~
all my poems are prayers on a good fun-Sunday

or a piece thereof;
wishes or curses,
longings, hopes, and a boatload of
'wouldn't it be loverly'

absent tho the conditional,
the if -then continuum,
no promises or persuasive pressures,
deal making sort of pointless
as words are directed internal to the
stew, the mix of matter and sensibility,
that seems to try and semi-govern me,
my own game controller Xbox apparatus

risen Sunday morn church in bed
first poem prayer issued,
a prone proclamation:

let me always allay
the needs of others owed
before mine owned

I like it,

maybe I'll call it commandment #110,
which means got all day to come up
with a couple more - good fun-Sunday*

4/23/17
8:53am

My brain is perplexed
In front of your indecipherable look
I could spend my whole life
Looking for the golden ratio
What is there between your absence
And a flower on the borders of winter.

Mi cerebro se muestra perplejo
delante de tu mirada indescifrable
Podría pasar toda mi vida
buscando la proporción áurea
que hay entre tu ausencia
y una flor en las fronteras del invierno.

I shall plant cherry trees
On green fields outside town
And wait years for blossoms
You and I, love, married
Cherry blossoms scattering our countryside

The girl that I like is young, quite petite, I might add
Bluish-greenish turquoise eyes, like the forest and the sea combined
Her voice, a sweet, gentle overtone; the ocean, calm waves that reach ashore
The breeze, blows the forest trees; a rustle, soothing to the human ears
Her skin that luminesces; the white sands of the Riviera Maya
Here and there, little sprinkles of darker sand on her pretty face
Her natural dark, red hair, as fiery as the midday sun,
And her lips a vibrant red, that melt you in the summer days,
So warm and cozy as the winter rays.

She couldn't be a mortal, just simply born;
but truly a goddess, ignited, free from form.
-
The day the ground met with her delicate toes
was the night the stars aligned in symmetrical rows.
-
In dream, she dances and glides upon air.
Awake, she braids comets in the threads of her hair.
-
My greetings seem hollowed, I am drifting afloat.
The language of fondness is a lump in my throat.
-
Her outline is gleaming with a soft, vermilion luster.
Her eyes, subtle jasper, urges your core not to trust her.
-
Not a staza, nor an epic can contain flawless grace,
or the yearning I feel when we are sharing this space.

Hermosura
del discurrir de orillas.
interrogaciones como faíscas()
TODO EL SILENCIO PARA MI.



                                (hablando con ella que heredo su sombrero)
() pavesas, en galego