounter.
No bloodshed.
Only bloodstones were displayed
for sale.

A domestic brawl
between the religious signs.
Each sun-flower should
have a separate name.

The pomelos will not
come this season.
There was war between
the brothers.

Moment of truth.
Bougainvilleas
on grass.

A visible absence.
I was searching―
you in poems.

Your fluid eyes.
My moon-clouds
ready to crash on the land.

In my cupped hands
I collect the tears
of the sky.

Today,
I happen to be
tired of being a man,
I walk empty streets,
That feel just as empty
As I stride on the asphalt.

my feet always
Tapping to the rhythm
Of the quiet palpitations
Of sorrow and one more day.

It will haunt me forever,
Missed opportunities,
The discouragement
To wake up remorseful
Again and again.

The sound of love and peace
That Leaves my lips
Every moment that I think
Of bougainvilleas,
The corals in the sea,
Avocado trees.

and You who looks
at me with pride
Every now and then.

In days,
Weeks,
Months
Like this

I can’t wait
To be happy.