"libran" poems
Make this mistake with me,
Just dive into us,
Because we are crystal clear,
We are blue water ocean deep,
I'll hold your other hand
discreetly.
I'll kiss your lips
on days He won't kiss yours.
And I'll hug you from behind
on days He got it all wrong.
Make this mistake with me,
Trust your heart my Libran goddess,
Because if all of me is what it takes
to sweep all of you off the ground
then I will come un-grounded,
undefeated, unfazed, unclothed.
Without the fear of the world
I will come to you
in the night.
I will fill the emptiness of your room,
with the snores of my palpable fingers
resting on the edge of the very shoulders
that is wrong for me to lay my lips on.
Make this mistake with me,
Listen to the voices you deemed untrustworthy, dishonest, unethical.
All your excuses to not do
should be set aflame.
He has nothing on you, nothing on me.
He Has Nothing.
Just fly up high with me.
Find a day where this forbidden fruit
can find a space where both of us
can reside and relive and redo
what we could have, should have, would have
done.
It's okay honey. All is not wrong.
You know you can trust me.
I know you want to trust me.
So make this mistake for you.
Nothing is forbidden
if you decide its permissible.
Make the mistake for me
and throw all our logic out the window,
out the door.
Throw all safety nets out to
His unwarranted sea.
Because although He has everything,
He is not everything.
He is not me.
And like how I've always been waiting,
I am here still
waiting for you
to slide over.
So slide.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Somewhere between cradle and grave.
Where sway is a true Libran.
Weights are shifted
back and forth
to keep a balance.
And I lost mine.
and tho my stance
tilts
as does a tip toe.
As a ****** walk way
over gushing flow.
Where externals
mimic
an outstretched horizon.
I’ll not be propped.
This is me.
This is me here.
This is me there.
Curious…
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
She's not looking for a fairy tale
No surprises to light her way
No showers of kisses on the face
All she asks, is for your time of the day
Your tenderness in a message
Your thoughts of her in a touch
Your love for her in a gaze
She is not asking for gifts
No need for anniversaries or fancy apologies
No reason for dinners and movies
All she asks, is for your time given freely
Your arms for safety
Your faith in her loving
Your happiness so she can be
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:11 AM UTC
He vuelto de la cita con cuatro alas de abejas
Prendidas en los labios. Cuatro alas de abejas
Doradas y bermejas.
¡Milagro como el de la barba de Dionisos,
El dios de acento dulce! La barba de Dionisos
Que tenía cuatro alas de abeja en vez de rizos.
Tus labios en mis labios derramaron su miel
Y brotaron las alas. Derramaron su miel
Y tuve las dulzuras de un panal en la piel.
No riáis. Las cuatro alas de abeja no se ven,
Mas las siento en la boca. Las alas no se ven,
Mas a veces, ¡prodigio!, vibran hasta en mi sien.
Y más adentro aún. Las dulces alas vibran
Hasta en mi corazón. Las dulces alas vibran
Y a mi alma de toda angustia y pena libran.
Mas si un día dejaran de aletear y zumbar...
Si se hicieran ceniza... Si cesara el zumbar
De las alas que hiciste en mis labios brotar...
¡Qué tristeza de muerte!
¡Qué alas negras de queja
Brotarían entonces! ¡Qué alas negras de queja
En lugar de las alas transparentes de abeja!
906
Done are all the days when we
Will stare at the sky and shoot adoration
Dreaming we could take the moon home
And hang it by our window
Don't you see, darling
The clouds, they fall just the same every year
The sun too, sets just the same on every sea
So why would we think that
Ours is special
Done are all the days when we
Will blame the stars for our collisions
Says the Lunar Libran
To the Capricorn Moon that you are
This is what you wanted all along
I couldn't be wrong because the Moon told me so
The stars aligned and shone
Brighter that time when we sat
On that shore after sunset
Believe me, the night was longer
The heavens were darker,
Which meant the stars shone brighter
The night we said that done are the days
When we blame the sky for our mistakes
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
En su grave rincón, los jugadores
rigen las lentas piezas. El tablero
los demora hasta el alba en su severo
ámbito en que se odian dos colores.
Adentro irradian mágicos rigores
las formas: torre homérica, ligero
caballo, armada reina, rey postrero,
oblicuo alfil y peones agresores.
Cuando los jugadores se hayan ido,
cuando el tiempo los haya consumido,
ciertamente no habrá cesado el rito.
En el Oriente se encendió esta guerra
cuyo anfiteatro es hoy toda la tierra.
Como el otro, este juego es infinito.
Tenue rey, sesgo alfil, encarnizada
reina, torre directa y peón ladino
sobre lo ***** y blanco del camino
buscan y libran su batalla armada.
No saben que la mano señalada
del jugador gobierna su destino,
no saben que un rigor adamantino
sujeta su albedrío y su jornada.
También el jugador es prisionero
(la sentencia es de Omar) de otro tablero
de negras noches y blancos días.
Dios mueve al jugador, y éste, la pieza.
¿Qué Dios detrás de Dios la trama empieza
de polvo y tiempo y sueño y agonías?
448
Sands drift downward,
Filling from empty to full,
A libran scale unbalanced,
Life on the fulcrum,
Which way it drifts,
Causes a life,
From empty to full,
Were it weighs?
Full of what?
Time will show.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC